Unsure of exactly what it might entail or be used for, I made the decision a few weeks ago that it was time for another car. Finances are in good stead, and it was time for something different. Whether it be a personal project, a car for my sisters, a new daily driver, or a flip-and-sell project, this new vehicle was to be a summer time-waster for me and an opportunity to continue my journey of automotive discovery and discipline so that I would have an excuse to spend as much time as possible basking in the mild Victoria summer whilst I cool the jets from a tough couple of semesters of school.

The white car's loyalty, though admirable, has begun to wear on me. Though it is absolutely a spot-on shooter, it does begin to erode you emotionally in certain circumstances. Whether you've been driving all day, have just gotten out of the gym, or are otherwise very tired, there are times when having a custom modified sports monster is not opportune. The suspension, though crisp, is really quite firm. The exhaust, though harmonic and throaty, is very loud. The smell, though indicative of performance, is a little too strong. In short, the car has potential to be more than just a daily driver... and the fire-breathing turbocharger knows it.

Conscious of both my need for a fresh start and my car's need to be worshiped appropriately, I set off on a journey for alternative transportation. My as-of-late posting history will tell you quite directly that I had my sights set and locked on the procurement of a 1987 Suzuki Forsa 1.0L Turbo. I was committed to purchase, and with the agreement of the seller, had purchased a few hundred dollars worth of parts and prepared myself for the road-trip to pick it up from Nanaimo, a couple hours north of Victoria. Regrettably, the sellers decided that the car wasn't worth my trouble, and sold it behind my back to someone else. Shame really, as I had plans to make that car an absolutely amazing feat of automotive engineering by the time I was done with it.

Knowing there was a lesson to be learned, and a silver lining to be found eventually, I held my tongue in hopes that my truthfulness and integrity would reward me for not lashing out against some people I barely even knew for doing something they felt was in their best interest. After all, another project car was surely just around the corner... and stuff is just stuff. It seems I have found a buyer for the majority of these parts I purchased for the car anyway, so no harm, no foul short of my fading disappointment and inverted excitement.

The subsequent morning, I continued my search for another vehicle on the local classifieds and such by emailing almost a dozen various cars. All of them had something wrong with them, the vast majority were quite shy of $500, and some were even branded the stigmatized title of being mechanic's specials. Disheartened by the lack of email response, I refreshed the automotive listings only to find the absolutely perfect project car. I knew from the second I saw the photo that it had to be mine. I hadn't seen the price, read the ad, or evaluated the car at all... but I knew it was the one.

It was a Festiva. An LX-model Festiva. One of the rare 1989 fuel-injected combinations, it carried with it the orange-themed interior and an automatic transmission. It was silver in colour, and was billed as being all original and never rebuilt. With the special and rare aluminum mags, some economical window tint, and a dent-free body, I knew there was serious potential here for me. In short, it was exactly what I was looking for and exactly what I had hoped to find. After all, I loved the vast majority of the things about my white Festiva... but longed to feel that sense of satisfaction brought about only by what the Ford factory and dealerships had delivered from 1988-1993.

I emailed him as quickly as my fingers would carry me, all but demanding a spot in line to see and potentially buy the car and inquiring for more photos and information about the car's history. Shortly thereafter, I ran the VIN number through a database checker to determine the history of the vehicle and see if I had really found a winner. Fortunately, after weeks of searching, I finally had found one. The first great sign was seeing a string of green lights and check-marks down the page through every column and category. The second was the conclusion that the car had never been registered outside of Vancouver and Vancouver Island, which of course is indicative of very mild winters without much in the way of road salt (read as: rust). The third piece of telling news was that the car's VIN had a perfect score for a 24-year-old car, putting it at a tie with my white Festiva with a 32/37 performance rating. Not bad for a 24-year-old car with 310,000KM (193,000 miles) on it.

The seller was quick to inform me that the car would even qualify for collector plates in the province in the subsequent year should I keep her all-original and insure another vehicle full-time. This of course, as an under-25 male and high risk driver, is an absolute delight to hear - I will take anything I can get when it comes to insurance reductions and cost minimization on my auto work. The only issue with the car was that I was not first in line... the ad had barely been up for an hour, and I had to patiently wait to see how things would turn out with the first potential buyer.

The first buyer was obviously insane to turn down the car. The seller told me of his negotiating tactics, claiming that he was both rude and insulting in an attempt to dilute the car's cost and value. It was apparent to me what little I knew about this supposed buyer that he couldn't see the diamond in the rough that I saw. That's where we differed: though I knew full well and saw the car for what it is, having owned one and worshiped one for the past five years, I knew too what it could be with enough patience, time, and effort.

The following morning, I dropped by to take a look with cash in hand and every intention of buying the car key unturned and hood unpopped. My heart raced when I saw the car, even though it was far from perfect. Cosmetically, it is much more beat up than the pictures would tell you. The paint job was fair, but details degraded its overall appearance. The original old hood had obviously flipped up and broken the cowl and windshield, requiring a new hood and a new windshield recently. Rust spots, deep scratches, and bubbly patches of paint plagued the car as if it were a seasoned war veteran. Duct tape held elements of the car in place, the interior was stale to put it politely, and the engine bay was absolutely filthy.



It was apparent to me from the start that the factory paint had been over not once, but twice. Highlights and over-spray of a magenta/purple were tucked away in places you would expect to find over-spray, and aspects of the hatch, door jams, and fenders indicated a silver re-spray on top of that. And it was quite a good quality job at that. I was told by the previous owner that the car had been sitting for quite a while since he had received a free new car from his mother-in-law and opted to park the Festiva until such a time as he needed the money more than the car. That time was now, and I was ready to sink my teeth right into the project.

The outside told me a story, but under the hood told me quite a different one. I loved what I saw under the hood of the vehicle. I had forgotten the calmness and simplicity of the factory motor setup. Compared to my testosterone infused turbocharged lion in the white car, I found a very adorable and well-mannered house cat in the silver car. How compact and quiet it was when it ran! But of course, it wasn't perfect mechanically either... what 24-year-old car is, right? The engine bay was spattered with dried gunk and oil, highly indicative of a valve cover gasket needing replacement. Further, the brake light was on and the owner claimed they needed immediate replacement both front and rear. Tack onto this a stale interior, a noticeably absent and forcibly removed stereo along with some factory Mercedes-Benz floor mats and you've got a unique little project there.