Blue Flame

The Mustang taught me something. Not about cars. About honesty.

What I actually wanted, I'd known for years. I just needed to stop pretending otherwise.

I'd been building Subarus on the website during quiet hours at work. Different colours. Different specs. Closing the tab before anyone noticed. It wasn't research. It was something else. Something I hadn't admitted to myself yet.

I never got over selling the GC8. That car was my youth. Rally on the television, Team Subaru, every model memorised from a PlayStation controller. Letting it go was letting a piece of that go. I told myself I'd moved on.

I hadn't.

So I started looking properly. I wanted JDM. I wanted something with a connection to the driver. Something that wasn't trying to be noticed. The Civic Type R — beautiful, fast, surgical. But front wheel drive. Not again. The 370Z — I loved it, but it was ageing, standing still while everything moved around it. The Nismo I wanted didn't exist in this state.

Then the WRX. On paper it was everything. All wheel drive. Fast. It looked right. But there was something else, something greater. One that didn't compromise. The STI wasn't just more — it was the reason the WRX existed at all.

I wanted the best version of my dream car.

I scoured the internet for months. Clean example. Low kilometres. One owner. Manual. Non negotiable on all of it. Most were used up, built up, or in another state. Then one night, a listing. WR Blue. 2016 STI. 450 kilometres.

I thought it was a typo.

A week later it was still there.

I called.

The kilometres were real. He'd bought it to keep it, he was a collector. We organised an evening. I went after work.

The roller door opened. There it was.

He started the car inside the garage. That sound. Boxer four, each cylinder its own small explosion. I felt twenty five again. The GC8 came back to me in a flash — the smell, the feel, the life I had then. He reversed it into the light.

The WR Blue lit up.

Pearl in the paint catching the sun. The car almost glowing. I'd wanted black. I stood there and forgot all about black.

He asked if I could drive manual. Yes. He got out of the seat and told me not to drive like a fool. I got in.

The interior was immaculate. Black on red. Digital dash. DCCD controller. More than I'd imagined. I was nervous. I crawled out of the driveway and drove carefully, deliberately, saying nothing. We reached an 80 zone. He told me to open it up a little.

First to second. Foot down. The turbo arrived like a held breath releasing. Third. Eighty kilometres an hour in what felt like a thought.

I didn't know if I was excited or shocked. Both, probably.

We spoke afterwards. About the car, about cars in general. He was buying a Lexus RCF. You don't buy a Lexus RCF for grocery runs. He knew exactly what he was leaving behind. He was a car person. The kind who understood what this car was.

He mentioned the low kilometres were putting people off. Said most didn't even call.

I told him I liked the car. We talked about price. My father's voice came back to me — never pay what they're asking. We negotiated. Back and forth. We landed somewhere that still makes me smile.

That night I drove home slowly. No radio. Just the road and what had just happened. The paperwork. The price. The car sitting in a garage waiting.

He'd mentioned it came from a well known Subaru dealer. Serviced there from new. First thing in the morning I called them. Gave them the plate. Read out the last digit.

The man on the phone laughed.

I know the car, he said. Yeah the kilometres are real, is he selling it?

I said yes.

He laughed again. Quieter this time.

Time stopped. The words sat there in the air.

I thanked him and hung up.

Then I called the owner.

I told him I was buying the car and asked to transfer a deposit. He paused.

That's not how I work, he said.

I waited.

If you say you're buying it, that's enough. A gentleman's handshake.

That was it. No paperwork. No transfer. Just his word and mine.

Pickup day.

Dad came. It was only right.

We drove to the address. Knocked. The owner walked us to the garage. The roller door opened slowly and I relived the first moment all over again. I looked at my dad. He looked at the car. I don't know what was behind his eyes — pride, excitement, some memory of his own first car — but his face said everything.

The car started. That sound, again. Dad's face broke into a smile.

That confirmed it.

He'd had it washed and detailed. The blue was impossible. Something between a colour and a light source. We went inside to complete the paperwork. I looked back.

Dad was still standing at the garage.

I called out. He didn't move. Just waved me on.

You'll sort it out.

He stood there and looked as we went inside.

Paperwork done. Hands shaken. I got in.

New car smell. Still. After three years.

I adjusted the seat. Made it mine. Clutch in. Not in gear. Push the button.

The dash lit up. The car started. The rumble inside the cabin, just as good as the outside.

No radio. Window down just enough to hear the engine. I pulled away slowly. Not to feel the power. Just to feel what it was.

An STI.