My first car was a read beater: a 1981 Honda Prelude that had been totaled out twice before. It was three different colors and shook like crazy once it got above 50 miles per hour. The dash lights didn't work, which meant driving at night I would have to estimate my speed. The cassette player ate any tapes you would put it in. The car had been owned by a smoker before, which meant if the lavish sheepskin-covered seats got wet, they would reek like an ashtray. Even better, the turn signal stalk hung by wires from the steering column, meaning I would have to pick it up, insert it into the steering column at just the right angle, and then hold it in place until I had finished signaling a turn.
I don't have a picture of my first car, but at the time I hated it so much I wanted to forget all about it. Looking back on it, I never had to worry about girls liking me because they wanted to be seen riding in a flashy car. I never had to worry about locking the thing, either. Sure, so traveling on the freeway wasn't fun in the car, but I didn't go on the freeway very often anyway. I wouldn't want to own the car again, but it was good for the stage of life I was in at the time.