What was the worst car you’ve ever driven?

Oh, there are some candidates.

Smart Fortwo:This is not a car, but a state.It was only for a few hours, but still the word “maximum penalty” was constantly going through my head.

Ford Escort 1.6, the model on sale in 1988.We all know for sure the effect in cars with manual transmissions that it jerks up with gas on – gas to – gas (in short succession). Automatic transmissions do not have the problem in shape, because such tips in the torque converter fizzle out. If the inclined driver held the accelerator pedal on half-throttle after the aforementioned cycle, the escort did not stop jerking, which was like a ride on an angry goat. At that time I drove over two dozen different escorts, all of them the same model and year of construction, all with the same effect. All those who were unlucky enough to sit in one of these huts cursed me into the deepest hole in a variety of words.

Fiat Seicento, built around 2002.I got as a replacement car from the workshop and had to pay for it, the English call it “adding insult to injury”. The remark is not sexist, but this is a car for women with small, narrow feet. I have shoe size 46, at that time I wore Hi-Tecs (a bit similar to Bundeswehr boots) and found almost impossible. *only* on the throttle or brake without taking the other pedal with you. The footspace was extremely narrow and the pedals were correspondingly close together.

Renault Twingo, first model.Another workshop replacement vehicle, so I have often been so lucky. The cart was so storm-ready that when crossing ground waves or canal covers, I expected an effect known from silent films due to the core noise: disintegration of the car into all components, driver sits on the road with steering wheel in his hand. This brilliant example of French car construction was garnished with a horoscope coupling (came over the GANZ short way), whose grinding point wandered happily depending on the outside and engine temperature. I had to suffer this evil vehicle for nine days. Luckily, the things have now mostly died of rust death, when I see one, I knock off my pockets, whether I might have a hand grenade, bazooka or medium howitzer. There’s always someone running by and saying “hey, Macarena.”

Mercedes 300 D T, W123: No, no turbo diesel.Far from it. Combi with a whopping 88 hp. To measure acceleration, if I want to use this expression for the commandment, a calendar was sufficient. The steering wheel would not have seemed too small for Captain Jack Sparrow, the seats offered virtually no side support, and on top of that the seat cushion gave way in curves (for which the 123s were notorious). The manual transmission was far too smooth and gave the impression that the linkage would end in a box of sand, there was not the slightest feeling when switching that a gear was just snapped in.

Finally, the two worst motorcycles.

Yamaha XV 535 Virago (as well as the cars of course NOT my own, I am careful when choosing my vehicles).At 1.85m in size, I was a bit bulky for this thing, at that time again and again among the best-selling motorcycles in Germany, and seemed to me like the proverbial monkey on the grinding stone. Nevertheless, the sitting position seemed strangely familiar to me. Towards the end of the agonizing 30 km (the Virago was slow, had nasty brakes and was even more unwilling to bend than Dagobert Duck when opening the purse) I also remembered where this feeling of the acquaintance came from. Without exaggeration, practically exactly so I sat on the toilet with a newspaper in my hands. With this picture in your head, motorcycling is really fun.

Harley-Davidson Electra Glide, built 1976.Seven centenarian sold irons, summed up in the succinct words of the owner: “Don’t go, don’t lies, don’t brake.” He punched me until I finally agreed to go for the pudding. By contrast, the Virago was a wild rocket. To extend the service life, the gentleman had mounted other pistons that lowered the compression. Of the nominally 64 hp, about 55 remained, which were practically without chance against 345 kilos – the famous cavalry attack of the English Light Brigade in the Crimean War, on the other hand, was an undertaking with the highest chances of success – in view of the brakes also well so. The gear ratio in the main brake cylinder of the front brake was so poorly chosen that, in conjunction with the far-off brake lever, it required hands about the size of a channel lid, with enough force to crush a coconut. Raising my hand and clearly saying “I want to stop now” caused about the same delay as my tug-of-war on the brake lever. Manoeuvring around any corners was heavy work, and it was not made any easier by putting on various vehicle parts even with a slight inclination.

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