The number one question I get asked is, ‘when are you going to get rid of that piece of shit?’
The seventh generation Toyota Celica, in its highest-level ‘GT-S’ trim, is a lightweight, high-revving, two-door sport liftback coupé. ‘Liftback’ is another word for a fastback hatchback, not to be confused with notchback. Does that clear it up? Good. Clad in the optional factory ‘Action Package’ body kit, the Celica’s sleek lines and wedged shaped are accentuated, giving the machine a more aggressive, low-slung stance. A predatory cat, crouched, haunches spring-loaded, preparing to strike.
“It kinda looks like a frog,” my girlfriend says.
“It’s cute,” my mom says.
Although I am surrounded by individuals who just don’t grasp the depths automotive design language as I do, the car does receive many enthusiastic compliments, and is quite the head-turner. Most of these compliments come from children on tricycles, and high school boys driving with their mothers in the front seat. I’m 27. And when I say head-turner, it’s not exactly heads being turned to appreciate the vehicle so much as because I’m coasting down the street with hazards and a dead engine saying, ‘shit’, or because my engine just died in the middle of rush hour traffic in the center lane of I-290, uphill, on a steamy Chicago August afternoon, and they are looking directly at my face, contemplating with their fingers on the trigger of the hidden Glock in the door pocket. The car has a minor ‘sudden engine death’ problem, sometimes. This isn’t ideal considering it also has a ‘fails to start’ problem, sometimes. But at a curb weight of just 2,500 lbs., it’s easy to push in neutral, and has a great power-to-weight ratio, when the engine works.
I don’t know about any of you other Seventh Gen Celica owners out there, but I’m still waiting for that intelligence to kick in
I sat in that center lane for thirty-five long minutes looking at sub-$2500 cars on Craigslist before a man blocked the right lane next to me, jumped out of his Sapphire Blue Kia Stinger GT, and helped push my two-door sport liftback coupé onto the shoulder.
“You gotta be more careful out here, man,” he said, “these people will kill your ass.”
The first generation Toyota Celica started in the United States in 1970 as a zingy little imported muscle car meant to compete with the Ford Mustang. The name was either a Romanization or Latinization of the Japanese and/or Latin word for ‘heavenly.’ I’m not a linguist, you get the idea. From muscle car, to the start of the famed Supra and dragon boat homages, to legendary rally championship pedigree, to the Yamaha-designed 2ZZ-GE engine used in Lotus supercars, the Celica has impressive DNA.
The seventh generation was discontinued in 2005.
In 2019, I bought a salvage-title 93k mile 2002 Toyota Celica GT-S off an online insurance auction using my mechanic’s bidding account. Including the price of the car, fees, shipping, paperwork and other bullshit, I paid about three grand.
Do you ever get those ideas, where you think to yourself, ‘Wow! How come everybody doesn’t do it like this?’
And then reality sets in. It’s like waking up the morning after a suicide attempt, realizing you’re not just dipping your toes, but swimming in an ocean of delusion. Three years later, I realize no one I’ve ever known has ever had a car with as much character as my ‘heavenly’ little liftback.
Silver is a good color for a car named Celica. People have always had this idea that heaven is somewhere up in the white, silvery, billowing clouds. Maybe I’m just subconsciously projecting Christianity. If anything, my car is a more pragmatic view of heaven. No matter how perfect you think life might get, there will still always be cracks, dents, fading, and birdshit everywhere. Patina is a better word.
From the celestial exterior, we zoom through a transition and are grounded into the contrast of the bold black leather interior. It’s good because they make a lot of different kinds of really useful black tape in various sizes that I need to fix all the broken parts and rips in the seats. The red accents on the floor mats and power cable are my own personal touch. They spice up the very spartan, minimalist cockpit with bits of matador’s flag crimson. Red is the color of my girlfriend’s eyes when we are driving to get tacos on one of the coldest nights in Chicago February, and we are driving with the windows down, on account of the heat not working but the fog from our breath fogging up the windshield otherwise, and she is swaddled under three blankets, telling me that it’s over between us if I don’t fix it. Red is the color of my girlfriend’s eyes when she tells me she’s dumping me if I don’t go see a therapist.
“Get rid of the piece of shit and get yourself a nice E30,” my mechanic tells me every time I’m at his shop, which is more often than I care to admit.
Why don’t I?
I’m not a mechanic, even though I’ve swapped out at least a couple dozen parts on this car. I’m not a master driver that can appreciate some nuance of the car’s steering rack or suspension geometry, although I have had to learn how to heel-toe the gas and brake at the same time to keep my suicidal engine alive. And the third-gear synchro is busted, which adds to the fun. And that’s just the start of the problems personality traits. There are more than I can list here.
But there are still too many mornings where I also fail to start, constantly misfire, and feel like I’m not exactly living so much as keeping myself alive. I can’t give up on this car for reasons I don’t know how to explain, and can’t help but imply.
Welcome to The Rusted Muffler.
Buckle your seatbelts, hang on, and don’t be alarmed if the engine stalls.