I’ve always been into classic cars, especially the real old-timers. So when I heard about this world record for the oldest running car, I knew I had to see it with my own eyes. Packed my camera gear and drove five hours straight to the private museum where it’s kept. The owner’s a cranky old dude who only opens his garage on Thursdays if the weather’s good.
Got there around noon sweating buckets because the AC in my Honda blew out near Jersey. Paid 20 bucks cash at this rusty metal shed he calls a ticket office. Walked past rows of Model Ts and some weird three-wheeled contraptions until I spotted it in the back corner.
First Impressions
Honestly? It looked like a fancy horse carriage somebody strapped an engine to. We’re talking wooden wheels with actual iron rims, cracked leather seats, and this tiny brass lantern hanging off the side. The owner saw me staring and grunted “1884 De Dion Bouton – touch it and I break your fingers.” Charming guy.
- The engine’s basically a coffee can with pistons sticking out
- No steering wheel – just this wobbly tiller bar
- Smelled like mothballs mixed with gasoline
The Big Moment
Suddenly the old man starts pouring fuel into this little tank near the driver’s seat. My hands got shaky adjusting the camera settings. He yanked a lever near the wheels, cranked some handle like he was churning butter, and suddenly – POP-BANG-RUMBLE – the whole thing shuddered alive! Blue smoke belched everywhere while the frame rattled like loose change in a dryer.
He drove it maybe 20 feet down the gravel path at walking speed. Couldn’t stop grinning at how ridiculous it looked – dude sitting bolt upright steering with a stick while coughing through exhaust fumes. That rattling sound? Apparently the transmission’s “original condition,” meaning half the teeth are missing.
After he shut it down, I asked how often they run it. Got another grunt: “Every damn Thursday unless it’s raining. Oil leaks enough already.” Saw why – the ground under it was darker than my coffee.
Why This Tin Can Matters
Sitting on a folding chair eating my peanut butter sandwich later, I realized this beat-up thing represents 140 years of people saying “screw walking.” No computers, no safety features, just gears and grit keeping it going. That noisy lump of metal outlasted empires and outran time itself.
Driving home exhausted with engine sounds still echoing in my head, it hit me – we all got our own version of that rattling monstrosity. Something we keep running through pure stubbornness when any sane person would’ve junked it years ago. And that’s kinda beautiful in its own busted-up way.