Photo supplied by author

In 1999, I was pregnant again, and the old Integra two door wasn't cutting it. After years of driving cars that other people had picked out for me, I had the opportunity to pick out my very own car and buy it myself.

Visits to the local autoshow confirmed a lingering suspicion: I liked station wagons. Those same visits also left me with two cars to choose from, after I asserted a few rules - a four-foot hatch opening and available stick shift - a BMW that would cost more than my house, or a VW that would, well, be a VW. We already had one, and I wasn't anxious to get another.

Reason prevailed and I drove home a shiny blue Passat wagon a few weeks later. I still own it, 12 years later, and it barely resembles its original form after heavy customisation and modification. It's been at my side for countless Boy Scout trips, track days, and grocery runs. It serves as the tool truck for my 24 Hours of LeMons racing team. It is the snazziest vehicle in the junk yard parking lot.

It makes me happy in every way. I'll cry when it has to go away one day, but it will go honorably, having served me, grown up with me, and loved me back. My car has been there for me. What more could a girl ask?

Katherine