The Bandentrapper and trade-in

There was a time when you could write your crisis with a K (because it didn't exist anyway) and semi-classic cars were still tax-free. Yes really. In those days long gone time I decided to trade in my daily Renault 4. It seemed like a good idea.

Thus begins a curious journey past increasingly shady car companies. Together with a very good friend, fortunately. It makes the journey more bearable and at times even hilarious. A smile and a tear, such a day. In the morning still in good spirits and optimistic, to the point of naive: such a classic is of course very popular. High demand for and according to the iron law of economics, demand determines the price. Cash desk. That idea is reinforced by the expert judgment of one of the first companies we visit.

The on-duty buyer walks out in a benevolent and good-natured manner. Apparently, just like us, he also feels like a super deal today. We value him highly; he represents a French classic car specialist. So cat in the cup. He quickly made his judgment: tight cart. What? Now we immediately start to despair… Does he really understand it? Are his glasses still inside? Could it be a retrained kitchen salesman? The ravages of time have made an extremely successful attack on the Four and it is impossible to miss it. We drove there, as it were, with a soft crackling sound and in the 20 minutes that it took, another fender edge rusted away. The Man Of The Purchasing does not mind at all, apparently it could be much worse. At least he won't let a little rust ruin his day and deal. He thinks it's a tight cart and he won't make any concessions in that regard. A hopeful start to the day! Which could have ended with this if this classic guru would have had a nice successor for the Vier within my very limited, almost fictitious budget. He didn't have that, so much money had to be added (I can't even remember what exactly), that my trade-in dream immediately exploded in a cloud of rust and filler. It would later turn out to be an omen for the rest of De Tocht Der Schaamte.

We were going to slide further and further that strange day in the dark corners of the car trade. We started in a pleasant and easy to find location, as the day went on we got lost more and more on obscure and semi-decayed industrial parks that turned into caravan camps. Or vice versa. It was fortunate that it was light during the day and therefore: they had never been found again in the worst way of getting lost .... Pavements and the paint on the buildings that we visited kept pace: they stopped slowly during the day. Remarkably enough, just like the teeth of the traders who spoke to us (or sounds that looked like it) with, without exception, a mobile in the ring of gold or the ring of gold.

For example, it was possible that we were already awkwardly awaiting his verdict on the umpteenth autoprimat, already somewhat disgusted by all the previous exchanges / proposals / insults. Skilfully he kicked the same tire for the third time (the wheel just got stuck, that's how he finally concluded). "Nice for the female", he moaned. Female? Did he have a female? It almost moved us. Anyway, the deal. € 200, whopping. It immediately made us doubt his love for the female. It didn't cost anything again, too bad. With my poor budget added to this, my choice was limited to just one car to trade in in his beautiful collection of museum quality voitures: a Peugeot Dinges of an indefinable year in silver gray. Or what was left of it. 50 shades of gray, now. Well, but not too many demands on the appearance in this price category. But inside it didn't get much better: cracks and stains all over the place, broken buttons and levers and especially the air of more than fifteen years of half-heavy shekies. Very inspiring. And all that turned out to be just the prelude to the saddest sight ever: a brittle and crooked glove compartment flap, held shut by a pale gray Gamma hook-with-eye. Screwed in and without feeling, pontifical and completely random.

Disillusioned, I was subsequently lifted out of this barrel by my friend who came to the rescue. I seemed crazy, I would never again get out of this fathomless depth if I continued to seriously consider this: an almost twenty-year-old grave on wheels with hinges and locks from the hardware store ... So get away from this automobile hospice, full of gas, back to the civilization and common sense. Attached to it more than ever in one go and we resolutely step into my rusting Quatrelle: I ride it until I am stopped bodyless on a ducted chassis and flies have to admit that there is no MOT anymore. Period.

And I still have to admonish myself and swallow a sudden nausea when I walk past the garden department in the hardware store: I skip the shelf with brackets and eyes ...