There are flashier cars. Faster ones, too. But for me, none will ever top the humble Mazda 121. Not the later bubble version your mate’s mum drove, mind you, I’m talking about the earlier, boxy one from the late 80’s. Mine was a second-hand 1988 model I picked up in the mid-2000s, and it was my first car. My first taste of freedom. My first ticket to nowhere in particular.

I bought it from a bloke off The Trading Post (remember that?) for just under two grand. It was red, well, mostly. The sun had faded the paint to a soft pink, there were spots of rust and patches of primer on the front right guard from what I can only assume was a minor altercation with a pole. But it ran. And to a 19-year-old me, fresh out of high school and hungry for independence, it may as well have been a Ferrari Countach.

A Quirky Little Legend

The Mazda 121 was affectionately known as the “bubble car” to some, but mine was the earlier generation, a tiny, angular box with all the charm of a shoebox on wheels. It had two doors, barely any boot space, and a gear stick that felt like it was connected to the engine with rubber bands. But what it lacked in muscle, it made up for in character.

There was something almost endearingly stubborn about the way it drove. Hills were a challenge, overtaking was a gamble, and the air conditioning was more of a polite suggestion than an actual function. But God, I loved that car.

It had wind-up windows, a cassette player that chewed tapes like a hungry Labrador, and cloth seats that left waffle-patterned imprints on your thighs in the summer. It smelled like dust and old coins. It was perfect.

Cruising Through Life

That little Mazda carried me through some of the most memorable years of my life. Late-night Macca’s runs with mates, windows down and Silverchair blaring from dodgy aftermarket speakers. Drives up to the You-Yangs just for the hell of it. Pulling into uni parking lots, proud as anything even though I was parked next to Commodores and the occasional rich kid’s WRX.

It broke down exactly twice. Once on the Westgate Freeway during peak hour, embarrassing, and once in the Coles car park, where an elderly bloke helped me push it into a spot and offered a jumpstart with his own jumper cables. That was the thing about the 121: it was so non-threatening, so unpretentious, that people wanted to help you. No one ever gave me the finger for driving too slow. They just overtook with a smile like, “Aww, look at him go.”