When I bought my brand-new Saab 900 back in the early ’90s, I wasn’t just buying a car,

I was buying into a philosophy. At the time, I didn’t entirely understand it. I just knew there was something different about this Swedish machine parked outside the showroom in Sunshine.

Angular, sophisticated, and defiantly left-of-centre, the 900 was nothing like the Commodores and Falcons that lined the streets of Melbourne’s west. And maybe that’s exactly why I chose it.

This was my first new car. Not a hand-me-down, not something cobbled together from the Trading Post classifieds, but a vehicle I’d walked into a dealership and bought with my own hard-earned cash. It was a deep blue Saab 900 S, complete with the iconic clamshell bonnet, wraparound windscreen, and dashboard ergonomics that made you feel like a fighter pilot every time you slipped behind the wheel.

For twelve years, that Saab and I went everywhere. From Point Cook beach runs and summer drives down the Great Ocean Road, to daily commutes into the city and even the occasional detour into the Dandenongs. Through it all, it never lost its composure. There was a solidity to the 900 that modern cars sometimes seem to lack, something in the way the doors thunked shut, the suspension absorbed Victoria’s less-than-perfect roads, and the turbo (on later models I test-drove, at least) kicked in with that satisfying whoosh just when you needed it.

But it wasn’t just about the drive. It was about the character. Saab engineered their cars like they were designing aircraft, which makes sense, considering their aviation roots. The ignition key between the seats? That wasn’t just quirky Swedish design. It was so the driver could start the car with a gloved hand in Arctic conditions. The cabin layout, driver-focused and efficient, had a logic all its own. The 900 didn’t try to be like anything else on the road, and that’s exactly why I loved it.

It was a car with quirks. It wouldn’t always behave like a Toyota or a Honda, and maintenance sometimes required patience and a good specialist. But there was a community of Saab faithful, and in the western suburbs, spotting another 900 on the road felt like a secret handshake.

By the time I sold it, reluctantly, I admit, it had served me faithfully for over a decade. Family life, work needs, and the lure of newer, more practical vehicles eventually pulled me away. But I still remember the day I handed over the keys. The new owner was a Saab enthusiast, just like I had become, and I knew it was going to a good home.

Looking back now, it wasn’t just a car. It was part of an era in my life, a symbol of independence, individuality, and a bit of Scandinavian rebellion in the heart of Melbourne’s western suburbs. The Saab 900 was more than transport. It was a statement.

And honestly? I still miss it.