THE trees cast long shadows across the highway as I hurtle down the middle lane.

I'm in a different Starlet now. In fact, I am its proud sixth owner. I knew I had to get it when I saw its fake leather seats - all dark and strong and repellent to liquid and smells.

The distasteful memory of my first test drive fades as I roar home just slightly above the 90kmh speed limit.

But there's something amiss. There are no cars behind me.

Instead, the faster lane to my right is choking with bumper-to-bumper traffic, each driver playing some high-speed version of Russian roulette. It seems that none of them - sitting behind the wheels of their gleaming Hondas, Lexuses, Mazdas and BMWs - can bear staring at the rear end of a 19-year-old Starlet.

Without so much as a flicker of the indicator light, a white Subaru swerves in between my Starlet and the car in front, My heart is in my mouth as I slam on the brakes. I just avoid burying my engine in the Subaru's boot.

I have no time to rage, because another rogue driver pulls the same stunt inches from my front bumper.

I am indignant, but I'd rather be late than dead. And so I hang back and watch as an endless stream of eager drivers cram in front of me.

A few days later, while travelling in my family's car down the same highway, it occurs to me how easy the journey feels. I am driving, as always, down the middle lane just slightly above the speed limit. But there are cars behind. And no one is in a hurry to overtake me, at least not dangerously.

Then it hits me. What I encounter behind the wheel of my Starlet is not bad driving. It is bullying.

But the Starlet is a joy. It takes me to Singapore's sleepy countryside, to dusty roads that line its coasts, and to lush, green places which no one but macaques inhabit. It gives me a glimpse of street racing when a group of Starlet fans I encounter waste no time initiating my boneshaker into their order of souped-up machines.

One of them takes me on a ride in his turbo version. We weave around a bend at 140kmh, my knuckles white as I grip the edge of the bucket seat. Whoever said that Starlets are slow has never been in this seat.

***

"YOUR car is too old," says the elderly valet as he struggles out of my car. "You should buy a new one."

I stare at him in surprise, dollars in hand, unsure if I should tip him for being honest or withhold it for deriding my car. In the end, I surrender the tip, but silently kick myself for being too dim to come up with some rejoinder about his age. But I can't blame him, really. He was just being honest.

I give a friend a ride - a friend who seems to come with all the right credentials. She is a devout Buddhist and vegetarian who goes shopping with recyclable bags. In other words, she seems the least inclined to insult my car.

"Wow," she says, circling my Starlet. "This is quite retro."

I swell with pride. I don't mind being "retro". It makes me think of bell-bottoms and sideburns, not shoulder pads and leotards. It makes me, for once, cool.

Then, halfway into the ride, she asks casually: "So, has it broken down yet?"

huiyee@sph.com.sg

This article was first published in The Straits Times.

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