I turn the key — yes, a real metal key — and the engine coughs to life with a throaty growl. No polite electric hum here; this is a straight-six orchestra tuning up. The dashboard glows an old-school orange, and for a heartbeat I’m in 1987, blasting a Def Leppard cassette as city lights trail behind. The smell of unburnt gasoline wafts in, triggering a heady mix of excitement with no guilt because I detest strip mining and designed obsolesce. I tap the gas and the car springs forward, responsive and raw as ever. Every sensation says, “I’m alive.”
Contrast this with today’s daily life: endless pings, sterile conference calls, the predictable whirr of a hybrid or electric sedan shaped like an egg and complete with one more screen. There’s an irony in an analog BMW making me feel more connected than any connected car ever could. The heavy door latched earlier with that assuring D-chord thunk, sealing me into this private cockpit of ideas. As I navigate empty streets, the old school analyst in me starts mapping metaphors. This drive is a case study in agile responsiveness — no lag, pure feedback, an intuitive interface long before UX was a buzzword. I realize I’m grinning. The ROI here isn’t on a spreadsheet; it’s in how this old machine is recalibrating my thinking.
If a 40-year-old car can still deliver joy and performance, maybe not all legacy systems are worthless. Maybe sometimes the bold move is trusting the classics. In a world obsessed with disruption, I’m finding value in continuity, one gear shift at a time.