eleven junk
The 1987 Toyota Celica is one of those cars that sneaks up on you later in life — the kind you didn’t fully appreciate when you were 17, but now you look back and think, “Man… I should’ve held onto that thing.”
Back then, it was the perfect junior‑year sidekick: light, sharp‑edged, and rocking that unmistakable ’80s wedge silhouette with pop‑up headlights that made every night drive feel like you were entering a video game. It wasn’t the fastest car in the parking lot, but it felt quick — eager to rev, eager to turn, eager to make you feel like you knew what you were doing behind the wheel.
And the Celica had personality. It was sporty without trying too hard, reliable without being boring, and just quirky enough to make you feel like you were in on a secret the adults didn’t get. I probably didn’t realize it at the time, but I was driving a future classic — the kind of analog, lightweight, driver‑focused car that basically doesn’t exist anymore.
So yeah, disappointed I didn’t keep it longer. The ’87 Celica aged like a cult favorite album: underappreciated on release, beloved in hindsight, and now impossible to replace without spending way too much time on classifieds and convincing myself I “just want to look.”
