I was quite a lucky child growing up. We lived at the end of a cul-de-sac, on which were four other houses with driveways.
I could see each one through my bedroom window, meaning I had five cars to choose from in the fantasy world where I owned all of them – and had a driving licence aged 10.
My favourites were always what our next-door neighbour used to bring home (sorry, Dad). He worked in a Honda dealership, and I remember my first encounter with his FN1 Civic.
Despite the best efforts of its bland grey paintwork to dull the ‘wow’ factor of its futuristic, spaceship-inspired silhouette, it was utterly captivating – especially so in the context of what its Ford, Vauxhall and Volkswagen rivals looked like.
I loved the thing, and an obsession was sparked. Posters went up, passenger rides were requested and the rest of my time was spent watching endless videos of Hondas on this up-and-coming website called YouTube, which introduced me to the spicier Type R versions.
Fast forward to my mid-twenties and I finally had the money to scratch the itch, and with a sensible Volvo V40 diesel coming to the end of its lease, I decided I would buy a Civic Type R. More specifically, an FN2. I wanted the UFO.
And even after everything I had read, everything I had watched and everything I had dreamed, first impressions didn’t disappoint. From the big, enticing starter button to the split dashboard and those wonderfully comfy red bucket seats, this was a car just made to make you feel special and engaged.
I just wanted to drive it, and drive it hard. But this, sadly, brought out its flaws – flaws that you couldn’t see on a poster. It was sprung too hard, the gearbox was a bit crashy and the metal shifter top would be either too cold or boiling to touch, depending on the weather.
But it was the dearth of low-end torque from its 2.0-litre four-pot that was the killer for me – and the main reason I sold it about three years later for the BMW Z4 that I still own.
