The Mechanically Perfect Lie
What was left of the mechanically perfect Mercedes 250D the next morning.
I heard a deafening noise coming from outside. It sounded like a dying clutch mixed with a completely mistimed acceleration. I looked out and, with a grim sort of satisfaction, I realized I was right: it was an old, battered Mercedes W124 - the famous, "indestructible" 200-Class. Indestructible, perhaps, but old enough now to finally show its age.
It was 14 May 2002. Against my will, I had already returned my car to the dealer because "it sells better during this period", and while waiting for my new one, he had lent me a "courtesy vehicle". It was an old Mercedes 250D - over ten years old. Slow but unstoppable, its odometer boasted over 520,000 kilometers. According to the dealer, it had traveled at least double that, but it was "mechanically perfect".
Actually, it was pleasant to drive. Slow - very slow - but the sense of solidity and quality was still perfectly palpable. I admit that, in the end, I didn't mind those "bridge" days. And that evening, I had no desire to stay home. My parents were going to bed early. I had studied all day and was tired. The evening was mild, and I wanted some space. I made a phone call, grabbed the keys to the Mercedes, and headed out. "I'll be back before midnight; it’s just a short drive".
The evening passed quietly, and by 22:30, I was already on my way back. Sometimes, a little is enough to feel like you can breathe again. I decided to take it slow, enjoying the clear night, the non-existent Tuesday night traffic, and the simple pleasure of extending the drive. I took the highway, with a limit of 130 km/h, but I stayed in the right lane, keeping it under 100. There was no one else on the road.
Lost in my thoughts, I noticed something moving at the edge of the road, barely illuminated by the headlights. Before I could even process it, that "something" darted into the lane: a large white dog - likely a Maremma Shepherd - and a smaller dog by its side. Without even thinking, I slammed my foot on the brake and swerved to the left. The dogs were saved. But in an instant, I knew something was wrong. Despite being equipped with ABS, the car completely lost traction at the rear. Thump - a dull thud - and the front hood flew open, completely blocking my view of the road. The car went wild, spinning in a tailspin, and I heard a loud grinding noise as warning lights flashed on the dashboard. The car kept spinning, then another loud crash. Suddenly, silence. Those moments, though brief, are etched in my mind as infinite seconds, ticked away one by one by an atomic clock.
Then, a slight hiss. Then louder. I saw smoke and decided to get out immediately. I pulled the handle, but the door wouldn't budge. The smoke was increasing - and so was my urge to escape. I gave the door a well-aimed kick, and it suddenly burst open, revealing the road. Fortunately, I was at the edge, so I scrambled out and moved away. I turned around and felt the air leave my lungs: the front of the car was destroyed, the rear torn open, and it was halfway off the road. It had dislodged the guardrail, which, however, had done its job: I hadn't ended up in the canal. Debris was scattered across the asphalt, but luckily, the smoke stopped. It was probably coolant or oil.
I saw a car approaching - it slowed down, drove over the scattered pieces, and kept going. And so, over the next few minutes, did two others. With the third passerby, things went differently: he stopped and positioned his car so his lights would illuminate the scene. My own hazard triangle had ended up in the canal when the trunk flew open during the impact.
The man made sure I was okay and told me that a few days earlier, the same thing had happened to his wife. Same spot, same dynamics, but fortunately, she had managed to regain control. I wondered why I hadn't been able to handle it.
The Carabinieri arrived, and I called my parents. I was unhurt and answered the officers' questions; they admitted they were aware of the problem. They didn't feel it necessary to breathalyze me - I was perfectly lucid.
The next day, I went to the car dealer and told him what had happened. He smiled, telling me the important thing was that I was okay. Then he explained that yes, the car's suspension had over a million kilometers on it and he should have replaced it before the next inspection, but he figured he would eventually sell the car to some "exporter who would take it abroad for pennies". And there was more: the car had been in a bad accident before and had been "decently" repaired, but the frame was no longer entirely straight.
I looked at him. He lowered his gaze. All my fear transformed into rage. "Don't worry, I won't make you pay for the damage", he said. The words bounced off my ears. My expression didn't change. The silence said much more than a thousand words. As I walked away, I looked back one last time toward what could have been my coffin. Despite everything, it had protected me - because its mileage and inefficiencies hadn't erased the underlying quality of its build. Just as the three-pointed star continued to shine, pointing proudly upward amidst a tangle of metal, wires, and whatever remained of the car’s front end.
I tried to erase this story from my mind, and it worked. Until a July morning when a registered letter arrived for me. I opened it, curious; I wasn't expecting anything official. It was from the road management company. They were asking me to pay for the repair of the guardrail, which hadn't been fixed yet. Infuriated, I called the reference number and pointed out that the Carabinieri had documented the presence of dogs and were already aware of the issue. In fact, the officers themselves had written in the report that they had received several reports of two stray dogs in previous days. Furthermore, a section of the perimeter fence was missing because it was completely rotted. They replied, coldly, that the fence had been restored and that I had no direct witnesses to the actual existence of those dogs. I would have to activate my insurance or pay. Tertium non datur.
The insurance paid. I was left with a bitter taste in my mouth, but in the end, what mattered was that no one had been hurt. Not me, and not the dogs.
The W124 outside my window, amidst hellish noises, finally managed to pull out of the parking spot and drove away. Sitting back down, I thought that even for "indestructible" cars, the time eventually comes to let them go.
https://my-notes.dragas.net/2026/01/11/the-mechanically-perfect-lie/
#Life #MyNotes #Reflections
What was left of the mechanically perfect Mercedes 250D the next morning.
I heard a deafening noise coming from outside. It sounded like a dying clutch mixed with a completely mistimed acceleration. I looked out and, with a grim sort of satisfaction, I realized I was right: it was an old, battered Mercedes W124 - the famous, "indestructible" 200-Class. Indestructible, perhaps, but old enough now to finally show its age.
It was 14 May 2002. Against my will, I had already returned my car to the dealer because "it sells better during this period", and while waiting for my new one, he had lent me a "courtesy vehicle". It was an old Mercedes 250D - over ten years old. Slow but unstoppable, its odometer boasted over 520,000 kilometers. According to the dealer, it had traveled at least double that, but it was "mechanically perfect".
Actually, it was pleasant to drive. Slow - very slow - but the sense of solidity and quality was still perfectly palpable. I admit that, in the end, I didn't mind those "bridge" days. And that evening, I had no desire to stay home. My parents were going to bed early. I had studied all day and was tired. The evening was mild, and I wanted some space. I made a phone call, grabbed the keys to the Mercedes, and headed out. "I'll be back before midnight; it’s just a short drive".
The evening passed quietly, and by 22:30, I was already on my way back. Sometimes, a little is enough to feel like you can breathe again. I decided to take it slow, enjoying the clear night, the non-existent Tuesday night traffic, and the simple pleasure of extending the drive. I took the highway, with a limit of 130 km/h, but I stayed in the right lane, keeping it under 100. There was no one else on the road.
Lost in my thoughts, I noticed something moving at the edge of the road, barely illuminated by the headlights. Before I could even process it, that "something" darted into the lane: a large white dog - likely a Maremma Shepherd - and a smaller dog by its side. Without even thinking, I slammed my foot on the brake and swerved to the left. The dogs were saved. But in an instant, I knew something was wrong. Despite being equipped with ABS, the car completely lost traction at the rear. Thump - a dull thud - and the front hood flew open, completely blocking my view of the road. The car went wild, spinning in a tailspin, and I heard a loud grinding noise as warning lights flashed on the dashboard. The car kept spinning, then another loud crash. Suddenly, silence. Those moments, though brief, are etched in my mind as infinite seconds, ticked away one by one by an atomic clock.
Then, a slight hiss. Then louder. I saw smoke and decided to get out immediately. I pulled the handle, but the door wouldn't budge. The smoke was increasing - and so was my urge to escape. I gave the door a well-aimed kick, and it suddenly burst open, revealing the road. Fortunately, I was at the edge, so I scrambled out and moved away. I turned around and felt the air leave my lungs: the front of the car was destroyed, the rear torn open, and it was halfway off the road. It had dislodged the guardrail, which, however, had done its job: I hadn't ended up in the canal. Debris was scattered across the asphalt, but luckily, the smoke stopped. It was probably coolant or oil.
I saw a car approaching - it slowed down, drove over the scattered pieces, and kept going. And so, over the next few minutes, did two others. With the third passerby, things went differently: he stopped and positioned his car so his lights would illuminate the scene. My own hazard triangle had ended up in the canal when the trunk flew open during the impact.
The man made sure I was okay and told me that a few days earlier, the same thing had happened to his wife. Same spot, same dynamics, but fortunately, she had managed to regain control. I wondered why I hadn't been able to handle it.
The Carabinieri arrived, and I called my parents. I was unhurt and answered the officers' questions; they admitted they were aware of the problem. They didn't feel it necessary to breathalyze me - I was perfectly lucid.
The next day, I went to the car dealer and told him what had happened. He smiled, telling me the important thing was that I was okay. Then he explained that yes, the car's suspension had over a million kilometers on it and he should have replaced it before the next inspection, but he figured he would eventually sell the car to some "exporter who would take it abroad for pennies". And there was more: the car had been in a bad accident before and had been "decently" repaired, but the frame was no longer entirely straight.
I looked at him. He lowered his gaze. All my fear transformed into rage. "Don't worry, I won't make you pay for the damage", he said. The words bounced off my ears. My expression didn't change. The silence said much more than a thousand words. As I walked away, I looked back one last time toward what could have been my coffin. Despite everything, it had protected me - because its mileage and inefficiencies hadn't erased the underlying quality of its build. Just as the three-pointed star continued to shine, pointing proudly upward amidst a tangle of metal, wires, and whatever remained of the car’s front end.
I tried to erase this story from my mind, and it worked. Until a July morning when a registered letter arrived for me. I opened it, curious; I wasn't expecting anything official. It was from the road management company. They were asking me to pay for the repair of the guardrail, which hadn't been fixed yet. Infuriated, I called the reference number and pointed out that the Carabinieri had documented the presence of dogs and were already aware of the issue. In fact, the officers themselves had written in the report that they had received several reports of two stray dogs in previous days. Furthermore, a section of the perimeter fence was missing because it was completely rotted. They replied, coldly, that the fence had been restored and that I had no direct witnesses to the actual existence of those dogs. I would have to activate my insurance or pay. Tertium non datur.
The insurance paid. I was left with a bitter taste in my mouth, but in the end, what mattered was that no one had been hurt. Not me, and not the dogs.
The W124 outside my window, amidst hellish noises, finally managed to pull out of the parking spot and drove away. Sitting back down, I thought that even for "indestructible" cars, the time eventually comes to let them go.
https://my-notes.dragas.net/2026/01/11/the-mechanically-perfect-lie/
#Life #MyNotes #Reflections