Hello porch, goodbye MX-5

Final thoughts of the Roadster’s place in the world

I’M SITTING on the couch on my porch right now, looking at the MX-5. I just moved house, so I’ve spent the day lugging boxes and beds up three stairs (no, not three flights, just three steps) and into the new joint.

Downsized, I have, just like car engines of today. I went from a three-bedder with backyard and garage to a two-bedder with courtyard and shed. So a lot of man cave stuff had to go, including two spare wheels and a cargo-bay shelf – apologies for whichever test car they once belonged to.

Molly the dog was unimpressed with her new, smaller abode, until she discovered she can run laps of the long weatherboard free-stander. Her current record, set in damp conditions, is 24 seconds. I reckon there’s a good three or four seconds left in this because she oversteered badly at each 90-degree right. Takes after her old man…

As for the house, what seemed like a charming long hallway when I inspected this renter became the Kokoda Trail of tribulations as I trudged its weary length for the umpteenth time with yet another box of car magazines in my tired arms.

And during this entire move the bloody MX-5 was no help whatsoever. Unlike Inwood, whose HSV Clubbie wagon last month proved its load-lugging merits – and who also roped in a Mercedes monster van for the larger items – the most my MX-5 could manage was a computer. Not the screens, just the boxy bit with all the smarts and hard-drives. The boot was full of shirts, which I thought had been a clever move, but which I later spent two nights re-ironing.

And that, dear reader, was the sum total of the Roadster’s contribution to Moving Day. The rest of my life made the 8km trip in the back of a six-tonne truck, expertly packed by a couple of burly Islanders. Seriously, how does one bloke collect so much crap?

Which is how, right now, I’m sitting on the porch, beer in hand, wondering how I’m going to get this couch through my narrow door and down the Kokoda hallway. Huge apologies to those who trudged the actual Kokoda during WWII, but right now the task in front of me seems insurmountable.

I waved the movers goodbye half an hour ago, thinking the job was done. Rookie mistake not to make one last sweep before greasing their palms and packing them off.

All I know now is the MX-5 will be no help, yet again. It’s not the car’s fault. It’s an indulgence, pure and simple. No matter how you dice this $42K fun machine, practicality is not its raison d’etre.

I’m limited to carrying just one friend or one dog. Anything that wouldn’t fit in a Qantas overhead compartment won’t fit in the MX-5’S boot. Also, I find myself grunting like my grandad getting in and out of this low-riding lazyboy.

But right now, sitting on my couch watching a rare winter sunset, I’m acutely aware that the MX-5’S time in my life is also coming to a close. And I don’t know how I feel about that.

I will miss the 2016 COTY champ. No question. I enjoyed every single kilometre together; urban commuting, highway cruising and crucifying my favourite country roads.

But I’m not going to miss this particular MX-5, and that’s wholly and solely because of the automatic transmission, which undermines the MX-5’S brilliant base character, and its visceral and aural delights.

I’ve decided: The 2.0-litre is better than the 1.5; the 2.0-litre manual is best. Case closed.

Now, time to meet the neighbours. I’ve got a couch to move.