As quirky Subaru knows, eccentrics can easily stumble into the murky mainstream.
It just happens, kind of like 40th birthdays. One day you wear a tiny earring and Doc Martens to work and the next, a Brooks Brothers suit and Capital One haircut.
Welcome, my son, to the machine.
The first Subie I drove — the one that seared me like a prison tattoo — sported eye-frying electric-blue paint, gold wheels and a wing so big it probably caused a shift in the jetstream.
My neighbors probably thought I had joined a cult.
That STI made noises I had never heard before, emitting flat, hoarse honks and mumbled growls from cylinders seemingly cast in some mystical garage in Japan.
Boost in the turbocharged STI came on with a bang, threatening to pop the hood loose and shoving the squat little sedan down the road with fine, tire-clawing violence.
I liked it so much I kind of wanted to sleep in it just to absorb its odd, intergalactic energy.