Chapter 73: The Smallest Car in the World
The next day, I completed the lease agreement at Sterling Selection’s office in the presence of a notary public.
With that, I had secured an enormous three-acre plot of land.
For a full forty years, no less.
I still can’t believe it.
I later learned that the annual rent had been set at one dollar in order to satisfy the requirement under Anglo-American contract law that a valid contract must involve consideration.
Apparently, arrangements like this were commonly called peppercorn rent.
(Translator’s Note: Peppercorn Rent — A nominal rent—historically represented by something as trivial as a peppercorn—used to ensure that a lease or contract contains legally recognized consideration.)
Whatever the name, it was an extraordinary gift.
To make proper use of the land, I had a mountain of work ahead of me, and there would undoubtedly be plenty of obstacles along the way.
But for now, I felt more excitement than worry.
Vroom—
As I left Sterling’s parking lot and headed back to the restoration shop, the sky seemed unusually clear, though perhaps that was only because of my mood.
After calming myself somewhat while driving along the familiar road, the first person I called was my mentor, Donnelly.
“What? Jason, is that really true? A five-thousand-square-foot shop?”
“Yes. The property itself is three acres.”
“Hohoho, that’s wonderful. Truly wonderful news. I knew you would do well! So, when does construction begin?”
Donnelly was sincerely delighted, as though it were his own good fortune.
Hearing his laughter for the first time in a while filled me with pride.
“I only just signed the lease, so I imagine it’ll take at least a few weeks to choose a contractor and finalize the building design.”
“Hmm, that sounds about right. Even if it takes some time, make sure you have the building designed by someone reliable. You’ll be working there for many years, after all.”
Donnelly had run a repair shop in the same building for nearly fifty years, so his advice was worth taking to heart.
“Yes. I was already thinking of going with a PEMB—a pre-engineered metal building.”
(Translator’s Note: PEMB — An abbreviation of Pre-Engineered Metal Building, a structure whose steel frame and major components are designed and fabricated in a factory before being assembled at the construction site. Such buildings are widely used for American workshops, warehouses, and industrial facilities.)
“Oh, really? That’s a good idea. With a PEMB, the frame is steel and the panels are metal, so it’ll stand up very well to sandstorms. Ah, don’t tell me you’re thinking of hiring Bill...?”
Bill was Donnelly’s longtime friend, the first person to contact me on the day Donnelly collapsed.
The two of them bickered whenever they met, but despite that, they were obviously very close.
Bill also happened to be a longtime local PEMB supplier.
“Yes. Donnelly Auto & Machine has held up just fine for fifty years. You said Bill worked on it, didn’t you?”
“Tch. Fifty years, my ass. That was redone twenty-five years ago. They didn’t even have that sort of thing fifty years back. Well... anyway, he probably won’t try any funny business with you. Hold on a moment. Hey, Bill. Take this. It’s Jason.”
Donnelly never praised Bill under any circumstances.
I had not expected Bill to be sitting right beside him.
“What...? Ahem... Oh, Jason! It’s been a while. How have you been?”
Bill sounded flustered as he unexpectedly took the call.
“Hello, Bill. Looks like I’m contacting you again. Have you been well?”
“Me? Same as always, cleaning up after this insufferable Earl every day. Anyway, I hear you’re building a new restoration shop?”
“Yes. A good opportunity came up unexpectedly. I’m thinking about five thousand square feet, and it seems like a PEMB would offer the best value.”
“Hmm. At that size, prefabrication would certainly save you a lot of money. In any case, this isn’t something we should discuss over the phone. I’ll stop by your shop soon. You still have my number, right?”
“Yes. Call me in the afternoon, and I can make time.”
“Got it. All right, take this back.”
Rustle, rustle—
“Yeah, Jason. If Bill gives you an inflated estimate, call me immediately. I won’t let him get away with it.”
“Haha, understood. Ah... and if it’s all right with you, I’d like you to take a look at the equipment layout later. I’ll prepare plenty of samgyeopsal.”
Donnelly had been unable to attend the previous party, so I had once bought some meat and visited him separately.
He had loved it, saying it was unlike anything he had tasted before.
“Really? Ahem. If there’s samgyeopsal involved... I suppose I have no choice. I’ll try to summon some strength, hohoho.”
“All right. I’ll contact you again.”
“Good. Congratulations again. You’re already doing well, so don’t rush yourself. Take it easy.”
I had no idea how Donnelly had noticed that I was becoming impatient, but he ended the call with a brief word of encouragement.
Thanks to him, my thoughts felt much more organized.
Right. Even if everything moves as quickly as possible, laying the road and putting up the building will take at least six months. I should start with what I can do and take things one step at a time.
After ending the call, I stopped at a gas station and made do with two hot dogs for breakfast and lunch.
I had used up most of the morning, and it was obvious that I would not have time to eat once I returned to the shop.
Inspection reservations were already fully booked for the next month.
Still, whether fortunately or unfortunately, the frenzy of the previous few weeks had begun to die down.
At this rate, I should be able to start accepting restoration projects again soon.
Vroom—
After finishing two hot dogs in under five minutes, I climbed back into my beloved truck.
At the time, I never imagined that the first car I would restore after such a long break would be such an absurd model.
When I returned to the restoration shop, I saw a black Chevy Silverado parked by the entrance and stopped dead in my tracks.
That truck is definitely...
Enormous off-road tires, crudely welded side steps, and most decisively, a Bone Frog sticker—the symbol of the Navy SEALs—attached to the top of the rear window.
(Translator’s Note: Bone Frog — An emblem associated with the United States Navy SEAL community. It is frequently used to represent SEAL identity and to commemorate fallen members.)
The moment I stepped out of my truck, the Silverado’s driver-side door flew open as though the occupant had been waiting for me.
At the same time, I heard a voice I had not heard in a long while, yet could never forget.
“Hey, Jason! Damn, I wondered if it was really true, but you actually became a car guy!”
I smirked as I watched the massive man practically leap down from the driver’s seat.
“Chief Logan.”
When I had been in the Navy SEALs, Logan had been our team chief.
The SEALs used ranks and forms of address somewhat differently from the regular military, but broadly speaking, chief was roughly equivalent to a senior noncommissioned officer.
He had been both the team leader and the breacher, responsible for blowing through walls and obstacles to open a path.
(Translator’s Note: Breacher — A military or law-enforcement specialist responsible for opening blocked entrances or routes through mechanical, ballistic, explosive, or other breaching methods.)
Standing over six feet three inches—about one hundred ninety centimeters—he had looked like a monster advancing without hesitation while wearing body armor and carrying an explosives kit weighing dozens of pounds.
“Chief, my ass. I left the service years ago.”
With a bitter smile, Logan extended his left hand instead of his right, which had been injured during an operation.
“Once a chief, always a chief. But how did you find this place?”
After leaving the service, I had wandered from construction site to construction site across the country.
The other members of the team had gone through similar periods.
We had barely stayed in contact, but the reality was that very few of us had immediately settled down and built stable family lives.
“How else? Your name was all over the internet for a while. And that photo was something else. I knew our team’s point man had a different kind of spirit.”
(Translator’s Note: Point Man — The person positioned at the front of a military patrol or tactical formation, responsible for leading the route and often being the first to encounter danger.)
“That picture happened to make things look more dramatic than they were. As you can see, I’m just living quietly in a corner of the desert, working on cars.”
When I objected, Logan snorted.
“Pfft. A man living quietly has eyes like that? Even one look inside tells me your habits haven’t gone anywhere.”
Logan quickly swept his sharp, hawk-like gaze across the shop’s interior.
“Your bed is basically military issue, and you placed it where you can see the entire interior without any blind spots. Look at how your tools are arranged in rows too. You set them up so you could grab whichever one you needed even in the dark with your eyes covered, didn’t you?”
The observation caught me completely off guard.
...Did I?
I had never consciously thought about it or intended to do so, but looking around, I realized Logan was right.
“I’m not criticizing you. I couldn’t get rid of my own habits either, so now I run a gun shop. Stop by if you ever need a firearm. Anyway, that’s not why I’m here today. I came because of that thing.”
Logan grinned and pointed behind his truck.
Sitting comfortably in the truck bed rather than on a trailer was a Peel P50, famous as the smallest car in the world.
The P50 was a three-wheeled microcar introduced by Britain’s Peel Engineering in 1962.
It was only four feet five inches long—about one hundred thirty-four centimeters—and weighed just one hundred twenty-three pounds, or roughly fifty-six kilograms.
It had even been listed in Guinness World Records as the smallest production car.
(Translator’s Note: Guinness World Records — A reference publication first released in 1955 to document exceptional achievements, measurements, and superlatives. The Peel P50 appears in it as the smallest production car.)
There had once been an episode of the British BBC television show Top Gear in which the host drove one to work.
(Translator’s Note: Top Gear and the Peel P50 — The Peel P50 gained renewed international fame after appearing on the BBC motoring program Top Gear, where Jeremy Clarkson drove it through the BBC Television Centre, including its corridors and elevators. Peel Engineering describes the segment as one of the program’s most watched episodes.)
The sight of him taking the car into the company elevator and driving it all the way into a conference room had attracted considerable attention.
Even more memorable was the scene where another employee simply picked the car up by hand and carried it outside during the meeting, vividly demonstrating its tiny size and low weight.
“Wow. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen that car. You still have it.”
“Of course. I’ll never sell it, even if it kills me. I’m passing it down through the family.”
Despite his enormous build, Logan doted on the adorable little car.
The team had teased him that his daughter’s tricycle was probably bigger, but he had never cared.
“I can never figure out your taste, Chief...”
I walked over to the truck bed to inspect the vehicle, then abruptly fell silent.
—————
[1963 Peel P50 (Original)]
(Translator’s Note: Peel P50 — A British three-wheeled microcar created by Peel Engineering on the Isle of Man and introduced in 1962. Measuring only about 134 centimeters long and weighing roughly 56 kilograms, it became recognized by Guinness World Records as the world’s smallest production car.)
Exterior: C
└ Paint Match: 25% — Partially original paint
└ Multiple areas of FRP fiberglass damage and cracking
Interior: B+
└ Minor damage and staining to the seat and carpet
Engine: D
└ Completely seized and nonfunctional
—————
The car was in terrible condition, apart from its simple interior, which barely had anything installed to begin with.
But that was not what shocked me.
“Chief... this is an original P50?”
I had naturally assumed it was one of the common replicas.
“Huh? Hahahaha! Jason, you really have become a car guy. That’s right. I only found out myself a few years ago, but this thing is genuine. What do you think? Incredible, right?”
Logan leaned against the truck and proudly crossed his arms.
He had to weigh at least two hundred fifty pounds—around one hundred thirteen kilograms—and the truck’s suspension dipped slightly under his weight.
“This is beyond incredible. What’s the current market value again...? In any case, you could easily get at least a hundred thousand dollars for it.”
The reason this car, which looked like nothing more than a toy, had acquired such immense value was its rarity.
The original P50 had been launched ambitiously as a practical city car, but only around fifty units were sold over three years before production ended.
It had inadequate safety features and a high fatality risk in accidents.
There was nowhere near enough storage space.
Naturally, it had neither air conditioning nor heating.
And because it was a three-wheeler, there was also a risk of rolling over while cornering.
To reduce that risk, it used two wheels at the front and one at the rear, but the effect was limited.
Yet roughly sixty years later, it had become enormously popular among collectors obsessed with rarity.
Ironically, not as something to drive, but as something to display.
“A hundred thousand dollars? Heh. People already called me insane when I paid twenty thousand for it. Looks like we’re well beyond that now. But I don’t care about its market value. I’m never selling it anyway.”
Logan rubbed the tip of his nose.
He was exactly as I remembered—a man with strong hoarding tendencies who never discarded a person or possession once it came into his hands.
“But the body is FRP, and the engine parts are all British. Restoration is going to be expensive. Are you sure you’re all right with that?”
“...I’ll pay a fair price. Of course, if you want to offer me a ‘chief discount’ for old times’ sake, I won’t refuse.”
After hearing the rough estimate, Logan scratched his head and kicked one of his innocent truck tires.
“...Didn’t you just tell me not to call you Chief?”
The sight was both ridiculous and amusing, but somehow also warmly familiar.
“Whew... I’ll give you a small discount, but on one condition. Once the car is finished, you have to drive it yourself right in front of the shop. I absolutely have to see you fold that huge body into it.”
“Ha. Fine.”
Logan offered me his hand once more.
Unlike usual, we did not fill out a restoration request form or sign a contract.
But when I clasped that enormous hand, we made a promise far more trustworthy than any signature written on paper.
[1963 Peel P50]
CC BY 2.0, photo by Andrew Bone