I lived in England for two years, from 1982 to 1984, I owned a 1971 Morris Mini, red with the 1000cc engine. It was great fun. I drove it all over that island nation. I've always liked cars, and I didn't much worry about how big or how small or how powerful or how fast. I once owned a 1964 Lincoln Continental and a 1980 Renault LeCar (Renault 5 outside the US) at the same time. Both were entertaining in their own way. The Renault couldn't cruise all day at 100 mph with 6 people on board gliding effortlessly across the open interstate with the bellow of that magnificently smooth 430ci V8. But the Lincoln couldn't be hurled through mountain passes and two-lane backroads at 9/10th with ease, shifting up and down through the gearbox finding just the right gear to keep the fun going all day.
My greatest drive was in a woefully underpowered Turkish-built Renault 12. I was up in the Taurus mountains of southern Turkey with some friends, and we were heading back home down on the coast. I was simply enjoying the drive, choosing my lines, shifting up and down, keeping the car in it's narrow power band, making the most of it. Only afterwards did I realize that the car had grown quiet. My passengers weren't talking. I wasn't pushing the car insanely hard. I wasn't taking stupid risks. I was just trying to be as smooth and efficient as possible. When I finally reached the bottom of the mountains and was on the main road into town, my passengers finally spoke. They thougth it was the most amazing thing they'd ever seen. They could see that for the last half hour I was completely committed to my driving, to the exclusion of everything else. They never once felt scared. They just enjoyed the drive. It took me some time to come down from the adrenaline buzz from how good the drive had been. I've had a lot of cars over the past 30 years, sports cars and coupes and sedans, new and old, American, Japanese, British, French, German and Italian, but none will ever top that puny, underpowered, shoddily-built Renault.