Holdens, Fords, Toyotas, Datsuns ... and plenty of less well-known names, such as the Hillman, the Humber, Fiat 147 or the Leyland P76, they were a part of the family.

We marvelled at their unique features – like how the radio was always stuck on 4KQ – and were left puzzled when the 1980 Toyota Corolla could make it to Longreach on a 46C scorcher and not overheat, only for it not to restart at the petrol station.

Here, six Queenslanders recount that one special car which was integral to their growing up.

HOW DO YOU REMEMBER YOUR FIRST CAR? Comment below

XY Ford Fairmont

SHE was gold, with black racing stripes, alloy wheels and two fat chromed exhaust pipes sticking out the back so passers-by could better appreciate the burble of the 302ci V8 under the bonnet.

That old XY Ford Fairmont was a joy; a cantankerous bitch of a car on whom I would lavish endless hours of grease-stained attention, but a thing of brawny beauty nonetheless.

The most vital modification of course was a tape deck to replace the old push-button radio, and speakers on the parcel rack loud enough to do justice to a collection of AC/DC and Angels cassette tapes.

That XY was my first (road registered) car. I drove her to and from school in my final year (and, no, headmaster, it was not me who chewed up a large chunk of the lower oval doing circle work. Honest to God.)

She ferried me and carloads of mates to bands, the relative success of any given night measurable by the number of empty beer cans strewn in the back. She witnessed my early fumblings at drive-in movie double features – occasionally in the back seat, but more often than not under the bonnet long after the show was over trying to tinker with the world’s most recalcitrant water pump.

She carted me to and from the Gold Coast, consuming an obscene amount of my part-time wage in leaded petrol … and it’s probably best not to discuss in public the time trials we used to conduct between Southport and the Vulture Street exit.

Add in myself – a southern suburbs Brisbane lad with a fine mullet, black T-shirt and a tendency to view speed limits as optional rather than binding – and together she and I pretty much defined the term “cop bait”, as at least one licence suspension would attest.

She was gold …

- Paul Syvret

Hillman Super Minx

MANY hours were spent in the back seat of this boxy Brit deep in Australia’s outback.

Long before Toyotas and Nissans conquered the bush, we ventured into this land’s harsh interior in a matt green, 1962 Hillman Super Minx station wagon.

They were simple, no-frills automobiles of the type which sadly no longer exist. And they were indestructible.

Powered by a 1.4 litre 4-cylinder motor, with a massive 46kw of power (my current Patrol has about three times that), our Super Minx had no seatbelts, no aircon, no radio, and a crank handle that slotted through the front bumper and had to be used when the ignition key wouldn’t do the job (which was quite often).

I spent my formative years in a series of Hillmans. A late ‘50s Minx wagon - top speed 60km/h - took the family on our migration from Sydney to Perth in 1967 - before the Eyre Highway across the Nullarbor was sealed. Another carted us around various parts of WA for years before the Super Minx was trusted with our most ambitious journey - Perth to Alice Springs via the Gunbarrel Highway then onto Darwin and back to Perth via the Kimberley and Pilbara.

The old girl never missed a beat. The Gunbarrel Hwy is offlimits to anything but 4WDs nowadays - our gutsy little Birmingham built beauty never got bogged and hauled us through some incredibly rugged terrain without complaint.

Dad’s biggest job was helping pull some of our fellow travellers (including a HT Holden Belmont, a Toyota Crown and a Chevy Impala) out of trouble from time to time.

That trip was in 1971. We stuck with the Hillman for another three years before a move to Arnhem Land required the purchase of a real 4WD.

I’ve always missed that car and have nothing but fond memories. It helped foster a love of adventure and exploration and of the Outback.

Infected with nostalgia while writing this, I scoured car sales websites looking for a Hillman. I found just one. Yes, it was a Super Minx. Not a wagon, unfortunately, but a steal at $4500 ...

- Chris Bartlett

Fiat 147L

MY late dad -- John Johnson -- was a Queenslander and mum -- Barbara -- was from Sydney. Dad was a journo first (on the now defunct Brisbane Telegraph) but when he was transferred to the Sydney office, he decided to leave journalism for a proper job.

He was a businessman for years, ending up as Sales Manager for 3M (Scotch Tape etc) but at the age of 40 he had a bit of a midlife crisis and decided to become a pineapple farmer in Queensland instead (go figure). So we left north-shore Sydney and moved to a farm near Nambour.

I learnt to drive on the farm: old, clapped-out utes and jeeps, all manual. By fifteen, I was haring all over the place, desperate to get out on the roads. I passed my learners at 16 and a half, and then my dad’s uncle Joe -- who lived in Cairns and never went any further south because he was in the First World War, in the trenches, in winter, and ever since had a horror of any temperature below steamy -- gave me money to buy my first car.

It was a clapped-out old Fiat (A Fiat 147L) - already second-hand when I bought it, and on it’s last legs. From memory, I paid $600 - A FORTUNE. And the very first time I back it out of the drive on the farm, I crashed it into my boyfriend’s car. Yeah, I know. I’d been driving for years, but there was something about the audience watching my first grand outing, the importance of the occasion, and a sudden attack of nerves.

But, oh, how I loved that car. It seemed to me then, and it seems to me now, that a girl and her first car are a romance, a freedom, a ticket out, to adulthood, to everything glorious. The road was suddenly open, and I was on it.

- Susan Johnson

Toyota Tarago

MUM’S second-hand 1988 Toyota Tarago was anything but cool.

But when you’re shuttling four kids from points A to Z – with all stops in between – practicality trumps panache.

“The Van” was a bronze behemoth complete with bull bar, velour upholstery and moon roof.

It was a step up from its Mitsubishi Shuttle predecessor and a damn sight more comfortable than shared seatbelts in the back of dad’s sedan.

We each staked a claim on a seat – back row, driver’s side – and didn’t budge for the half dozen years it transported us.

Entry to The Van was via a soft and slow sliding door that required more muscle power to close than the average tween possessed and more time than an embarrassed teen would prefer.

That mortification wasn’t a patch on the horror I felt learning to drive it; a nervous mum in the passenger seat, chorus of hecklers in their assigned seats.

It was big and unwieldy, its radio was stuck on 4KQ, its interpretation of power steering was laughable but after taming that beast I can parallel park anything.

It came into its own after I secured my licence and I developed a grudging fondness for the mum-mobile.

The Van became The Bus, specifically The Party Bus.

Friends would pile in, filling the eight seats and occasionally the boot space as we cruised Brisbane’s blue ribbon suburbs, searching out parties relayed through the private school grapevine.

Its moon roof took on a more colloquial meaning as passengers took advantage of red lights and balmy evenings to…err…wink at fellow late night commuters.

The Van hit peak coolness when I discovered how to lay flat its two seat rows to fashion a double bed; an epiphany to a hormone-fuelled teen but probably not something said nervous mum wants to read about.

Obsolete, it was traded in once I secured my own wheels – a very cool, frog green 1983 Datsun Pulsar.

No moon roof.

- Belinda Seeney

Toyota Corolla CS Hardtop

AS first cars go, it’s hard to imagine one better: mum’s four-speed manual, white 1980 Toyota Corolla CS Hardtop (aka Corolla coupe) was unbreakable. Or almost unbreakable.

At university, it once carried a mate and I along a clearly-signposted 4WD-only track to Lake Freshwater on the Coolola coast, and got us back again.

After uni, it carried me to Longreach in Queensland’s central west on the way to my first job in journalism, the absence of air conditioning a minor technicality in the face of 46 degree heat.

The car stubbornly refused to overheat and ran beautifully in the blast furnace conditions until I stopped for petrol. And then it wouldn’t restart.

It was then I discovered the car was in its push-start phase, one that wasn’t outlined in the owner’s manual.

I soon mastered the knack of running alongside while steering then jumping in and popping the clutch, and because western Queensland is pretty flat the process was good exercise until an auto-electrician finally fixed the starter problem a month later.

The Corolla’s remarkably sturdy nature became apparent on outback dirt roads – one day we hit a hidden 30cm-deep washout at 100km/h and the rear wheels bounced so high a camera on the passenger seat hit the roof.

But the car didn’t miss a beat. When the rear suspension finally died (who’d have thought?) a local mechanic added a few extra leaf springs which lifted the rear boot lid to about 120cm off the ground.

That looked pretty odd, but the Corolla then showed an unexpected ability to touch down ever so gently after occasionally getting airborne on cattle grids and rail crossings. (To be honest, it was a bit bloody rough around town, though).

Against the odds (given such a cosseted life) the engine eventually died and was replaced.

The (non-standard) air horns, which added a touch of sophistication to the car’s otherwise rugged good looks, stopped working.

The clutch died, and was replaced. Twice. So was the gearbox. And the shockies. And the stereo. And then a bloke ran into the back of it when it was parked on the street. That hurt the poor car, but it didn’t kill it. Although it didn’t do much for resale.

It was eventually traded for $600 on another Corolla – a week after I’d fitted $600 worth of new tyres. Somebody got an absolute bargain.

- Neale Maynard

1980ish station wagon

MOTHER will be mortified but I’ll share regardless. Sorry mum.

With three lanky-legged brothers, a rather large father, my petite mum, me, the pre-school aged younger sister and Missy the dog, family trips in a five-seater car were akin to cramming a jumper in a jam jar.

Even if the five-seater was an old, blue station wagon, the make and model I wouldn’t even know. Just let me Google images for “old car blue station wagon”. Hmm, it kind of looked like a Plymouth Reliant or a Ford Fairmont station wagon but not quite. Hang ten, I’ll text mum.

After you packed the boot with food, clothes, towels, blankets, the dog and whatever else a family of six take on outings, finding a ‘safe’ place for me became a bit of a game.

Being the smallest, I’d squeeze my tush between the bony thighs of two begrudging brothers then slip under the small section of the seatbelt. Safety first.

If we’d had an earlier sibling scuffle - this happened a lot – it would be a case of curling into a ball at my mum’s feet in the front.

Sometimes I’d pop up to peek out the window or to get fresh air by struggling with the stiffened plastic winder thingy – thank heavens for the invention of electric windows. But mostly, with my bed pillow this was a cosy place for a nap.

Watching a flick at the local drive-in was something else. The station wagon was perfect for stuffing doonas and pillows in the boot and also for hiding extra children.

Most often it would appear to be only my dad and one brother driving in, paying entry per person, but little did the ticket guy know there were three naughty but scared silent children buried in the mound of bedding.

Hold on, that’s my mum. It was a Holden Commodore, circa 1980. Thanks mum.

- Vanessa Croll