Sammy Tran articles

The 1990s produced plenty of sports cars that announced themselves with spoilers, scoops, and bright paint. But some of the decade’s most interesting performance machines looked like ordinary family sedans, sensible wagons, or cars your accountant might have driven to work. Years later, enthusiasts have learned that some remarkably entertaining hardware was hiding beneath all that beige-era restraint.

A dark shadow stretches across the pavement, the road ahead is clear, and suddenly the car hits the brakes hard enough to make your stomach jump. Moments like that can turn a reassuring safety feature into something that feels unnervingly unpredictable. Reports of unexpected braking are real, but so are the crashes these systems prevent, which makes the question of whether modern driver-assistance technology is actually safe more complicated than it first appears.

My condo building finally installed EV chargers, which sounded like progress until I learned the catch: they are attached to premium parking spaces. In other words, buying an electric car would not be enough. I would also have to pay for the privilege of parking close enough to plug it in, and that raises an uncomfortable question about who actually gets to enjoy the cheapest and easiest version of EV ownership.

Older cars were full of features that made perfect sense to drivers at the time. Today, many of them look confusing, charming, or downright strange.

The 24 Hours of Le Mans was supposed to celebrate speed and human nerve—but in 1955, it became the scene of the deadliest disaster in motorsport history.

Modern cars can practically park themselves, stream millions of songs, and warn us about hazards before we notice them. Yet drivers are increasingly nostalgic for features that required no software updates, subscriptions, or touchscreen tutorials. Once you remember how satisfying those older details could be, today’s most advanced interiors can suddenly feel like they are missing something important.

In the 1980s, most students drove hand-me-down sedans or whatever their parents could spare—but some had cars that made everyone stop and stare.

I always assumed my car only knew where I was while I was using navigation. Then I learned that many connected vehicles can store or transmit detailed location information long after the trip is over. The more I read, the more I wondered exactly how much my car knew about me, and whether I could stop it.

The first time I accelerated, I could have sworn the engine suddenly sounded louder and more aggressive. Then I realized something strange. The noise was coming through the speakers, not from under the hood. Once I learned how common this feature has become, I had one big question. Can you actually turn it off, or are you stuck listening to it forever?