The Bronco was to be the steed for an adventure to the San Jacinto Mountains with my friend Lance. Since he’d never driven an old car, I gave him first dibs. Rainstorms had blanketed the area and seemed to have affected an electrical connection in the vehicle, because just after we set out, its horn became almost comically stuck, even when parked. Unable to locate the horn’s power wire, the situation became untenable. I called the owner and drove the blaring Ford to a nearby shop.
Since the shop was able to fix the short by the next morning, Lance and I decided to stick with the Bronco (the owner graciously offered a new Porsche convertible, but that seemed like cheating).
The truck only broke down three more times.
On the highway at 70 mph, the transfer case popped out of gear, cutting off power and forcing us to coast into the breakdown lane. Shortly later, after a fill-up, the Bronco conked out in a fast-food drive-thru and refused to start for 30 minutes. Then, after shepherding us around the mountains seamlessly for a couple of days, on the morning of our departure, it again refused to start. Thinking we might coast downhill to a nearby service station, we pushed the Bronco through a neighbor’s yard—using a pry bar to move small boulders. Once it was level, it started. We beelined back to San Diego, and when I returned the Bronco, the owner was present. I told him about the mishaps. “Were you parked on a hill today?” he asked. I nodded. “Yeah. It does that sometimes.” Details like this, I said, could best be provided in advance.
Still, the Bronco was undeniably fun, an ideal attention grabber for a weekend. And the anecdotes—indelible, but never life-threatening—are already aging into legend. Old cars teach you to enjoy the lunacy they are always moments away from engendering.
For the less adventurous, each app has protocols for breakdowns. DriveShare provides roadside assistance through Hagerty’s extant program and will refund you for any rental that can’t be completed. Turo would have towed the truck away—through Liberty Mutual’s roadside service—and found another local vehicle or reimbursed our Uber to the closest available vehicle (though it wouldn’t have been an old Bronco). Vinty, as a smaller player, is more hands-off, encouraging the two parties to come up with a rescue plan prior to the rental.
But if you’re thinking of entrusting your precious baby to random strangers online, unless there is proven malice or a wreck, any mechanical issues resulting from a rental end up being the responsibility of the car’s owner.
“We like to think of it this way,” says Zawadzki. “Revenue from DriveShare can help car owners offset inevitable maintenance and ownership expenses related with collector cars.”
I’d been considering renting out one or more of my vintage vehicles through these services, but having experienced the range of possible outcomes—and my vehicles’ myriad quirks—I was reconsidering the cost-benefit analysis. Like Airbnb-ing my beloved but funky lake house, it seemed more invasive, more of a headache than it was worth, a better deal for the guest than the host.
Recently classic-car obsessed, but less experienced (and less jaded), Lance had a slightly different take, one more aligned with the apps’ mission. “I would definitely rent another vintage car—with you,” he said. “But I don’t really think I’d want one as my daily driver.”