I drive a 1957 Volkswagen Beetle. Her name is Betty, after Betty Cooper in Archie Comics—reliable, classic, and honestly kind of perfect in a way that people underestimate.

She’s bright yellow. She’s almost 70 years old. She will probably never win a car show. And I love her completely.

But this isn’t just about Betty. This is about why the oval window Beetles—built from 1953 to 1957—are, objectively, the best cars ever made. I will not be taking questions.

A Brief History of Looking Out the Back

When the Beetle first hit the scene in the late 1930s, it had what collectors now call a “split window”—the rear window was literally divided in two by a center strip. Beautiful? Absolutely. Practical? Not especially. You could barely see what was behind you, which I guess mattered less when there were fewer cars and more “trying to survive a world war” energy.

In 1953, Volkswagen made a change. They replaced the split with a single oval-shaped rear window. Still small by modern standards, but a genuine improvement. You could now see approximately 40% more of whoever was tailgating you.

The oval window era ran from ‘53 to ‘57. Then in 1958, VW went bigger—a larger rectangular rear window that gave way to even larger windows in the ’60s and beyond. More visibility, sure. But something was lost.

Why Ovals Hit Different

Here’s the thing about early Beetles: they feel made. Not manufactured—made. By people, with hands, who were figuring it out as they went. The panels don’t quite line up perfectly. The tolerances are… generous. Every car has its own personality because every car is slightly different.

By the time you get to the later models—the Super Beetles, the fuel-injected ones—the Beetle had become a product. Mass-produced, optimized, consistent. Nothing wrong with that. But the soul is different.

The oval window is the sweet spot. You get the handmade charm of the early cars without the “I literally cannot see behind me” problem of the split window. It’s the Goldilocks Beetle. It’s the one that feels right.

Sarah does not understand why I want to drive an almost 75-year-old car that requires constant attention and has quirks that would make a modern driver weep. No fuel gauge that works reliably. A heater that’s more of a suggestion. The intimate relationship you develop with your mechanic.

But that’s the thing—the quirks aren’t bugs (hee hee), they’re features. Driving Betty isn’t just transportation. It’s a relationship. She demands attention. She rewards patience. She makes every drive an event instead of a commute.

Betty Isn’t a Show Queen

I’m not restoring Betty to concours condition. She’s not going to sit behind velvet ropes at a car show while people debate whether her door handles are period-correct.

She’s a driver. A little rough around the edges. A car that gets used, not preserved. And that feels right to me. These things were built to be driven—the original people’s car, designed to be affordable and practical and used.

So I use her. And she rewards me with that sound, that unmistakable air-cooled engine puttering along, and the looks from people who remember when cars looked like this, or who wish they’d been born early enough to see them new.

Oval window Beetles. The best cars. I said what I said.

Stay weird out there. Drive something interesting.