The 1974 Toyota Corona was budget motoring at its best. Underneath the bright orange enamel (Telecom Gold, the paint shop called it), barely two panels matched.

It was a Frankenstein, made up of donor body parts from a number of cars. Under the bonnet was a second-hand motor imported from Japan. It was a rocket.

A go-anywhere car, and anywhere it went. Sydney, Adelaide, and endless trips along the Great Ocean Road.

The Corona-virus on the road to Mungo, outback NSW, January 1991.

The Corona-virus didn't worry me at all. It was its lesser-known, but much more dangerous mutation, the Corolla-virus.

The Corolla-virus strain was first identified n the form of a 1967 Toyota Corolla.

Every day was a near death experience, but that was motoring in the 80s. There were no airbags.

The drum brakes needed pumping to maintain pedal pressure. One headlight went out on high beam.

The gear lever fell off on anything but the tenderest of gear changes. It used more water than petrol and burned so much oil it never needed changing.

Exploring the Brisbane Ranges, 1987.

One day I forgot to push in the clutch when I turned the key.

The Corolla leapt through the garage doors into the back of my dad's Peugeot.

The heavy steel doors clanged to the ground. Of course, being a young man, I couldn't see a problem.

The doors slotted back into place undamaged, and the mark on the Peugeot was so small a blind man would be pleased to see it.

But dad wasn't blind, he was uncharacteristically stern. How could a car like this be roadworthy, he ranted.

The Corolla-virus at a creek crossing, Brisbane Ranges, 1987.

Corolla-virus was so contagious I passed it on to my son Dan.

When I embellished stories of 1980s hoon life, our then 18-year-old took it to heart and announced he was going to buy an old Corolla for his first car.

I thought this was great news and immediately began researching grandma cars far and wide.

I imagined this might be a bonding experience, with a road trip together to Sydney or somewhere to bring home a pristine example, a survivor car.

He came home instead with a 1980 KE70 model used in a former life as a drift car.

While still registered, it had lost everything safe or nice. Things like working headlights.

A full set of wheel nuts. Carpet. A radio or a jack. The diff was still welded and dripped oil in the driveway.

How could a car like this be roadworthy, I ranted to myself.

Of course, Dan couldn't see a problem. He was pleased and proud of his purchase.

When he asked to borrow a camera and tripod for some night photos, I gave him a brief tutorial on shooting in the dark with LED light panels. He grasped the theory quickly and went off into the night with some mates.

A day or two later he eagerly showed me the results. Here was the old car in an abandoned factory, photographed with creative angles and dramatic lighting.

Then his Facebook profile changed to a picture he hadn't shown me. It was a back on view of the Corolla, with a back on view of himself standing on the boot - butt naked.

The camera wasn't the only thing doing a long exposure that night.

The condition of his old car was so concerning I lost sleep. The one thing I'd learned from driving the Coronavirus was, I told Dan, I was useless fixing cars. If it broke down, I couldn't help him.

Dan loved his KE70 Corolla.

I didn't go into the anxiety a parent feels when their child starts driving on their own.

It's not a young adult heading out onto the road, it's that little boy, that determined, funny, brave, generous, athletic, kind, delightful, brainless idiot of a son that grew up with us for all those years and we loved dearly.

It's worrying in a safe car, but in this?

Then the inevitable phone call a few days later.

"Dad, a wheel's fallen off, what should I do?"

The Corolla was parked near a West Tamar Road roundabout when I pulled up half an hour later.

Puzzlingly, all four wheels were in place. A passer-by saw him and his mate retrieve the wheel from the paddock and stopped, Dan explained.

When he noticed the sheared off wheel studs, the good samaritan went home to get tools and parts, and put in four new studs and nuts. All before I got there.

"Phil", a thought came to me like it was my gentle dad speaking. "You don't have to worry about Dan and this car. In the time you took to drive to Legana, the car was fixed. You didn't have to do a thing. I have him in the palm of my hand".

The thought was so reassuring I stopped worrying. But not before being uncharacteristically stern to Dan about possible outcomes had the wheel gone somewhere else other than into a paddock.

Fortunately, the Corolla was broken down far more than it ran and it left his life not a second too soon.

Photographer Phillip Biggs

Light painting the Corona in a single long exposure, Princetown, 1989.