In 2026, my approach to collecting W140s entered a more passive phase. I felt my collection had reached a kind of saturation, so I only took in donor cars with reuse value—just in case they might be needed in the future. In fact, since February 2024, I haven’t come across a single project that truly stirred my heart. Everything I’ve been doing lately has been nothing more than finishing the wish list I had written long ago. And throughout this period, one question kept returning to me: what comes next?
In truth, the answer is already there: the next real project will be a W163. Don’t rush to dismiss anything. To make a long story short—I need that lovely car. And yet, the next W140 has still refused to arrive. Since February 2024, over the past two years, I have acquired fourteen W140s. Not a single one was meant to stay with me forever—not even Furi. I feel like a cursed Casanova: condemned to fall in love repeatedly, but unworthy of ever receiving true love again. On the other hand, it is also true that there simply isn’t much around me that still moves me. My threshold has risen higher and higher. The gaps in my collection—whether in model, year, or color—have become fewer and fewer.
Still, I’d like to recount a difficult encounter—one whose aftertaste may be more fascinating than the car itself.
One day in June 2025, I came across a midnight-blue car in a garage online. It was wrapped in a plastic cover and somehow looked a little loved. There were no other photos—no price, either.
A quick glance told me it was a pre-facelift car. I just wanted to ask about the price and the interior, to see whether it might work as a donor. The seller quickly replied with a few photos. Even in the dim interior shots, I could tell it had 962A blue velour trim—and the shorter rear doors. I guessed it was a Japanese-market 140.032. I was instantly a little intrigued, if only because of that blue velour. (note that the following photos are taken by me, not by the seller.)
The seller quoted a number at least 100% above the going rate. But I didn’t say no. It felt meaningful in a way—because the last time I saw a blue-velour car in China was four or five years ago: a Gulf-spec 1993 300 SEL. That car is in 929 Nautical Blue—a color I simply can’t accept. It wasn’t in great shape, but it was quickly taken home by someone who truly loved it. In China, only a small number of velour-trim cars were delivered, and most were later reupholstered by tasteless owners in cheap leather. The surviving blue-velour cars can be counted on one hand.
I was the first person to reach out about the listing, because it had been miscategorized—I found it by using AI to search images. The seller described it as an “S320L,” with no “Mercedes”, no model year and not even “W140” as a keyword. That meant enthusiasts wouldn’t easily find it, so he probably wasn’t an enthusiast himself. And of course, if no one is as diligent as I am, they’d never learn about the blue velour. This has happened a few times before. I always feel that cars like this are somehow destined to end up with me.
I didn’t haggle. I only asked the seller to go back and take a few better photos, because we could barely make out anything now. If the car was as good as I imagined—or at least not worse than I feared—I was ready to accept the quote. But that afternoon, the seller never came back with the photos as he promised. Instead, he quickly took the listing down. Our chat history disappeared as well, so I only managed to save the cover photo—because I assumed I’d be getting more pictures.
The car definitely wasn’t sold. My offers are always fairly precise—typically 10–20% above market. If it’s a car I truly want, the seller isn’t going to get more cents from someone else. Making offer on classic cars is a bit like courtship: the market price is the bare dick, and any premium is the condom. This time, I felt we had a very thick one on—there was virtually no competition. Even if someone needed the car more than I did, it was unlikely they would appear so quickly. So the only explanation is that the seller changed their mind.
This kind of psychological back-and-forth is common among sellers. As a seller, if you name what you believe high—and someone accepts it immediately—you start to suspect you priced it low. At that point, if your sense of shame pushes you to cool down instead of shamelessly raising the price on the spot, you’ll simply stop selling. Very few people have the decency to continue the deal at the original price. Most likely, the seller was startled by my extra-long sausage (a sizable portion of it being condom), and needed time to think. I feel the car will relisted when he saw others’ sausage.
After that, I would think of the car from time to time, but I didn’t feel any real regret. These days, there’s no car I absolutely must have—I’ve become a little numb. Four months later, in late October 2025, the listing quietly reappeared. Still miscategorized. Still only that single photo. Still no price shown. I messaged the seller directly: Where did you go? He apologized first, and then began to tell me the car’s story.
The car had belonged to his wife’s grandfather—an 86-year-old man whose life came to an end in 2025. Her grandfather owned five luxury rides from the 90s, like one of the very first wealthy men of the new China. This 1992 300 SE was one of them, and it was left to her as part of the inheritance. In fact, her grandfather stopped driving in 2011, and the car was no longer registered after that.
Officially, after being imported in 1995, the car was registered in my city under the name of a Canadian company. In reality, this was a common tactic used by Chinese entrepreneurs to avoid the steep import taxes at the time: they would register a foreign-funded company using US dollars, and under the preferential policy, the company could purchase import vechiles tax-free. For many wealthy people, the sole purpose of setting up such a company was simply to buy their tax-free cars. The downside was that these cars were restricted when it came to transferring ownership.
Starting 7-8 years ago, the car was moved into his granddaughter’s garage, taking up half the space. Every summer, her husband would drive it a few kilometers and service it. While the grandfather was still alive, the car was not allowed to be sold. So only after his passing did they finally have the freedom to do so. There’s nothing to blame them for—if it were me, I’d also get rid of a completely useless car taking up space in my garage.
But she was a little hesitant. She named the price, and her husband posted the listing. Clearly, I was a bit too generous, which made her feel like I was getting the better end of the deal. However, her husband gave me another, more tender explanation: he wanted to sell the car more than she did—she didn’t. Just a year earlier, they had spent about one third of the asking price on a comprehensive service and a new set of tires. In her words, if it wouldn’t sell for much anyway, they might as well keep it at home as a way to remember her grandfather. The decision was ultimately hers. She changed her mind.
So why did things change four months later? Because last summer the car broke down again. Not long after replacing the MAF sensor, the idle became rough once more. A/C also stopped working. Clearly, with the only option in their small town being some greedy third-rate amateur workshop, the repair bill could easily swallow up a third of the car’s value. So she decided to let the car go to me. And as an apology—and a gesture of goodwill—she voluntarily reduced the asking price by one seventh.
I knew this car had truly been loved. In a country where a parking space can cost more than the car itself, keeping a useless car stored indoors for fourteen years is almost madness. And it wasn’t merely left sitting there—there was proper cleaning and maintenance. You could even see that the wheels had been covered. Most W140 fuel systems clog up after ten years of being parked. This one didn’t. And from the few interior photos I had, I could tell the velour was still impressively clean.
We once again struck a lightning deal. One extra question I had to asked: This time, does your wife agree? He answered without hesitation—no problem. It was 11 a.m. He put his work aside and went straight home, while my trailer had already set off. If everything went smoothly, the car would be heading back by the afternoon. At noon, I went out for lunch with a friend for a small celebration. But then—at 1 p.m.—as I finished my celebratory pee in the restroom of the Carlton Hotel and washed my hands, I looked into the mirror and suddenly thought:
Wait… where is my car?
By 2 p.m., no matter how many times I called out, the other side remained in radio silence. After a while, a single line of text finally came through: “Sorry, bro. My wife changed her mind again. I’m really sorry this time. If the car still hasn’t been sold to you before New Year’s Eve, I’ll send you a box of seafood as compensation.”
Hey—we both live by the sea, so seafood isn’t the point. But a man should stand by his word. I called him ready to yell at him, but his accent was so strong I could barely understand anything he was saying. In any case, he was clearly whipped. He claimed he had begged his wife for two hours, but still lost the battle. I dont’t think he’s a bad person, though. After all—how bad can a man who’s afraid of his wife really be?
At that point, I was starting to feel tired. I don’t like people going back on their word—and I hadn’t even had the chance to properly evaluate the car yet. Love and condition aside, Midnight Blue overlaps a bit with my Azurite Blue cars. To be honest, I’m not even that fond of blue. And I also feel that Midnight Blue might actually suit 264 Saffron leather better. This wasn’t a car I urgently needed, and I wouldn’t be heartbroken if I missed it. At the very least, I still slept soundly that night.
After that, I became consumed by the intense schedule of building Bau 3 and restoring Big Apple. Time flew. Thank God, during that period, no other “car that absolutely had to be mine” appeared. Still, I would occasionally think of that car. I knew it wouldn’t be bought by anyone else. In fact, if the owners were willing, I would rather they kept it—as a way of preserving their memories of the elder. But in China there’s an old saying: when a person is gone, it’s like a lamp being extinguished. The very night my grandmother passed away, the home she had so carefully arranged was “set up” (and essentially wrecked) into a complete mess by the funeral company.
It‘s 2026, in mid-January, with just one month left until Lunar New Year’s Eve, I suddenly remembered the seafood. Would he actually send it to me? I don’t think so. In this world, only one person in ten keeps their promises—let alone someone who had already broken his word twice. What I was even more certain of was that I’d already started to lose interest in the car. Compared with the car, a box of seafood had become something far more tangible—almost more meaningful in practice.
Surprisingly—and yet exactly as expected—on the afternoon of January 26, he contacted me.
“Friend, do you still want that car?”
“No. I want seafood.”
But when I learnt that if I gave up my chance to buy it, I wouldn’t get the seafood either—by his promise, I’d only receive a box of seafood if his wife still refused to sell before New Year’s Eve; so at this point, whether I bought it or not, there would be no seafood. That, I decided to buy it to balance my lose of seafood. Perhaps his wife finally agreed to sell it to me simply because she didn’t want to send me seafood.
Alright—he explained more. Usually, people don’t make a decision for just one reason. He wanted a W220 S-Class as a toy, but there was no space left in the garage, so the W140 had to go. Half a year ago, this man wasn’t really a car enthusiast, but he seems to be becoming one. I know people relate to cars differently—and sometimes it’s simply weariness, or the temptation of something newer and shinier right in front of them. Still, from every angle, I worry he’ll regret it.
This car was loved right up until the very last moment—during winter, it even had a blanket laid over it. To be honest, I really had started to lose interest. But that blanket moved me. I wanted to carry that love forward. We checked the car’s condition one last time over a video call. That night, it was loaded onto the trailer heading to my home—the whole process took less than five hours.
During that time, my desire for the car rose again—from faint to intense. I tried hard to convince myself, to find reasons that would let me truly enjoy the experience, instead of merely going through the motions of finishing something that had previously been left unfinished. The most legitimate reason was its ability to fill gaps in my collection: the more “blank slots” a car can fill at once, the more deserving it is of a place in the collection. The gaps I had identified were as follows:
104.990
The original M104 was CIS-SFI, launched in 1989 alongside the R129. In the W140, it was first upgraded to the LH-SFI 104.990. Even though the fuel distributor was no longer there, it retained the original CIS-style layout—which meant the air filter sat above the throttle body, looking like any old-school Mercedes from the 80s. I don’t have a collector item equipped with the 104.990.
I’m more drawn to this kind of original design than the later HFM-SFI 104.994—especially since the 104.994’s inferior valve cover is notoriously brittle. At the moment, we have a low-mileage, low-compression 104.990 in our donor queue. The best parts of the two engines can be combined into an optimal, full-compression unit—delivering both the right visuals and a more satisfying driving experience.
Japanese version
Among the three official versions, the Japanese cars are the one category I’ve always tended to avoid. To me, Japanese cars—much like US cars—often feel uniform: a relatively frozen set of trim levels, yet without the same sense of exotic charm that American cars sometimes carry. For example, for model year 1992, the entire range came with 15-loch wheels. That means very few Japanese cars are distinctive—they’re all more or less the same. Out of the exact thirty W140s I’ve owned before, not a single one has been Japanese version.
This car could fill that gap in a relatively sensible way. Because I’m not particularly willing to fully restore an otherwise unremarkable V8 or V12 simply for the sake of ticking the “Japanese car” box. Even though early cars didn’t yet have Japan-exclusive ICS/CNS, I still feel that pre-1993 velour cars represent the Japanese market better—especially model year 1992, the final year of S-Class extravagance before Japan’s bubble fully burst.
Blue Velour
I saved the most important point for last. Why am I so obsessed with blue velour? Not because it’s rare, but because of what it is. To me, a car’s color combination has a lot in common with the way people dress—those soothing, pleasing automotive colors are often the same ones we choose for clothing. Blue velour always reminds me of a woman’s thick, deep-blue nylon stockings. And when you see the interior in person, the association is unmistakably there.
If you look at a nylon color chart, you’ll find it strangely compatible with the W140’s velour interior palette. Of course, perhaps I’ve reversed cause and effect: maybe legs in blue nylon look delicious precisely because they feel like the blue-velour seats of a W140. Either way, it’s a sensation you don’t forget—especially when you’re driving and absentmindedly rubbing the armrest. That tactile pleasure is what drives me to finish this car.
Even though I believe Midnight Blue suits a Saffron interior better, blue velour gave me a reason to accept Midnight Blue. It seems that blue velour belongs most naturally in a dark blue car—and I already have Azurite Blue. So… let the paint be Midnight Blue. Japanese friends also told me that this is the most typical configuration for a Japanese-market car. Although it may look like this is a car I might never come across again, I have to emphasize that this is not a rare spec. Out of a total of 4,818 W140s equipped with blue velour, 421 units of the Japanese version 1992 300 SE were produced in Midnight Blue—hardly a small number.
As for the car itself, aside from a few obvious incorrect details—clear turn signals, glossy lower panels, 6-Loch wheels, an aftermarket head unit, and incorrect shift knob—it is absolutely an example worth preserving. At first glance, there doesn’t seem to be anything particularly difficult about it.
The granddaughter’s husband told me that over the past seven or eight years he had only resprayed one scratched door and the faded lower cladding. So for a car that could very easily have been abandoned outdoors, the paint has been preserved remarkably well. It has even been waxed. That said, after evaluating it, a proper full respray will probably be unavoidable.
Judging from the photos taken in 2007, the car looks much the same as it did twenty years ago. The cosmetic “modernization” on the exterior was likely carried out sometime in the 90s—an economical way to make it appear newer. Vanity is common among people of colors, especially Asians.
I couldn’t find any service records from Japan. Although its registration date is March 1995, the car may have been imported into China before 1993. Prior to 1993, the DMV did not issue certificates of title for vehicles; cars from that period typically had their titles retroactively corrected between 1994 and 1996, and a new registration date would be generated accordingly.
Although it was clearly a loved car, there is still an endless amount of work to be done. The velour, at least, eliminates the headaches of leather restoration—but it still looks like a full calendar-year project. As time goes on and parts become increasingly scarce, is it really worth investing the equivalent of hundreds of thousands of dollars just to experience a different interior? For now, I’m still watching and waiting. But it has already been scheduled as a 2027 project.
By the way—although this car had already found its way into my heart early on, for more than half a year I never once thought about what name would suit it. I didn’t want to give it a Japanese name, even though it is a Japanese car. Personally, I don’t know any Japanese women’s names other than Sanae Takaichi and AV actresses. I don’t want to pretend I’m interested in Japan.
In fact, the answer and the gender of this car only became clear as I was close to finishing this article: her name is Felice. Back in middle school, there was a girl with whom my relationship was difficult. One winter, she wore alluring deep-blue nylon stockings—an image that left a lasting impression on me. Her English name was Felice. So in a way, this car was named by her more than a decade ago.