I can hear the pedants barking already: 'That's not a car, stoopid!' And the Europhiles behind them, denouncing such a beast's driving manners, mean looks and unapologetic thirst. And there's a part of me that agrees. There are certainly a great many on this long list of stars that appeal to my sense of aesthetics, fun, value, etc. Farah's Beetle has its proletarian charm; Matt's Willy's Jeep is a true trekker; Tom's Peugeot 205 GTi is the plucky little guy that everyone's rooting for at the end of the movie; and Gavin's McLaren is, well, near perfect.

So this is a gut decision, clearly.

When I think of the wildest, most exploratory times I've had in my life - tearing down dusty backroads in Montana spotting cougars basking on rockfaces, clambering up a pocked trail in Vermont in search of a secret lake - a pick-up is never far from view. Once, in late September nine miles up a mountain with darkness falling fast, my father and I had to hitch a ride down a cliff road from some passing fishermen in an old Ford F-150. There was no room in the cab, so we straddled the guys' rowboat on the flatbed. We bucked our way down the side of the ravine like bronco-busters, over boulders even a Hummer would have winced at. Our arses got bruised from the constant barrage of slapping metal. My father still insists that he was a finger's length from being flung from the rowboat into the ravine, but it beat a rollercoaster any day and remains one of my fondest memories. And I think to many Americans, the pick-up has a kind of collective folk memory branded to it - one that's been driven (literally) home by countless country ballads and movie clips.

Maybe it's also the latent sense of possibility in a pick-up; one look at the dirt-encrusted flatbed, the enormous tyres and kick-me-as-hard-as-you-can fenders and you think: I can move mountains with this. For me, it's reassuring just looking at one, like looking at an old family pet - you know it's got only love to give. Pile all your friends in the back and you've got yourself a camping trip. Take them out and you can move house without turning to a bloke in a white van.

I also have to confess that my nomination of the Ford F-series was rather cruelly culled from the top 100 list by my fellow 4Car team, so heaving it to the top (at least here) seems poetic justice. Maybe it's the Yank in me. We just love the underdog. Competing in such a formidable pile of snarling Ferraris, curvy Alfas and genteel Astons, someone had to campaign for this rough-and-ready Yank tank.

Patently, the Lego-block modern F truck will never win any beauty pageants (this side of the Atlantic, anyhoo...), but the curvaceous original was as comely as any '50s American prom queen. Plus, the pick-up wins the fitness-for-purpose stakes hands-down any day of the week. The F-series was made for industrious, resourceful people. And, like many of these illustrious hunks of metal, it's got a hell of a pedigree. The first pick-up arrived shortly after Ford's other great gift, the Model T; Americans piled on board these new wagons and tamed the Wild West in the first half of the last century. The F-series landed with a bang in 1948, and since then it's become the world's best-selling vehicle (eat your heart of Beetle, Corolla and Golf).

Some cars ooze elegance (pre-war Bugattis), others passion (Lamborghini Muira). The F-series doesn't bother with any of that. It embodies a kind of 'can-do' spirit that I respect, so it's going down as my all-time numero uno. Never mind that it's not a car on technical grounds. Nor does its immense thirst bother me much. I just like it for what it stands for - possibility.