A friend waxed rhapsodic about finding a good, old car again, almost as if finding a pal that just turned up unexpectedly.
Most of the cars I pick are accidents, an old Chevrolet four-door that I drove around after high school that got painted snot-green after my sister decapitated a fireplug, a sporty Mercury Cougar with a zippy V-6 that I turned over to a friend for the remaining book of payments after getting walking religion, an old Ford boat with an in-line engine heater to keep an aging battery alive that eventually wheezed and died but not before killing a few farm cats that were attracted to its warm engine block, a very old farm pickup with wooden side racks and a very low gear ratio that we drove back and forth into town, purchased from a friend who felt our obsession with bicycling was a little overdone. Then my wife took over the choices and did a much better job finding appropriate family vehicles, until our latest, a Buick crossover that has tires with annoying road noise, subpar mileage but with a lot more miles left in it.
Cars, we’re building more spaces for them, I read, than we’re building shelters for ourselves. I don’t know who coined the phrase “infernal combustion,” but it fits.