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How to know if you are an automotive masochist
After shutting off the little blue roadster's ignition and walking into the house, the problem became cemented in my consciousness. My two-and-a-half-car garage was already holding two cars unfit to venture beyond my mailbox, along with three motorcycles that weren't faring much better. (My daily driver, a trusty Chevy pickup, was naturally relegated to the driveway.) Yet I was about to add one more car. Previously, any suspicion that I had a problem snoozed quietly in my subconscious. Suddenly, it sped to the front of my mind like a NHRA dragster.
I am an automotive masochist. Apparently, it took my most recent acquisition to confirm my self-diagnosis.
The 1st car that I bought with my own money way back in '77 was a 5 year old MG Midget. It overheated on the drive home. It always needed something, that something being tinkering, replacing, and sometimes whacking a misbehaving bit with a hammer. That emotional purchase (I had went to the Toyota dealer to buy a second hand Corolla, but a glance of the MG sitting on the lot doomed me) led to this life of continuous care of long past their prime cars. Don't regret a minute of it.