But then there was the guy down the street. The one the neighbors all talked about, the one you overheard dinner conversation about with your parents. He wasn't like all the others. His house didn't look like the rest of the block. This guy worked on cars. To an 11 year old, he was fascinating.
Sure, the house he was in was just like the others, but his driveway wasn't filled with an everyday car or station wagon. Nothing boring like that. He had Camaros, Firebirds, Mustangs, and other muscle cars there in different states of repair. You could hear the chug of the air compressor on weekends. The air wrenches flew, the weak signal of an AM radio tainted the air with 50's tunes on the 'oldies' station. An engine hoist held a beastly motor, 400 CID and dangling interesting pipes, hoses, wires and parts of the exhaust. A banged up pickup would be nearby for towing cars to and from the place.
Every couple of weeks there would be a different set of cars there. Some came in looking horrible and sounding even worse, but later they would leave freshly painted and thundering down the street. It was a great place to hang out at.
Of course my parents thought the exact opposite, calling the place an eyesore.
Now it's 20 years later. I've lived in my own share of places that fit the stereotype where people didn't work on their cars in the driveway. In my high school days I did a lot of work on Chevy Vega's (26 of 'em to be exact, hence my handle). But times changed and I finally got a reliable car. My automotive skills went by the wayside.
Then I got a Triumph. I should have known better. I really should. I had heard about Lucas. I knew about MG's. But then when you see a boat tail Spitfire for the first time and it has the FOR SALE sign on it, your mind does start to wonder. It's a tiny little sportscar. Surely it wouldn't be hard to get it running. There isn't much there. It would be much easier than a musclecar. You talk yourself into it. (...more)
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