I grew up in rural Pennsylvania.
The Great Lakes side of the state where winters batter and destroy all things
steel and beautiful. It’s also a place where the act of hunting is more than a
hobby, but a passion. A passion for sitting motionless for hours in a cold wet
tree stand, rifle in hand….waiting. Hunting is a rite of passage among
families and friends. A chance to get out of the house and walk for hours in
mud, snow, rain, and frigid temperatures in pursuit of elusive furry
wildlife…so you can kill it. It’s where men can be real men and women can
re-enact their ancestors’ pioneer spirit. Where I went to grade school, the
school districts learned long ago that NOBODY shows up on the first day of Buck
season, so they invented a fake holiday to spare us the stink-eye our state
administrators would give our pitiful school district’s attendance record.
I’m
all for the consumption of meat - especially the cute animals with big doughy
eyes and soft fur, but I’m happy to let others take care of the killin’ part of
it. Me? I like to be warm and dry, except when it comes to hunting cars. I
understand the thrill of the hunt. I appreciate the crucial aspects of timing.
The strategy. The adrenaline of scoring a 10 pointer. The key is steering clear
of those filled with tinworms. Since there’s no official “season” for car
hunting, the diseased ones often make their way into my crosshairs. (note:
animal hunting seasons generally occur after the weak and sickly members of a
given species have since died of natural causes). ie: Elmer goes after Bugs in
the springtime.)
I’m
really bad with money. If you care about being financially stable and
debt-free….stop reading now and go hug your spouse or make a healthy mortgage
payment. I am, however exceptionally talented when it comes to buying old cars.
Good ones. I have the gift.
And
just what constitutes a “good” old car? It’s an elusive set of qualities but
I’ll try to put a few of them in focus as best I can:
First
off, you need to understand your own skill set. If you weigh 119lbs soaking
wet, you don’t go hunting for 300lb black bears and try to drag them home by
yourself. I’m a fairly patient and knowledgeable mechanic, so the nuts and
bolts of decrepit old buggies don’t scare me too much. It’s the rust that I
worry about, especially where I live. I can bring wrenches and floor jacks home
on weekends, but I don’t have a welder or sheet metal forming tools in my
basement. I haven’t figured out how to make a paint booth out of my guest
bedroom either. Besides, THOSE kinds of tools get real REAL expensive. Fast.
Then there’s that whole “learning how to use them” thing. Not for the faint of
heart or butter fingered.
I
have what probably equates to a third grade math level by modern standards, yet
I find myself often tallying up all kinds of numbers in my head as I gaze upon
a potential purchase. I repeat the following mantra and suggest you do the
same: “How much can I sell the parts off of it, if it completely fills it’s
britches with mechanical poo, in the first week of ownership?” I define this
sullying of undergarments as mechanical failures of colossal proportions such
as: 1. thrown connecting rods or heavy Viking ship like thumping from the
engine 2. the infamous “fist full of neutral” transmission experience 3. Wiring
filled with black gun powder that ignites when exposed to sunlight. Those
aren’t deal killers, but they change the game dramatically and need to be
considered seriously.
How
practical is the purchase going to be? That one’s simple. It ISN’T. I don’t go
out looking for old cars because I need one, anymore than a deer hunter needs
to kill Bambi to feed his starving family. That’s not the point. If I really
“needed” another car, I’d shop for one the same way people shop for household
appliances or cereal. I’d read the reviews of one and check out the nutritional
information on the other. It’s not about that with old cars. It’s about faith,
which brings me to my next point.
