(Not my car, just here to suck you in, cause, let’s be honest, mine is still to ratty to invoke the kind of lust that makes men click on links willy-nilly)

Have you ever been stabbed in the back by a friend? Like, just brutally stabbed ten times right in the middle of your back, right in that place where you can never quite get when it’s itchy so you end up rubbing your back up against anything just to get rid of it.

That’s where I’m at with my car. Just violently stabbed.

Right in the back.

I tried to love it, I really did. Tough love, I’ll admit, but love none the less.

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Let’s back the story up so you can feel my pain.

A few years back now I bought a car, a car I now call ‘The Lesson.’ It was a bad purchase, that we’ll gloss over now because it makes me ashamed.

But that car led directly into getting another car, another RX-7 that came out of Hiroshima the same year I came out of my mother’s womb – 1983. It ‘drove when parked,’ but that wasn’t a problem because I had the engine from The Lesson to throw into it when it revealed that ‘when parked’ was a long fucking time ago.

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We were meant to be together, me and my car, and we share many a fond memory. I put coil-overs in the front and adjustable coil-over-like things in the rear. We went fast together. We drifted in the snow together. We over-drifted in the snow together and went ass first into a snow bank and got stuck together.

I could direct a touching montage if someone had filmed our life together.

Then, one morning, when I checked the oil on the notoriously oil-thirsty engine I noticed it had somehow found access to a mystical oil source, as the levels had shot up over night. Or, a seal had gone and coolant had gotten into the oil.

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Unfortunately, it was the much less awesome one, and the car was trailed to my parents, as I was living in an apartment at the time. There it stayed until I got a line on an engine from an ‘86, sans intake. I pounced, ordered a carb and anticipated the glory of my new car. I lovingly put the intake together – a Holley 650 cfm double pumper and intake from racing beat, along with a new clutch.

(The glory)

Then I moved away, and the car sat. But that wasn’t the end. I came back, slid the engine into the body and put it all back together. Kind of. I put some of it together, then realised I hadn’t quite documented the tear apart as well as I should had, and had not stored the parts as well as I should have, and everything stopped. And then I had to leave once again.

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(Glory in its home, more or less))

But I went back to my parent’s for Christmas knowing, this time, she would start for me. And I loving put all the pieces together over my Christmas break, watching the day I had to leave approach. But I was on time, until, when everything was together, it made not a peep.

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And I fell onto my knees like Charlton Heston and screamed to the skies, or at least to my Dad, who’s worked (professionally) on cars since before I was born and who enjoys snowmobiling (and as anyone familiar with the sport knows, half of it is getting the damn thing to start at the beginning of the season [and the middle and the end of the season, if we’re honest])

We corrected some of my mistakes and, bang, nothing happened. We pulled out the starter and it whirred like a spinning dervish. And then we hook jumper cables to the battery and threaded them through to the starter and, bam, it turned over. It turned over so well it just continued on turning over, and turning over, and turning over. And that was it.

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We checked the fuel (as my deadline approached). And there was fuel. We checked the spark (as the deadline got closer) and there was spark) And we despaired, and worries of weather I’d made a huge mistake in buying the engine surface, and my knees knocked together like a lamb’s.

And then we checked the leading spark plugs and discovered a lead, or the second coil, was gone. And then I had to go.

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And now it taunts me from afar with how close to running it is. One day though, I will be back and I will win.

tl;dr my car hates me and would kill me if it could hold a knife, or even move under it’s own power at all.