I hate it when people rag on my shitbox car. I accept that it's a shitbox car and when it takes some body damage it's comforting to know I can just shrug instead of convulse in a fit of anxiety, which I would if it were a newer car with a mint body.
There are two types of people I know who do work on cars, people who are experts at body and paint work and people who are experts at mechanical work. I am of the latter, and so the only reason my car is considered a shitbox is because I fail at knowing how to deal with (or care about) the blemishes a car tends to get after a few decades of service. The bumper's wrecked, the door's dented, the quarter panels look like salvage off the Titanic.
But if you put my car up on a lift it's a different story. Everything from the drivetrain to the suspension has been either replaced by OEM components or superior aftermarket variants. I've gotten so intimate with the moving parts of my car that I could strip it, blindfolded, down to the bare shell and if you came along and picked up a bolt at random I could tell you exactly where it belongs. It's comforting to know every little detail and idiosycracy of something as close to me as the vehicle that I use to take me anywhere, or to move things in, or to move people in, or just to sit in mindlessly listening to music as I cruise around meditating on life.
So when people ask: "when are you finally going to get rid of that thing?" I just don't know what to tell them. It's not just a car to me, it's a precious possession that, despite shitbox status, has returned my loving touch with years of loyal service. You won't catch me broken down on the side of the road, no suh. Plus, I can leave it anywhere without having to worry about some jackass stealing it. Frankly, I wouldn't mind keeping it for the rest of my life. Then if some kook ever builds a museum in my honour, maybe some future gearhead will visit it and see my shitbox sitting in a corner and smile knowingly, as he explains to his young son or daughter: "...you see, the trick is that it looks like a shitbox."
There are two types of people I know who do work on cars, people who are experts at body and paint work and people who are experts at mechanical work. I am of the latter, and so the only reason my car is considered a shitbox is because I fail at knowing how to deal with (or care about) the blemishes a car tends to get after a few decades of service. The bumper's wrecked, the door's dented, the quarter panels look like salvage off the Titanic.
But if you put my car up on a lift it's a different story. Everything from the drivetrain to the suspension has been either replaced by OEM components or superior aftermarket variants. I've gotten so intimate with the moving parts of my car that I could strip it, blindfolded, down to the bare shell and if you came along and picked up a bolt at random I could tell you exactly where it belongs. It's comforting to know every little detail and idiosycracy of something as close to me as the vehicle that I use to take me anywhere, or to move things in, or to move people in, or just to sit in mindlessly listening to music as I cruise around meditating on life.
So when people ask: "when are you finally going to get rid of that thing?" I just don't know what to tell them. It's not just a car to me, it's a precious possession that, despite shitbox status, has returned my loving touch with years of loyal service. You won't catch me broken down on the side of the road, no suh. Plus, I can leave it anywhere without having to worry about some jackass stealing it. Frankly, I wouldn't mind keeping it for the rest of my life. Then if some kook ever builds a museum in my honour, maybe some future gearhead will visit it and see my shitbox sitting in a corner and smile knowingly, as he explains to his young son or daughter: "...you see, the trick is that it looks like a shitbox."