Christine Lives Inside My 912

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I’m never one to name my or even talk to my cars.  But you can’t help to think about them in a conversational manner when you are with them, can you?

“Damn you mother piece of pearl, I need that bolt to break loose now!”

“Come on baby, hang on through this corner… a little further… tight… nice.”

“Maybe it’s time to sell.”

That’s where I was Monday morning, thinking it’s time to sell.   By Monday afternoon, I was convinced the car decided to stay in my collection.  Collection of one that is.  That morning the car got a much needed cleaning after being out overnight in the dew and under a tree that had little tiny flowers drop all over it.  And not in a, I’m naked let the rose petals dribble on my body way.  These flowers got everywhere, in the engine, the vents, the carpet.

So while cleaning, I thought this car is looking goooood, all the gauges are like new and back in the dash.  Maybe it’s time to see what the market thinks.  Then I went for a test drive, revved it a little too high and if you’ve been following this blog, blew the ring out on the No. 4 cylinder.  I’m only running on 3 out of 4 now. 

After limping the car home, I thought — well now I’m going to have to rebuild the engine (which was in the plans already).  But if I rebuild it, you can bet I’m not going to sell it. 

Ah ha! Darn you Christine, you were picking up my thoughts once again.  I’ll keep you in the mix… for now.

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