When I lived in Los Angeles, I kept my fleet of stupid old cars running out of necessity. Let something sit for more than a week, and the parking fines would rack up quickly. But when I moved cross-country to New York’s boondocks a few years ago, I devolved into the worst kind of redneck collector. An “I’ll fix it up some day” guy. But no longer—my redemption arc starts this summer.
Here’s a quick sitrep on the vehicles in my care, from youngest to oldest:
- 2017 BMW 330 Wagon: Wife’s get-around car. No mods beyond Pilot Sport tires, and it’s gonna stay that way. Keeping indefinitely.
- 2006 Honda Civic yes: My tuner project and racing car. Selling soon to focus on the rest of the fleet.
- 2003 BMW 330ci: Weekend fun car. Could use some love, but daily drivable. Keeping indefinitely.
- 2002 Polaris Ranger: Ranch rig, needs minor maintenance. Might trade for a zero-turn mower if anybody’s interested.
- 1998 Mitsubishi Montero: Adventure rig. Needs a starter I’ve been too lazy to replace. Long-term fate TBD.
- 1996 BMW 328is: Aged but operational E36 coupe owned by my sister-in-law. Likely for sale soon.
- 1991 Suzuki GSXR750: Ran-when-parked, now permanently mothballed to be an indoor decoration. (Salvaged, not really worth putting back on the road.)
- 1975 International Scout: Just spent over a year sleeping in my driveway, finally re-animated and ready for a new lease on life.
- 1974 Irwin Sailboat: Co-owned with another sister-in-law … long story.
If you saw that and thought, “Man, you got too much going on,” I agree.
You see, to ease the pain of being forced to leave sunny Southern California for the soggy Hudson Valley, my wife told me I could collect all the old junkers I wanted to on our handful of acres. So I did, and now I’m ready to admit that was a mistake. If you, too, dream of hoarding cheap cars, let me explain where I went wrong.
I have an unfortunate combination of project ADD, hyperfixation, just-OK mechanical skills, and the good ol’ fashioned excuse of way too many plates spinning in life and not enough hours in the day. When I get a new vehicle project, I can’t just tinker, I need to collect memorabilia, period-correct ads, apparel, mods, etc. Then, when it comes time to do something trivial, like replace an air filter, well, shoot, I’ve got to pull the whole airbox, clean it up … hang on, now that the airbox is out, I might as well clean that part of the engine bay nobody sees. While cleaning, it occurs to me that some random bracket would really look nicer if I pulled it and repainted it. Heck, now that bracket needs fresh hardware… multiply by eight vehicles. Also, I have a full-time job, a million house-repair projects, and a dog I’d rather play with than do any of the above.
Soon, my garage is a mess, my car’s inoperable, and yeah. I’m in a hell of my own making.
This is the year I get my projects back under control, and while that sounds like an empty New Year’s Resolution platitude, I’ve actually made decent progress so far. The deck my wife and I have been building for a year is near completion. The pantry remodel we’ve been talking about will be done this weekend. And I’ve sold three sets of wheels from my enormous collection of unused autoparts.
And, most excitingly, my old Scout is back online.
Explaining why that went off the road requires even more context; bear with me a little longer. The previous owner installed the most bizarre aftermarket start-switch setup I’ve ever seen—to start the truck, you need to flip a three-position toggle from the middle to the bottom, then you can crank it over… with a mailbox key that you insert in the middle of the dashboard. It’s connected to a nest of wires that change color over the course of their length. I know it’s insane, but it’s always worked, and frankly, I’m too scared to mess with it because I’m too lazy to rewire the whole truck (which, realistically, is probably the real solution needed).
Last summer, when I went to start the thing with a charged battery, I got nothing. No crank, no click. I peered under the dash, and my worst fears were confirmed—some of the scary wires were now frayed, surely the work of mice. And I had no clue where to even start putting them back together. “Er, I’ll come back to that later,” and you see where this is going. Whenever is never, and the stupid thing sat and sat.
Finally, as winter 2025 thawed, I came to my senses and decided that if I really couldn’t work up the courage to fix this truck, I had to send it to a shop and then either sell it or start taking it more seriously. I found a creative mechanic with all kinds of weird crap in the parking lot—everything from old Bimmers to Citroens to JDM vans to a miltary Hummer—and talked to him about my problem. He was confident he could sort me out, but couldn’t start until mid-July.
This is where my father-in-law comes in. My wife’s stepdad is a lifelong car guy, boat guy, tractor guy, motorcycle guy. He loves vehicles and currently runs the service department of a BMW store (part of why Bavaria is so well represented in my collection). He chided me for outsourcing the repair. He’s far too sweet to taunt, but he (rightfully) pretty much said, “That ignition’s gotta be simple as heck, why pay somebody to fix that?”
Why? Because I’m lazy, distracted, and overwhelmed, dangit!
Finally, he’d had enough of my foolishness and showed up with a charged battery. It was getting dark, it was starting to rain, and once again, I was not in the mood to mess with the machine. But I had just enough wherewithal to realize—this was my chance. With another dude egging me on and offering earnest expertise, the spark of motivation was lit inside me.
So I showed him the wiring. We poked around a little—sure enough, the damaged wires were a lot more obvious and less intimidating once we’d simply pulled the switch from the dash to get a better look. He twisted the right ones together, I dropped his battery in, and sure enough, the thing started cranking as I turned the key. And with a little drop of gasoline from the lawnmower can into the carb, it fired immediately and idled beautifully. We are so back.
There are a few important morals of this story:
- “Whenever” means never—don’t let your plans be nebulous, or they’re never gonna happen.
- A little help goes a long way—a friend looking over your shoulder can be a spark of motivation.
- Quality over quantity—don’t let your fleet get out of control like I did. And if you do, pare down until the mix is something you can handle.
From here, my plan for the Scout is to replace the fluids, replace the tires, make sure the brake lines aren’t bleeding, and then it’s decision time. Do I keep it and change its look to celebrate its new lease on life, or sell it to focus on the rest of the fleet?
Got some project car advice? The author could clearly use it, hit him up at [email protected].
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