Despite having spent a small fortune on my two Prima Donna project cars, I'm once again relegated to driving my 20-year-old, bone-stock, $900 winter beater.
Diva number 1, a customized Dodge pickup truck dubbed "The Mighty Dak", has just undergone expensive surgery to replace its ball joints. And yet it sits—with every cubic inch of its powertrain massaged, stroked and having gone less than 5,000 loving kilometres—awaiting a new starter motor.
I've never kept track of the money I've spent on this 400-plus-horsepower, bottomless, black money pit since I'm sure it would give me guilt-induced nightmares.
Although I've had one hell of a blast with it, putting Hondas in their place on the drag strip and even tearing up Mosport on a lapping day, for the dollars invested in the Mighty Dak, I could probably have my all-time, list-topping favourite MX-5 in the driveway. Or, pretending for one minute that I'm a responsible adult, a kitchen that's actually finished, windows from this century or a nicely tended collection of fat and healthy RRSPs.
My little Japanese diva, a low-mileage ‘92 Mazda MX-3, has given me countless hours of joy on the track; its agile handling, light weight and intuitive steering make it a wonderful lapping-day toy. But in bone-stock form, its silky-smooth yet rather underpowered 130-hp V6 had my diplomatic solo sprint instructor refer to it as a "momentum car". So, several months and thousands of dollars later, my sweet little coupe was transformed by the transplant of a JDM KLZE, a high-revving, sweet sounding 2.5L V6.
My euphoria was short-lived; 500 km later, the engine developed a sickening knock. Because it had sat on a pallet for a couple of months while I tracked down a distributor (a rather involved piece of kit that incorporates starter, crank and cam sensors) and aftermarket valve springs to prevent the notorious KLZE valve float over 7,000 rpm, you guessed it–the warranty was void. At this point, I'm really beginning to despise cars in general.
Back to the shop it went while I sourced a new engine. And of course, thanks to the devastating tsunami in Japan, the price of imported parts had shot up. Lo and behold, I managed to find a KLZE about 300 kilometres away for the incredible price of $100, provided I could pick it up the following morning. Dad had put his foot down and the kid's motley collection of project cars had to be OUT of the garage that week.
But of course… my beloved pickup was once more out of commission. The good news? The engine had been completely disassembled.
I set off bright and early the next day in my Mazda 323, a homely but unfailingly reliable hatchback purchased for less than the cost of the Mighty Dak's rubber. It ain't pretty, but it's never let me down. I once located it by its antenna when it had been buried by a snowplow during last year's blizzard. Shovelling just enough to open the door, I clambered in and it fired right up, scrambling out of the snowdrift like a bear emerging from hibernation. Admittedly, its performance is rather anemic, but its manoeuvrability, great steering and road feedback could shame some of the expensive cars I've driven lately.
With the rear seats down, a bit of head-scratching and some strategic loading, we managed to stuff that entire engine, with spare manifold and two sets of heads into the back of my wee beater. It may have only 82 horsepower, but it's all heart—we arrived home without incident, although we must have looked like Beverly Hills-bound Hillbillies.
For now, my beater's ferrying me around Toronto on my weekly press car exchange. It may not be glam, but with roughly 5.9 L/100 km of fuel consumption, the money it saves me makes it look mighty attractive.
And of course, helps pay for its freeloading fleet-mates.
Diva number 1, a customized Dodge pickup truck dubbed "The Mighty Dak", has just undergone expensive surgery to replace its ball joints. And yet it sits—with every cubic inch of its powertrain massaged, stroked and having gone less than 5,000 loving kilometres—awaiting a new starter motor.
I've never kept track of the money I've spent on this 400-plus-horsepower, bottomless, black money pit since I'm sure it would give me guilt-induced nightmares.
Although I've had one hell of a blast with it, putting Hondas in their place on the drag strip and even tearing up Mosport on a lapping day, for the dollars invested in the Mighty Dak, I could probably have my all-time, list-topping favourite MX-5 in the driveway. Or, pretending for one minute that I'm a responsible adult, a kitchen that's actually finished, windows from this century or a nicely tended collection of fat and healthy RRSPs.
My little Japanese diva, a low-mileage ‘92 Mazda MX-3, has given me countless hours of joy on the track; its agile handling, light weight and intuitive steering make it a wonderful lapping-day toy. But in bone-stock form, its silky-smooth yet rather underpowered 130-hp V6 had my diplomatic solo sprint instructor refer to it as a "momentum car". So, several months and thousands of dollars later, my sweet little coupe was transformed by the transplant of a JDM KLZE, a high-revving, sweet sounding 2.5L V6.
My euphoria was short-lived; 500 km later, the engine developed a sickening knock. Because it had sat on a pallet for a couple of months while I tracked down a distributor (a rather involved piece of kit that incorporates starter, crank and cam sensors) and aftermarket valve springs to prevent the notorious KLZE valve float over 7,000 rpm, you guessed it–the warranty was void. At this point, I'm really beginning to despise cars in general.
Back to the shop it went while I sourced a new engine. And of course, thanks to the devastating tsunami in Japan, the price of imported parts had shot up. Lo and behold, I managed to find a KLZE about 300 kilometres away for the incredible price of $100, provided I could pick it up the following morning. Dad had put his foot down and the kid's motley collection of project cars had to be OUT of the garage that week.
But of course… my beloved pickup was once more out of commission. The good news? The engine had been completely disassembled.
I set off bright and early the next day in my Mazda 323, a homely but unfailingly reliable hatchback purchased for less than the cost of the Mighty Dak's rubber. It ain't pretty, but it's never let me down. I once located it by its antenna when it had been buried by a snowplow during last year's blizzard. Shovelling just enough to open the door, I clambered in and it fired right up, scrambling out of the snowdrift like a bear emerging from hibernation. Admittedly, its performance is rather anemic, but its manoeuvrability, great steering and road feedback could shame some of the expensive cars I've driven lately.
With the rear seats down, a bit of head-scratching and some strategic loading, we managed to stuff that entire engine, with spare manifold and two sets of heads into the back of my wee beater. It may have only 82 horsepower, but it's all heart—we arrived home without incident, although we must have looked like Beverly Hills-bound Hillbillies.
For now, my beater's ferrying me around Toronto on my weekly press car exchange. It may not be glam, but with roughly 5.9 L/100 km of fuel consumption, the money it saves me makes it look mighty attractive.
And of course, helps pay for its freeloading fleet-mates.