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Byline: Corey Farley
One of life's little ironies is that the cars I want always stay precisely the same distance out of reach.
The first time I went shopping for wheels, I'd scraped together $150. In those days, there were cars in that range, and I looked at several of them.
I'd never heard the term "clapped out,'' but it would have covered them all. There was a 1954 Chevrolet that appeared to have survived a garage fire, a '51 Plymouth that burned "a little oil,'' a Renault Dauphine that leaked a lot of oil and others I've forgotten (if you don't remember the Dauphine, it's worth Googling just for a laugh).
Cars I coveted, though, ran $200 and up. For $50 more than I had-as far from pocket change then as $5,000 is today-I could have driven away a happy man.
For $150, I drove away in a state of trepidation and a '52 Ford.
"I wouldn't buy that car,'' my father warned as I went off to consummate the deal. I ignored him, and the Ford ran for 13 trouble-free miles before grinding to a halt with a broken axle. The failure ...