Let me explain what I mean by that.  There’s currently nothing ostensibly “wrong” with the car.  It still runs and drives great, shifts smooth and is honestly incredibly comfortable on the highway.  Power isn’t amazing, but it’s more than adequate, and it’s head and shoulders a more complete car than my Miata.  But the thing is, I live in a part of the world where snow, salt and the inevitable corrosion that comes with them are a sad fact of life.  That means that no matter how much care I take with the car, rust lurks just under the surface, ready to leap out and ruin my day as soon as I notice its cancerous presence.

Amidst the door dings, scratches and other indignities any urban car must suffer, my E34 is now showing definite signs of rust at the bottom of each door.  It’s mostly surface rust – but left unchecked, it would definitely hole the steel over the course of another winter or so.  After delaying for the entire summer, I eventually went to a local body shop and had them take a look at the problem.  The price they quoted was reasonable for the job that needed to be done, and I left the establishment trying to figure out how to schedule an appointment in the next month or so.

Over the course of the next few days, however, my resolve to do right by my car began to falter.  You see, it’s really not just the bottoms of the doors that have caught the rust bug.  There’s also the spot above the windshield on the passenger side of the roof that’s been there for about a year, bubbling under the paint, and the telltale signs around the gas cap that I just noticed this summer (and which caused me to feel that slow, sinking feeling that I associate with any car repair that I know I honestly can’t justify for aesthetic reasons alone).  And then there’s the body work on the front fender that it seems only I can see starting to come out, as well as the collection of rock chips all over the hood and fenders – you don’t get to nearly a half a million kilometers without eating a little gravel along the way.

What I am getting at with my tale of woe is this:  my car has done nothing to betray me, and in fact has provided me with years of unexpectedly trouble-free driving.  But just like a family member in a stereotypical Mafia film, the time has come where I am forced to turn my back on someone I love.  I can definitely afford to repair the doors, but then the next rust spot on the list would eat up a similar amount of cash, and then the next and the next.  And of course, hovering over the entire scene is the malevolent specter of mechanical failure, always a real issue on a high mileage vehicle, and one which would make a fool out of my investment in paint and metal work.

I have no doubt that my E34 has many kilometers left inside of it, and that is why I will continue to drive it daily until I replace it this winter.  At that point, it will in turn replace my significant other’s lackluster and slowly dying commuting appliance.  I cannot know if whatever I choose to park in its spot in the driveway will offer me the same degree of vehicular satisfaction, but I do know that I will feel a twinge every time I walk past my old ride and see the rust spots getting bigger and the paint job getting sadder.  I also know that I will try to avoid looking at it in the rearview mirror as I pull away from the house in the chariot that has taken its place.  You know – just so neither of us has to see the other’s tears.

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