Relationships end for a reason.

Maybe she started nagging and criticizing. Maybe she spent all of your money. Maybe you were lazy and unambitious. Maybe she cheated. Maybe you didn’t pay her enough attention. Or worst of all, maybe she forgot to flush and you saw what was in the toilet — the horror!

A few years after the breakup, you run into her. You wonder, “How did it ever end? It was so good!” You find yourself talking to her for hours as if you were never apart. You rationalize your idiocy by convincing yourself that the unstable, untrustworthy flake you despised for years was the one that got away.

And so it goes with automobiles.

The first car I picked out for myself was a 1988 Mazda 929. The Nissan Sentra I was given as a parental hand-me-down had finally called it quits after being rear-ended three times. I took my insurance check to a shady dealer in a bad neighborhood and took my Mazda home.

It was rear-wheel drive with metallic brown paint, feather-light steering, automatic climate control, power leather seats, a sunroof, and motorized oscillating vents. Fancy stuff for an eighteen-year-old guy back then (2000).

Never mind the dented door, the cracked glass, or the yellow mustard that squirted out of the wiper washer nozzle (yes, this happened). Never mind the timing belt that broke and left me stranded outside of town. The radio worked when it wanted to and the leather upholstery was badly cracked and faded. Then one day, the oil pan rusted out and the car spewed enough smoke to cover five lanes of traffic. The engine seized and that was the end. I sold it for $50.

Being the irrational young man that I was, I went out and bought another.

I was 20 years old, making peanuts working at a hotel, and had to borrow a bit of cash from a friend to buy a white 1988 Mazda 929 that I found listed in a local circular. It ended up needing a set of tires, new upholstery, rear glass (I was dragged into a bit of a physical confrontation with some questionable characters), and darn near everything else. I spent so much money trying to keep my beloved heap together that I fell behind trying to pay back my friend, which I finally did several months later.

One day, it overheated on my way home from school and the head gasket blew. The head was machined and the gasket was repaired, but a cylinder was dead beyond revival.

I sold it to a dealership and handed them a mountain of records. I couldn’t believe it when I was offered $950 for it, about $950 more than I thought it was worth. As far as I know, that car sat on their lot for a year and probably ended up being traded for a roll of Mentos.

Despite the headache-inducing reliability issues, the 929 is still a car I remember very fondly, both of them. I’d probably buy a third if I found a decent one.

One evening in 2007 I was driving home from my office in Kirkwood, Missouri, perched behind the wheel of a shiny Range Rover — I had finally pulled myself out of the poverty of my early 20s. I chased down a man in a smoke-belching 929, waving and honking at him the entire time. He finally pulled over and put his window down, looking back at me with a scared-shitless expression. I put my window down, smiled, and said, “I love your car! I owned two of them!” and drove off.

He probably thought I was nuts. [I was.]

I romanticized my memory of the car and became convinced that total strangers shared my fanatical level of affection.

I went through the same experience with a 1992 Infiniti Q45 I owned from 2003-2005. I bought it through an ad on Autotrader and spent every waking moment polishing, cleaning, and detailing it. It needed timing chain guides, the air conditioning was broken, it left me stranded about three times within the first couple months, and it had a serious alignment problem. Still, to me, it was motoring nirvana.

I paid $3600 for it and proceeded to spend $7000 over the course of two years trying to keep it together, and that was mostly with labor I performed myself. I received free help and technical assistance from the good people at NICO Club, thankfully, otherwise I’d have easily spent over ten grand. [Huge thanks to Wes.]

The infatuation was strong — I started Q45.org as an archive of the most important articles and posts from NICO and accumulated a mountain of Q45-related brochures, books, articles, and advertisements. I never did get the air conditioning to work for more than a few months at a time.

Finally, at 200,000 miles (35,000 miles later), I sold it for $900 to a guy from California. Last I heard, it was sold to someone else who then installed a body kit and a new transmission.

It didn’t end there.

A year later, in 2006, I got nostalgic and bought another Q45, this one from Los Angeles. I flew across the country and drove it home, discovering the remnants of Route 66 along the way.

Somehow, It wasn’t the same. It was too perfect, too well maintained, and didn’t “need” me like my last one did. Aside from a few squeaky suspension bushings, the car was flawless. I was even free to invest my time and energy into upgrading the sound system and buying a set of wheels (not pictured). I played around with the exhaust too.

It did have an intermittent injector issue which I could have repaired for ten dollars and 45 minutes of my time, but I used it as an excuse to leave — after less than a year of blissful driving pleasure I sold it.

Why? Because I developed a love for misery. I longed for the stimulation of pain and suffering.

The relationships you remember most are the ones that excite you, the ones that make you crazy and cause you to do irrational things. But they’re never good for you.

And so it goes with automobiles.