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Published on July 7, 2021 at 9:00 AM | Updated on July 7, 2021 at 8:39 PM

Don't buy, they said. I bought it.

When I found this car among the weeds, I should take it as a sign and leave it there. but I do not have. I was 17 years old, and of course I needed an 8-year-old two-seater Italian sports car.

Well, my uncle bought it and I returned it to him. My aunt thinks we are crazy.

Ignoring all rational suggestions, I convinced my benefactor to at least go to the car with me (and he is the only one who can drive). When I arrived at the seller’s backyard, the grass was as high as the doorknob, but I became addicted to it all at once.

The Italian car knows nothing about love, it is always desire. It's like being hit by a thunderbolt in "The Godfather." I can't drive a 5-speed yet, but I know I want one.

This car is a Fiat X 1/9 Bertone from 1981.

I should go away.

Since I have no clutch experience, my uncle had to go for a test drive. But he is a big man. So his mind will be clear, we have to remove the top of the targa and store it under the front hood. If I haven't been sold yet, my goodness, this transaction is complete.

My uncle started the car and it went out immediately. It started again and got stuck again. Started, stagnated. This time, he turned the key and held the accelerator to keep it running. It was smoking and whining, but in the end, it continued to run on its own, even if it was a bit rough. He chatted with the seller a few words, I circled the car, dreaming of winding roads and high speeds, it was time to go for a drive.

"Let's blow the spider web," my uncle said.

"Let us," I said.

I have been strapped to the passenger seat.

The seller, an elderly person, came back to his house probably to get the property rights and sales slip, because he knew that once we came back, we would buy a car.

My uncle drove the car out on a straight and smashed the oil. My uncle doesn't laugh much, but he laughed that day. The car spit out what it was suffocating and screamed on the road.

Now, to people on the roadside, this may sound like an asthmatic whisper from the smallest car ever, but to us, when the center four-cylinder is tied to our back, that fool is as sharp as a Ferrari Call.

That was the best day I spent with Fiat.

The next nine months, not so many. This is my third car and my first standard. After watching my uncle's driving and listening to my mother's simple oral class, I drove the car out alone, determined to learn to drive.

Obviously, fixing the clutch to the floor when leaving a highway ramp at 80 mph is not the best way to extend the life of the clutch. Within the first month, the car began to establish a long-term and expensive relationship with a place called Autodyne in Beverly, Massachusetts.

This place is not my first choice because they are a bit expensive for a high school student who has a strange taste for cars. However, this is my only choice. Of the 1.3 million other stores I have called, none have even heard of Fiat X 1/9.

From the time and effort invested, it seems that the clutch is built into the engine. Perhaps this is how those crazy Italian engineers fit the engine and walking gear into a slot that is hardly larger than carry-on luggage.

After a few hundred dollars, I retrieved my car and felt the smuggling of Italian sports cars again. This feeling lasted for a week, until my exhaust pipe fell off.

Since all the funds in my bank account have just been emptied, this is when I started to learn how to work in a car-in a MacGyver way.

The tiny size was also considered in the design. My exhaust system has about 17 miles of rusty gut, stuffed into a space the size of a soda can. Coincidentally, this is where I used to repair it. Well, I used a few soda cans, a few hose clamps, and some auto parts store items, which should have been shrink-wrapped around the hot exhaust. What they didn't explain is that if your hand is caught between the tape and the exhaust pipe, then your hand will become a permanent part of the repair.

This restoration lasted until autumn. However, on a cool, lively, and refreshing October weekend, with autumn leaves falling to the ground, I decided to go for a drive. My homework is done, my brother is annoying me, Zeppelin III is in the tape recorder, and I have a car.

Cool car. A stylish Italian car with a ground clearance of 4 inches, the engine tune sings sweet melody to the god of cars, the perfect instrument layout, and the latent stench of the sheepskin seat cover repeatedly soaked from the top of a leaking targa. (Speaking of the top, the so-called selling point, nothing can shout "Good morning!" like a glass of ice water spilled directly on a man from a roof latch).

Anyway, back to autumn. Ah, that perfect autumn afternoon. Blast 128, I plan to travel along the coastal route to Manchester and then to Gloucester. I safely stowed the roof, rolled down the windows, blown out the heater, and put on my favorite jacket and leather driving gloves safely. The soothing calm of the engine puts me in such a situation that I even had to turn off the radio so that I can better absorb the hum of harmonious pistons swimming in the Castrol GTX.

It was mid-October, but the heat was a bit high, so I adjusted it down a bit. Then I smelled a bit like maple syrup. I love New England!

My Nike shoes and stonewashed jeans are still hot, so I turned them off. More maple syrup. steam! Steam in the cabin! smokes! what! ? !

I looked down at the floor on the passenger side, just in time to see a burst of neon green coolant spraying out of my carpet, my sneakers, and my pedals.

In my life, I have never seen a Prestone with so much bleeding from a car (well, until Volkswagen).

Then, like an avalanche in the Apennines, things slid into a pile of icy despair. Two of my snow covered with snowflakes flattened immediately. One headlight didn't light up, and then it didn't light up. Then both rose on their own and drained the battery overnight.

Danger flashes alternately, like a school bus. The brakes are gone. One of the hoods is no longer closed, and the passenger door is no longer open. When I opened the trunk, I could clearly see the sidewalk. This at least explains the algebra book I am missing.

Alas, after a lot of setbacks and withdrawal of long-term savings accounts, I can't stand it anymore. Although it tore my heart and squeezed my brain, I still sold it-completely public.

A few weeks later, I saw my old car galloping by. Its new owner was very happy. The roof was closed, the sun was dappled, and the radio was loud. He saw me, I gave my thumbs up, my teeth were gleaming, and I timed properly on the carillon.

A few weeks later, I saw him again.

This time, I frowned. He frowned fiercely.

Kris Gove lives in Voluntown.

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