I was twelve years old when I fell in love with a car that didn't run.

It was 1981 Honda Prelude, silver with a nearly perfect burgundy interior, sitting in someone's driveway with a "For Sale - $150" sign taped to the windshield. My birthday was coming up, and instead of asking for a new skateboard or video games like a normal kid, I convinced my stepdad to help me buy my first car.

"It doesn't run," the seller told us, like this was somehow a dealbreaker.

"That's okay," I said, with the confidence of someone who had absolutely no idea what they were getting into. "I'll figure it out."

Spoiler alert: I did not figure it out.

That Prelude taught me more about automotive reality than any running car ever could. It sat in our garage for nearly two years, a monument to optimism and a masterclass in the gap between optimistic teenage intention and undiagnosed ADD-riddled execution.

Every weekend, I'd be out there with my stepdad's tools, trying to interpret repair manuals written for people who understood things like "compression ratios" and "timing belts." I learned that rust isn't just cosmetic damage. It's automotive cancer. I learned that just because the car looks to be in amazing condition inside and outside, doesn’t mean you should overlook the underside, because it could literally be falling to pieces from the bottom up. And unfortunately, that Prelude did exactly that.

Most importantly, I learned that loving a car and understanding a car are two completely different things.

The Prelude never ran. Not once. I blame the insane amount of vacuum lines, that looked more like black spaghetti under the hood. Emissions back then…wow.

But it gave me something more valuable than transportation. It gave me the understanding that cars are more than machines. They're relationships. They're projects. They're teachers in disguise.

Fast forward to 1998. I'm working summers to save up for my dream car, a 1991 Acura Integra LS-Special. Factory two-tone ebony and ivory interior that looked like it was ready for a car show. The super rare OEM body kit that took the exterior styling of the car to a whole new level. It was everything the Prelude wasn't. It ran, it was beautiful, and it made me feel like I knew what I was doing.

That Integra was perfect. Too perfect. I babied it, obsessed over it, polished it until it could've been a show car. And then life happened…college, relationships, career, and suddenly I found myself selling the one car I swore I'd never sell.

I’ve owned many Integras since.

Perfect cars are terrible teachers. They don't humble you. They don't make you resourceful. They don't force you to learn the difference between want and need.

The Integra spoiled me for imperfection. It made me think cars were supposed to work all the time, look good doing it, and never break your heart.

It took years of POS cars to teach me better.

Between the Prelude that never ran and the Integra that ran too well, there were others. The heroes of my automotive education, each one broken in its own special way…

The CRX that we bought intending to build a track car, only to get a horribly built roll cage that depleted the funds we intended to use. The Civic hatchback that sat in our garage for months in hopes of a new engine that never happened.

That old Toyota pickup of my uncle’s that sat at my grandparent’s house for years.But somehow started up every time a family member needed something to drive in a pinch.

Not to mention all of the “I almost bought one of those” along the way. Someone posted one of my bucket list cars for sale recently:
"1981 Toyota Corolla TE72 wagon. Runs and drives, lowered on coilovers, and sits on nice period-correct wheels. Could use some tlc in the steering department. Could use new some new ball joints. Registration is up to date and smogged, man."

That listing made me nostalgic for problems I forgot I missed. "Could use some TLC in the steering department" is poetry. It's honest. It's the opposite of every luxury car commercial ever made. It reminds me of my stepdad’s old Ford truck that the family used to pile into (legally, of course). That thing’s steering was like playing that old arcade game, Asteroids. If you weren’t paying 100% attention…

Each one taught me something different about resilience, about making do, about the relationship between expectation and reality.

I see this car at almost every local Cars and Coffee event. I won't say what it is to protect the owner's privacy, but everyone knows the one. It's from the early '80s, some weird Japanese thing that nobody imported enough of to matter. It's got rust in places rust shouldn't be able to live. The paint has that perfect patina that takes decades of California sun to create.

It needs just about everything. Engine work, suspension, interior, electrical. You name it, this car needs it.

And it's the most popular car at every event.

People ignore the Lamborghinis and the pristine restomods to crowd around this thing. They take pictures. They ask questions. They tell stories about similar cars they used to have, or their dad had, or they wish they'd never sold.

Because this car represents something those perfect cars could never…it represents the journey. It's honest about its flaws. It wears its problems like battle scars. It doesn't pretend to be anything other than what it is…a survivor.

This is for everyone who's ever loved a car that didn't love them back.

For everyone who's developed a personal relationship with their check engine light. Who knows exactly which angle to hold the key to make the ignition work. Who can identify their car in a parking lot by the sound of its specific mechanical wheeze.

For everyone who's ever said "it's got character" when what they meant was "it's broken but I don't care."

For everyone who understands that the best cars aren't the ones that work perfectly, but rather, they're the ones that work just well enough to keep you interested but broken enough to keep you humble.

POS cars teach you things perfect cars never could. They teach you resourcefulness, patience, the value of small victories. They teach you that sometimes "good enough" really is good enough. They teach you to appreciate transportation as the minor miracle it actually is.

Most importantly, they teach you that love isn't about perfection. It's about commitment. It's about showing up even when things are difficult. It's about finding beauty in flaws and strength in struggle.

And this is for the people who choose these cars, who see a "$150 - Doesn't Run" sign and think "opportunity."

You're the ones who understand that the journey is the destination. Who know that the best stories come from the cars that almost didn't make it. Who can find joy in a successful parts store run and triumph in a car that starts on the first try.

You're building community through shared struggle. Creating bonds through mutual automotive suffering. Finding friendship in the universal experience of "I have no idea what I'm doing, but I'm doing it anyway."

You're keeping these cars alive not because you have to, but because you want to. Because someone should. Because every car deserves at least one person who sees its potential instead of just its problems.

You're pursuing something real in a world full of things that are manufactured to be perfect.

And that something? That's worth celebrating.

Nick,
Founder, PURSUIT OF SOMETHING
(Currently browsing Craigslist for another POS I don’t need.)