For years, I have proclaimed my undying love for the 1986 Mercedes-Benz 190E 2.3-16 Cosworth I rescued out of a junkyard in Pennsylvania. Let me explain why.
It's the car I wanted since I was 16; it somehow corrects the emotional debt I carried for years following a junior prom date not becoming the girl I would marry (despite hoping with every fiber of my being that it would be so.) I looked at a Cosworth at a local car lot with my Dad shortly thereafter and he was ready to buy it as a consolation prize (my father did not spoil us, but he followed a code that prompted him to act impulsively and out of love when his kids were truly hurting.) Suffice it to say, his colleague that owned the lot specializing in desirable European stock told him I'd put it into a tree within about a week, and that was that.
I know, there's a lot to unpack there, but this is why I buy needy cars - it absolves me from seeing a therapist. Anyhow, a Cosworth has remained on my car-buying radar for years. I've had opportunities to buy driver-quality examples but never felt inclined to do so. For some reason, buying this rusty, half-pillaged junkyard find was the trigger for finally bringing one home, which I find aligns curiously with the state my sixteen-year-old self was in when Liz and I didn't pan out way back in the year 2000 (God, that is a long time ago now - why am I still talking about this?)
So, to see the Cosworth entering its most prolonged, expensive, and agonizingly tedious phase - that is to say, bodywork and correcting years of neglected rust concerns and shitty repairs (I swear, they repainted this car with three times the necessary material - the finish is so ungodly thick) is giving me heartburn. Look, it's expensive, and I'm using the most sketch-ass version of a body shop there is, the equivalent of a backdoor card game in a bad neighborhood with prostitutes doubling as bouncers. It's the only way someone like me can afford to take on a dumb-fuck project like this.
I hate it. I love it. I hate seeing updates from the guy working long hours in a dingy garage with no ventilation because I know I owe him another $300 for something I didn't know was broken; I love it because I see that shape come back to life and all the emotions come roiling back, like I'm going to drive past Liz's house in this car and flick her off, just like I planned to do when my Dad was ready to pay Chuck Mitchell the measly $9,000 that would've bought a nice one of these 20 years ago.
All of that is in the past. It's just in the past. But the Cosworth is here now, and while I continue to chase every side hustle I can find and chuck shit onto craigslist in hopes of a quick buck or two - all driven by getting this project done this year - I find myself in that uncomfortable middle ground of wondering why we do this to ourselves as car enthusiasts, while simultaneously already knowing the answer.
It's gonna be great. Don't worry about it.