I'm a car guy

"I'm never touching a car that you've worked on, they always break down"- My wife and former girlfriends credo.

There are, in my opinion two clear groups in the world: those that have a car, and those that couldn't be without one.
The former have preferences for their car. Colour, brand, fabric; tangible and tactile. They can even develop a kind love for it. But usually only until the next new thing takes their eye. A new style, a celebrity crush, the illusion of status.

I come from the later. I grew up in a house that had no fewer than eight cars at any one time. And rarely more than two of them running. Long before I ever got behind the wheel in anger I had seen crankshafts, camshafts, driveshafts, more often than not lying on the floor between my father and myself as he re-assembled another engine while I sat in fascination on my plastic prime coloured trike. I thought it was normal.
I'd watch VHS's of motor production  and see the assembly line. It all looked so familiar. I could have paused it, ran to the garage, and returned with whatever part they were currently producing, if dad would let me. From a very young age the garage was a land of intrigue. Dad would be in there, I'd hear the ratchets, the heavy breathing of muscle, blood and bone manipulating steel, alloy and iron. But I was relegated to the concrete step at the side door, or an inch behind the relief line of the garage door, or safely on the aforementioned tricycle, or if really lucky, from the front seat of the Mini Cooper S.
For good reason. I would have weighed less than one of those crankshafts leaning precariously against the diagnostics machine. And as much as mum loved dad, and could forgive much of the plague, a son dead from a falling suspension strut may have just been a straw to much.
So I watched.

Every now and then I'd be brought in. Allowed to explore the steel bins, the fastener laden roller boards. Stare in wonder at the puzzle pieces of engine and the bare engine bay from whence it came.
When I was old enough, and could convince my father I was capable, I would get the enviable job of standing on the seat of the mini and steering, when it inevitably needed to be moved around the garage to make space. A never ending game of Tetris in a crowded workshop. I would have been about five. Following dad's direction. "Right hand down, little more. Okay full left lock!"
It would be years before I got my first taste of power steering.

Our cars never went to mechanic. I was probably school age before I realised that there was actually a person that people payed to fix theirs. If something broke, family life would become a fast paced diognostic session, often lasting late into the night as the fluorescent bars flickered and ticked.

What followed would be my favourite. Trips to parts shops. Listening to dad and the car men. Stories of workmanship, rebuilds, races, tall stories and takedowns. And I got to do it all from the front seat. I wasn't relegated to backseat bandit on those days. Mum had no interest in visiting another greasy workshop, or shiny showroom. It was childhood perfection.
We'd arrive at home, proud with our treasure, and dad would disappear back into the fluorescence.

At the eleventh hour. A silence would descend. I would learn later about what went on during this quiet time. All I knew was it would get very quiet. Then a light click followed by a rapid succession of a circuit, a throw out pin, turn over, combustion and revolution. It rendered me to dumb wonder. What had only hours before been seperate and dead pieces of steel, were now alive.
Alive.

That's the other difference. For people like me a car is a living breathing entity.

And I love them.

Today my beloved finally gave up the ghost. Broke my heart. But, with a little care and attention. Will be back breathing fire in no time.

And sure, the cars I work on break down from time to time. But not from the work I've done.