Dodge Colt
My 1973 Dodge Colt took me from Baltimore to L.A. right after college. After two years of freeway driving in L.A., it started to smoke badly, so I bought six feet of copper piping, drilled a bunch of holes up and down it, and then attached it to a tuna can and ran it from under the hood to the undercarriage, and then all the way back to the muffler area. This helped to dissipate the smoke because it was spread out over the length of my car. Of course, this also meant that if I remained for too long at a stop sign the smoke would billow up all at once and attract attention.
A few months later, in an effort to find the cause of the smoke, I disassembled my engine and found two big, shiny holes where the tops of the pistons were. By then, most of the engine was on the ground, so I gave up and called one of those "we'll buy any junker" companies from the Yellow Pages ads.
I still remember the guy I spoke with. He asked me if my car had an engine. I said yes and he said $75. I said fine, and he came out to my apartment garage, popped open the hood, and said: "hey, I thought you said that it had an engine." I replied: "I didn't lie to you. The engine is in the trunk." He then paid me $40. I would have received less money had he also found the can of house paint in the trunk.
The story gets better. My roommate at the time, had just decided to move to New York. Understanding my plight of not having transportation in L.A., he just handed me the keys to his three year old Honda 400 motorcycle. I said thanks and as he was moving out, and asked him when was the last time he had changed the oil, to which he replied: "Change the oil? Why would I do that? It didn't go anywhere." Needless to say, after that I had to carry around spark plugs in my pocket everywhere I went. I'd drive ten miles, and then change the plugs. Every stinking day I'd do that.
Ah, the good old days of struggling. No more old Dodges or motorcycles for me now.
