Friends, I have a problem. The other day I spied a dust-covered 1971 or 1972 El Camino SS sitting outside a local store, and I was enraptured by its siren song. It put a deep need to own a muscle ute in my very soul, which is where the real problem started: El Caminos on Facebook Marketplace are cheap. You can get one for less than the cost of my motorcycle, and it’ll fit my bike in the back — it’s maybe the platonic ideal of four-wheel transportation. So I come to you on my hands and knees, begging for your help. Please talk me out of buying a 50-year-old El Camino.
Having a truck that can haul motorcycles would be incredibly convenient for me in my bike-reviewing endeavors. Rather than navigating how to pick up a motorcycle from its fleet or dealer without having to leave my Suzuki on the premises, I could just head out in an El Camino and bring the bike right back to my apartment. Better still, I could strap my own bike down in the El Camino’s bed while riding a press bike — that’s a major theft deterrent, and it would leave my existing lock and cover open for the loaner. I’ve thought this all out, you see.
Please convince me not to do this
Of course, there’s the small matter of maintaining a vehicle that’s nearly double my age. I live in a Brooklyn apartment with three roommates and no garage, where street parking is scarce and space to wrench is even scarcer. I don’t have the slightest clue where my nearest source of ethanol-free, carburetor-friendly fuel is, and I know that letting modern gas sit in the tank of a pre-fuel-injection car is a recipe for frustration. I certainly wouldn’t use an El Camino enough to avoid that fate.
I do not need an El Camino. I should not buy an El Camino. Yet, every $3,000 fixer-upper I see on Marketplace calls to me like it’s trying to dash my ship upon the rocks. I beg of you, readers, lash me to the mast. Talk me out of this. Make me recognize how dumb an idea this is. Remind me that a car nearly my parents’ age isn’t the kind of thing I need, and it would be at best a minor convenience for a thing I do once in a while. You’re my only hope.
