Skip to main content
redline

Like quantum mechanics and cat psychology, automotive economics can be complicated. You'd think it would be great to get a 1992 Ferrari for $20,000, for example. Or that buying a classic Morgan roadster for $4,000 would be a steal.

But then you get a $15,800 service bill when the bargain Ferrari needs a water pump and a timing belt replacement. And the Morgan, as it turns out, has been infested with rats and termites.

These are both true stories. When it comes to the cost of a car, purchase price means almost nothing. What looks like a bargain may be the first step toward financial ruin. As one of the great vehicular philosophers once observed: "There's nothing more expensive than a cheap Rolls-Royce."

Here we embark upon the slippery subject of value and how a deal can be anything but. Acquiring an aging classic car is not unlike inheriting a crumbling château in the south of France: in theory, you have been given an incredible asset. In reality, you have been saddled with a lifelong financial obligation that will suck you dry, one stone wall repair and copper downspout at a time.

Even new cars can be a pitfall. The cost of keeping a Bugatti Veyron on the road has been estimated at up to $300,000 per year. Bugatti recommends that the Veyron's tires be changed every 4,000 kilometres, at a cost of more than $45,000 each time. And every 16,000 kilometres, the service schedule calls for new wheels and tires, which will cost more than $50,000.

But as automotive hell pits go, it's hard to beat an aging classic. A former colleague purchased a 40-year-old Jaguar that sucked his bank accounts dry with a string of engine rebuilds and carburetor overhauls. The differential failed. The transmission had to be ministered to by a specialist. Then came an unending series of rust repairs that drained his RRSPs. By the time he died, his Jaguar's repair bills exceeded its purchase price by a factor of approximately three to one.

That's no surprise. A mechanic I know named Gus specializes in old Jaguar E-Types and always has more work than he can handle thanks to the ravages of time and the inadequacy of British engineering and manufacturing, circa 1966. Not long ago, Gus did a brake job that required a full week of labour, thanks to rusted bolts and an E-Type design quirk that made for superb handling and seizure-inducing repair bills – the E-Type's rear brakes are buried deep inside the rear suspension, next to the differential.

Gus is the guy you go to when that old Bentley or Rolls-Royce you picked up for a song refuses to run right. He synchronizes aging carburetors, replaces crumbling hydraulic lines and traces the electrical demons that course through sclerotic wiring systems made by Lucas, the English automotive-electrics manufacturer once known as "Prince of Darkness." Gus's repair billings sometimes include several hundred hours of labour, at more than $100 per.

Smart car owners buy with a keen eye on things such as residual value and reliability ratings. They are flinty-eyed. They consult Consumer Reports and J.D. Power. These are the smart car owners. In 1976, I bought a 1968 Beetle for $375, exulting over the brilliant deal I had struck – the Beetle needed nothing more than new brakes, an engine overhaul and a bit of bodywork. My fool of a neighbour, meanwhile, had paid $950 for a 1969 model. Sure, his was running, and it didn't need any bodywork, but I had saved $575.

Three months later, my Beetle finally emerged from my parents' carport. I had squandered about 200 hours of labour on it, plus $1,100 worth of parts. It didn't look as good as my neighbours' Beetle and, since this was my first engine rebuild, it didn't run as well, either. I had spent three months of my time and $1,475 to create a car that was worth about $500. The engine blew up a few months later, further reducing its value.

But I got off easy. After apprenticing as a mechanic, I witnessed some true money pits. One was a customer who got a great deal on a 12-year-old Porsche 911. All it needed was a tune-up and some minor bodywork. Or so the seller had convinced him.

A leak-down test revealed that four of the six cylinders had low compression. The rear shocks were weeping fluid and the steering had a suspicious amount of play. The customer looked on as the inspection continued. "No big deal, right?" he asked, with the hopeful air of a man being examined by an oncologist.

The 911's prognosis only got worse. The clutch was shot, the window-crank mechanisms were seized and the engine had a major knock that foretold some major machine shop work, if not an entirely new engine that would cost as much as a pair of new Toyota Corollas. The good news: all of this was fixable. The bad news: the parts and labour bill would far exceed what the customer had paid for the car.

Not longer after that, a university friend asked me to come over to see his new car, a 1950s Morgan roadster.

"It's beautiful!" he enthused. "It just needs a little work."

I did a preliminary inspection on the Morgan, which had been stored outdoors for years. Some form of boring insect had infiltrated the wooden sub frames that supported the Morgan's hand-formed aluminum body panels. Rats had taken up residence in the once-beautiful leather seats and the canvas top was a tattered, sun-bleached ruin. The exhaust system supports had rotted out, the engine mounts were cracked and the suspension was shot. The Morgan's trunk lid came off in my hands. The Morgan would require a full, body-off restoration that would probably take several years.

My friend was a glass-half-full man. He listened as I ticked off the Morgan's flaws, then replied: "Aside from that, it looks pretty good, right?"

Last I heard, he declared bankruptcy. Bargains have a way of doing that to you.

Like us on Facebook

Follow us on Instagram

Add us to your circles

Sign up for our weekly newsletter

Interact with The Globe