It didn’t work. I fixed it.
I’ve only been trying my hand at car repair for a couple of years, and this is the first car that didn’t run that I brought back to life. It involved removing and rebuilding two carburetors more complexly designed than the toilets in the International Space Station, not to mention replacing the fuel pump and fuel line, all without a garage and without really knowing what I was doing. It also involved several tows while the car was comatose in temporary no parking zones instated by the city of Los Angeles, likely just to spite me.
The stress of having a geriatric car with nowhere to keep it was far greater than I expected. Even when my dear and great friend Muffy Marracco offered her off-street parking to me as a workspace for no reason other than that she is dear and great, the stress was replaced by guilt.
It’s a very pretty car. I wish my life were such that I could keep it and drive it without trouble. But being unemployed, my stress and guilt levels are high enough without lending any to an unnecessary car, no matter how pretty. I’d feel better without it. So I’m selling it. It taught me a lot, and I’m proud of myself.
It’s a very pretty car.