Acquiring the car wasn't an easy process. Its story, like so many others before it, begins with your renting a truck. And with much labor, digging, a few very unsafe applications of tow rope and a boatload of torque later, you're dragging your new prize, the Skoda, out of the moss and mud that sought to envelope and devour the car completely.

It looks at you forlornly, almost cursing you for the rescue. It seems that the car was where it wanted to be. With a winch, you get the 48 Skoda up onto the flatbed and head home.

And that's when it all started.

You'd awaken in the middle of the night, your dreams tortured by the image of that car staring you in the face. Looming over you, hatefully cursing you for ever having saved it.

And yet, you loved it. You loved its styling.

It'd take more than a few bad dreams to even begin to dissuade you from your restoration of the Skoda.

-this comment continued after the jump-

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Hell, it doesn't even have much rust. Because there's nothing rustable! Hey, maybe this could actually be practical. And let the wiring connectors rust; ferrous oxide is still kinda conductive, and as long as nothing shorts, you'll be fine. Your buddy Ray is an electrician, too. Just in case. Man, this should be a walk in the park.

So the car ends up in your driveway, casting a mostly-complete, wedge-shaped shadow. You throw a brick behind a rear wheel, just in case, throw it in neutral, and shove your lightweight sports car underneath the carport. At which point it rolls backward onto your foot.

OW GODDAMN GOAT-RAPING NUN SHIT.

Your girlfriend comes running outside, and is fortunately able to shove the car just hard enough to get the possessed sonofabitch off of your foot. Whew. Thanks, hon.

"I don't think this car likes you too much."

You reassure her that it's a car. It doesn't have feelings. And neither does your foot, at the moment.

A few minutes later, your Lotus is where it was supposed to be, the handbrake set, transmission in gear (because you don't trust the handbrake), and chocks on either side of two wheels. Your driveway may be perfectly flat... well, it must not be, actually. Cars can't move themselves.

You get most of the simple mechanical work done, and straighten out some of the cosmetic details, over the course of a couple months. Eventually, you call up your buddy Ray. He agrees to have a look that Saturday, after the ball game.

Saturday, of course, can't come fast enough.

Ray shows up, leaving his F-150 half on your postage-stamp of yellowed rented-duplex lawn, half on the sidewalk, as per usual. Your girlfriend shakes her head disapprovingly, thinking of what your lush of a landlord said last time Ray's truck left ruts in his lawn, but you could care less, disappearing around the edge of the house.

"What the hell IS it?"

You explain that it's a Lotus. Ray scratches his head. "Oh, like an Esprit, or an Elise. Except old as hell."

Well, pretty much, yeah. Eventually.

Opening the hood - sorry, bonnet - causes him to become speechless for the second time since you met him in high school (the first, of course, was the Tequila Incident of '92... or was it '93?). "Shit, man. They weren't jokin' about those British cars, were they?"

You remind Ray that the car's also been submerged by at least one hurricane. He suggests that you drag out the entire bar-fridge.

From there, "Exorcising Old Joe" becomes a near-weekly tradition. You supply the cheap beer, and Ray studies the wiring diagrams, having you hold onto loose ends and such.

One Saturday, Ray (a bit tipsy, but nowhere near drunk) announces that the car should be nearly all set. Great! Time for some finishing touches. You hook everything up over the next weekend, then, late at night, you fire it up.

Starts right up. Second try. You kill the engine, just in case, and start toward the door to tell your girlfriend. You know, the girlfriend that left you a month ago, calling you a "no-good, deadbeat scumbag" and, curiously, a "faggot". Hey, not like you were boning Ray in the back seat, the two of you were just getting the car going. Well, he did kinda look at you funny, but the price was right.

Sigh.

Doesn't matter, though. Now you have all of your free time to get the Elite absolutely perfect. You look up each common failure point of your car, and make sure that nothing (aside from the fiberglass shell) is likely to go to Hell in a handbasket.

Clearly, now, you have to show off your handiwork. It may not be perfect, but a running Elite, even the less fiendish second model, is a minor miracle. A street-legal one? Even more so! And thanks to some good old junkyard-scrounged Japanese electronics, connectors, and wire, you should be all set on that front. A Maaco BRG paintjob, and you're on the road.

Once you get it registered (by a confused clerk) and inspected (by an amazed mechanic), it's off to the circuit for you. There's a local all-make car show coming up, and you can't wait.

The big day comes. You pull in, and are halted by an attendant. "Various makes, that way."

But there's an Elan over there, and an Elite-

"Yeah, that's British cars."

This is a Lotus Elite!

"Are you kidding? Elites are rounded fiberglass bathtubs. This is... well, okay, it's fiberglass. But it's no Elite."

You open the door and spit. Philistine. Aiming for the end of a row of Sunbeams, Triumphs, and MGs, you pull into your rightful position.

Fewer than ten minutes pass.

"Hey, man, that's one badass Gremlin! What's the nose off of?"

It's a Lotus.

"No way, I know a Gremlin when I see one. You're pretty damn funny, though. I like it!"

Sigh.

"Daddy, Daddy! Lookit the Gwemlin!"

"I wonder why they've parked it over here, Billy? Here's the owner, I'll ask. ... So, did you put a Rover V8 in it and end up over here by trickery?"

No, sir, it's a Lotus Elite.

"Lotus wouldn't build anything that ugly, would they? Wow."

You write a quick "back in 10" on a sheet of notebook paper, leaving it on the dash, then grab a warm bottle of Guinness from the back of the car, shove it into your coat pocket, and go for a walk.

Some people just can't appreciate good design.

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