Probably the greatest and worst managed investment of my existence started when I bought my first car from a neighbor in south St. Petersburg for $ 150. I was 18, and the 9-year-old vehicle was a 1967 Camaro. A classic now, at the time, it was just an previous Chevy 2-door with a 6-cylinder motor, no air conditioning and a bad starter. My father, a retired engineer and stellar mechanic, guided me via rebuilding the starter the week I purchased it. Later we ended up breaking down the entire engine. I scraped off a vinyl roof, repainted the exterior, removed some ridiculously big mags and replaced them with stock wheels from a junkyard and tires from Sears. The Datsun 240Z hubcaps have been only $ 5, but a disrespectful mistake. A considerably bigger mistake was promoting the auto in the ’;80s for $ 1,000, pondering it would in no way be worth a lot more. When I see images of that automobile, I miss it — but not as a lot as I miss people days spent finding out how to resolve things with my father. Most of what I know about vehicles I realized from Dad, and from operating with him on that Camaro.