She stopped counting after a minute, bored. Not for lack of holes. Each rocker held a jagged gash. The rear-subframe mounts, the front frame rails, so much else—all vapor, MIA. All in a flood-damaged old BMW, a 1972 2002tii, that I bought, on purpose, in Baltimore, 500 miles from home.

For the last 20 years, I’ve been an automotive journalist. A pinch-me dream job. I’ve tested thousands of cars, from Fords to Ferraris; I’ve written a best-selling book of car stories; I’ve hosted motorsport TV for places like NBC Sports. I was also, long ago, a professional mechanic.

In other words, when I found that wheeled German dumpster fire, I knew better.

Old BMWs are in my blood. My parents bought a 2002 new in 1976. I drove another in high school, in the late ‘90s, when they were just cheap old cars. A 2002 took me to my first track day, and my first racing license. Then years away, owning and trying other cars, as you do.

Thousands under market, I told myself. Worth the ask in parts alone. I had $1,800 to spare, so I offered that sight unseen, a lowball, and assumed it wouldn’t happen. All stuff I never do.

Naturally, the seller said yes. In Baltimore, in his driveway, the engine ran almost disturbingly great. The rest was the mouth of madness. The body was so far gone, restoration would have cost more than a new Porsche. Those subframe mounts literally peeled off the floor on a finger. Paul apologized profusely, but I couldn’t stop being thrilled.

A logical person would have cut it all up for parts. Except… writers get sentimental. I love driving 2002s but couldn’t afford a nice one. And even if I could, I knew I wouldn’t use it without worrying about the value. So, I thought long and hard, and then I made a stupid—and, it turned out, utterly wonderful—decision.

Rust repair done right takes time and money. What if, I wondered, we just did everything… wrong? If we speed-welded the car’s unibody back together with patched-over rust and steel tubes? Build the BMW a kind of exoskeleton, safe and effective but also dirty and ugly, no care for detail?

It was a means to an end, but also a clear-eyed choice. And, if I’m honest, a reaction to an excess from my day job. To the cork-sniffing corner of car culture that too often labels fun old iron too precious to use.

An irredeemable 2002, I thought: We could go anywhere.

A friend agreed to help. Then another, and another, more than half a dozen in all. When we finished welding, I rebuilt the brakes and suspension and built an interior from used parts. The result ended up structurally sound, shockingly quick on a back road, and 100 percent butt-ugly wrong.

It was all a kind of freedom. Four years later, I drive the BMW whenever I can. In rain or on dirt or snow or on road trips, because really, at this point, what’s left to lose?

The result has been a fire hose of memories that will be with me for the rest of my life. That 5,000-mile jaunt, for example, happened because I thought it’d be fun to enter our trashy welds in a California concours, during Monterey’s prestigious Car Week. (My friends and I found the result hugely funny, but then, we’re dorks.) That trip also produced a midnight tear across West Texas; a blitz into Monterey at sunset; and that Arizona parking lot, where I fixed a loose driveshaft bearing next to a defunct Penney’s, then drove another six hours before bed.

In all those thousands of cars driven, I’ve never loved one more.

Perhaps all this sounds stupid. That’s the point. The whole experience has helped remind me to be more stupid more often and less precious with what I own, to live more in the now. Moreover, it’s a reminder that your work doesn’t have to be traditionally “right” to be useful. Literally anyone can learn to wrench or weld; you just have to try. And accept that you won’t be good at it, at first. Which is less than ideal, sure, but it’s also way better than sitting on the couch.

One day, the BMW will simply be dead again, worn down by fun and miles. In the meantime, my daughter still counts those holes, but tongue in cheek. She’s old enough now to understand why I stifled that laugh in the garage: The whole car is one big rust hole. Entropy comes for us all, so don’t fret too much on specifics. Just move, as much as possible, while you still can.

Even—or perhaps especially—if everyone else has decided you can’t.