I’m barreling down Interstate 35 just south of Austin, Texas in a sand-colored 1969 BMW 1600, headed for a long weekend of questionable choices and hazy recollections on South Padre Island. I had only owned the car, my first old BMW, for six months or so, and I was still getting to know the eccentricities, but the tinge of burning oil seemed a bit distinct among the other odors that come with a car that had been on the road a full decade before I was born.
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