I have a theory that certain vehicles, having passed from owner to owner, perhaps outliving their first lovers, inexorably gravitate towards the auto hinterlands of the continent. An instinct arising from some primitive steel chassis-spirit, some alloyed chromeazone, or foul paint additive possesses you in your declining years, well after the odometer has zeroed and zeroed again, off you shamble like some embittered outcast (on a related note, graveseeking elephants – a myth, but who cares? – may go through six whole set of teeth before they die, did you know?).
No one understands you – how could they? North, your compass tells you. To suffer the indignities of being urban-mothballed by newer, smaller, faster, cleaner, more stylish, more evolved modes of transport – no, not for you. Best to seek some pasture or motel lot, where the flotsam gather and live some more.
Your resell value levels off around $ 300. It doesn’t feel so bad.