Early in the summer of 2015, I was talking on the phone to my late father. A gearhead at heart, and a true man about town in the local community, he had been conversing with the owner of a popular marque and model of antique car, part of a remarkably large visiting car club that had planned their annual tour in the the Midcoast area. Dad enthusiastically remarked on how much he had to come to appreciate the vehicle in question.

"They're not my favorite," I deadpanned back.

As soon as the words left my mouth I realized something: My statement was a direct rebuttal to the accepting and supportive attitude that my work in the collector car hobby has taught me to celebrate. As is typical in our rather blunt, wise-cracking family, my father — the man I inherited such traits from — managed to point out my hypocrisy long before the thought percolating in my brain came to fruition.

"Don't be such a snob," he retorted. He was right.

While I may have disagreed with his exact wording, his sentiment was important: No one is driving an antique car because it's easy.

Sure, there may be myriad reasons to keep an antique on the road — for fun, for sport, for nostalgia — but no one is driving an antique car because it's the path of least resistance. We do it because these old cars have meaning, and keeping them on the road is a labor of love (and, as many will quickly point out, often a labor of the wallet, too). I would learn this firsthand later that summer when my husband, Ethan, and I took the plunge, acquiring our very own entry-level antique: a 1971 MGB.

We didn't enter the deal completely uneducated. For starters, the vehicle's British heritage (and the plethora of difficulties associated with that heritage) alone is enough to spook even the most practical and experienced antique car collectors. We knew our new acquisition wasn't running perfectly, that it had been sitting in a garage for several years. And yet, a few assurances about the relatively straightforward business of rebuilding carburetors, draining old gasoline and tuning up electricals had us convinced that we'd be on the road within a few days of finalizing ownership.

While I have lusted for a BMW 2002 since before I could drive, the reality that is supply and demand has outpaced me (or specifically, my budget) over the years. Ethan, who has driven countless vehicles of all eras during his two decades in the antique car business, has always told me that every time he drives an MGB he regrets it, since it always leaves him wishing he had one of his own. The little car's convertible design made his case even more compelling, and thus I reluctantly (and temporarily) tabled my affinity for the aforementioned German-built car of similar age, and an MGB was selected as the most affordable, fun and practical option for our entry into hobby car ownership.

As soon as it was in our possession, the little red car beckoned to me. September afternoons of nonchalant cruising were imagined so vividly that I could nearly feel the coastal breeze whipping at my hair over the windscreen of the sporty little auto. Boy, it was cute!

Alas, my imagination was miles — hundreds of miles, perhaps — from the reality I was about to encounter. September driving in our MGB was not in the cards, at least not in 2015.

What was in the cards was a baptism of sorts: We had accepted an antique car into our hearts. I'd call it a baptism by fire, but my lingering superstition dissuades me from making any attempt at a humorous reference to combustion and a British automobile in the same sentence.

When we went to our local Department of Motor Vehicles to register the car, the only antique plates available at our particular (and rather large) DMV branch began with the numbers "666." Now, I'm not a particularly religious person (just a tad superstitious, as you may have already ascertained), but I asked the sweet lady behind the counter, apologetically, if she'd mind checking on the availability of any "less ominous" tags that might be available instead. After rifling through the back storage area, she returned to tell me that it was a 666 prefix or nothing, at least not that day.

"It's perfect," Ethan stage-whispered as we stood at the window, aware with each passing second of trepidation that the growing crowd of waiting patrons was being delayed by my compulsion about the plate number. "It's 666 for Lucas, Prince of Darkness," he continued, nudging my arm lightly.

He had once again swayed my vote with his clever reference to the infamous manufacturer of the electrical system in British cars (and most other British appliances) of that vintage. His car guy humor, combined with my lack of desire to return to the DMV over something trivial, made the decision for us: 66-646 it was. At least it's easy to remember.

It wouldn't take long for me to lose my sense of humor. Ominous license plate numbers or not, something was amiss with that fickle red car, and remained so for longer than I care to admit. It remained amiss in the hands of two highly skilled mechanics and stumped a third one for a short time. In fact, committing this all to paper, even after putting thousands of miles on the MG without trouble, still makes me slightly uneasy. I'll spare the gory details; suffice it to say that after the one of the greatest mechanics I know told me, gently and pragmatically, that if " [I] know an MG guy you should probably call him," I began to feel a panic rise in my chest. That afternoon we had it trailered to one of the most talented (and most resourceful) British car aficionados we know: British car specialist Garrett Bourque of GB Services in Jefferson.

Garrett agreed to work on the MG in his little shop, a well-lit bay with room for two vehicles that occupies a portion of his impressive antique barn. With a view that most would deem unrivaled, Garrett's shop is decorated with antique signs, grilles and steering wheels of mostly British origin, circa 1950s to early 1970s. Cozy and inviting, his well-appointed work space is surprisingly well-outfitted for jobs of all kinds. By later that evening, we had received an email from him: the car was there and he had a few ideas; he'd assess it in the daylight and let us know his thoughts. Communicative and upbeat, we were thrilled to have the car in the hands of someone who was familiar and confident with the peculiarities of British autos. Garrett told us that he had owned a few MGBs of that vintage himself, in fact his first car was a white 1971. He said he had always enjoyed driving and working on them.

A day later we made our first visit to Garrett's to deliver a fuel pump and carburetor float that we had neglected to send out with the car. He inspected the fuel pump we presented and retreated to a storage area, returning with an assortment of proper SU fuel pumps, collected in a cardboard box. Politely and tactfully he advised that he would recommend ordering the SU fuel pump standard for the MGB, his very kind way of telling us that the part we had ordered (and rushed) was not the correct one for our car.

Though the car always started and ran, the trouble was that once it was asked to accelerate it lost power and seemed to sputter and choke on fuel. At idle it ran almost flawlessly, adding to the perplexing nature of its issues. We kept hoping that we'd get the call we were waiting for, but sadly the SU fuel pump arrived, was installed and didn't cure the problem, or even make a noticeable improvement. Within a few days Garrett—still upbeat—told us that he was calling in a friend who often troubleshoots puzzling British car maladies with him. Ethan and I were not sure whether we should be concerned by this news: we conversed late into the night about asking Garrett whether he thought the car might be a lemon. We joked that it was haunted. The 666 prefix on the license plate was mentioned in hushed tones, more than once.

It's a car, not a dog or a family member, I kept reminding myself. I told the same thing to anyone who would listen, keeping as upbeat as possible. "It can be fixed," I'd say with my best affectation of nonchalance. "Whatever is wrong with it has an explanation. Right?"

As "new" car owners, the winter loomed closer and closer. I foolishly spent countless funds on expediting shipping for things as minute (although important) as an $8.00 carburetor float or $5.00 radiator hose. After a day of work, with reinforcements at his side and a promising test drive, Garrett believed that with the assistance of his friend, he had cured what was ailing our little convertible. After several weeks, lots of conversations with the great folks at New Hampshire based Moss™ parts distributor, Brit-Tek, an overhaul of the fuel and ignition systems and plentiful counseling from a very, very patient Garrett, we got the call we had been waiting for.

On a cold afternoon in early October we once again made the pilgrimage to Garrett's small shop and, after spending the afternoon visiting with him (as well as learning a few things about the wiring in our vehicle and taking a very fun off-road ride in his custom built vintage Land Rover), we were on the road.

The MGB accelerated with ease; it didn't lose power or choke on fuel. The lights all worked as intended: there was no more of the pesky business of stepping on the brake pedal only to have the car light up like a bad holiday display (really, when we purchased the car every light came on when it was braked). With Ethan at the wheel and Garrett occupying the passenger seat (as he needed to retrieve a vehicle of his own), we made our way back to town. I trailed behind the MGB vacillating between the excitement of watching our little car hug the foliage-laden back roads, and hoping with all my might that this trip wouldn't end with a call to AAA. We arrived at our in the late afternoon under overcast skies, and after a solid 30-mile trip it seemed plausible that our little red car might not be so mucha trouble after all.

So here we were, two first-time classic car owners (a classic of our own, that is) receiving our convertible back the first week of October in Maine. On top of everything else, we had taken the better part of the week off as vacation time, and a sunny, seasonal weekend was forecast. With considerable money and plenty of hand-wringing invested, we surely weren't ready to declare convertible season a loss. Sweaters were donned, a vintage plaid blanket committed to a permanent home in the parcel compartment of the car, and the daily driving of the MGB commenced. Every time we passed someone else in a convertible we'd laugh. "Look, other lunatics," we'd say if the day were particularly dicey weather-wise.

One October day, when I had failed to adequately assess the weather and we had driven the MGB to work as (unbeknownst to me) a rainstorm headed toward Midcoast, a fellow auto enthusiast and coworker at the time saw us on our lunch break.

"All I could see was the windows of your car all fogged up," he said with a knowing smile—the kind of smile inherent only to someone who understands the passion and the peril of driving something old, of wanting to truly use your classic car. While we were pleased to discover the windshield wipers perform quite well, all three of them (and on both speeds), driving that steamy little car in the rain isn't so pleasant. Still, the weather was no match for milking an all too short, albeit delightful remaining month or so of autumn driving out of the MGB. And, after all, one of the things it came with was a brand new top!

In late September, while the car was still at Garrett's shop, Garrett had called us on a Friday night to report that he had been out in the dark trying to get the car running properly in time for a local foreign car show the following day. With a touch of regret, he dolefully confessed he had called it quits around 9 p.m. before coming inside to call us.

"Gosh, I don't want him feeling obligated to do that," I told my Ethan, "I would never expect anyone to go to such great lengths." Yet again, I was reminded of the simple mindset of "getting it," that develops in seasoned, savvy and even professional antique automobile enthusiasts. He had worked until the eleventh hour because he knew we would love to have the MGB for the show. He did it because he cares, because he loves the hobby and knows how much pleasure a hobby car—when running right—can bring to its owner(s).

With the MGB on the road and behaving well, we've embraced the notion that this car was (and will continue to be) a test of our passion for this hobby. Had it been turnkey we might not have developed the understanding of the balance of delight and disappointment that one must accept when driving an antique. (I'm pretty certain a lot of the latter might be spared by an American automobile; at least that's what I hear.)

So maybe I was being a snob when I told my father that I wasn't a real fan of the particular sort of vehicle that he was so laudatory of early that fateful summer.

I suppose I took for granted the time, investment and head-scratching that goes into keeping these cars running, or maybe I just had yet to understand the delicate balance of fun and aggravation that goes hand in hand with driving an antique auto. Maybe it took my very own baptism into the hobby to understand why it doesn't pay to be a snob; every person driving an antique auto is doing so because they love it. It's not easy or cheap; it's not even always fun (take, for example, the fact that our sports car maxes out at a speed of about 65 mph, or that something as glamorous looking as a 1957 Ford Thunderbird actually steers and handles like a grocery-getter).

In mid-November 2015, I went to visit my father in the evening at his farm in Camden. Ethan was at an appointment and I had the MG to myself, it occurred to me later that in just a month I gone from fearing any sound or irregularity to developing the confidence to drive the MG at night in high heels, just like any old daily driver. The car felt good and (perhaps as importantly) it finally felt like it belonged to us. I pulled into Dad's tree lined driveway as the sun was setting and he came out to greet me, smiling ear-to-ear. I kicked off my heels and walked with him through the cold grass as we shut his greenhouse for the night.

"Thank you for teaching me to drive a standard," I said.

What I didn't add was that I am thankful to have grown up around antique automobiles and motorcycles, and I'm even a little thankful that I inherited my dad's affinity for British vehicles, a selective masochism that my husband lovingly calls "the British affliction."

Thus, Ethan and I have been driving our delightful, imperfect, strong-running little MGB for almost two years now, and on August 14, 2017 we officially "celebrated" the addition of 10,000 miles to the odometer reading since we bought the car. We've even managed to add a little Triumph Herald to our family. I remain protective of the MG, and yet somehow I'm almost ambivalent about the second car.

We're always learning, and my very first conclusion was as follows: whether it's a beat up pre-1990 sedan (last fall we acquired a 1992 Saab 900 as our daily driver, I joke that it is the best $1,500 I have ever spent) or a 1913 Rolls- Royce Silver Ghost, every antique car has a story, every owner takes pride in it, and there's a reason they're keeping it on the road. To paraphrase the famous Jackson Browne tune, if it's on the road and being driven and enjoyed, it's surely got to be somebody's baby.

Jenna Lookner is a lifelong antique automobile and motorcycle enthusiast, an interest that she credits to her late father, Leonard Lookner. Jenna believes owning a British car has made her a more patient human being, and she plans to periodically share the trials, tribulations, adventures and lessons that she garners from owning and driving her old cars.