I'd regretted selling my old E46 M3 ever since I shook hands with my good friend Zak years ago. It was a steel grey, cloth, 6MT car and treated me great until I got the itch for something with boost. But my dream spec was always an imola red, 6MT, slicktop. So, when one popped up on Facebook, I knew I had to have it. Only problem: it was in Wisconsin. I lived 1200 miles away in Houston, TX at the time. I could ship it, but where’s the fun in that?
I hopped on a flight to Milwaukee that weekend. After a long Uber to the seller’s house, a test drive, and a beer, it was mine. I hit the road and had a few hours to settle in. The car was fantastic and modified in all the right ways: Ground Control suspension, StopTech BBK, a 4.10 diff, and square 265s. Maybe not the best street car, but it really wasn't bad on the highway aside from the broken radio and higher cruising RPM.
Day 2 was a little bit more eventful. The morning was easy; I had logged five or six hours without an issue. And then, somewhere outside Little Rock, AR, the car died on me while slowing down for traffic on the highway. I had no luck getting it restarted so I pushed it off to the side of the highway. The symptoms pointed to a dead fuel pump or relay but no shops were open on Saturday and no parts stores carried it. I had little choice but to get it towed to the nearest BMW dealer.
I spent the night in Little Rock that night and may have had a touch of buyer's remorse. I flew home the next morning and left it for the dealer to fix. They confirmed it was a fuel pump and replaced it in time for me to fly back the following weekend and resume the roadtrip. Thankfully, the car ran great and I made it home drama-free. Surely this was just a freak thing and the car would be reliable from here on out, right? Right?
