I'VE NEVER thrown a rod, but now my car has.

That was the bad news recently when my wife had the misfortune of driving my vintage auto.

Cruising down State Route 3 in Stafford County, it suddenly sounded as if 17 trolls were beating on the car's chassis with sledgehammers.

In less than a minute, the sedan that has been my constant companion for about a decade locked up and wouldn't spin a piston or a drive shaft for love or money.

The diagnosis from Greg and the guys at the car shop wasn't good.

They quickly and patiently explained how a thrown rod meant the engine was a goner.

The price tag for a new engine was about what it costs to get a really nice wide-screen TV.

While the price was one thing, the sudden loss of my four-wheeled chariot sent me into a bit of a funk.

Unexpectedly losing your wheels can do that to you.

I have been spoiled since the age of 16 by always having a vehicle at my disposal.

It doesn't matter to me if a car is brand-new, powered for Jeff Gordon or the trendiest thing around.

I just want something that starts and goes with regularity, never leaks and gets good enough gas mileage to avoid the need for a second job.

My Toyota Camry has been that and more.

Which, it came to me, was why I felt so bereft and alone when my faithful ride's engine was pronounced DOA.

Rationally, I knew that in fairly short order I'd do something to either get the car running again or find a new one.

But for three or four days, there was a mourning period for my trusty ride.

Sure, it's got plenty of miles on it, and, thanks to members of my family and other drivers, has new body work here and there.

But when it sat there in the driveway, there was never anywhere I couldn't get to.