The seven stages of buying a classic car on eBay at 2am

It’s a scenario that will be familiar to many of us. It’s the dead of night, the house is quiet, and you’re bathed in the pale, hypnotic glow of your phone screen. You started with a noble purpose, perhaps looking up the correct torque settings for a cylinder head, but somehow you’ve ended up in the murky, intoxicating depths of eBay. Specifically, the bit where forgotten, unloved, and occasionally rust riddled classic cars go to find a new home. You’re just looking, of course. Just a bit of harmless fun. What could possibly go wrong?

This, my friends, is the beginning of a journey. A journey through what I like to call the seven stages of buying a classic car on eBay at 2am. It’s a rollercoaster of emotions, a white knuckle ride of questionable decisions and sleep deprived logic. If you’ve ever woken up to a PayPal receipt and a sudden, cold sweat, you’ll know exactly what I’m talking about. For the uninitiated, allow me to be your guide. Your slightly sarcastic, world weary guide to the art of the late night impulse purchase.

Stage One: The Innocent Browse

It all starts so innocently. You’re not really looking to buy, you tell yourself. You’re just… appreciating. It’s like a virtual museum, but with more spelling mistakes in the descriptions and a worrying amount of rust in the pictures. You scroll past the pristine, six figure E Types and the perfectly restored Porsches. They’re not for you. You’re a connoisseur of the project, a champion of the underdog. You’re looking for something with ‘potential’.

Your search terms become increasingly optimistic. ‘Barn find’, ‘spares or repair’, ‘easy project’. You’re not deterred by phrases like ‘ran when parked’ (in 1998) or ‘needs some light welding’. In fact, you’re drawn to them. This isn’t about buying a car; it’s about rescuing one. You’re not a buyer; you’re a hero. A hero in your pyjamas, scrolling through pictures of a Triumph Herald with a suspiciously damp looking interior.

Stage Two: The ‘What If?’ Moment

Then it happens. You see it. It’s a car you’ve always had a soft spot for, a quirky, unloved classic that no one else seems to appreciate. It’s a terrible colour, it has an engine that’s probably more agricultural than automotive, and the seller’s description is a masterpiece of vague optimism. But you see past all that. You see the potential. You see yourself, wind in your hair (or what’s left of it), cruising down a country lane on a summer’s day.

This is the ‘what if?’ moment. What if you just put in a cheeky bid? Just a low one, to test the waters. No one will ever bid that low. It’s just a bit of fun. You type in a number that seems absurdly small, a number that couldn’t possibly win. You’re not really bidding; you’re just… participating. You’re part of the game. And as you press the ‘place bid’ button, you feel a little thrill, a tiny spark of adrenaline. It’s harmless. It’s fine. Everything is fine.

Stage Three: The Obsessive Watch

For the next few hours, you are a hawk. You refresh the page every thirty seconds. You’ve downloaded the eBay app, you’ve set up notifications, you’ve even considered creating a spreadsheet to track the bidding history. You’ve become a self taught expert on this particular model of car. You know its weaknesses, its quirks, its production history. You’ve read every forum post, watched every YouTube video. You are one with the car.

You start to develop a strange, irrational attachment to this collection of metal and rust. You’ve already named it. You’ve planned the first road trip. You’ve even started looking at insurance quotes, just out of curiosity, of course. You’re not getting carried away. You’re just being prepared. And as the auction timer ticks down, your heart rate ticks up. This is no longer a game. This is war.

Stage Four: The 2am Bidding Frenzy

The final ten minutes of an eBay auction are not for the faint of heart. It’s a brutal, fast paced, no holds barred battle of wits and wifi signals. Your carefully placed low bid was surpassed days ago. Now, you’re in a bidding war with someone called ‘Dave_the_rave_69’ and a mysterious bidder with zero feedback. Your palms are sweating. Your vision is blurring. You’ve forgotten what sleep feels like.

You’re no longer thinking rationally. You’re operating on pure, unadulterated adrenaline. You’re not just bidding on a car anymore; you’re bidding for victory. You’re a warrior, a gladiator, a keyboard warrior of the highest order. You’re not going to let Dave the rave beat you. Not now, not ever. You place a bid that’s slightly more than you can afford. Then another. And another. You’re in a trance. You’re in the zone. You’re… the highest bidder.

Stage Five: The Winner’s High (and Immediate Crash)

Congratulations! You’ve won! For a glorious, fleeting moment, you are a king. You are the master of the universe. You are the proud new owner of a 1978 Morris Marina. You feel a surge of euphoria, a sense of accomplishment that you haven’t felt since you managed to assemble a flat pack wardrobe without having any bits left over. You did it. You actually did it.

And then, the crash. The adrenaline wears off, and reality hits you like a cold, wet fish. What have you done? You’ve just spent a significant amount of money on a car you’ve never seen, a car that’s located 300 miles away, a car that probably doesn’t even run. You have to explain this to your partner. You have to arrange transport. You have to find somewhere to put it. The euphoria is replaced by a cold, creeping dread. You’ve made a terrible, terrible mistake.

Stage Six: The Buyer’s Remorse and Justification

The next morning is a blur of regret and self loathing. You avoid looking at your phone. You can’t bring yourself to open your emails. You consider changing your name and moving to a remote, uninhabited island. But then, a strange thing happens. You start to justify your purchase. It was a bargain, you tell yourself. It’s an investment. It’s a piece of history. It’s a project that will keep you busy for… well, for the rest of your life, probably.

You start to convince yourself that you’ve made a shrewd and sensible decision. You’ve saved a classic car from the scrapheap. You’ve become a custodian of our motoring heritage. You’re not an idiot who bought a rusty old car on eBay at 2am; you’re a hero. A slightly poorer, more stressed hero, but a hero nonetheless. And as you start to believe your own hype, the excitement begins to creep back in.

Stage Seven: The Collection and the Beginning of a New Adventure

The day of collection is a mixture of terror and excitement. Will it be as good as it looked in the pictures? Or will it be a complete and utter rust bucket? As you arrive at the seller’s house, your heart is in your mouth. And then you see it. It’s… well, it’s not perfect. It’s got a few more dents than you remember. The interior smells a bit like a damp dog. And the engine makes a noise like a bag of spanners in a tumble dryer.

But it’s yours. Your very own piece of automotive history. Your new project. Your new adventure. And as you hand over the cash and get the keys in your hand, you can’t help but smile. You’ve been through the seven stages. You’ve survived the late night bidding wars, the buyer’s remorse, the cold, hard light of day. And you’ve come out the other side with a classic car. A classic car that you bought on eBay at 2am. And you wouldn’t have it any other way. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve just seen a rather interesting looking Lada…