By Stephen M

"This is George Washington's ax," the old joke goes, "it's been through 14 heads and 8 handles, but it's still as good as new". The implied philosophical question of just when an entity whose component parts have all been replaced ceases to be that entity is known as the "Ship of Theseus" problem. In short, when you replace an entire thing piece by piece, is it still what is was?

This question was brought to my frontal lobe a few weeks back by a photo I saw of an old Jaguar. The car had been driven at speed into an immovable object, and now occupied 1/3rd of its original volume and was charred to a crisp. I then learned that the car had been "restored" and was actively participating in vintage racing once again, apparently good as new.

Literally good as new, that is, since 90% of the component parts by weight must have been new. There were maybe 3 bolts among the wreckage that could have been salvaged. So why was it considered the same storied car with the same racing pedigree? And who determines what is new, old, or somewhere in between?

We, as automotive enthusiasts, do, and there's the rub. We, as the sole market for such ancient artifacts, determine the price they're worth. We're the ones who say an over-engined sedan whose chassis number matches that of the engine is worth twice as much as one whose doesn't. We're the ones who write checks with excessive zeros for newly built cars whose original parts could be sent in an envelope for standard postage. And we're the ones who insure them for "full" value, enter them in competitive events, wreck 'em, and start over again. In other words, the feigned historical significance of newly minted cars is a fiction of our own creation.

This fiction, I remind you, is what allows the ground-up remanufacturing of the rolling artwork at Pebble Beach. It's what allows us to get high-dollar insurance policies for restorations costing only slightly more than the outrageous auction price of your favorite classic. It's what allows us to see these vehicles at speed, in competitive events, driven by owners who know they can recoup the loss if they stuff it in in a corner. This fiction is the very lifeblood of our passion. Without it, the whole house of cards comes crashing down.

I won't tell if you won't.