Ah, the four-banger diesel. I don't know what it is, but once you hear the thrum of one of these little babies firing up and burbling at idle, you're hooked. It happened to me the first time I coaxed my diesel Escort to life, after painstakingly cleaning out all the unfiltered vegetable oil some previous owner had dumped into the fuel system. The grateful sound of the little thumper once it was freed from that sticky mess created some kind of indestructable bond between car and caregiver. Now whenever I hear that unmistakeable can-of-marbles murmur of a diesel compact, I stop what I'm doing and admire it on its way past no matter how much of a POS the actual vehicle is.
Strangely, most Americans do not feel this way about diesels. My diesel Escort is the only car I've ever owned that total strangers have yelled at angrily. It's well-known that diesel passenger cars here, in terms of consumer acceptance, have had a long row to hoe.
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