TheBakersfieldCalifornian.com

As I pulled up in front of the house and executed a U-turn, the BMW behind me did the same. That was curious. I had noticed him several blocks ago but hadn't thought anything of it, figuring that we were heading the same direction.

However, the U-turn took it from going the same direction to going to the same place. He wanted a word with me. About what, I wondered.

My first thought was I had done something to offend: cut him off, stepped on the brake at an inopportune time, made a hand gesture while listening to Italian opera that was misinterpreted as indicating a lack of affection.

"I'm sorry to bother you," he said, rolling down his window. "May I ask you about your car?"

He was a nice-looking, well-dressed, dark-haired man and nothing in his demeanor or appearance indicated that he was looking for a skirmish.

The car to which he was referring was the charcoal-colored 1991 Honda with the black bra on front that I had bought from my dad. It was a lively gem of a car with thick, comfortable sheepskins on the seats. I am fond of my father and even fonder of him when I drive his car, of which he took meticulous care.

"Would you like to sell it?" he said.

I shook my head and wondered. This was the second offer I'd had, the first being seven months ago. I was fond of the car and it was in good shape, but surely a 21-year-old car does not merit that sort of interest.

"I've had one since high school and somebody stole it recently," he said. "I wish they'd taken the BMW. Insurance would only give me $1,800 for it."

When I realized he wasn't accusing me of lifting his car, I offered my condolences.

"Everything works on yours and that's hard to find," he said. "Even your electric antenna."

I had never felt prouder of my electric antenna. I not only had one, but it worked. Apparently, this was rarer than a Black-breasted Puffleg.

"May I leave my number in case you change your mind?" he said.

I took his number. You never know. However, I did know that this was a highly sought-after car, which I was less likely to sell now that I knew somebody else wanted it.

He pulled away and our conversation started to bounce around in my head. People were stealing these cars. Maybe they'd come for mine.

I called Geico to check my insurance. I told them the car meant a lot to me, even more since I had had the conversation with the man in the BMW. If it were stolen, would Geico make it right as well as heal the hole in my 1991 Honda Accord heart?

The answer was no. The answer is usually no to the questions to which yes is preferred. The agent said I would have to engage a company that insured classic cars.

Classic cars, classic rates -- which probably would not be classically low. If I couldn't get classic car insurance, I'd have to self- insure. To this end, I moved the car from the street to the driveway. Perhaps it would be more difficult to steal if the thieves, who were certainly on their way, had to steal it from behind. If nothing else, the dogs were closer and could bark that bark that meant, "Someone is trying to steal your classic 1991 Honda."

"You know, you are blocking the sidewalk the way you are parked," Sue said later.

Yes, because I am trying to protect my classic car that's priceless but on which insurance will only give me Kelly Blue Book.

Now, I worried. I was happier when no one was trying to buy the car, nor steal it. Now I had both. I liked it better when it was just a 21-year-old car -- Dad's.

I'm hanging on tight. That hasn't worked previously. Something usually gives.

Usually me.

These are the opinions of Herb Benham, not necessarily those of The Californian. Email him at hbenham@bakersfield.com