With my epic series on the most questionable wheel-refinishing project in history mercifully concluded, I'm going to give you an easy one: a column about decrepitude and pain. You know, something light and chatty.

I spoke to the New England chapter of the Porsche Club of America last Sunday. Someone who had read my first book [wait: my first book?! Scroll down to the end of this column for a stealth announcement of the second book] inquired about the chapter titled "My Increasingly Decrepit Flesh." In it, I detail the back injury that I suffered about eight years ago that bulged my L5 disc and pinched my S1 nerve root. The gentleman asked me point-blank how I continue to do automotive work at my—to put it delicately—advancing age (57).

I replied that I know my limits. I don’t dead-lift transmissions or engine blocks anymore. And I’m careful with my back; at the first indications of discomfort, I stop.

On certain cars with low engine compartments, like the Z3 and the M coupe, working under the hood in a bent position is painful, so I sometimes keep my back rigid, lean over the engine compartment, and orient my entire body at an angle to the ground, looking like Dick Van Dyke imitating the Tin Man trying to sit on a sofa. When removing and installing wheels, I take care to sit flat on the floor, position a wheel in my lap, and lever it into place from there by using my knees. And I try to break down jobs into small tasks and spread them over several nights.

Apparently, that wasn’t good enough. Not the answer; that was fine. I mean the injury-avoiding actions.

In preparation for selling Otto, the ’74 tii, I needed to remove the zingy striped Konig seats and re-install the original ones. As seats go, 2002 seats aren’t crushingly heavy, maybe 35 pounds each; they’re certainly much lighter than anything with motors in them. I’d stashed the original seats on top of a tall cabinet in the back of one of the places I store cars, so one night last week, I drove up to the storage location in the Suburban, got the seats down, and loaded them in the back. I was a tad sore, but no biggie.

The next night, in the spirit of breaking the job down into smaller tasks, I thought I’d remove one Konig seat from the tii. These are lighter than 2002 seats, maybe between 25 and 30 pounds. So I pulled the passenger-side Konig out. Of course I had to find someplace to put it; the garage is a disaster. Can’t leave a cloth seat like that just sitting on the floor, it will become instantly contaminated with oil and brake fluid. The basement? The cats will shred anything in plain sight; can’t leave it there. So I carried the Konig seat through the basement into the spare room.

I felt pretty good, no obvious pain, so I did one more task. With the original passenger seat still waist-high in the back of the ’Burb, thereby saving me from crouching, I re-installed the original sliders back onto the bottom of the seat.

I still felt good, so I went for the trifecta: I carried the seat into the garage (maybe twenty feet) and installed it back into Otto. Yes, I could’ve asked Ethan to help, but as I say in the decrepitude-related chapter in the book, I am a man, and I will lift what I want, when I want, and I don’t need any help, thank you very much.

I still felt pretty good.

I almost continued and did the driver’s side, but stopped, because I try not to be, you know, stupid.

The next morning, I felt like a lumberjack had been log-rolling on my back. Transmissions are one thing, but now I can’t install seats by myself? Seriously?

Oh, well. What are you going to do?

I’m a rational, practical guy. I’ve decided that the obvious solution is to soak the seats—no, all car-related parts and tools in my garage—in Advil, so that when I lay my hands on them, I get a direct through-the-skin infusion of painkillers. That makes sense, right?

(Next week: Rob patents the idea of Ibuprofen-imbued tools. A bidding war erupts between Matco and Snap-On. Imagining windfall money, Rob begins shopping for an M1. Then it all crashes and burns when Chinese knock-offs appear at Harbor Freight. Unfortunately, within a year, everyone who uses them develops hairy palms.)—Rob Siegel

Rob’s book Memoirs of a Hack Mechanic is available through Bentley PublishersAmazon, and Bavarian Autosport—or you can get a personally inscribed copy through Rob’s website: www.robsiegel.com. His new book, The Hack Mechanic Guide to European Automotive Electrical Systems, can be pre-ordered from Bentley Publishers. Use the coupon code “BMWCCAELECTRIC” for 30% off list.