The Grover Wheel

I always do my best thinking when I am driving. Something about the mechanical dance that is driving always clears my head and gets my thoughts in line. Today I was driving home from running errands and, on an impulse, stopped to look at a Mazda RX-8 that had been teasing me every time I drove by for the past few weeks. Like most roadside tempters, this Mazda held up poorly to closer inspection. From telltale signs like faded, bargain-bin aftermarket black wheels to upswept chrome exhaust tips, I was beginning to think this old girl came with some serious baggage. The effect was completed as I turned to hear a scraggle-bearded young man repeatedly yelling at me from his position half-way out of the passenger window of a passing Jeep, “it burns antifreeze bad, dude!”

This testimony galvanized my decision to walk away. And, as I turned the key in my own vehicle, I smiled at my fortune of having a reliable car with many enjoyable features. But, as I eased from stoplight to stoplight through the center of town, my mind wandered back to the Mazda. I found myself still wanting to drive it. Maybe, I thought, it wouldn’t be so bad. Perhaps its little faults could be fixed with a small investment. The price was, after all, pretty low for a car with that much potential. I still felt a stirring of attraction. It’s a lovely car, the RX-8. Low-slung, powerful engine, slick manual transmission. And there are so few manual transmissions to be found in America’s Heartland.

Why am I still thinking about that car? Every logical piece of evidence points to it being an absolute dog. Its rotary engine would bankrupt me even as it stirred my soul. So why do I still want it? If we liken owning a car to being in a relationship, why do car guys like myself seek out dysfunctional relationships?

I have a perfectly good car. It’s only three years old, gets excellent gas mileage, has a fantastic stereo, is comfortable, reliable, and even looks pretty good parked outside my apartment. So why do I lust after cars I know will leave me penniless in the rain? I think it has something to do with how special a car feels. Reliability is, sadly, boring. Our cave-man brains are wired to seek novelty and to value the results of hard work. Things that come easy are perversely assigned lower value. But things we have to work for, sweat over, bleed for, our brains think must be more valuable. And there is something undeniably sweet about the moment when what you have worked hard for finally arrives. I remember that feeling with my Miata when the temperature was just perfect to lower the top and dance down the back roads of Pennsylvania. I had alternately frozen and roasted under that black canvas top, but when things were good, they were very good indeed.

And that blindness to the bad times is what gets car guys into trouble. We are stuck in abusive relationships with the cars we love. We know the Honda has always been there for us, but the BMW is so much more fun to take out in the evening. We know we will be hurt, abandoned in times of need, and probably robbed blind in the end. But when things are going well, none of that matters. The best feeling in the world is when you are the White Knight, driving a car that you have rescued from oblivion into the rose-tinted sunset. Forget the bad times, the good times are what we live for.

Maybe that makes me an idiot. It probably does, when I think about it. But it definitely makes me a car guy. And I don’t think I would have it any other way.