BRIAN MARCUS
THE SLEEPLESS NIGHT BEFORE MY ROAD TEST HAD MY STOMACH ALL TWISTED IN KNOTS. FAILING WOULD MEAN I’D HAVE TO WAIT ANOTHER WHOLE MONTH BEFORE I’D BE ELIGIBLE TO TAKE THE TEST AGAIN AND JUST THE MERE THOUGHT MADE ME WINCE.
The dream of being a licensed driver was on the line and it was more important to me at the time than breathing itself. At 16, few things seemed to be more of a monumental achievement than to be able to get behind the wheel solo.
I failed that first test. The jitters got the best of me and I made some costly mistakes. My only choice was to regroup, dig deep inside myself for some youthful confidence, and pray. I scheduled my retest and the first date available was a month away, on a Friday the 13th. With the odds stacked against me and the heebie jeebie witchery of the date playing tricks on my brain, I patiently waited and forged ahead with the highest of hopes.
The voodoo gods shined their light on me on that Friday the 13th and I passed. A happier kid has never existed. I would soon offer my mom to run every errand she could think of, or ask her to make some up just to get behind the wheel. Driving was such a euphoric high that even a trip to the grocery store was a highlight of my week. As I clocked more miles under my belt, it was becoming evident that it was time for the next step—owning my own car.
A few years later I was out of school and working so I could afford to finance a new car. That’s when I bought my first convertible. A 5.0 liter Mustang GT was my choice, apple red with a white top and white leather seats. What a powerhouse. What a vision. The thrill of motoring around with the top down and the radio screaming out Bruce tunes was one of life’s finest pleasures. It mattered not where I was going, as long as I was going in style with the engine purring and my tires hugging the roads’ curves. That automobile was as much a part of me as my right arm. I originally bought it to pick up girls but I met Sandra a month later, so in that respect you could say it worked like a charm.
As the years passed, the models changed. Then came the advent of leasing and ownership became simplified. You were able to trade up every three years or so for something new. My personal choices have always been convertibles, and exclusively European. I developed an emotional attachment to each car to the point that when the lease was up, as ecstatic as I was to trade up, I always scratched my head as to why the honeymoon seemed to outlast the lease maturity date.
Maybe it’s because I’m a guy, but cars have always been a vital part of my existence. They’ve become a part of our identity. An extension of the self. They represent a status and can express one’s personal taste and success. As the odometer spins it measures your pride and contentment as much as it measures miles. In a way you can say it defines who you are, or at the very least who you want to be—a sort of self-esteem machine. They can make you look cool and even trick you into believing that you’re more powerful than you are thanks to the popping pistons and revving motor. Caring for one brings a happiness and it rewards you with the bliss of the open road. Driving is one of the few times you can feel in control of where you’re going and how you’ll get there, all the while arriving in style.
But the last few months have made me question my intimate relationship with these vehicles. My son David borrowed my car to pick up some take-out food one night and smashed it to pieces. Thank G-d a million times he was unharmed, but the car most certainly was not. The insurance company deemed it a total loss and my flawless sexy German precision engineered convertible was no more.
I’ve been tooling around in that car for a couple of months now and I have to admit I have completely realigned my thought process. Don’t get me wrong, German engineering it is not. I spent the first 10 minutes looking for the heated seat and heated steering wheel buttons only to realize that they probably weren’t even invented when this car was made. Void of the back-up camera and navigation screen, it dawned on me that my first cars didn’t have any of those features but I loved them nonetheless. As I drive the old clunker I’m realizing that it’s taking me to the same places that a brand new model would. Ironically the cars most luxurious feature is how it humbles me. I’m not getting dirty snarls from road raged drivers who would otherwise assume I’m a snob or getting challenged to races from testosterone fueled kids in sports cars. This car simply has 4 wheels, an engine, and a purpose to get you where you’re going. I don’t mind and have even grown to enjoy driving it. It took me a full circle to grow up.
I plan on biting the bullet and placing an order soon on a new ultimate driving machine. Perhaps when the sticker shock of the new supply chain affected prices seeps in. But for now I’m surprisingly not rushing it and I’m ok that the old car is my current ride. Somehow it “put the brakes” on how I should view things made of metal, plastic, and rubber. I learned that a car does not define me. It’s the guy in the drivers seat that does.
Brian Marcus is a community member who loves to write.
