Vanity Wars: HIM Drive onClick here to read Vanity Wars: HER By“Ambrose” Years back, I was driving to the Chautauqua Institute with a friend when a red Corvette cruised by. It was driven by a guy just enough older than I to make me grumpy. An attractive blond woman rode shotgun beside him. “By the time you can have a car like that, you’re too old for a car like that,” I groused. Now that I am old enough to have a car like that, I’m not sure I want to have a car like that. When you think about it, insurance rates for middle-aged men should be higher than the rates for kids in their teens and twenties. They are paying attention to what they are doing, while we are distracted by all the people in the car telling us what to do and making us go places we don’t want to in neighborhoods and time zones we don’t know, while we try to focus on adjusting the treble on the state-of-the-art sound system we got because we wanted some fun. “I was thinking of something with a single seat,” I said to the salesman. He laughed, not quite knowing what else to do. I meant it. Solitude seems more attractive to me than performance horsepower or the hottest bombshell of a passenger. What I need more than anything is the absence of people around me acting as if the family unit were a democracy and the means of getting about town an open debate on the floor of the Senate. When another salesperson tried to extol the virtue of having a parking assist system in a car, all I could imagine was that the radio would yell, “I told you so” whenever I ran it up on a curb or kissed someone’s bumper. My needs are simple. I’ve never been the sort of guy who can distinguish model years by taillight shapes. For most of my life cars weren’t even about dependable transportation. The money-pit beaters I’ve owned would embarrass a third-world taxi driver. Beyond that, I’ve seen plenty of men I respect turn fifty and suddenly show up behind the wheel of a Jaguar that you just knew was going to find some way to break his heart. There are things in this life that can make a man look more foolish than a sports car, but not many—and most of the rest aren’t inanimate objects. Still, I have spent a long time in a family car where the fanciest part of the vehicle is the bike rack. Don’t get me wrong. I know that the dowdiest station wagon can look pretty sporty once you strap a kayak on top. Heck, a ski rack is practically the accessory equivalent of a supermodel, and nobody needs to know that you don’t ski. But lately I’ve found myself wondering what was out there to bring back some element of enjoying the ride. I’m thinking not a GPS-based navigation system. Nope, not me. I have a GPS system built into my double helix. I still want to get there on my own caveman sense of direction. In fact, the best part of having EZ Pass is that no one can nag me to ask for directions at the tollbooth. Maybe I could assert my authority with a pickup truck. There seem to be two kinds of escapist vehicles: the fantasy sports car you thought was cool in eighth grade, and the ride that calls out to the inner cowboy imprinted in the subconscious of every American male. The latter doesn’t necessarily mean a pickup, but it can. Owning an F-10 seems like begging to help people you barely know move their stuff for them, but then again it strikes me that getting rid of the back seat seems a surefire way to do away with having to (a) referee back seat arguments and (b) fill in for an emergency car pool to the Chuck E. Cheese afterschool playdate. It’s not just the altered presets, the on-empty-whenever-I-get-it gas gauge, the never-really-necessary-because-we-have-one-at-home-and-grandma-has-one-in-her-home bathroom stops, and the “You are going to kill us all” body language that wears me down. I am also at a loss as to why, by the end of each week, the car looks like a teenager’s room. Water bottles, soccer balls, lacrosse sticks, Cosmo Girl, single white socks, apple cores—you name it, it’s in there. Maybe to encourage my family to take out whatever they have brought in, I should get one of those boxy pumpkin-colored sport-utility, um, vehicles, with the interior that can be hosed out. I can see it now: soap suds and a long line of gym bags and school notebooks floating down the driveway towards the street drain. On the other hand, this is beginning to sound like another weekend chore. For me. A motorcycle makes the most sense on so many levels. Motorcycles don’t get filled up with kiddy sunglasses and Subway wrappers. The motorcycle helmet alone discourages most discussions on why we are late, why home repairs remain undone, and why it is necessary to golf this Saturday morning, of all mornings, when her parents are coming to town. Then again, I would probably kill myself on such a ride. I suppose I could graduate to a Harley from a scooter. A scooter has all the advantages of lack of garbage capacity and the need for an ear-covering helmet. Plus, as opposed to a one-seater, I would still be able to accommodate the occasional damsel in distress. “Climb on back of my city slicker scooter, baby,” I fantasize. We’d roar off, and as usual, in my mind’s eye I looked like Cary Grant. In reality, I would look more like a bear at the circus. I gotta believe that most guys out there agree with me. With so few options to address these issues, I can understand why at an auto show, you will always find a ring of baggy-eyed, drooped-shouldered family men around the little red convertible sports car, staring. In silence. What else is there? Then again, I could be on the wrong track here. Maybe it would make more sense to look at boats. Who doesn’t look good in a jaunty captain’s hat? I already have a name for the yacht: Father Goose, and the kids can get used to calling me Mr. Grant. “Ambrose” has tricked out his minivan with a Springsteen mix tape for now. Click here to read Vanity Wars: HER SUBSCRIBE NOW Back to the Table of Contents Back to Top