Lately I was asked by a dear friend in Toronto to send her photos of my new car. Frankly the request caused me to pause. To me it always sounds fatal to go on about a car. Almost childish – as in an amusement with a toy. Though perhaps there is very little difference between the two – that “men and boys” quip comes to mind. Nonetheless today – once again for the millionth time in my life – I found myself privately gushing about the marvel of the car as I headed northwestward along the Ottawa River towards Renfrew County and back home. I had just come from the Petro-Canada Glide car wash on Hazeldean Road in Stittsville. The weather was ideally clear and cold, the roads were entirely dry. And for whatever reason on a Thursday afternoon in the Ottawa Valley at the end of February there wasn’t a lot of traffic. I had all the windows open.
Mechanical drama is, I know, a dangerous territory in which to dwell even momentarily. There is always a threat to the initial bubble of perfection. Being made of steel – although a formidable resource – exposes the image to an equally endurable record of conflict. That resembles the fate of us all, having to live with scratches and bruises, bites and scars. There is the relieving knowledge that there are ways for recovery. But I am forever conscious of the adage of Hughie Whitten, a former auto retailer (sadly no longer whinnying among us) that, “The first thing you do with a new car is beat it with a baseball bat then drive it through a barbed wire fence. Get it over with!”
The adage, as endearing as it is (philosophically, pragmatically and financially), leaves me less than committed. After years of having bought a new car annually, it would be deceitful of me to pretend to accept the necessity of that accommodation. More often than not, my decision regarding matters of peril leads me to prefer a search for a new car rather than seek to camouflage the abuse of the old.
I recognize there are many who pride themselves on having an automobile which has survived years of incremental rust and dents, not to mention atmospheric kilometres. By contrast my interest in kilometres has less to do with Olympic achievement and more to do with the signal to trade before the value declines (estimated at the early strategic vantage point as $1/Km).
Yet as much as I admire those who are not “attached” to their motor vehicle, it is an undeniable truth that, especially given my current state of immobility, the vehicular euphoria of which I speak is a legitimate indulgence. That legitimacy consists of the capacity to extend my interest and influence beyond my immediate boundaries. Likely it is the same draw I have to cycling – that is, just getting out of one’s cocoon.
The other obvious parallel deriving from constant attention to the automobile industry is its coincidence with technology. I immediately liken it to technological advances in computers and smartphones – staying au courant. Recently however I received an email from a dear friend in the Village of Rockcliffe Park. She uttered disapproval of a chap who had rammed into her car, forcing her to let go of her security for an onboard CD player (which, like cigarette lighters, are no longer part of a modern vehicle). To this I say, I no longer carry a credit card. Nor a house key. I listen to music from the identical platform on any device. And today – as I am increasingly accustomed to do – I drove along the highway “hands free” using what they call “Super Cruise”. Autonomous driving is not my ultimate preference but I cannot deny its appeal on a 4-lane highway.
