Opinion Columnists
Email
Print
Car culture makes MINI owner feel shifty
ADVERTISEMENT
Published: March 24, 2008
I consider myself kind of a cultural guy, equally at home in the worlds of film, theater, dance, music and fine art. I know what I like to see on a stage, or in a museum or concert hall, and I am secure in my knowledge of that world. But when it comes to the car culture that dominates the South and much of America, I feel like the equivalent of a flat tire.
I enjoy driving my automobile just as much as the next red-blooded American male, but the make and style of my car were never the obsession with me that they were for many of my compatriots. My friends would have endless discussions about engine torque, air flow, tire width and the need for a great radar detector.
I would be dreaming about leather seats, where the cup holder was positioned, and whether the car stereo system could play MP3s as well as CDs. Performance matters to me -- anyone who has driven with me on my Los Angeles version of Mr. Toad's Wild Ride, forged from years of freeway-avoiding and rush-hour lane usage on the West Coast, will attest to my love of a zippy ride through the lack of serious traffic that defines Winston-Salem.
But my identity is not all wrapped up in my car, and especially not its innards, which remain a dark and mysterious place to me. I am the least handy of mechanical individuals, the kind of person who knows how to raise the hood on his car and is stumped after that.
It isn't easy admitting this in public, especially in a region where babies seem to be alternately suckled and taught auto mechanics in their earliest childhood. My automotive ignorance is glaringly obvious, at least from my perspective, whenever anything is wrong with my car and it has to go to a repair shop. In these situations, I might as well be wearing a large silver dunce cap emblazoned Auto Zone Idiot, a visualization of all my insecurities in the world of pistons and spark plugs.
But even with that silly cap on, I care about what I drive. Our recent reshuffling of our familial vehicle line-up reaffirmed that to me, and suggested that maybe I fit in better than I had imagined with our American obsession with what and how we drive.
Three years ago my wife surprised me on our wedding anniversary with a barely-used MINI Cooper, a car that replaced my son's Chevy truck, which I had been driving while he was at school overseas. The picture of me in a Chevy pickup was as ridiculous as it sounds, and all my friends agreed, especially those who had to ride in the bed of the truck, that I needed a more sensible and prestigious ride.
The MINI was the car of my admittedly small dreams. It was peppy, compact, easy to park almost anywhere, got decent mileage, and the cup holder was perfectly situated. People admired it, asked me questions about its provenance and operation, and made me feel as if I were almost a card-carrying Southern car guy.
But then we decided to become generous and give my wife's little Honda Insight hybrid, which got something like 50-plus miles to the gallon, to our son, newly returned to our shores and in desperate need of wheels. We also bought a new cabin in Southwestern Virginia, and needed a reliable vehicle that could haul furniture and other goods over some rough roads that set off every tire sensor on the MINI or the Insight.
Off to another car dealer we went, me carefully positioning my dunce hat so the salesman would know exactly whom he was dealing with, and purchased a completely practical Subaru station wagon. Because this was to be my wife's car, we agreed to go for the cheap seats, the dull color and the reduced number of cup holders. What did I care? I had my MINI.
Not for long. The new wagon was too boring, the MINI was too cute, and the switch was made. There were practical considerations, too, about who drove more miles and spent more on gas. The bottom line was that I lost my new-found sense of automotive authority. I was sitting on cloth seats, and no one asked me anything about what was suddenly my Subaru other than, "Who picked that color?"
There's a happy ending to this story, at least from my perspective. We discussed identity issues, both male and female, looked at our gas receipts, and my wife traded in her personalized license plate and gave me back my MINI. But I can't start driving it again yet. I'm listening to an MP3 audio book in the wagon that the MINI is unable to play.
The title? Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance.
■ Dale Pollock, a former dean of the School of Filmmaking at the N.C. School of the Arts, teaches film there now.
Email
Print
ADVERTISEMENT
N.C. Politics
Federal Politics
See community events or add your own! Click here!
Advertisement
