Men and Their Cars: A Life Long Love Affair

Men remember their cars. Women remember their dates. Press a guy and he might come up with a name for the girl he took to the senior prom, although he sure won't know the color of her dress. But I'll bet he can describe the car he drove down to its furry steering wheel cover. A women not only remembers her date's name, but what he wore, their first dance, all the people at their table and what she was eating for lunch in the school cafeteria the day he asked her.

There's something in men's genetic makeup -- or women might say, missing from our genetic makeup -- which triggers a life-long love affair with our cars. First, there's that whole freedom thing when, as teenagers with our new license, we can escape parental scrutiny even if it's just to drive to the pizza joint. As years go on, cars take up more and more of our memory bank: Making out at drive-ins; cruising the local strip; road trips to the beach; family vacations with our kids; and every speeding ticket, fender bender and icy 360.

And the appreciative stares! Taking 'S' curves in your classic roadster; or as the valet pulled the new luxury sedan to the curb in front of...you! Or in my case, as I limped home from a 1000 mile road rally after stuffing my Mazda RX7 into a farmer's field -- the car number and racing stickers still peaking through the road grime, and the minor damage a badge of honor. Joy, passion, adventure, status, a hint of danger. For most men, unlike for most women, cars are never just transportation.

Every guy remembers his first car with particular clarity. Mine was a 1957 Ford Taunus; a German version of the 1952 Ford that looked as if it had gone through a car wash without being Sanforized. I don't recall the color of my ex-wife's eyes; they weren't blue, I know that. So either green or hazel; hazel I think, but I wouldn't put money on it. The Taunus was blue-gray and undertones of pink with a blue dashboard and gray upholstery.

In those days, unless your family had lots of money, you didn't get a new car when you graduated from junior high. You waited until you got your first job and then bought the cheapest junker on the lot. The Taunus was six years old and couldn't go over 50 mph that it reached in a heart-pounding minute and a half. I was in love. I waxed it so often, it's the only car I've owned that looked better when I sold it then when I bought it.

At times in men's car history, we wind up with cars we really didn't want. My dad bought me a nice reliable '62 Chevy Nova to take to the army. I hoped for a Mustang. A few years later, a car salesman convinced me to buy the canary yellow Chevy Malibu hardtop off the lot instead of waiting for the British racing green and tan convertible I had my heart set on.

Just when I started liking the canary, my recently acquired future ex-wife informed me bucket seats would not do for hanging the expected baby seat. My suggestion that we put the kid in the backseat was met with derision by every female family member who considered the idea tantamount to child abuse. Once again, I was ahead of my time. So out went my leather accessorized, five speed, 490 cc coup and in came a sensible four-door 1967 Olds Sludg-o-matic sedan. Needless to say, I was not a happy camper. The kid turned out good. The car sucked.

The next bad pick I did to myself. We were into our two-car family stage by then so I decided to get myself back into something sporty. It came down to a new 1973 Toyota Celica or a Datsun 240Z. As those were the days when $800 spread over 36 monthly payments still meant something, I went with the Celica to save money. Little did I realize 240Zs would turn into collectors' cars. Speaking of money, not one of my first six cars cost as much as those outdoor mega grills they sell at Home Depot. In fact, I think the Taunus was actually physically smaller.

Some cars are just plain embarrassing. When we bought the burnt orange Dodge Aspen station wagon with faux wood paneling in 1976, the color was perfect for our shag-carpeted ski chalet community. By the time we sold it in 1982, our new suburban Washington D.C. neighbors breathed a sigh of relief that their housing values could finally rebound.

I used to laugh at the number of trashy cars filling neighbors' driveways, spilling onto adjacent lawns and lining the curbs in front of their houses. Then our two sons came of age and our yard also resembled a used car lot. At one point the four of us had five cars out front (the double garage of course being filled with essential trash) along with several junkmobiles of the boys' friends in semi-permanent residence in our family room.

As with many men, I went through convertibles, pony cars, family cars, status cars, classic cars and midlife crisis cars. But the best one ever was a small SUV beach car, actually not much larger than the Taunus. It was 14 years old when I sold it a couple of years ago, beat up and with more miles than the previous three cars combined. I was in love again. I just didn't wax it as much.