In Accord
We take cars for granted.
Yes, of course there are evils around them; pollution, dependence on foreign oil, accidents, hit-and-runs, silly people using cellphones and spilling their coffee in cars. But on the whole, we accept cars, and take them for granted. Buy a car, fill it with gas, drive somewhere. How many people these days stop to think about the marvel of a car?
It is a sturdy, streamlined, mass-produced object with a layer of bright nail-polish. It rolls at high speeds, with almost no friction against air or ground; given sufficient fuel, it will travel for months or years and never tire. Good cars have beome almost soundless; we have almost invented that silent glider featured in science fiction, save for the fact these touch the ground.
I am an environmentalist. I detest pollution, I detest the oil cartels and our ravaging of fossil fuels. But I have to drive; I am physically disabled, and mass-transit unfortunately does not eliminate walking. So I drive my Honda, exulting whenever I break 30mpg, which is fairly often; I dream about hybrids and clean fuel-cells and electric vehicles charged with clean energy. I feel happy with a Honda in particular, as in addition to making highly efficient and reliable machines of all types, they have a very positive attitude. They strive for efficiency; the Accord has a dashboard so deep I can't find a sun-screen that fits it, but I don't mind, as I know that the windshield angle probably nets me about 2-3 miles per gallon. They built a hybrid that was little beyond a concept car, and managed to sell it -- now they will likely be the first company to offer all major models as hybrids, without being pushed into it. They think about more than profit, more than the market. I can live with that.
It's no secret I love my car. It's not the model I love, though Accords are nice cars; the color is quite handsome, even if red is not generally my first choice for things. Any other could have the stereo system, given enough money (it's a good one, bless Celeste's overcommitted little heart for throwing it in). It's not even the glowing "evil eye" headlights, with their red LEDs, though that does make for a great touch in the dark. It's this car, this particular vehicle, that I have deep affection for.
Many people profess to "loving" their cars -- generally this indicates a satisfaction or excitement with their machine, or gratitude that it's there to get them to the store and back. For me, it's more than that. Perhaps it's the fact that I am an animist, or the amount of time I spend driving (it's a lot). But I've found that unless I think about it, I refer to my car as "her" -- her name is Gwen, and the pronouns combined with the name throw a lot of people -- and I consider her a partner of sorts. She's a five-speed manual; I never thought I'd be the manual type, but I know now I'll never go back. Somehow the stick shift connects me to the car even more.
My stand on animism is that the more complex a machine, the more likely it is to be whimsical, develop a spirit, and the more sense it makes to name it. My computer has a name; my PDA does not. This is due to the fact that my computer is complex enough, and is the focus of enough of my attention, that it develops a rudimentary personality... though I will admit, it has become a lot less willful since I stopped using Windows. Want the printer to work? Try all the settings, reboot a few times, threaten, cajole, bribe, and try the settings again. Hesseth (my laptop) has a tolerant, pseudo-female feel -- which is why I named her after a female nonhuman from a science-fantasy series. Vasu was male, and a crossbreed Windows/Linux machine, with a determined attitude. Astinus was earnest, trying to make the best of things even when I demanded things far beyond his abilities. Imagination? Perhaps... but the machines always worked better when I accounted for their personalities.
Cars have gotten almost complex enough to merit naming. Gwen was awake when I got her, due partly to the fact that Celeste, her previous owner, tends to impart her own vigor and strength of personality to things. I had to gain Gwen's respect; she was my first stick, and was a kind teacher (Honda's hydraulic clutches are forgiving), but tended to catch me off-guard. I argued with her a lot about shifting to first and reverse, about a warped flywheel (which has since mysteriously unwarped), and even about starting when I told her to. If I didn't keep her clean, she would refuse to shift when sitting at a light; I recall once, when the starter motor was just starting to give me trouble, I sat for five full minutes trying to get the car to acknowledge the ignition switch. As soon as I vowed to take her to a car wash that day (she was filthy), the car started like there was absolutely nothing wrong. It has happened since; she sulks when she feels grimy, though she is much less of a bitch when trying to make her point. I think she's gotten used to me now, and has mellowed out a bit.
People look at me like I'm crazy when I tell them I find driving soothing. When I first learned to drive, I was frightened of cars, all cars -- I went to college with a girl who had been in an accident when she was younger, and whose left side was a mass of scars. It was enough to put a healthy respect in me for cars and their dangers, so I was never relaxed when driving.
After driving Highway 17 to Santa Cruz and back every weekend for a year, I loosened up a bit, but it wasn't until I got Gwen that I learned to love driving for itself. The stick is the clincher, making me truly involved in how the car works, instead of just guiding the horse. Traffic, no traffic, I don't care... I have a comfortable seat, temperature the way I want it, and a very fine stereo. I don't find traffic aggravating unless I'm in a real hurry, which is rare -- I know when to plan for congestion, and when traffic is crawling, I go on autopilot and listen to music. I trust my experience to deal with the unexpected, I don't get mad at peoples' moronic tendencies (cynical, sometimes, but never angry), and I use the time to relax. Driving is little effort, just alertness and reactions; I find it's like crochet, which gives me something to do without having to concentrate. It takes me away from all the things that need doing, all the frustration at how my life has turned out. Inside Gwen, all is perfect, and I'm in control of what happens.
And sometimes, when I'm coasting downhill with no car noise but the wind, playing "Monorail" on the stereo, I realize how amazing is this machine I guide with a touch. She's a partner and a friend, even if she is my car. Nothing else comes close.
--A