Measurement of a Man: Motors, Mileage, Pipes and More

The men in my life are diverse, so when trying to size them up I employ their relationships with cars as a way to help me understand them better.

My own father has ever been very outdoorsy, which suited him perfectly. He worked as a biologist, but is retired nowadays. Picking up a fossil here; chipping a rock there, that’s my daddy. He never managed to grow any fondness for machinery. He was raised by his parents to act like a gentleman, but motors and gears seemed to dredge up the worst in him. I have early memories of him swearing the Industrial Age as he was bent over an engine.

Dad would change tires on our Volkswagen camper vans when required, but would never have been one to fawn over chrome grill work or aftermarket center caps. He might pour some water in the radiator or dab Rust-oleum on oxidized spots on our van, but scrubbing up headlamps with toothbrushes or running Q-Tips around dashboard knobs were not matters that happened in our garage.

My father-in-law, on the other hand, is a auto man all the way. He knows make, model and year of everything that’s in all likelihood ever traveled the Pennsylvania turnpike. Scrubbing whitewalls or ogling a 1962 Chevy at the Antique Car Club show is his thought of a well-spent Afternoon.

He grew up in rural northern Pennsylvania and graduated rapidly from a teething ring to a pitchfork and pliers. Where he grew up, farm boys were required to learn all they could about animal farming and automobile mechanics. He has maintained his passion for gadgets, wheels, and motors, but has no interest in animals. He left the farm, never looking back, and attended college.

My husband is a professor like his pop and his father-in-law, but that is where the resemblance stops. He does not camp, collect rocks or meticulously wash his vehicles. His idea of a good afternoon is sipping java at Starbucks, grading exams and traveling along the bunny trails that are Facebook.

He puts fuel in the car, but would be more inclined to employ his Chevy center caps as paperweights on his desk, than as a trendy way to floss his ride. Not that he has anything against someone who obsesses over their center caps. He vacuums his vehicle twice a year, but is satisfied to drive about town with “Wash me!” scribbled above his rusted bumper for a year at a time.

My daughter’s boyfriend is a juiced up version of my father-in-law. (I think they would bond rapidly if sent together on an errand to a car parts shop.) The Boyfriend got a performance exhaust kit for Christmas and is content now that his car’s exhaust growls deeply, letting everybody know he has arrived. “I can hear him coming a mile away,” my daughter grins, plainly in the throes of young passion.

It’s true that men and the relationships they have with their cars are complicated. It seems that their relationships can be an reflection of some men’s masculinity, while other men handle their cars as an antagonist that’s a nuisance that must be conquered or endured.

Many men blaspheme their automobiles and others name them. Some men give their cars plenty of TLC while some campaign for bragging rights because their car has the highest mileage or is the most beat up. Men exchange car stories over beers, just like war tales are shared at the campfire.

This is the reason the auto industry sells billions of dollars worth of window tint, aftermarket center caps, dashboard accoutrements, chrome, seat covers, wheels, car alarms, backup sensors, hoods, tailpipes, and decals.

Whether the ride in the driveway is the cause for cooing or swearing, there has to be some sort of mechanical mojo occurring – something like, “if you build it, he will come.”

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