Life is full of little surprises. Take this story that happened around three years ago, it was born on board a fully-booked, four and a half hour flight of pure unionized hell in the economy section of Northwest Airlines. (You can always tell how strong an airline’s union is by the average age of their flight attendants. Ours was 114, plus tax. She was probably hired by the Wright brothers. But I digress.) I was sharing an armrest with a six-foot plus German fellow named Joerg, and being the staunch heterosexuals that we are, we did our best to avoid elbow contact, which in these cramped quarters was about as easy as avoiding posters of Bayani Fernando on C5 or EDSA.
The effort and brain cells spent on creatively avoiding male-to-male contact and the strategies employed to discreetly get the inside line on the armrest could have probably gone to better use solving our global warming problem or the conflicts in Mindanao, but we are men, and it is far more important to always uphold the code and avoid this brand of physical contact with other strange men at any cost. It is programmed into our DNA. Just like how you will always know to leave a one urinal buffer in a public bathroom without ever having to be taught. Women, you see, would have worked these trivial little things out amicably before take off and then complimented each other’s shoes, but that’s why they are from Mars.
This trip was particularly nasty, especially considering that it was a connecting flight that came on top of a long-haul flight from Manila via Hong Kong, where someone actually died on the plane. Presumably from boredom. Or the food. Obviously this meant I was in no condition to entertain, so I bonded with my iPod. You know the drill. You’re skeptical of getting engaged in conversation early, lest you be stuck with the human equivalent of drying paint, so I politely avoided my seat mates. It was only after touchdown did I turn and ask Joerg about the time difference from LA to Detroit that we got chatting. As we were taxiing, the topic drifted into cars. Turns out he worked for Audi. How I wished we started this conversation on take-off; not just could we have passed the time a lot better, but, now that we were friends, we could have also negotiated a time share for the armrest.
Just as we were about to disembark, we swapped cards and Joerg asked me if I had tried Audi’s new DSG transmission, or Direct Shifting Gearbox. I hadn’t. He smiled and promised to change that. A few days later I get a call from concierge. Believe it or not, there was a pearl black A3 turbo, complete with DSG, Navigation, Satellite radio, leather seats and a double open sky sun roof waiting for me at my hotel in LA. God bless America.
And this brings me to my point. Men will risk life, limb and Deep Vein Thrombosis to avoid sharing an armrest, yet we will see nothing wrong with throwing the keys of a $30,000 car to someone we just met on plane, only because they share a common bond. Cars. It is the glue that keeps the world together.
Airplanes may be able to transport us on a mass level over far greater distances, but yet it is still impersonal because only a chosen few will ever be given the opportunity to operate one, so the rest of us fail to relate. There’s no involvement. No bond. It’s the difference between simply listening to a song or singing along to one. Our cars will always be special because it is an extension of who we are; we have a direct relationship with them, we give them names, and just about any one can learn how to drive one.
When I visited my father, whom I hadn’t seen or spoken to in over twenty years, the only common ground we shared were cars. My earliest and fondest memories were centered around his car and coincidentally, it was because of this job I have as a motoring journalist that I even had the opportunity to see him. And that’s the beauty of motoring. It brings people together, both literally and figuratively.
Here are a couple of your Backseat Driver reactions from Manny de los Reyes’ column last week…
“Keep dreaming – and let me know what other mutant cars you can think of…” I’d say the Batmobile, with a furious senator under its hood. For sure you’ll get a fast tank because of its (her) torquey mouth. Rev it up and run over those SUVs and fire trucks with the infamous “8” plates and bully escorts. This way, they will be more useful if crushed on the streets and fill the voids of our roads. You can’t enjoy your monster Innova if you drive on road surface similar to the back of a tortoise. This is “mutant car dreaming” right? I hope my post will not be purged. – KERSMcPherson
Mutants – or some people would say Frankenstein cars...here are some that come to mind: EK Civic (first VTEC/SiR, old chassis preferred as this one still uses the double wishbone suspension compared to the simpler MacPherson Struts of later models) – fitted with a hybrid engine, as in K20a head from a Civic Type R mated to a K24 block from a CR-V. A31 Cefiro with the RB engine – simple crankshaft/crankase mod would stroke the displacement to 3.0...although of course, most prefer the straight RB26DETT swap. “Mutant” production cars (yes, at one time or another, these were or are still being sold) Lexus IS F – 5.0 liter V8 from the LS slammed into the petite IS frame: 416 hp, 371 lb-ft of torque Brabus Bullit – 6.3 liter V12 bi-turbo (based on the S-Class V12) fitted into the C-Class frame: 720 hp, 974 lb-ft of torque...at just 2100 rpm! BMW 135i - 3.0 liter in-line 6 turbo from the relatively larger 3-series fitted into a 1-series body: 300 hp! Here’s what my dad’s friend (drag racer back in the day) had in the early 80s: Ford Laser...with a Lancia engine! – corbon44
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