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As a female well into my invisible-crone years, I find a lot about millennial attitudes baffling, but on one point we are in full accord: Cars suck.
Or rather, car ownership sucks. For some time now, I’ve found myself fantasizing about the day I can drop the keys to my Volvo -- which has strong body panels but a strangely delicate engine -- into the next sucker’s hand, and graduate to my best life. Which is? Some combination of public transit, my bicycle, short-term rentals a la Zipcar and the occasional Uber.
It's not really practical now. But a girl can dream. And I’m dreaming of an empty garage.
Wait until every rich jerk has their own personal helicopter. (Photo: Nancy Derringer)
I’m writing this from the Michelin Media Center at the North American International Auto Show, which is still one of my favorite events of the year, and go figure. But this is a seductive event, can’t hide that.
I love almost everything about it -- the beautiful cars, the video displays flashing the platonic road experience on every wall, the product specialists (formerly known as car models) standing ready with a smile and an iPad to walk you through pricing out your dream ride. I even love the workers with their fluffy dusters, ready to catch every mote before it lands on the shiny nose of the all-new Ford Explorer.
As time goes on, I’m seeing this as akin to watching a fashion show featuring, say, a full-length sable coat. Yes, it’s undeniably beautiful. Yes, I’d love to try it on and wrap myself in its sleek luxury. Oh my, look at how it catches the light, how well it moves as the model strides the runway. Buy it? Hell, no.
This is quite an attitude change for someone who once loved everything about driving.
For years, I bought manual transmissions for the thrill of winding them out in second gear. I subscribed to Car & Driver for a couple years. Between us? I lost my virginity in a car. (A Plymouth.) A long drive always held the promise of something fantastic at the other end. A long overnight drive? Even better, provided we had the right mix of tunes. Once I was flying home from work around 11 p.m. when someone swerved into my lane. I stomped the brake, and before I knew it, I’d swapped ends in a classic bootlegger’s turn, coming to rest 180 degrees away, not a scratch on me, heart pounding but also thinking: That was awesome.
This isn’t the case anymore (although a long drive still has its charms). What has changed about driving? So much:
Infrastructure. The last time I shrieked in terror behind the wheel was on an exit from the Davison Freeway last spring, when I found myself rapidly decelerating on a bed of potholes so deep and numerous I was certain I’d lose control before the end of the ramp. Michigan’s roads are a disgrace.
Assholes. I had to go to Lansing recently, and started tabulating how many drivers were paying more attention to the phones in their hands than the road. It was well over half. One guy appeared to be FaceTiming. There was swerving over lane markers, screaming into handsets -- how can a person relax and enjoy the ride when disaster lurks in every answered text message? The worst part? I was one of them, switching Spotify playlists three times.
Hassle. Come, drive with me to work on a typical day. The good news: The slow-moving clot caused by the closing of I-696 has eased, now that the road’s open again. The bad is that people still can’t seem to drive past the closed Gratiot exit on I-94 without slowing down to look at it and perhaps wonder when the work there will end. But can you blame them? They’re FaceTiming. One only has so much attention to spread around. Then we get downtown. Parking is scarce and expensive, especially for those who don’t buy a dedicated space somewhere. I’m an excellent parallel parker, and the other day wedged my lumbering Volvo into a spot about six inches longer than it was, disappointing the driver of a much smaller vehicle who was clearly waiting for me to fail. He gave me a nuclear scowl as he rolled past. Sorry, bub, but it’s a jungle out here.
Cost. The biggest of all. As cars have undeniably improved in every detail -- safety, fuel-efficiency, dependability -- the cost has climbed accordingly. Unless journalism’s business model magically repairs itself, I’ve likely bought my last new car. So you’re thinking: Lease, dummy, like everyone else in the world. Yes, how fun to have a whole new set of worries, to drive with one eye on the odometer for fear of over-running one’s mileage allotment.
There’s so much I still love about car culture. An open road on a warm night. Ryan Gosling in “Drive.” “Hot Rod Lincoln.” But like those millennials, it just doesn’t seem worth it anymore. As a cyclist, I pray fiercely for the era of autonomous vehicles to arrive and lessen the odds that an asshole changing her Spotify playlist will kill me. I welcome our robotic overlords, although when I ride in my first one? I hope it has just a little bit of fun in it.
