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Mercedes-Benz SLR McLaren |
y first car was a barstool-brown 1976 Volkswagen van that featured a huge, heart-shaped, bubbled back window with limousine black-out tinting. It had a peace sign on the spare tire cover, a Jimi Hendrix-esque rainbow swirl on all the rims and, to top it all off, my mother – thinking it was “cute” – surprised me with a vanity license plate that read: “AMLOOSE.” That van said a lot about me. And everything it said was bad. Especially when I rolled up to a first date’s home and greeted her dad.
There was simply no tie, haircut or compliment strong enough to drown out the volume of that window and plate. I suspect my VW was also the reason I went my entire high school career without a second date. At least that’s what I like to tell myself.
Thankfully, and not very surprisingly, my van died a slow and sputtering death by my college years (it’s amazing what a consistent neglect of fluid levels can do) and I got a vehicle that fit my personality somewhat better. It was a Toyota pickup truck, ocean blue, with simple white rims and a clear-windowed shell covering its bed. It was unassuming, reliable and low-maintenance. The most elaborate add-on was the new stereo and two speakers I installed with 30 feet of wire so I could pull them out onto the hood for Baja camping parties.
That truck spoke a little more honestly on my behalf. At least that’s what I like to tell myself.
Whether it did or not, it did get me a second date. So I stuck by it and over time, like me, it became a bit worse for wear thanks to over 150,000 miles and 10 years of drives to the ski slopes of Utah (where I slid off an icy road and ended up eating potatoes for a week so I could afford the wheel repairs and gas to get home) and the dusty campsites of remote Mexico (where I could hardly eat anything for a week after being loaded into the back of the truck by two AK-47-wielding Federales who drove me to the middle of a desert to interrogate me about a mistaken drug charge).
It was during my Toyota truck years that America, seemingly en masse, decided that SUVs the size of Denver were the way to go and suddenly my Toyota was dwarfed at every stoplight. My truck, with its mere 30-inch tires, seemed a little less sturdy. Skinny, if you will.
Then there were the accidents. A mistimed braking job had resulted in the loss of her front bumper, and instead of ponying up the dough for a new fender, I bolted on a warped and splintery two-by-six that I found in a construction site. That mirrored the seven-inch scar I carry to this day on my left shin from a mistaken surfing maneuver in remote Australia. Like that bumper, my scar is not a pretty sight, thanks to the T-shirt-clad doctor “fitting in” the repair during the half- time break of our 1991 Super Bowl. “I just wish you could have waited to get hurt until after the gridiron match,” he lamented as he hurried to stitch me up before the second half kick-off, while I tried to ignore the smell of Foster’s on his breath. The upside was he refused to charge me. “The paperwork would just take time. G’day, mate,” he called as he left, ignoring my pleas for pain pills.
Like dogs and their masters, other similarities seemed to appear. My truck’s fickle starter motor represented my moodiness, its oxidized paint my love of the beach, its lack of the “OTA” on the tailgate’s TOYOTA my sense of humor. That or my comical feelings about work ethics. Regardless, I loved that truck and everything it said about me, even if other people didn’t, particularly those with suits and more sober work ethics. Unlike the VW, however, I didn’t care what other people thought. My little blue truck had provided me with a photo album full of adventures.
Then, one day, like the VW before it, my truck died a choking, grinding, less-than-romantic death one day in a Coco’s parking lot. I, on the other hand, got married. Which was the rough equivalent of a choking, grinding, less-than-romantic death to many of my bachelor friends, but that’s another story.
Apparently frightened that I may turn into one of those minivan-driving, juice-box-drinking dads who knows all the nannies in the local park but none of the surfers in the local line-up, I overcompensated and replaced the truck with a big, black Ford Bronco. The one with the 5.8 liter engine, the 34-inch off-road tires and full tow package. I spent the next few years trying to live up to what that beast shouts about its owner.
But I simply couldn’t.
So after a failed camping trip that ended with a midnight luxury hotel check-in, an aborted Baja run and rising fuel prices that had me checking my credit limit every time I neared a gas station, I conceded what my wife had been insisting: I was just not built Ford tough. Not anymore, anyway.
Besides, we were pregnant with our first child and jacked-up two-door trucks with massive fossil fuel appetites didn’t exactly scream family.
Which is why I now drive a late model, dented Volvo station wagon. The slow one, without the turbo engine or the integrated 6 CD/MP3/WMA compatible stereo or all-wheel drive with patented Instant Traction. What it does have, however, is kid-proof black leather, room for the big stroller and, unless it’s rained lately, a large “Wash Me!” fingered across the back window.
Yes, like the VW and the Bronco, this car speaks volumes about me. This time, however, it’s all true. Its slow and steady engine tells of my dedication to family. The no-frills rims and factory stereo speak to a good father’s practicality. And I like to think the dents and dust are signs of modesty. More likely, they’re an accurate statement of my financial status.
In short, the Volvo is a car that gets me and my family from home to the store and back safely, with a nice load of organic groceries and a G-rated video rental. The Volvo doesn’t like camping. It doesn’t care for loud music or raging beach fires or beer bongs. And it certainly doesn’t attract Federale drug squads.
Those days are over for me as well, I’m afraid. Of course, sometimes I get nostalgic and pull out the photos of my trusty blue truck and me in Mexico – the ones without men pointing machine guns at my face. But then I find the picture of the day I brought home my wife and two-day-old baby girl – my new family – in my sluggish, adventure-hating Volvo wagon. That day, that 10-minute drive, was better than all the post-surf fish tacos and beer campfire parties a man could fit into a lifetime.
So I look at that picture and suddenly I really love what my car says about me. And, frankly, there’s nothing like a refreshing fruity-punch surprise pack to break the ice with a new nanny at the park.
At least that’s what I like to tell myself.
Want to know what your car is telling people about you? Below are 20 tell-all cars and motorcycles. Find the one that’s closest to your motormouth.
Smart fortwo
$11,590
Question: How smart is it to buzz around OC highways filled with more 6,600-pound Hummers per square street block than Iraq in a five-foot tall canister that weighs a little more than a horse? And the fact that it’s built in France really doesn’t help you with those H2 drivers.
GEM E4 Special Edition Electric Car
$14,995
I’m talking about those glorified golf cart things that families drive to block parties to make you feel guilty for mentioning a V-8. But I’ve got news for them. That golf cart actually says, “I have six other cars ranging from the 12-cylinder Turbo Benz to the really big Hummer and the disposable income to buy one of these GEMs.” Seriously, this is SoCal, the land where, by law, no one is allowed to walk more than a block or two. There’s no way these things are used for more than party hopping in Emerald Bay or tooling around Balboa Island. So how much are you really saving? Learn to ride a bike or get out of my way. The rest of us have real cars to get to the gas station right now!
VW New Beetle
$17,475
I know, there are a lot of VWs, but that’s because they are the Macs of the car world – 90% of them are sold on coolness alone. Sort of like the Hummer, minus 8,600 pounds of metal and 10,000 pounds of attitude. But really, the flower holder in the dashboard is a bit much, don’t you think? No wonder all those Hummer drivers want to squash you like a… well, you know…
Lamborghini Gallardo
$187,600
You are either balding with massive amounts of graying chest hair or bare-chested with a Fabio mane. You either just finished working 40 years of 90-hour power-suited weeks or inherited a mondo trust fund. You either have four ex-wives or four current “lady friends.” One thing is for sure, however. Most of the time, you are stuck in first gear and feel slightly silly. But, hey, at least you didn’t get talked into the $354,000 Murciélago.
The Classic Woody
$22 to $50,000
Fess up, you do more driving than surfing. Evidence? That $12,000 vintage Greg Noll longboard hanging out the back window is always dry. And actually waxing it would probably help sell your mythical surfer status. But you do look pretty darn cool dropping into the donut shop.
Vespa GTV 250
$6,899
You are 39 to 44 years old and going through a serious mid-life crisis. But you can’t afford the Porsche or the divorce a fling would create, so you are reliving your early-’80s Mod days. Just make sure you keep the side view mirrors, Doc Martens and skinny ties in check.
MINI Cooper
$18,050
You are 39 to 44 years old and going through a serious mid-life crisis. But you can’t afford the Porsche and your wife won’t let you ride a Vespa. Either that or you’ve seen The Italian Job 137 times and counting – you’ve gotta get a life, bro.
Hummer H2
$57,425
I think you know what your car says about you by now. Please don’t run me over.
Toyota Prius
$21,500
You are the special ones, aren’t you? The VW Beetle people who have taken it past image and cuteness – way past, actually. Have you seen the lines of your car? Anyway, if your Prius is pre-2006, give yourself a very green pat on the back. Later than that and I’m sure you’re already patting yourself on the back quite vigorously.
Harley Davidson motorcycle
$3,000 to $30,000
Do I really need to repeat the obvious? Lawyer, doctor, CEO. Seriously, how many Harleys have you heard during the weekdays? And how many have you seen worth less than a custom yacht? The real questions are a) Why do you have to tell us so loudly? And b) Aren’t there laws against creating more noise than LAX on Sunday morning? Guess you guys are darn good lawyers.
BMW R1200RT motorcycle
$16,800
You are to the Harley what the Prius is to the Beetle: the real deal. You actually like riding motorcycles for the joy of riding motorcycles. You do not need “biker patches” on your leather jacket or funny little retro helmets and you certainly don’t need to let people 32 miles away know you’re coming. Bottom line, I like you because I have no idea you are there until I almost slam into you during a lane change and you scream obscenities that I can clearly hear above your muffled engine.
Bentley Continental GTC
$193,990
You live in a Newport Coast manse with 10 rooms, seven of which you visit monthly, maybe. You have 2.5 children, both and a half of which are finally away at college. So you spend your days driving the coast, driving the fairways and taking wine appreciation classes so you can order something other than Chardonnay when toasting the fact you finally have a “lifestyle.”
Mercedes-Benz SLR McLaren
$495,000
You know your cars, that’s for sure. You just wish everyone else did as well and stopped mistaking your über-bad boy for the mere $187,000 SL65 AMG or, horror of horrors, the everyman’s $95,000 SL550. Which is why you secretly wish that trend of leaving the price tag on T-shirts and hats would return and transfer to cars. Then you’d get the respect those cheap lime green Lamborghinis seem to garner.
VW EuroVan
$17,000 (2003)
You people are the Woody drivers of this era. You spend your weekends in San Onofre’s Old Man’s lineup and around a beach fire and there’s a chance you play the ukulele. One thing: Unless you have a camper full of kids, don’t strap the longboards on top. It’s a van, they go inside. People still know you surf, don’t worry.
BMW X6 SUV
$52,500
C’mon, admit it, you really wanted the Porsche Cayenne Turbo.
Porsche Cayenne Turbo SUV
$93,700
You really wanted the BMW X6 SUV but just can’t give up the Porsche label.
Volvo XC90 SUV
$36,210
Is the BMW too much to ask for? I mean your husband has almost made partner. It’s not like you’re asking for the Porsche!
Cadillac Escalade
$65,000
The super-sized version of the soccer mom’s SUV, you have absolutely no clue why you own this luxurious beast that they say gets 12 mpg in the city. Must be a city with no traffic or stoplights. The upside is that nice fruit basket Exxon sends you every Christmas.
Bugatti Veyron 16.4 Pur Sang
$2.065 million
People mistake you for one of three people: Donald Trump, Donald Bren or someone who started Google.
Hyundai Accent
$10,775 (yes, brand new)
You’re not from around here, are you?
