first published August, 2016

Like them or not, you’ve got to admit it: cars are pretty amazing. What else have we got that, no matter the time, place, or weather, gets us where we want to go as easily and efficiently as a car? Climb in, turn the key, and go. That’s amazing. I am grateful for cars. There are a lot of us here, and we are often headed in different directions. Part skateboard, part high school locker, part radio on wheels, our cars transport me, my people, and our stuff almost without hesitation. They carry my kids safely and bring them home intact. Yeah, I like cars.

And while our cars are always ready to carry us (and our stuff) from A to B, they are so much more than a means of conveyance. They are an expression of ourselves, and extension of our lifestyles and personalities.

Some cars are tired and battered, some shiny and new.  Some are sleek and daring, others boring and boxy. There are small, sensible cuties (“I am confident and practical”) and giant, oversized behemoths (“I’ve got a big job to do—or am I over-compensating?). Choosing a car can be as tricky as choosing a mate, and it is imperative to find the right match. Three backpacks, two pairs of boots and a cello in a Miata? I don’t think so.

But cars are not for everyone. They are expensive to buy and not at all cheap to insure; maintenance, repairs, parking—those costs add up too. They are also relentless gobblers of resources and constant polluters. (Listen, I don’t care what your stance is on climate change, I think we can all acknowledge that those clouds of brown exhaust aren’t good for anyone.) I know lots of people who choose not to have a car at all. My New York City parents haven’t owned a car for years: thanks to public transportation they don’t really need one, and in the city a car can quickly become  a liability and a general pain in the ass. I have other friends who don’t have cars. They prefer to save the money and the emissions, and ride their bikes instead (yes, even in the winter).

I appreciate having a choice. Owning a car is a privilege.

Driving is a privilege, too. Not everyone is allowed to drive: you have to be old enough; you need to prove you know how, that you have had proper instruction. I have taught my 3 kids to drive, riding shotgun for a year as each of them progressed from tentative loops around the neighborhood to unflappable lane changes at 70 mph. We paid big bucks for classes and formal driving lessons, and shelled out more money for permits and licenses and, yes, friends, insurance. Driving is a privilege and learning to drive is an investment. I happen to think it is an important one.

I’ve heard parents complain that Driver’s Ed is a racket, too much money and too much time, but hey, it’s my kids’ lives out there—and their kids’, too. I can’t put a dollar value on that. I know how hard we have worked to prepare our kids for a life on the road, yet even with all the time and training I still get a lump in my throat when one of them backs out of the driveway: even if they are alert, attentive, and careful, I can’t guarantee that other drivers will be. Cars are potentially deadly weapons, after all.

While I share in the greater American dependence on cars, I know too well how dangerous they can be. I have lost several irreplaceable loves in car accidents, including one horrible patch of 3 deaths in as many months. None of these deaths were deliberate, but that doesn’t mean my friends are any less dead. We often describe an accident as “senseless” but really, is there any other kind? Is there ever anything “logical” or “useful” about dying in a car? Absolutely not. Cars are supposed to help, not hurt; every road injury, every road fatality, is pure waste.

We all know that cars are dangerous and every year there are new rules and features designed to keep drivers and passengers safer. As cars themselves change, and as the number of cars grows, the way we build and use cars has changed, too. And the way we manage cars and drivers has changed as well. Yeah, we love to bitch about air bags and child safety seats, lovingly recalling our former freeform adventures in automobiling but the truth is, people died. Kids died. These days, cars and their drivers are engineered and regulated left and right–and people still die. Because accidents always happen.

I have been very lucky. I’ve driven all kinds of cars (vehicles, to be more precise): compacts, sedans, mini-vans; SUVs, pickups, moving trucks; even sports cars. I am competent with either an automatic or a stick, and in over 40 years of driving have had only a few minor problems. Yes, I have been very, very lucky. I know the risks. And despite the irretrievable losses, I still like to drive.

Aside from the daily commutes and errands (which aren’t much fun at all), I love a long, solo drive, the miles of ever- (or never-) changing landscape coaxing me out of my head and into a more meditative, present state of mind. How I love driving alone. And is there any greater pleasure than a road trip with the perfect companion(s)? Music, conversation, the hum of rubber on road—even the longest, most tedious journey becomes an adventure.

My stepfather was especially fond of cars. Well, that’s an understatement: cars were his passion. For a time he was a professional drag racer, a top fuel driver in the days when, he would often note, drivers sat behind the motor. He loved everything about cars–building them, driving them, fixing them—ok, maybe not that part so much. He also loved to watch them go round and round on oval tracks. He loved drag racing, of course, but also spent countless hours salivating over those awesome Formula 1 cars.

And why not? They call it a car but really, it’s more a work of art. Engineered to within an inch of its life (or its driver’s life), every line, every bolt, every weld is designed for a single purpose: to go fast and to win races.

This is not a car for going to the supermarket, running the kids to school, or even for an interstate vacation. There is no a/c. There is no radio. There isn’t even a passenger seat. Sexy as hell and expensive beyond belief, a Formula 1 car is not built for comfort and conveyance. This car is built for one thing: speed.

Can you even imagine an Indy car next to you on the freeway? At the gas station? In your drug store parking lot? Of course not. The idea is laughable, completely inappropriate–dangerous even. A powerful, super-charged vehicle like that is perfect for the track but has no place in our daily, ordinary lives.

If I were cruising my way to work and glimpsed this

in my rearview I would shit a brick—and then run screaming out of the way. But you know what would terrify me worse than seeing this? Seeing my neighbor behind the wheel. Operating a Formula 1 machine is far beyond my driving experience, and I’d bet my house it’s beyond theirs. OK, so maybe they’re some secretly trained race car expert with hundreds of hours behind the wheel. Great. So take it to the track. That “car” is far too much for these roads, and the rest of us can’t afford even the smallest mishap.

Keep your incredible, powerful, million-dollar race cars. I have no problem with that. Just keep them where they belong: on a professional track with professional drivers and mechanics and safety personnel. They are exciting, they are magnificent. But in any other hands they are certain death. These cars have one purpose, and one place in which to fulfill that purpose.

Leave our freeways, our neighborhood streets, and our parking lots to the hatchbacks and trucks and minivans, crammed with kids and packed window-high with the detritus of our lives, piloted by the imperfectly trained and licensed and distracted drivers that we are. We don’t need those beasts on our streets; the cell phone and stereo are danger enough.

And that is what I have to say about guns, gun control, and the AR-15. 

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