It has been observed that the regular driving of a sports car can provide a boost to one’s emotional well-being. I’ll grant that a study backing up that observation was funded by a company that just happens to make several well-regarded sports cars. Motivations notwithstanding, they’re right. It’s something that people who are neutral about cars just don’t get: driving a car can be fun, and it can be therapeutic. Especially a sports car.
Back in the days of my Houston childhood, our local Kroger grocery store offered a plastic auto dashboard and steering wheel toy, complete with battery-powered blinkers and a horn. It was flimsy junk, but I really really wanted it anyway. To my delight it showed up under the Christmas tree. I would spend uncounted hours turning the wheel and honking my horn and using my turn signals, all the while imagining that I was driving along, just like my folks did in their cars down our wide suburban streets.
I was always interested in driving, and cars to a lesser extent. I’m no hardcore aficionado, no weekend garage warrior lovingly restoring some rusty old heap to prime condition and then some. I appreciate cars, from big luxury affairs to roadsters. I view them as pleasurable goodies, and not just necessary devices to get from A to B. Alas, the urban reality of San Francisco limited me to a single car, and it was in my best interests to select for durability and ease of repair. That doesn’t mean I haven’t loved the cars I’ve had—especially a gazelle-like Honda Civic that I traded in for the marvelous Toyota Camry XLE that is my faithful, comfortable, and utterly reliable mainstay. But in my heart of hearts I’ve always wanted a sports car, a roadster, a trippy zippy dazzler of a car that’s all fun and no business.
A relocation to suburbia brought the possibility of a second car into sharp focus. Ergo: a Mazda MX-5 Miata Club, in Soul Red Crystal Metallic paint with a handful of spiffy upgrades as to wheels, brakes, suspension, and seats. I got me a bonafide roadster, a glowing red two-seater convertible with awesome handling and a coltish disposition that renders even a simple drive down the street an enjoyable event. I was obliged re-acquaint myself with a stick shift after a three-decade-plus hiatus, an occasionally embarrassing process as I repeatedly stalled my new joyboy puppycar during our first half hour together. I got a lot better once I realized that I had been trying to start from 3rd gear instead of 1st. Progress has been rapid. I’m back in the 6-speed manual saddle and enjoying the added control and flexibility immensely.
But more importantly I’m re-discovering the basic pleasure of maneuvering a car around. It’s almost as though that little kid with the plastic dashboard/steering wheel combo never really left me. Sometimes I must restrain myself lest I go honk-honk all the time and flip the turn signals left and right at will. However, I do not have to restrain myself from leaping off an intersection like a springbok and darting down the street, taking a curve at a nice clip, and relishing the curvy country roads that abound in these parts. California in the summertime: golden hills, olive green trees, crystal blue skies. And me in my Soul Red Crystal Metallic roadster, having a whale of a good time while staving off any hint of becoming a cautious, nervous little old man before my time.