I Can’t Afford to Volunteer

My daughter plays hockey and has for several years now. Since I played growing up, a few years ago I was asked to help coach the team. I figured I was going to be at the rink anyway, so I didn’t mind volunteering my time and knowledge.

The first year everything was fine. Since I was now working with children, I had to get a police check. This normally costs $30, but since I was volunteering, I only had to $10, which felt fair.

On top of that, I had to take a 2.5 hour online course called Respect in Sport, which further drives home the fact that I was now in a position of authority and I should not abuse that power.

Year two, I was asked to help again. Unfortunately, the governing body now decided that all coaching staff members must attend a Hockey Canada approved coaching clinic.

Let get one thing straight: Experience counts for nothing, and there are no allowances for individual situations. Hockey Canada doesn’t care that I played at a high level for a number of years, or the fact that my daughter’s team was only 9 and 10 and were not competing at the highest level. In their eyes, every child athlete should be competing on the world stage and the only thing holding them back is coaching.

Anyway, off I go to a clinic an hour away to sit in a room with 30 other people. We were told that kids learn at different speeds and in different ways, so we need to be mindful of this and try and accommodate every member of the team.

After losing a Saturday for this common sense reminder, I had to pay $110, which the association I am volunteering for only reimbursed me half (never mind my gas and lunch).

The third year was better. I said I didn’t want to coach again, but nobody else was willing to step up. Thankfully, I didn’t have to invest any extra time or money to volunteer with my child’s already very consuming past-time.

We are now two months into her fourth season of organized hockey. Despite my firm declarations throughout the summer that I was finished coaching, I was asked to help again.

To start, I had to get a new police check because they expire after three years - so there’s another $10. Then, the governing body decided that since the girls are a little older, I now need to attend a two-day course to donate my time.

After two more days of common sense training and hearing about how the quality of hockey in Canada is declining, I had to pay $185 and again only get reimbursed for half.

I was now “trained” on how to work with child athletes. If I ever wanted to be a Head Coach, I would need to get “certified.” This requires me to fill out a 58 page workbook, including case studies and essay questions, mail it to Hockey Canada for grading, and then subject myself to further judgement by having an examiner watch me run a few practices.

While I’m only “trained,” I don’t have to renew, but if I were to get “certified” it would only be valid for 5 years. To retain “certified” status, one needs to earn 20 Professional Development points - assuming they don’t change their minds again.

Since, I have a younger son who also plays and nobody knows what the future holds - I never planned on ever coaching - I looked into how I could earn these points.

The Coaching Association of Canada website makes it sound so easy:

“PD points can be earned through a multitude of activities that coaches already participate in, including: national and provincial sport organization conferences and workshops, coach mentorship programs, and active coaching.”

But, on further investigation, I’m not convinced I will ever get 20 PD points.

A quick calculation: assuming I continue to coach for the next 5 years, I will still need 15 PD points. That means I need to attend a combination of full-day workshops and/or online modules. They don’t note how many PD points each is worth, but since you only earn 1 point for coaching a full season, it’s likely that each online session is only worth 1 point. The cheapest online course I found was $85.

That means to get the required 15 PD points, I would be out-of-pocket at least another $600. And, that still doesn’t factor in the time required on top of the hundreds of hours coaching already demands that you be at the rink.

At the end of the day, all these barriers make me not want to volunteer. I can’t be the only one either. If I feel this way, I’m sure others better than me are not sharing their expertise because of these costs.

Instead of preaching to the volunteers at a mandatory 2-day course that their end product is no longer consistently the best in the world, Hockey Canada needs to ease their demands and make the support and applicable education free.

It should be up to each individual association to put the right people in the right positions. The associations should set realistic goals, draw a firmer line between competitive and recreational teams, and then let results be the measure of success.

Bringing people together to openly share ideas, knowledge, and skills would improve our future athletes more than penalizing those who are willing to help and volunteer. If things don't change, I can't afford to volunteer anymore.

Is Tesla Stealing Porsche's Cows

Porsche has always been an interesting company. Starting as an ambitious project of Hitler’s, it has grown to become amazingly successful and a highly respected car manufacturer.

Today, Porsche fills a unique niche in the market. There are cars that are faster, and others that are more luxurious, but Porsche manages to occupy the sweet spot in between. Also, modern Porsches have many buttons to control a plethora of high-tech gadgets and systems.

As a result, people who buy Porsches like modern toys, are tech savvy, and have the means to treat themselves - in other words: all the executives at all of today’s most profitable companies.

These people are Porsche’s cash cows. And, with few other auto manufacturers specifically catering to these individuals, it is fairly easy for them.

That is until Tesla came along.

Tesla speaks to these customers even more than Porsche does. Tesla is like them - young, charismatic, ambitious.

While Porsche is thoroughly modern, Tesla is futuristic. Porsche uses old technology and improves it; Tesla is creating new technology and packages it in a familiar way.

I have no empirical evidence to support my theory, just that I live in “Silicon Valley of the North” and have noticed less Porsches on the road as the number of Teslas steadily increases.

What have you noticed in your city? Do you think Porsche should be concerned?

It’s tough being an introverted car-lover

Sometimes I dream about owning a really cool supercar – something like a flashy McLaren P1, or an insane Pagani Zonda, or even a classy Aston Martin Vanquish. But, ultimately those dreams turn into a nightmare as I realize I would never be able to drive it.

See, I’m an introvert. There’s a reason why I chose to be a writer and not an actor or some other occupation in the public eye. And when driving a supercar, one thing is inevitable – people will see you.

I have cold sweats thinking about having to talk to people every time I park my car in a public place. Even though it would be the same questions every time: “How fast does it go?” “How much horsepower does it have?” “ Can I sleep with you?” I know I couldn’t handle talking to that many strangers everyday.

And then there are the looks I would get. The cold, judging stares from people thinking I believe I’m better than them because of my car, or that I’m compensating for “something.” I think feeling those glares from all around me would be worse than the tiresome chitchat.

Finally, there would be the people that would constantly be asking for my picture…on my driver’s license. When you are under the spotlight, anytime you go a kilometre or two over the speed limit or roll through a stop sign, they will be there wanting to talk to you, see your picture and judge you. All three rolled into one.

So, while I still dream about owning a supercar, I keep those thoughts brief. It’s a nice reminder to be happy with my family car that doesn’t stand out from the crowd.

Truths About Getting a Flat Tire

Last week, my son had a hockey game in a small town in the middle of nowhere. As we were leaving town, we got a flat tire.

Getting a flat is never a happy occasion. Thankfully, I worked at an auto shop many years ago and changed many tires in my time. So, I at least knew what to do and was confident in my abilities. But, because some jerk named Murphy made a law, there are a few inevitabilities that arise when you are stuck on the side of the road.

The first truth about getting a flat tire: it will always be cold, rainy and dark when it happens. It just will, and there’s nothing you can do about it. This conspires to make a miserable situation even worse.

The second: no matter how competent you are in the repair, you are useless if you don’t have the necessary tools.

This is the situation I found myself in the other night. I went to the back, pulled out the spare tire, wrench, jack crank…only to find no jack. I wasn’t going to change the tire if I couldn’t lift the car off the ground.

It’s at this point I would like to thank the couple that lived nearby. I interrupted their quiet evening and they let me borrow the jack from their car (amazingly, they owned the same make and model as me). They even brought out a flashlight and a headlamp to give me a hand.

If they were not as accommodating as they were, it would have been an awful night. Instead, I now have a story about human kindness.

And that brings me to the last truth: people are willing to aid a stranger in trouble. When in need, humbly ask for help. Despite the news headlines, people still care about their fellow man.

Now, run out to your car and make sure all the emergency equipment is there.

Auto manufacturers need to stop making infotainment systems

Car companies have a lot to think about when designing a new car - engine, brakes, suspension, aerodynamics, etc. Every aspect is broken down a multitude of times to ensure each part is as good as it can be.

This results in today’s cars being far safer, more reliable and vastly more efficient than ever before.

This also means that, on average, it takes seven years to get a new car from scratches on a piece of paper to the showroom.

However, one feature of modern cars is consistently criticized across the board: the infotainment system. Most are needlessly complicated and never quite work the way we would like them to. We want them to work like the devices we use all day, every day – our mobile phones.

While every new generation of a car may only come along once a decade, tech works at a much faster rate. New cell phones are constantly coming out with its technology updating about every six months or so.

That’s why our car infotainment systems always feel old and out of date.

Android Auto and CarPlay is great news. Automakers can now focus on making the best car they can, and Google and Apple will keep us connected and entertained while we are driving.

Why does small have to mean cheap?

When looking for a new car, it makes sense for some people to buy a small “city” car to make the daily commute. Either they already have a second vehicle that is larger to handle family/cargo duties or they are single and don’t have need for a big car.

A small car is easier to maneuver in traffic, easier to park and more fuel-efficient. Therefore they just make sense as daily drivers.

But what if a person doesn’t want to sit in an uncomfortable, plastic box. What happens if a customer has the means and the desire to commute in luxury, but doesn’t want a full-size saloon?

A quick examination of the available options shows that every small car is “cheap.” By that I mean you can’t get the same luxury features that you can on a larger one.

Leather upholstery. Unlikely. Ventilated and heated seats? Nope. Heated steering wheel? Nada. How about adaptive cruise control with full-stop capability? Lane departure warning system? No and no.

A few cars may have 1 or 2 of these options available, but no small car has all of them.

Why can’t manufacturers at least make these options available to the small car buyer? 

Life’s Big Decisions: What do you do when the driver in front of you does something stupid

I was driving home the other day, cruising along the highway. The road eventually goes from four lanes down to two. The transition has proper signage, with one at 300 metres and another at 50. The lines get fatter and closer together as is standard.

 

As I don’t keep typical office hours, traffic during my commute tends to be very light. On this day there is only one other car going my direction, about 50 metres in front of me in the left hand lane. I’m traveling slightly faster than they are, but I likely will not have to adjust my speed before the road narrows.

Suddenly, to my surprise, after passing the ‘lane ending’ sign at 300 m, the car in front of me signals and changes into the right lane. There’s no one else on the road, and I’m certainly not close enough that they should feel like I’m tailgating. How did they not see the sign we just past or the next one fast approaching? What about the lines on the road? Can they simply not see far enough ahead to notice that that lane ends very soon?

What should I do? Do I speed up to pass them? Do I slow down and try and keep my distance? Or do I maintain my current speed and risk the person being surprised that the lane ends and either cut me off, or worse, turn into the side of my car?

The Cold Road to Happiness

She sat hunched over with a sour look on her face.

“What’s wrong?” I asked. “Are you OK?”

“Yeah,” she replied, forcing a meek smile. “I just don’t feel that well.”

“I’m sorry.” I glanced over my shoulder to ensure that we were alone, “I can still take you home tonight, right?”

“I don’t know,” she hesitated.

“You always say that. You then try and tell me that you’re going to walk home, only to eventually give in to me. Aren’t we past these games by now?”

She sighed, then after a moment conceded. “You can drive me home because I really don’t want to walk, but you’re not staying over tonight.”

“Oh, come on. Again, you always say that until we get to your place and then I always do. I haven’t heard any complaints about any of the other times I’ve done that these last few weeks. And besides, you shouldn’t be alone if you don’t feel well. I’ll take care of you. I’m sure I can think of something to make you feel better.” I gave her a wink, hoping my joke would brighten her mood. I failed; she simply shook her head.

“We can talk about it later, but right now all I want to do is finish cleaning up so I can go home.” With that, she pushed herself to her feet and walked past me without another word.

I finished my responsibilities, wondering what caused her sudden coldness. It had been a fun few weeks while we staved off boredom and the numbing temperature outside with the heat of passion and the excitement of our secret rendezvous. But, we began this relationship agreeing to keep it casual. Maybe it had run its course. I told myself I was fine with its conclusion. I wasn’t looking for anything serious, anyway.

I clocked out and found her already waiting for me by the exit. She gave me another weak smile but didn’t say a word as we walked to the car. I put the key in the ignition and turned it a notch, but stopped short of starting the engine. I wanted to know where we were heading before we set off.

It was cold. Our breath hung thick in the air and began to fog up the windows. Dull yellow light from the nearby street lamp mixed with the soft green glow of the car radio. Maybe it was the unfriendly nature of the air, but even though we could see other cars in the parking lot, we felt very alone. After a few uncomfortable moments she started.

“I’m really scared.”

Outside the car, the world was sleepy and silent. Inside, the air suddenly became sharp, causing my heart to jump and my senses to tingle. Taken aback, I took a moment to examine the woman beside me. She was still wearing her bulky work uniform. It required some imagination, and even then I could scarcely perceive the beautiful curves concealed underneath. Her hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail, fully exposing her pale face. She looked tired, a fatigue resulting from more than just a night’s work. I could tell from the shine in her eyes that she was on the verge of tears.

Confused by what I had done to cause this reaction, I said the only thing I could think of: “I’m sorry. What can I do?”

“Give me a hug,” she blurted. She was beginning to break down; tears began forcing themselves out in choking sobs. Awkwardly, I turned in my seat and reached out to comfort her. With her head buried into my shoulder, fully crying, she continued. “I’m in a lot of pain. All of my joints hurt, especially my knees. Some mornings I can’t even get out of bed.” She was beginning to talk faster as she approached hysterics. “The doctors don’t know what’s wrong with me. Some fear it could be cancer. And with how quickly this is all happening, they may not be able to diagnose me before…”

I squeezed her tighter and hushed her to silence, allowing her to cry her anxiety out on my shoulder. While I waited, I silently cursed myself for thinking that I was the cause of her frightened disposition.

I realized this was our first serious conversation and the freshness of our relationship made the whole situation all the more awkward. I was at a loss for words but I felt the need to say something.

“Everything will be all right,” I whispered.

The bitterness of the cold was being reflected in her shuddered breathing. We both knew I was simply breaking the silence. However, she desperately wanted to believe that everything was going to be all right and forced herself to accept it.

“You’re right,” she said, lifting her head and wiping her nose. “I’m sorry!” she cried with an ashamed laugh. “Look what I’ve done to your shoulder! I’m a mess. “

I shook my head. “It’s fine. Don’t worry about me. How can I make you feel better so we can go back to having fun with each other?”

“You can’t! And if that’s all you want then you’re out of luck. I can’t do that anymore.”

She sat back and crossed her arms. I sighed and looked into her tear-streaked face. I could see that despite the rims being red, her eyes were now hard, resolute. Even though we were in tight quarters, she suddenly felt far away. I didn’t like that feeling. Her show of strength was as beautiful as her hidden figure.

I shivered. The tension was starting to wear on me and I needed to ease it somehow. “I’m sorry. All I meant was that you are going through a really difficult time right now and you don’t have to go through it alone.” At the mention of being alone she flinched. “You are alone, aren’t you?”

Her head dropped. “My parents live in California. They’ve each flown here once but they obviously can’t keep doing that too often.”

“Why haven’t you told me you were dealing with this before?”

“This isn’t exactly romantic,” she nodded towards my shoulder. “And we’ve never really spent any time talking about personal stuff anyway. I didn’t think you wanted to know.”

“Look, I know the rules were for us to keep this simple and casual, but I don’t see how we can keep it that way anymore. Who else do you have to turn too?” While she studied my face, I continued. “I may not be much, but I can be of some small help. At the very least I could take your mind off things for a while. Make you laugh a little.”

She relaxed some. “You do make me laugh,” she conceded.

 “You can lean on me, I’ll be your rock.” I chuckled timidly, hoping she would be willing to accept my silliness. Thankfully, she gave me a tired grin.

It was her turn to evaluate my strength. I didn’t know how I would measure up. I had spoken boldly, but I’d be lying if I said there wasn’t any doubt in my heart. I surely didn’t feel as strong as I was acting.

She must not have felt that strong, either. “OK. But know I have nothing to give you in return. I just don’t have the strength or the energy to spend on you. And I’m sure I won’t treat you very well while I’m in pain. I’ll probably cry a lot more...a lot more.

She paused and took a deep breath. We fell silent for a few moments, hearing the soft sounds from the radio but not really listening. Finally she spoke.

“I need you to be either all the way in or all the way out. ”

“Fine,” I committed without hesitation. I scarcely knew the woman sitting next to me, nor did I fully comprehend what I had just pledged myself to. All I knew was that I didn’t want to lose her. When I was with her, I was different. I had confidence. Her inner strength gave me strength and I liked who I was with her.

“You deserve better,” she pressed.

“So do you,” I replied quickly. “I wasn’t looking for anything emotional in return when we started this. Why would I start now?”

“Yes, but you may not get what you want physically from me anymore. At least, not as much as you’ve had in the past. Or maybe you don’t want to touch me anymore.”

“That’s ridiculous! Why wouldn’t I? You’re not contagious. And even if you were, I wouldn’t care. No woman as sexy as you has ever let me touch them the way you let me touch you.” Clearly, she was past the point for humour and gave me quite the stern look. Before she could say anything I laughed and then reassured her. “Don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere.”

Drained and exhausted, she gave up any further protest and rested her head on my shoulder. We both fell silent and watched the crystals forming on the windshield. The windows were almost completely fogged over, making us feel even more isolated than when we started.

In that frosty light, it was hard to remember brighter days. Now, we faced a daunting future together. Having committed myself to her service, I was now scared, too. But at the same time, strangely proud and content.

Middle-Class Status Symbols

In 2010, my daughter turned six. And just like any good Canadian kid, she also started playing hockey.

We did a dress rehearsal the night before and it was a proud moment as a father. She looked so cute in her gear. After, we packed all her equipment into a tiny bag barely bigger than an over-night bag.

The next morning she was excited. Her game wasn’t until 3:00 pm but she asked us if it was time to go every fifteen minutes.

Finally it was time to leave. The whole family piled into our car, a Subaru wagon - my wife and I up front, our two kids in the back seats and Kate’s equipment sliding around the trunk.

Like most Canadian kids of my generation, I played hockey growing up, but this was my first time going to a game as a parent. As a child, I was unaware of the games parents play. I was completely unprepared for the peacock show I was about to become a part of.

Upon entering the parking lot, I felt as if I had crossed into Brobdingnag - the place in Gulliver’s Travels where he was tiny. The other vehicles were enormous. Everyone had their middle-class status symbols: a jacket for their child’s team, their kids bag over their shoulder, and their huge SUV.

Now, I’m willing to carry my daughter’s bag for a while but as soon as she is able she will be carrying it herself. Also, I love my jacket. It’s a brown leather biker jacket I bought brand new for seven dollars at a thrift store. It was a steal and I’m not prepared to give that up. So I guess the only way for me to fit in with the other parents is to buy an SUV.

Up until now, I’ve hated SUVs because I thought they were bad on gas, bad on the environment and dangerous. Clearly I was wrong, because one out of four new vehicles sold is an SUV.

In the beginning, the SUV was born from military jeeps. GI’s needed a vehicle to get them to and from combat zones safely and reliably. The governments wanted the vehicle to be cheap. The result, the Willy’s Jeep; it was cheap and reliable enough. It was engineered so that if anything did break, it could be repaired quickly using the supplies soldiers already carried. The Jeep wasn’t fast, nor was it comfortable, but it inspired a host of post-war replicas and can be credited with the birth of the SUV.

After their military service was over, some of these utility vehicles were put into service by hardcore outdoorsmen, transporting them into deep woods or other inaccessible country so they could hunt, set traps or fish. This is where the early SUVs happily remained for several decades, evolving slowly, being built and sold in very limited numbers.

That is until the late 80’s, when Ford decided to bring the SUV to suburbia.

At that time, the cost of designing and building a car was rapidly increasing because of new government regulations and public demands for safer, more fuel efficient vehicles. Ford was also losing market share and needed something fresh and new to revitalize their image and boost revenue.

Stephan Ross, a young designer within the light truck division, was given the responsibility of convincing the Ford board of directors that a suburban SUV could be profitable. The top executives were unwilling to give him the resources to design a completely new vehicle, so he used spare parts that were around him.

He took a chassis from a Ranger, and then modified a Bronco cabin, making it longer to accommodate two more doors. To make it even more affordable, the new vehicle could be built on the existing assembly lines. Also, because it used a truck chassis, it was classified as such, allowing it to skirt the stiffer regulations on cars regarding safety and fuel economy. As a result, the vehicle was very cheap to build, meaning enormous profits for Ford.

In essence, this “new” SUV largely used the same principal as the early jeeps. However, the key difference was comfort. Because these vehicles were not expected to do any heavy lifting, the interior was made inviting and luxurious. The SUV was no longer just a special-interest vehicle.

Since going on sale in the spring of 1990, the Explorer sold exceedingly well. It has been said that it single-handedly saved Ford. It certainly ignited the explosion of the SUV craze.

Every manufacturer scrambled to get their version to market as quickly as possible to get a piece of the pie. They hastily designed SUV bodies and bolted them to truck underbodies that had been engineered for a completely different purpose. This was a deadly combination.

While sales went up and everybody blissfully ignored depleting oil reserves and a warming climate, death rates also soared. The public assumed that SUV’s were safe. It was hard to argue that perception when one was surrounded by so much steel and glass. Manufacturers encouraged this false logic through their advertising campaigns.

These campaigns bred a culture of passive safety; the idea that accidents are inevitable so instead of trying to avoid them, you should cocoon yourself with as much metal as possible and brace for the impact. Unfortunately, this idea also sold more SUV’s.

As mentioned earlier, SUV’s are classified as light-trucks, and while a cars face stringent safety tests, trucks do not. Fundamentally, trucks are meant to do low speed grunt work; carrying heavy loads over rough terrain. Trucks are not designed for highway driving. So when millions of SUVs, with their primitive truck suspension, took to our high-speed motorways, bad things were bound to happen.

And bad things did happen.

Everyone has heard about the high profile Firestone debacle. But, even without those incidents, SUVs are crashing at an alarming rate. The worst part about this is the physics are frighteningly simple.

SUVs are the heaviest passenger vehicles on the road and they also have the highest centre of gravity. When an object with a lot of mass and a high centre of gravity gets moving quickly, it is very reluctant to stop or change direction. Pushed past its very narrow limit, an SUV will act like a dog, roll over and play dead.

Unfortunately, its victims are not playing.

If someone buys an SUV, planning on having an accident and being the only one harmed, then that’s their problem. But, because it is often others on the road who suffer the most, we have a much bigger issue at hand. In SUV to car collisions, the occupants of the car are six times more likely to be killed than when colliding with another car. A quarter of the drivers on the road are threatening the lives of the greater population.

It has been said, as North Americans we love our cars. We must, because we’ve gone to war so we can drive them more. The internal combustion engines powering our vehicles are thirsty, but those found in SUVs are the thirstiest of the lot. A truck power plant, engineered to work best at low RPM, will burn a lot more fuel when running at high RPMs for an extended period of time on a highway commute. Again, thanks to the fact that they are classified as trucks, they are not subject to the same fuel efficiency regiments as cars.

The newest ploy by manufacturers to get more people into SUVs is hybrid technology. A hybrid SUV receives a huge lump of batteries and an additional electric motor to marginally boost fuel economy. However, the problem is these batteries and extra motor add considerable weight, reducing the effectiveness of the whole package and further limiting the braking and handling capabilities.

Now, after confirming that SUVs are as dangerous and inefficient as I thought they were, I certainly don’t want to buy one just to fit in with the hockey parents. I have resigned myself to being an outcast. My wagon may not raise my social status in the eyes of others, but it does what I need, safer and cheaper than an SUV.

Someday, ideals may change, and maybe then I’ll be considered a pioneer.

Be Humble

It is hot.

Not surprising since we are in Arizona in the middle of an asphalt desert.

We’re waiting for two water tankers to finish soaking the track.

I’m sitting in the driver seat of a brand new BMW 5 Series. In the passenger seat next to me is Pierre.

Pierre has a very calm, quiet demeanour. Too calm - almost to the point where it is annoying.

Periodically, tire manufacturers host promotional demonstrations to allow dealers to test their new products against the competition under extreme, yet safe, conditions. I had never been to anything like this before and am ecstatic about the opportunity to drive a car in anger on a racetrack.

According to Pierre, this job as a driving instructor is boring. He’s also a factory race driver for Honda. Later, I find out he was a three-time SPEED Touring Car Drivers’ Champion. He would go on to win it again in 2006.

I had always dreamt of being a race car driver. Here is my chance. I desperately want to show him, and myself, that I have talent.

As the trucks finally finish, my confidence is soaring. With my sweaty hands gripping the wheel tightly, Pierre encourages me to go and I press my right foot down hard.

As I approach the first corner, a tight 90-degree left, I realize the track is much wetter than it was on my last run. I’m coming in way too fast.

My passenger quietly confirms this.

I brake and throw the car hard. I somehow make it through but have come out very ragged.

The second corner, a quick right, is fast approaching. I’m on top of it before I have gathered the car under me again.

I crash through the apex, murdering at least six cones.

It feels like all the air in the car has suddenly rushed out.

Very calmly, Pierre soothes me back under control. No matter. It’s over. I had my chance and I over-cooked it. My dreams of becoming a race car driver evaporated on the hot, Arizona asphalt.

I don’t know what I expected to happen, but that for sure was not it. It’s amazing how good we can be in our own mind, only to be humbled once we’re truly tested. This experience made me keenly aware of the limit of my ability. A lesson for which, in hindsight, I am thankful for.

I will never be a race car driver, but I still very much enjoy my time behind a steering wheel. However, the silent screams of the pylons I massacred haunt me and remind me of the perils of being overconfident.

This Love Is Completely Irrational…But Good On Gas

My parents still live in the house I grew up in. They own a two-acre, rectangular lot on the outskirts of a rural community. When I was young we had a few horses, a pony, and about a dozen chickens running around. Now, the old barn just houses mice, life-size dust bunnies and cobwebs so thick, I swear they hold the building together as much as the timber.

I haven’t lived at home for a number of years so I haven’t set foot in the building for the better part of a decade. Not that I cared, but my mother told me a neighbour rents out some of the space to store his boats in the winter and his snowmobiles and ice fishing hut during the summer.

One warm summer day, my wife and kids and I were visiting and enjoying the yard. Naturally, my overly curious two-year-old son soon found his way to the barn. However, while retrieving him, I found something that piqued my interest.

Tucked away in a dark corner, partially covered by a filthy tarp, I thought I saw what appeared to be the headlight of a car. My own curiosity overwhelmed me. I ordered my son to stay put and not touch anything while I went to confirm my theory. He didn’t, but I was too distracted by my possible discovery to notice.

Reaching my destination, I was able to confirm that indeed it was an automobile; or at least it was at one time or other. Unable to contain my curiosity any further (yes, I’m aware where my son gets it from), I started to peel back its dirty covering.

I had only partially unveiled the front portion of the car before I began to recognize what it was. My heart began racing. Here, before my eyes, tucked away in a dark corner of my parent’s old barn, was an original Austin Mini.

I’ve adored these cars since I was a child. I can still picture Mr. Bean driving his yellow Mini while sitting in an over-stuffed armchair on the roof. That scene still makes me smile. Also, my father grew up in England so I’m sure my fondness for the Mini is in my blood.

With my excitement growing, I threw back the tarp to reveal the rest of the front end. To be honest, it wasn’t in good condition. I couldn’t tell what colour it used to be, but now it was mostly dusty gray with darker rust patches. The hood was crooked and the other headlamp was missing.

I gingerly lifted the hood to discover an empty hole where the engine should have been. Nonetheless, my excitement did not wane. I pushed on uncovering more of the beautiful artifact I was fortunate enough to discover.

Walking along the driver side of the car, I poked my head through the windowless door and into the barren cabin. There was nothing to speak of except a cobweb covered steering wheel. However, that was the single most exciting aspect of this discovery. Behind where the driver seat should have been, was a metal wall.

This was very unusual. I pushed the remaining tarp off the car and realized it was not a car at all. It was a pickup truck!

I didn’t even know Austin made a pickup version of their tiny people carrier. After some research, I learned Austin did indeed make a Mini Pickup, but very few, and even fewer made it to Canada.

And one can see why. When compared to domestic pickup trucks, the shoebox of a truck bed looks comical. Add in the tiny cabin and microscopic wheels and you’re looking at quite the odd car. But I find it endearing.

Now my mind was off to the races. How could the owner of this masterpiece leave it in such disrepair? If I owned her, I would spend every moment I could spare fixing her up. When done, I will drive her as much as possible. When I own her, she will be British Racing Green with matching steel wheels and chrome hubcaps. The interior will be restored back to original as much as possible with a few modern upgrades. The original Austin engine won’t produce much power, but it will be great on gas.

I could already feel the wood of the steering wheel under my fingertips when my wife stepped in. I don’t own the truck. We don’t have money to buy it. And even if we did, fixing it up would be quite a bit more.

I conceded; I knew the truth, but I just couldn’t help myself. I realized that I hadn’t had such a strong attraction to a car since my love affair with another rare car. I named her Old Redder.

Old Redder was a 1991 Mitsubishi Galant VR4. She was an old rally car and very few were sold in Canada. Being an older car she would break down from time to time. When I fixed her, I always felt like I was strengthening our bond. I learned something new about her every moment we were together. I also learned about myself too. She instilled in me the confidence that I could handle any problem life throws at me.

When I financially could not continue the relationship anymore, I sold her to a dealer for pennies. To this day, every time I think about that day I feel a deep sense of sadness.

But why?

It’s funny how human beings can develop such strong emotional attachments to inanimate objects. We go so far as to attribute genders to them, give them names and imagine these objects having feelings. I love cars; others love clothes; some electronics. Whatever one’s fix may be, just about everyone has some emotional attachment to something that cannot return the love.

For me, I think part of the reason I love cars is because the relationship is simple. When something goes wrong, I know how to fix it.

With human relationships, I don’t always know how to make things right; there’s never one right answer.

When I’m having problems in my “real” relationships, I go to my car, like an old friend. We just go for a drive. There’s no need to talk. There’s no guilt because I haven’t been around enough or haven’t called. It doesn’t care how I look. Anytime of day, the car doesn’t care.

The car does not judge me nor tell me I’m the problem. It just lets me think and reach that conclusion on my own, in my own time.

After spending some time together, everything in life seems simpler. This time driving helps me make sense of my life.

While a car may not love me back, it lets me use it, anytime I need it, without expecting anything in return. So, as long as this continues to hold true, I will continue to love my cars without shame, even though I know, logically, it is completely irrational.

Old Redder: My version of Old Yeller

Old Yeller is a classic story about a boy and his dog. Old Yeller is a mongrel of a dog that, though originally uninvited, joins the poor Coates family and earns their love. In the end, Travis, the eldest Coates boy, deals with life’s painful lessons on becoming a man.

My story does not involve a dog, but a car. Old Redder was a fire engine red, 1991 Mitsubishi Galant VR4.

I first laid eyes on Old Redder in a black and white picture posted in an AutoTrader magazine. At the time I was working at an auto shop where we received free copies of the weekly classified. Business was slow, so I sat down and idly flipped through its pages. Surprisingly, the poor picture caught my attention and drew me in. The headline read: Mitsubishi VR4 280 HS. This was something very rare indeed. The description intrigued me further: All-wheel drive, ’97 engine, 5-speed transmission, fully loaded, 280 horsepower.

I couldn’t help myself. I quickly dog-eared the page and stashed the magazine in my lunch pail. There was no logical reason for doing this, but like Old Yeller, this car’s charm immediately spoke to me and she refused to be sent away.

My wife and I already had a good car. I knew there was no convincing her that we needed two cars with our minimal salaries. So I kept my love for Old Redder a secret. As fate would have it though, our current car would soon suffer an unfortunate accident, putting us in need of another good car. I pleaded with my wife to let me adopt Old Redder. Like mother Coates, she eventually relented.

Immediately, I called the owner and set up a test drive. I only took her around the block once and returned giddy. Having almost 300hp at my every whim was intoxicating. It wasn’t love at first sight; it was lust. That fiercely burning flame of lust would eventually fade, leaving the steady coals of love in their place.

Old Redder’s owner realized that I needed the car more than him and after paying him enough for many home cooked meals, he let me take her home that day.

To say Old Redder was a mongrel would be quite the understatement. In 1991, Mitsubishi used the Galant VR4 to compete in the World Rally Championship, so needless to say she had racecar DNA. However, the ’91 engine was swapped out in favour of a ’97 power unit, which produced more horsepower. The suspension was changed to something much lower and firmer. The exhaust was from a Nissan Skyline, and it had a giant wing on the trunk from I-don’t-know-where. The flat red paint was offset buy black and blue wheels and blue mud flaps. If I’m honest, she wasn’t a beautiful car. But I saw the beauty of her “soul,” not just her scruffy exterior.

Her interior wasn’t anything to write home about either. Even though she was a four-door sedan, her back seats didn’t offer all that much room. And because the newer engine didn’t leave any room in the engine bay for the battery, it was located in the trunk, considerably limiting space and practicality.

Never needing much encouragement to stretch her legs and run, her personality was a little maniacal. Several times all I could do was hold on. Once, giving Old Redder a spirited run, we plunged down an on-ramp way too fast. Fighting back panic, I threw caution to the wind and turned the wheel hard. With barely a complaint, Old Redder dug in and obliged my request. She earned her keep that day.

However, there were also a couple of occasions during our little jaunts that the police took exception. But clearly they could sense Old Redder’s charm, and after seeing my sheepish grin they didn’t have the heart to give me a ticket. Old Redder did have a magical quality about her.

During our time together we spent many a mile together and I can’t remember a single bad one.

However, eventually Old Redder started to show signs of her age. She began to lose a step and soon developed a limp.

First it was her brakes. She blew a hole in one of her lines. After all we had been through I wasn’t going to give up on her that easily. After a few hours and several trips to the local auto parts store, she was as good as new. Or so I told myself. I pretended to not see the rust covering the chassis visible from underneath.

One morning she wouldn’t start. Another couple of hours, some bloody knuckles, and a few more trips to the auto parts store got her up and running again. I was putting myself into this car now, desperately trying to give back a little bit of what she had given me.

But, fixing her became increasingly difficult. The electronics died and the whole wiring harness had to be replaced. Then, the exhaust rotted through requiring most of the system to be replaced. Unfortunately, these repairs were beyond my abilities.

On top of that, I could not ignore the “rabies” anymore. Rust was eating Old Redder from the inside out. Every time she was lifted, her frame would give a little more. With breakdowns starting to become more serious and frequent, she was starting to cost us too much money. For the financial health of my family, I had to make the decision to put her down.

It was a bitter day. Of course it was raining. And I was having second thoughts. But, to confirm my decision, Old Redder’s alternator died that morning. In the heat of the moment, I felt resentment towards Old Redder. Why was she doing this? Why was this happening? Looking back on that day now though, maybe that was her way of letting me know I was doing the right thing; her crazy way of saying, “good-bye.”

I went home, comforted by a younger, capable new car, but I felt hollow.

The new car is a good car, a 2005 Subaru Impreza Wagon. I named her Young Silver. She has a lot of qualities Old Redder had, and some she didn’t. She is a practical car, and much more economical, comfortable, and dependable. I like her, I really do, but for some inexplicable reason, I don’t love her.

Maybe it’s because of what she is; a practical, reasonable car. Sure, I can still have fun with Young Silver, but she doesn’t have that little bit of lunacy that I found so endearing with Old Redder.

I miss Old Redder. I want her back. But, as Travis Coates learnt, that’s not how life works. I guess I too need to take that painful step into manhood.