Knowing Smiles

Funny how most of the pictures of me smiling have a car somewhere in the background.

It’s one of the few things I’m genuinely comfortable with. Which is why it makes perfect sense that I’m doing what I do now, motoring journalist and all.

There are some times that I’d honestly pick cars over people. No talk back, no flattery, no insults, no bullshit; just the harmonious whine of the engine, in tune with every depression of the throttle: a telekinetic connection.

It’s the perfect social gathering for an introvert. There you are in an isolated bubble, free to control your own direction of travel with hardly any interference (depending on the NVH, of course). These days, they’re designed to protect you from the harshest blows, with only airbag burns to show for it: a fair tradeoff considering the amount of suffering they’ve been engineered to withstand. It’s the kind of social circle, sphere if you will, that can collapse, yet still leave you intact through it all.

It’s the idea that within that sphere, you’re free to do whatever you wish within or even with the sphere, that harks to a certain soul. That kind of power is intoxicating. It’s easy to fool yourself into thinking you’re invincible for a few moments. A few near misses will further convince you of your borrowed omnipotence.

It’s true what they say about races, that “nice guys finish last.” You’d have to be a fool not to take advantage of such a devilish temptation. You’d think Satan himself may have invented a car, passing the patent to us just to cater to our vanity. That’s probably it. It allows every Joe Nobody to make up for all those days he wasn’t picked for basketball, that for once in their lives, the athleticly challenged could go fast, that for just a few moments, the silent wallflowers can pretend they’re not the nice guy everyone thinks they are. That for just this once, they won't finish last.