Yankee Doodle No Dandy
The Age
Saturday December 15, 2007
I'VE been driving a couple of American cars recently. One I liked (maybe because it's last-generation Mercedes-Benz E-Class underneath) and one I just couldn't fathom. Actually, not only did I not fathom it, I wound up seven days later actively disliking it for its pointlessness and interior plastics straight out of a mid-70s Cessna.
And that's before we even get to the thing's substandard dynamics and Oliver Reed thirst. Call me Scrooge, but when a car gurgles away an oil field's worth of unleaded petrol in a single weekend of going nowhere in particular, I start to get a bit jumpy.Still, finding an American car disappointing is nothing especially new for me.Funny thing is, in my family I'm the odd bloke out.For reasons unknown to even myself, I'm attracted to European cars. Always have been. I'm carnally attracted to small German cars with no radiators and their engines at the wrong end.But I'm also keen on Italian stuff for those times when it doesn't matter whether I reach my destination or not, and even the odd (truly odd, mostly) set of French wheels for those weird days.And here's where the argument for genetics falls flat on its mush in the mud. See, my brother (and if you saw us together, you'd never question that we really do share at least two parents) who is but 11 months my junior and with whom I shared a bedroom for about 17 years, thinks I'm a weirdo. Not only does he not share my enthusiasm for flat-six engines and cold-forged alloys, he will name, hand on heart, the 1968 Chevrolet Camaro as his all-time must-have Sunday-morning car.Ye gods! A 1968 Camaro is like a HK Holden with two doors missing. Don't laugh, that description is closer to the truth than you might think or General Motors would like to admit.Yeah, sure, an old Camaro looks pretty tough, but that in itself can surely never be enough.Then there's dear old dad. He grew up in the days when having a car was hardly a common theme. So he remembers them as being the playthings of the rich and idle. And of those playthings, the rarest and most coveted were American Chevs and Chryslers. In dad's eyes, driving a Chev six meant you had really arrived. Lately though, American cars have come to represent other things. For me, anyway.And I have to admit that I like the convenience built into them. A few years back, Honda sold an Accord sedan made in Japan and an Accord station wagon built in the States. Funny thing is, the wagon showed more attention to detail in some areas. Notably, while the sedan's central locking only worked from the driver's door, the wagon's worked off either front door. Sounds like a small point, but ask somebody with an armful of groceries, library books and toddlers whether they enjoy having to stand on a busy road to unlock their car. (This was before remote locking was common, obviously.)But sometimes, the American car is a victim of its own caring, sharing nature. The last couple I drove had a default setting that moved the driver's seat back as far as it would go whenever the ignition was turned off. The manufacturer thoughtfully maximised the often-overweight driver's chances of actually leaving the car. And since they were, on balance of probability, only stopping for another meal and would therefore return to the car a little larger than before, the seat didn't automatically resume its previous position when you got back in.Johnny Lunchpail (thank you Monty Burns of The Simpsons) may find this endearing. I thought it was a royal pain in the pants.So that's me and American cars. My brother and I haven't shared a bedroom in 25 years, but I still reckon he's as wrong as he ever was.As for dad, well, he drives a Toyota these days.
© 2007 The Age
