You know what’s crazy? I’ll tell you what’s crazy.™
Buying a car.
It’s exciting, but it’s stressful.
It’s a feeling of exhilaration followed by buyer’s remorse.
It’s a feeling of what do I want versus what can I live with.
So I’m standing at the car lot the other day and I’m ogling a 370Z convertible. The car costs $41,000.
“You being helped a salesman shouts from across the parking lot.”
I wave that I’m OK.
He turns around, like a shark, that has missed a meal.
I feel relief as this trained assassin spins and targets another poor chap who thinks he needs new transportation.
I look at the 370Z in the corner of the lot where 2 sides of traffic can also marvel at it.
The car is calling my name like a siren’s song. It is sleek and smooth and alluring like a Vegas pole dancer.
Just then, my salesman approaches. “She’s a beauty, isn’t she?”
He is all smiles and handshakes as he moves around the automobile.
Like a blustery wind of salesmanship, he begins telling me about this high performance sports car.
He talks about the chassis and suspension that lift and separate a driver from the pack, like it’s a Playtex Bra.
He talks about fuel injection and compression ratios and high performance rubber.
I marvel at the car. Do I really need a super sonic jet fighter with wheels?
I examine the internal check list of my life.
I currently drive a company vehicle. It is boxy and safe. It is dependable and free. It is all wheel drive and gets me where I need to go. But it is vanilla. It is someone else’s. It is boring. It has the acceleration of a cupcake. An old lady driving a Studebaker races up behind me in the diamond lane and gives me the finger when I don’t move over fast enough.
Do I need a car?
That’s a life question that is very much in play at this time.
I continue to scan the internal check list of my life. Again I ask myself; do I need this car.
“You really need this car!” The salesman bellows opening up the driver’s door so I can take a quick peek.
I look at the leather interior and dashboard compenents that look like something developed at the Pentagon.
Like a Mermaid on the rocks, this car calls to me. I am transfixed, staring at it like a hypnotized sailor ready to steer into the rocks of doom.
I look at my reflection in the shimmering, flawless paint that is so perfect, so pristine, I expect God’s finger to extend out of the surface like the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.
“You want to drive it?” the salesman says.
His voice is an echo from a world away.
I stare at his smiling face with the teeth that seem to glisten in the sunlight.
I am not sure if I want to drive it. I know once I sit in the Recaro racing seat, my ass will fall in love with this car. I know once I wrap my hands around the padded racing steering wheel, my fingers will tell my brain to open my wallet and buy this car. I know once I adjust the rear view mirrors and catch a glimpse of myself, I will want others to catch a glimpse of me in this car. I know that once the top comes off, slowly, suggestively, salaciously, I will be aroused and ready to turn this jungle cat’s key and drive off the lot.
I know once the engine fires up, I will think of G forces and lateral acceleration and 4.7 zero to 60 times. If the engine doesn’t grab me the 8 speaker sound system will. I will the bass start booming and think of Tao Night Club in Vegas. I will see the tachometer needle purr on perfectly placed instrumentation that will make me think of the Space Shuttle sitting on the launch pad. I know that when I wrap my hand around the stick shift, padded and firm and ready to engage in all six forward speeds, I will caress it and let it guide me into mechanical nirvana.
I know that when i tap the accelerator my head will push back into the padded seat and my body will become one with the latest version of a car that is 40 years in the making.
As the salesman holds the door open, I begin to reminisce.
I have owned many Nissans. I had two Datsun 240 Z’s and a 280 Z as a young man. I was one of the first people to buy a Nissan 350 Z when they came out a few years back.
As I stare at the next generation, I thought about my 350Z.
I remember trying to get it to go Zero to sixty in under 6 seconds.
I remember trying and trying and never being able to do it. The ads all said it could go zero to sixty in 5.8 seconds. But I never was able to do it.
Then I met the kid. He was all of 19 years old. He was a grease monkey back in the service center.
I was telling my story to an older tech when he piped up.
“How are you doing it?”
I was surprised he was listening.
“Well, I’m punching it in first, taking it to 7,000 RPM’s and then shifting into 2nd gear. I am flooring it till I get to about 6800 RPM’s and then slamming it into third. I get to 60mph, but it’s always over 6 seconds,” I say.
“Don’t shift into 3rd,” he says with a straight face.
Don’t shift into 3rd, I’m all ready in the yellow, I think to myself.
“I don’t want to blow the engine,” I say with a smile not sure the kid has a clue.
“You won’t blow the engine,” he says without hesitation as only a 19 year old man who won’t have to pay for a blown engine can say.
“It’s gonna red line hard. How do I get away flooring it in 2nd?”
“The time you are taking to shift from 2nd to 3rd is where you are losing your time. Just gun it. You’ll get to 60mph in under 6 seconds and the computer will shut down the engine before you blow.”
This is a preposterous thought.
I look at this pimple faced mechanical dweeb with curiosity.
“So let me get this straight. You want me to floor it in 2nd gear, ignore the car’s pleadings with me to shift into 3rd, and continue to mash the accelerator to the floor even though the needle is burying itself into the bottom of the tachometer and the car is about to explode?”
“Yep. Trust me. The engine won’t blow.”
I laugh and tell the kid I’ll think about it.
The next morning, I stop on the street behind a warehouse on my way to work. It’ about a half mile long with no stop signs and little traffic. I stare at the road ahead. All is clear. I tap the accelerator and watch the tach dance in the instrumentation.
OK, here we go, I think to myself.
I reset the clock to zero and gulp a deep breath.
“You better be right kid,” I whisper to no one in particular.
I put the car in first and adjust my grip.
I look down the road and all is clear.
I start the stop watch and floor it. The car lurches forward.
10mph 20 mph 30 mph.
I engage the clutch and rip the stick shift into second, quickly getting back on the accelerator.
The force is tremendous and the engine is roaring.
40mph 50 mph.
I glance down. The stop watch is at 4 seconds.
The tachometer is in the yellow.
5 seconds. 55mph.
The car is screaming. Everything in my automotive body wants to let off the gas, push in the clutch and give the car what it wants, another gear to wind through.
Then the kid’s words fill my thoughts. It won’t blow. The computer won’t let it.
In that fraction of a second I must decide to wimp out or go for it.
Did Columbus turn the fleet around when the first coward in the crows nest cried the edge of the world was up ahead.
Did the Neil Armstrong dip his toe outside the LEM and say “Ah, I don’t know Mission Control, it looks kind of dark out here.”
Like these two famous men in history, I too was pushing the envelope of a new world.
GO FOR IT MY BRAIN SHOUTS TO ME.
The engine whines for mercy for a fraction of second more.
60MPH. 5.8 Seconds.
WIZZOOOMUPFH.
All of a sudden the engine shuts off. There is no power. I am confused and a little concerned. The steering wheel becomes stiff. The brakes are hard to engage like stepping on a rock.
I am concerned that perhaps this was not the best idea. Thankfully there is not a soul in sight.
From a cockpit filled with whining engine roar, all is now silent. I am still flying forward with no horsepower and a strong desire to bring it all to a stop.
Thankfully the car continues to track, low to the ground, like rolling on Velcro.
I mash the brake. It is hard and angry and pushes back on my foot. It doesn’t want to assist me. It fights me and asks me what I was thinking.
Eventually the car comes to a stop. I am in the middle of the road. I look around and all is quiet on this work day morning. The car is silent. I look for fire and smoke, there is none. I wonder if the engine is melted like a chunk of steel dipped into a blast furnace. All appears OK.
I look at the key in the ignition and take a deep breath. I turn the ignition and ….
ROOOOAAARRRR!
The engine sparks to life as if nothing had ever happened. The tachometer needle rests like a feather on 1200 RPM. I listen to the purr of the engine. All sounds right with this Nissan endorsed universe.
I engage the vehicle and drive forward. There is no hint of trouble.
I smile as I look at the on board stop watch that is frozen at 5.8 seconds.
I did it I think to myself. The kid was right.
“So do you want to test drive it?” the salesman says, bringing me back to reality.
Nah, I say with a slight smile.
“Tell me about that little car over there,” I say spying a Honda Accord with a lot of years and miles.
“My teenager is bugging me to death for a car.”
“OK, let’s take a look,” the salesman says with a ‘i gotta put food on my table kind of way’.
I take a last look at the 370Z and I swear it winks at me with its head light.
I give it a flirty smile as if to say I’ll be back to buy it a beer later.
And that is crazy.