Who are we when we drive our cars?

Thrivin Naidoo wonders if a car displays what a man thinks of himself.

There is a lot to be gained from the perception of a motor car. A man’s potential as a partner, or his willingness in bed. It’s something that keeps every man awake at night, hoping he could fill the brackets between him and expectation.

Women often wonder why men put the hours in over their cars, the visuals and the sound displaying a philosophy of what a man thinks of himself. Very little mentorship occurs, if any, when a man puts a cranking sound system into his car – apart from his peers who look on and try to add their two cents worth. There’s a mountain of criticism a man must endure when trying to puff out his feathers, ushering him to back down and move away from being ‘that’ guy. Massive speakers, small car, and a humming bass line. It’s a small wonder why women seem to find this entire saga amusingly unimpressive.

The extension of a young man’s freedom is his first car. It’s his breakaway from his doting mother, his overbearing father, his demanding girlfriend and it is his individuality among his friends. Give a man a car, and he will give you a world of information with a hint of charisma.

Sitting in a friend’s BMW during loadshedding recently, parked off in his garage and shielded from the rain and the shouts from his wife to pick up dinner, I couldn’t help but recall the disparity in how we see ourselves in cars versus how we appear.

This young gentleman, astute and a professional medical doctor, drives a black limited edition 3-Series with piano black details on the interior and a leather dash. I can’t think of anything more sinister and debauched but seeing my young friend’s face in the driver’s seat has me thinking: who are we when drive what we own?

I sold my Ford Fiesta ST recently to get back onto a motorcycle and in the interim I’ve taken over my father’s 16-year-old Mercedes Benz diesel to get around.

Efficient but about as fast as the postal service, the car itself seems at home being quite creepy if left alone in the corner of a parking lot at night, next to a shopping trolley. Driving around in it is a pleasure as an old Mercedes will always be – but it’s hard to be ‘cool’ in one.

I am in my early thirties, and picking up my girlfriend from work sometimes is prefaced with a series of apologies before opening the door – ‘sorry, the window doesn’t work. Mind the smell. I should have cleaned her up.’

Perhaps it’s about time for me to embrace the car as I’m embracing my age; I’m getting old, and as much as I can’t pick up street cred in this car it bodes very well for my aching back.

Old women and children don’t seem to leap out of the way with the same fervor as if I was on a bike, but people do let me into traffic more easily.

As much as I think I’m listening to War’s ‘Low Rider’ and jumping into ‘my ride’ at the end of the day, I think it’s safe to say I’m an old brown man getting into an old brown Mercedes. But my lady doesn’t mind, so why should I?

Download The North Coast Courier mobile app, now available free from the Apple iStore and on Google Play, for IOS and Android phones.