The Front Seat

The morning of September 8th, 2009 found me prancing around the house, gaily clicking my heels and excitedly singing "It's the most won-der-ful tiiiime of the year". This was no Yuletide cheer, it was the realization (prompted by that old Staples commercial) that summer was over and the start of school was upon us. After fixing our lunches, pouring a truck driver-strength cup of coffee and pushing my daughter out to the car, it was time to drop the bombshell: "You can sit up front". The last time someone gave me such a puzzled look was twelve years ago after my first semester of college when my mother asked how I managed to fail all of my classes. On this day, my daughter had a similar look of shock and confusion that almost took me back in time and made me start explaining how the multitude of F's on my report card in no way reflected a lack of effort on my part.

My daughter sat in the back seat all of her life. Her body acquired the shape and flexibility required to extract one's self and belongings from the back seat of a Mustang without making oneself look too ridiculous. But along the way, she also began to develop Andre the Giant-esque proportions that her doctors say put her in the 97th percentile of children her age. So it was getting harder and harder for her to peel off the Mustang that was attached to her bottom every morning. Needless to say, she only listened to roughly half of that explanation before hopping in the front seat with the world's biggest smile on her face.

The 15-minute trip to school was a long one. She asked what every knob, button, lever, switch, gauge, needle, number, handle, light and symbol was for...at least twice. I also failed to account for the generous amount of personal space offered - even in a coupe - when someone is riding behind and slightly lower than you in the back seat. In the front seat, all bets are off. We rubbed elbows for the majority of the trip, my ears were assaulted by a voice seemingly designed for a concert hall or sold-out arena, and my peripheral vision was filled with a girl who thought it would be funny to see how long she could stare at me before getting me to say something.

It was an experience for both of us; one I'm sure she will never forget. Her head grew two sizes when she got to school and climbed out of the front seat - on the first day, with her hair done and new clothes on. Thirty years later, I can still remember the first time my mother let me ride in the front seat (although some may consider putting a shorts-wearing child on a sun-scorched vinyl seat - whether front or rear - child abuse). And I now know why parents say they can't wait until their children have children so they can sit back and laugh as they go through the same experiences.

Maybe It's Just Me...

Service Writer (SW): So what brings you in today?
Me: The top is leaking.
SW: When you wash the car?
Me: When I wash the car, when it rains, when anything more than the fine mist from a baby's warm breath gets anywhere near the area where the window meets the top.
SW: You know, convertibles often leak if you spray water directly on the area where the window meets the top.
Me: The car is two weeks old, and the top is already leaking.
SW: We can put some silicone on the weatherstripping. That should stop the leak.
Me: ....
Me: (2 days later) The top is leaking.

Service Manager (SM): So what brings you in today?
Me: There's a constant rattling noise coming from somewhere around the sunroof when I drive.
SM: (sitting in the car while parked) It doesn't seem to be making any noise now.
Me: The noise happens mainly when I drive.
SM: (pushing on the sunroof shade while still parked) I still don't hear anything.
Me: The noise happens mainly when I drive.
SM: You know, everyone's ears are different. You may hear very high tones that others can't hear.
Me: I've had ear problems all my life, I don't think that's the case.
SM: Yes, but you may be able to hear certain frequencies that others can't.
Me: ....

Salesman (S): It's a beautiful car isn't it?
Me: It is, but I notice that it has XM radio.
S: Yup, it does.
Me: I ordered Sirius.
S: Maybe there was a mistake and we accidentally ordered it with XM.
Me: The window sticker says Sirius.
S: Then how do you know it has XM?
Me: The display says XM - Hip Hop Nation.
S: ....
Me: ....

Salesman (S): So what do you think?
Me: (looking around inside the car) Where's the trunk release?
S: Oh, it doesn't have one. You just have to hit the button on the key fob.
Me: Are you serious? How does the car not have a trunk release?
S: They polled previous model year owners and found that they didn't really care about the trunk release.
Me: ....
S: Hey, _____ is giving you a car this nice for a great price. They have to cut some things out.
Me: ....

Service Writer (SW): So what brings you in today?
Me: The radiator is leaking and the truck is barely three years old.
SW: What makes you think there's a leak.
Me: Well that little green puddle is either following my wife around and laying underneath her truck when she parks, or the radiator is leaking.
SW: Yeah, that's a common problem with these. We can have the radiator, hoses, and lines replaced by this afternoon.
Me: Sh#t, how common is this problem!?!
Cashier: Your total comes out to $1,186.85. Will that be cash or charge?

"That Guy"

2,267 - That number represents the combined horsepower, as-rated by their respective manufacturers, of the vehicles I've owned throughout my driving career. Or as I like to put it, a combined power output exactly equal to that of two Bugatti Veyrons and an Impreza WRX. The specific details are slightly less glamorous: 13 total vehicles, an average of 174.4 horsepower per vehicle, a lowest horsepower rating of 102 and a highest horsepower rating of 300. Or as I like to put it, a combined power output exactly equal to that of two Bugatti Veyrons and an Impreza WRX. Some of those vehicles were enthusiast favorites, one was basic transportation, none were left stock, a few went well-above their manufacturer's horsepower ratings, one was modified to the "wait, I spent how much on that car?" level and one is a currently non-running '69 Pontiac Catalina that I inherited from my stepfather. But that's just back story. The real topic of this discussion is my realization that I am in-fact "that guy".

"Which guy?" you ask. You know, the one who orders his German über-saloon with all-wheel-drive because the road to his house does have that one kind-of-sharp turn. The one whose macchina Italia is equipped with the optional small television-sized carbon ceramic brakes just in case he mis-times the yellow light and has to panic stop before crossing into the "Don't Block the Box" zone. The one who orders the heavy duty towing package because you'd be surprised how much strain the smallest U-Haul trailer and a love seat from Ikea can put on a 5,800lb. truck. The one who orders the 5,800lb. truck because you shouldn't be fooled by the five combined inches of snow we've had in Northern Virginia over the last three winters; "the big one" is coming.

Yup, that's me. We hardly know each other, but here I am disclosing my deepest darkest secrets to you. Ask me how many times my current car has been over 100mph, and I'll tell you once...at the drag strip...two years ago. The 4.10 gears - they ensure that I burn more gas than necessary when cruising down the highway in the middle lane. The barely-muffled exhaust - that ensures tinnitus and slow hearing loss for my daughter and I as years of morning trips to school take their toll. The intake and tune - they ensure that the car will only drink 93-octane (while burning more gas than necessary when cruising down the highway in the middle lane) because hey, 87 is just too cheap these days. The whole coupe thing in general - well that ensures that my daughter will be mistaken for a Cirque du Soleil entertainer when performing her back seat self-extraction routine in the "Kiss 'n Ride" lane at school each morning.

It's a sickness, this fantasy vs. reality thing. The fantasy is that I'm blasting down the open road with the windows rolled down, radio turned up, tank full of gas and dual exhaust pipes roaring underneath my seat. The reality is that my wife's SUV serves as the family hauler on weekends, and if my daily commute was any shorter I could probably just throw the shifter in neutral, coast down the hill and really show those hybrids a thing or two about gas mileage. After three years of daily driving, my current car has yet to cross the 18,000 mile mark. All that fantasy, and more than a few dollars, for a car that barely covers 6,000 miles in a given year.

The irony is that in every other aspect of life, my frugality and cheapness are the stuff of legend. My father would likely respond "cheapskate" if shown a picture of his beloved son and asked to do a word-association exercise; Verizon called my wife to ask if I was dead or she got a divorce, since only one of the two phones on our family plan ever seems to use any minutes; the family is currently threatening to give me gift cards to clothing stores for Christmas because apparently, having just four outfits for the four days in my work week is no longer acceptable; and my daughter - my lovely daughter - the only kid in her class facing early-onset hypertension and anxiety due to concern that her dad will one day turn into one of the peanut butter-and-jelly sandwiches he's eaten for lunch every day for the last five years.

My wife, and countless family members, have suggested brain damage as the possible cause of the aforementioned behaviors. While perfectly capable of helping me make sensible decisions in all other aspects of life, my brain's frontal lobe somehow goes all Windows Vista on me when it comes to cars and money. The better explanation, I would argue, is that I am just that passionate about everything automotive. The magazines, the TV shows, the racing, the car shows, the personalities, the diecasts, the scale models and of course - the cars. They've all been an integral part of my life for as far back as I can remember. So as soon as I was old enough to have my pimply-faced picture taken at the local DMV, I further submerged myself into the automotive scene as much as time, money and life would allow.

So that's how I became "that guy". Not out of a desire to impress others or show off, but out of a desire to realize my personal automotive dreams. Those dreams are not lofty. I'll likely never own one of the cars whose posters hang on young children's walls - unless currently non-running '69 Pontiac Catalinas are the latest rage. But I will make the best of what I have and, more importantly, what I can afford. So if that means getting my car professionally tuned to ensure that the maximum horsepower is extracted on the dyno - as-needed to cover all eight miles of my daily commute - so be it. Luckily for me, if other enthusiasts are reading this, chances are I'm not alone.

"The Last Truck" - Part II

When my father was switched from his position as a Chevrolet-specific manager and put under the General Motors management umbrella in the late '90s, his job description changed almost as quickly as his automotive tastes. In less time than it took my grandfather to figure out what each little button on his Pontiac 6000's dashboard did (bad example), my father was forced to turn a general awareness of GM's other divisions into a working knowledge of their day-to-day sales operations.

My father's first few years under the GM umbrella were spent driving Pontiac Grands Prix and Bonnevilles, Oldsmobile Auroras and Bravadas, Chevrolet Tahoes and Trailblazers - in every variety known to man and the occasional Trans-Am, Z-28 or Corvette as company cars. As the years went on, those once-ubiquitous Trailblazers soon gave way to more feature-laden Tahoes. The Tahoes eventually gave way to more-upscale Envoys and Yukon Denalis. The Envoys and Yukon Denalis eventually gave way to an H2, and every Cadillac but the XLR. Today, my father would likely accept early retirement before being forced to drive anything remotely resembling "the last truck".

The buying public, my father and GM - in that order - eventually realized that buyers no longer wanted two-door Blazers, that the available hot pink and dark purple hues did the truck no favors, that everyone who wanted the knobby-tired ZR2 already had one, that the Xtreme came late to the slammed 2-door SUV party (was there ever such a party?), that the SS couldn't hold a candle to the Grand Cherokee SRT8, that the Envoy XUV was beyond laughable and that the 9-7x was what the Trailblazer should have been in the first place. None were bad trucks, and they still sold in large enough numbers to make their competitors take note, but they were accompanied by the stigma that their sales had more to do with pricing and incentives than with the vehicles themselves. By the New Millennium, my father was driving Envoys as company cars only when forced by his managers to pick vehicles from divisions whose name did not start and end with the letter C. Even then, the Envoy was never his first choice. He usually wound up driving one only as a back-up when something happened with the ordering or delivery of his regularly-scheduled vehicle.

Although half-jokingly referred to as a brand snob, the reality is that my father is not much different than the average buyer with some money to spend. The only difference is that while the buying public was introduced to better offerings from other manufacturers, my father was introduced to better offerings from within GM. The Trailblazer and Envoy tried keeping up with the times (see variants above), but the half-hearted effort always made them look like the old men in the club trying to prove that they've "still got it". GM's passenger cars and trucks have come a long way. My father heaped so much praise upon the last GMC Acadia he drove that my wife and I gave it a thorough once-over when we last saw him just to see what all the fuss was about. Full Disclosure: My father heaping praise upon a GM vehicle is not always something to be taken with more than a grain of salt - to hear him tell it, the only thing wrong with the Hummer division was that they didn't make a truck to split the difference between the H1 and H2. But I digress.

"The Last Truck" reminded me that while GM is trying to right its previous wrongs and usher in a new era in vehicle quality and competitiveness, the passing of the Trailblazer and its variants really is something to be mourned. You couldn't convince those workers in Moraine that they weren't building the best SUVs in America, just like you can't convince my father that he doesn't work for the best car company in America, just like writing this has made me realize that Chevy Blazers will forever be intertwined in more of my personal memories than any other vehicle.

"The Last Truck" - Part I

As a certified documentary-nut, I needed no reminders to watch HBO's "The Last Truck" on Monday 9/7. The previous week's previews intrigued me because 1) I also happen to be a certified car nut, 2) Outsiders don't often get a chance to follow along as an assembly plant grinds to a halt, 3) I was interested to hear the stories of the plant's workers and 4) American cars have been an inextricable part of my personal automotive landscape for as far back as I can remember. Full disclosure: my father has worked for General Motors for over 30 years.

For those who may be unfamiliar, "The Last Truck" follows some of the workers at GM's now-defunct Moraine, OH assembly plant which produced the Chevrolet Trailblazer, GMC Envoy, and Saab 9-7x. Despite many of their tenures dating back to the plant's opening in 1981, the 2008 holiday season found those workers preparing for their careers at Moraine to follow "the last truck" down the assembly line.

The documentary made me reflect on how the general, and my personal, automotive landscape has changed over the last 28 years (I'm 30, but my first two years were spent learning to walk, talk, use the bathroom etc.). As a kid I remember wondering things like: why every car had "Body by Fisher" stamped in the doorsill, who the "Good Olds Guys" were, how they managed to get the GM logo on the metal seat belt buckle of every car we owned, if other people realized that Oldsmobile's roadside assistance number was 1-800-442-Olds and if the center high mount stop light on the '86 S-10 Blazer wasn't the coolest thing ever; the normal musings of a five year-old boy growing up in New York. The Grand National wasn't on my radar until I got older, but I remember the new Monte Carlo SS my father had as a company car when he married my stepmother in 1985, the other five Monte Carlos in my family over the years, the '85 Cutlass Salon with the "For Sale" sign in the window that later became my first car and my grandmother's Regal (the first of two) that later served as my backup car when my own '87 T-Type woke up on the wrong side of the garage in the morning.

From his teenage years on, my father has owned and driven a pretty impressive array of vehicles. But as he got older, Chevrolet Blazers began spending more time in his garage than any other model. Before the company put managers such as my father under the GM umbrella, he was specifically assigned to Chevrolet. He had a family, so the Blazer made perfect sense as a company car/weekend hauler. Somewhere along the way, it became an obsession. He's had S10 Blazers in the LT and Tahoe (when that was still a trimline) variety, and Trailblazers in 2-door, 4-door, LT, ZR2 and SS guise. If Chevrolet offered it, he ordered it. And when he moved under the GM umbrella, his world was briefly opened to the GMC Envoy. So it was with a half-smile and a heavy heart that I watched "The Last Truck".

My father drove Blazers because he liked them just that much. Not because of pricing or incentives, but because he genuinely believed that they were far better vehicles than any of their more in vogue competitors. That enthusiasm was not directed solely toward the Blazer. You couldn't tell my father that a '94 Supra was faster than his '94 Corvette, that a 5-liter Mustang with all the aftermarket trimmings could eat that same Corvette alive in a straight line, or that O.J. and A.C. wouldn't have gotten further if they were driving a white K5 Blazer instead of a Bronco. The Moraine employees showed that same enthusiasm toward the trucks they were building. It was sometimes laughable, but always admirable.

So as "the last truck", a white GMC Envoy, rolled down the assembly line, I couldn't help but draw parallels between the story of Moraine and the story of my father's automotive tastes....