Guys with turbo-charged cars. They’re tossers, right? Well, actually I’m going to jump off my pedestal and side with the hoons on this one.
A great friend of mine, let’s call him Nick, because that’s his name, was on a hunt for some new wheels recently. I was horrified when he started gushing over a Subaru WRX he was thinking about forking out for. It even had one of those grates on the bonnet. So uncool.
“Think of the environment,” I pleaded. He did look sheepish, but admitted his fascination with the car had deep-seated roots. It must be one of those boyhood things the guys cultivate while the girls are learning to cook and sew.
I was not convinced. “C’mon you’d be much better suited to a van.”
“Think of the camping trips.”
Still not swayed, I launched the full offensive on the spectacle he’d make of himself. “You’ll look like a tosser,” I reminded him. His best interests, of course, were at the heart of my tirade.
“A complete tool.”
It was a bit mean, but I thought my cause was worthy. I was fighting the good fight against these offensive cars. They’re so noisy. So bloody bad for the environment. And, comparing muffler sizes, really, it’s not cool.
I see the merit in my slightly older-style car which offers a more sedate driving style. Hills are a challenge, I admit, but it’s just so lovely to get a close view of things as I dawdle past. How nice to be able to count the sections of sidewalk, instead of the colours of cars. It’s the little things.
Still, Nick got his dream car.
And he has been a happy man with those keys in his hot little palm.
At first take I had to temper my hard-nosed opinion, just slightly. It looked more like a Beamer than one of those horrid white sedans with an utterly unnecessary blow-off value. Surprisingly, it was not even that loud.
Still, it was fun to have a dig at Nick’s car. “You’re such a yuppie,” I would tell him, hypocritcially, as I luxuriated in the passenger seat, pleased to be in a car that was made this side of the Sydney Olympics.
Today, however, all of my reservations about the WRX, except it’s enviro score – which still shocks me, were blown away with one nippy burst of the turbo.
Within seconds of placing my hands on the steering wheel, my inner hoon started agitating toward the accelerator.
Oh, the power! What a thrill. Whipping around a corner was almost like bungee jumping. My pulse quickened and an involunatry grin spread across my face. The rush. The speed. The pick-up. The grip. Oh dear, I had become what I had loathed.
Or perhaps I was just broadening my perspective, I bargained with myself.
I must add here that Nick even complimented me on my driving: “you go allright in a manual, Penny,” he said, slightly shocked by my enthusiasm for his demonic car. That was all the encouragement I needed! He even called me a hoon. The two-older-brothers-and-no-sisters dynamic emerges yet again.
So, I’ve fallen in love with a sports car. I anticipate I will probably dream about rally driving tonight. And yet my old 1990 model beast is showing no signs of spluttering her last splutter anytime soon.
Until she does, I’ll continue to call WRX drivers douchebags and I’ll speak at length about their exorbidant fuel usage. It’s the only way.
On the inside, however, my inner hoon will continue to lust after the gutsy car with its fancy volume knobs on the steering wheel.
Photo by Josh Miller/CNET.