COLUMN: A feeling of fahrvegnYgen

From Nathan Smith's, "Just Skip to the Crossword," Fall '97 From Nathan Smith's, "Just Skip to the Crossword," Fall '97I absolutely love driving. Though I enjoy working on engines -- they present to me a sort of jigsaw puzzle, which I find quite fun to solve -- I take no pride in fixing them, or fixing other people's or bragging of my prowess with the monkey wrench. I could care less about the mysteries of the internal combustion engine, as long as the car keeps going and takes me as far as I wish. Besides, any bragging I might do would only show my ignorance. If it hasn't gone wrong with my own car, then I haven't been forced to learn how it works. Thus, I could talk about changing oil, replacing brake pads, adjusting clutch assemblies, tampering with odometers, sugaring gas tanks and, well, that's about it. Unless you've never even seen an automobile, I'm not likely to impress you. I'm not a fast-driving speed demon either. I have no love affair with the sound of the roaring engine and the rush of the wind in my hair. Nor do I picture myself in a convertible red Ferrari, sporting leather gloves with the fingers cut off, blazing a trail through Arizona at 200 miles per hour with a bubbly, blond babe giggling in shotgun. Why live life in a Def Leppard video? Personally, I have better things to fantasize about (I'd much rather live life in a Mentos commercial). The two automotive fantasies described above actually revolve around what I hate about cars. It bothers me that they are environmentally destructive, prone to malfunction and built with the express intention of breaking down and eventually dying. When I think of all the cars crushed into cubes stacked neatly in junk yards and scrap heaps around the country, I realize how my one little Jetta contributes to the gradual uglification of the land. Were it some flashy sports car with a roaring engine, it would only be worse. I'd only be burning more gas, going through bigger tires, wasting more turtle wax and spending more money. All that senseless waste for an overdeveloped sense of machismo (or as I prefer to spell it, macheesemo). The macheesemo factor discourages my enthusiasm about cars. I make a habit of boycotting such mainstays of pseudo-masculinity. I don't feel threatened by a man with a bigger, faster, louder engine than mine. Nor am I troubled by the fact that many men's knowledge of the automobile (and therefore their ability to control and repair them) far exceeds mine. The fact that car talk serves as a tool for establishing the male pecking order makes it all the less appealing. I'd rather do cross stitch. No, I'm big on driving for entirely different reasons. It has something to do with the mental state which overwhelms me at the moment of ignition. With the turn of the key, I suddenly feel empowered. I realize that if I wanted to, I could abort my milk mission to Thriftway in favor of less mundane alternatives. I could get on I-76 West, and from there just connect from one interstate to the next until I run out of money in Montana somewhere. Then I can sell the car or just roll it into a ditch, run up the nearest hillside and become Grizzly Adams. No more papers, dissertations, students, pollution, university politics or relationships. I could be Jack Kerouac of the 21st century, if I so decided. Of course, I never have the guts or stupidity -- call it what you will -- to act on these impulses. Something always holds me back -- like my grip on reality. I realize the Grizzly Adams lifestyle is no longer practicable (and way out of style). I'd probably end up in jail for hunting squirrels on private property. No one reads Kerouac anymore anyway. Most compelling of all, I know our ruthless financial aid department would send out one of their Terminator 2000 robots to hunt me down and force me to pay off my loans. Still, it's an empowering fantasy. If I didn't have these daydreams there truly would be no escape from the drudgery and discouragement of the daily routine. Not that life is devoid of profound moments of redemption – that's not the case at all. The problem is the enduring rewards of education and achievement are subtle, gradual changes: the evolution of mind and spirit. It's easy to lose sight of these things when constantly bombarded with bills, academic projects, work responsibilities and the thousand other trappings of school. It's even easier to imagine some wild and insane adventure would free me from the doldrums and drudgery. The physical context of my car catapults me into the imaginative context of escapist fantasies. I spend some time dreaming of amazing adventures, wild and reckless freedom, total irresponsibility and temporary insanity. At the same time I understand fully and completely how very unsatisfying that life would be in the long run. My conscience would never rest were I to spend my life in shameless self indulgence. When I ultimately realize I'm going to go get my gallon of milk as originally planned, it's not what it might seem -- not some depressing submission to the bondage of graduate school. Rather I have realized I am exactly where I want to be. Here is where sublime satisfaction lies. And if I really want insanity and danger, driving in West Philly ought to fit the bill.