It’s Not Gender That Drives the Desires

S well. The ’77 Buick sputtered out on the Santa Ana Freeway during rush-hour last week and he jumped out the door, pounded the hood and swore it was time to buy new wheels. His eyes glazed over as he stood there, dreaming of the classy chassis that would soon be parked in their driveway.

She stayed cool, touched up her lip gloss in the cracked rear-view mirror, and nodded her head .

But what would they buy? They decided to talk it over between bites of Slim Cuisine that night.

SHE: Don’t tell me you want one of those trucks that sit up so high you feel like you’re riding in a moving lifeguard stand. I know they’re trendy, but they make me crazy. We don’t need to be able to see the Monterey Peninsula from the 405. I want to feel like I’m in a car, not a Sherman tank.

HE: I always knew you didn’t fit the mold. Those sport/utility vehicles are selling like crazy right now, and guess who’s buying them? Women. Apparently, women like the feel of not only being surrounded by something substantial, but of being able to sit up above traffic and see their surroundings. Sport/utility vehicles are becoming the station wagons of the ‘90s, one cut up from a plain vanilla Volvo.

SHE: I’ll opt for a Volvo with a periscope, thank you very much. I’m all for utility, but I like it close to the ground.

For me, the primary consideration is safety. I want to be in a low, solid car when that maniac on the freeway careens around me at 90 m.p.h. When you’re way up there, you’ve got far to fall.

Next, color counts. I like black because it doesn’t attract attention, but there’s a part of me that longs to breeze around in a ruby-red bomber.

HE: You’ve just struck a primal note. We men get a lot of dismissive comment from women about our fascination with exotic or unusual cars, but scratch the soul of any American--male or female--and somewhere underneath is going to lurk a true lust for sleek lines, big engines and speed.

You don’t have to have a Y chromosome to go to the Long Beach Grand Prix or the Indy 500, and if those races aren’t enough to make you want to run straight out and hunt up a Ferrari Daytona you’d better check your pulse. Loving great cars--call them muscle cars, exotic cars, sports cars, rods--is like loving opera. You have to watch them in action before you appreciate them. And if you’re lucky enough to actually drive one of them, well, there’s no going back.

SHE: So what are you trying to tell me? That we can afford a Ferrari Testarossa?

I think a car says loads about the person who drives it. You always hear about the millionaire who cruises around in the sloppy jalopy. Figures. He has nothing to prove. And often it’s the guy with zero greenbacks who leases the ultra fancy-schmancy car. He has everything to prove.

We have nothing to prove, right?

HE: It has nothing to do with proving anything; it has to do with taking a fairly mundane daily activity and making it a bit more fun. If a car makes me smile every time I drive it, and if I tend to look back to admire it after I’ve parked it, I think it’s worth a couple of extra thou.

You have to live within your means, of course, and the auto makers know that. That’s why they offer sporty, quick, tight-handling cars in several price brackets.

That, incidentally, is my idea of fun: great handling, agility, power when you need it. And maybe a rag top. But you like luxury, right?

SHE: Only in the practical sense. Those exotic little road-scraping cars scare me.

And I don’t want our monthly car payment to be so hefty we can’t afford to take the car anywhere. For me, a car is a means to an end. I’m really more interested in where I’m going than what I’m riding in to get there.

I’ve driven everything from a gas-gobbling Chrysler station wagon to a baby Mercedes. I admit, I felt very safe in the Mercedes. But it’s a bundle to spend.

And--have you noticed?--there seems to be some kind of anti-foreign car movement going on. A lot of my friends are eschewing the luxury foreigns, going for the luxury Americans instead.

HE: Yeah, good ol’ Detroit iron seems to be making a comeback. The Big Three seem to have learned something, though: American drivers of both sexes want value and reliability, but they also want a little extra bang for their buck. Take a look at the ads for those domestic luxury cars. They aren’t stressing the kind of dove gray cushy country club luxury they used to. These days they’re showing Cadillacs and Lincolns tearing up the road, with the obligatory flying dead leaves.

Want a nice compromise? How about a cherry 1959 Cadillac Coupe de Ville convertible? A red one. With a modified engine and shocks. For you, a leather interior the size of a bridal suite, plus acres of metal to provide safety. And a pure hell road car for me. C’mon, let’s go to Vegas!