Tesla Girls

It is a well-documented fact that I am a car girl. My first love was the General Lee and my second was KITT. I will turn off my stereo if I hear an especially powerful car approaching so I can better savor the engine growl – music to my ears! Oddly, I can identify many cars at night from the shape of their headlights. It’s not a skill I worked on; I just can, kind of like Neo knowing Kung Fu.

I am a rabid fan of BBC’s Top Gear and have made my fiancée promise that our next UK visit will include a taping so I can swoon as Richard, Jeremy, James and the Stig test super-cars right before my eyes. Poor man. My honey’s not cut from the same cloth as me. His family favored sensible, reliable cars. His father likes to say that his car “is for hauling my ass around, not my ego.” I beg to differ.

I have always dreamt of a Leno-style showroom of all my favorite ego-tastic expressions of car love. Yes, I get the utilitarian argument. But the car is more than that. It is the highest expression of design and engineering. It’s the marriage of art and science and as such should push the boundaries of both.

As a Petrol Head, I have always assumed my true love would come with a ridiculous amount of torque and horsepower. Prius be damned, give me internal combustion or give me death! And then a funny thing happened.

“I brought my Tesla!” My friend announced one sunny morning. “I thought you might like to drive it.”

Are you nuts? Does it have wheels? Of course I want to drive it. The Tesla Roadster is essentially the world’s first electric super-car. I was skeptical but intrigued.

It looked a lot like the Lotus Elise with which I was familiar due to an ill-fated blind date (he’d had one, he let me drive). This Tesla Roadster was more car-like and less go-cart-like than the Lotus even though they do share styling. But like the Lotus, looking down at the Tesla’s seats gave you the illusion you were looking at something lower than the pavement outside. It’s a tiny, tiny, low car.

Like the super-cars I dream of, the Tesla has sexy styling and nearly no storage but I was impressed by the long, if narrow trunk space. “It’s exactly golf-bag sized,” my friend informed me, “so you get that they know their target market.”

My friend handed me the keys. We got in and I was surprised the visibility was so much better than the Lotus. I didn’t have that same “I can go fast but I can’t see shit” out-of-control feeling. I went to shift and was startled, “oh, it’s automatic.”

“There’re no gears because there’s no transmission.” Well duh, that makes sense! This whole electric car thing was going to challenge my long-held notions of engine love.

With the proud claim of 0-60 in 3.7 seconds, the Tesla is no slouch when it comes to power. It was also the fastest car I’d driven to date. Despite its hard, racer suspension, the Tesla drove like buttered silk. I was twitterpated.

The best surprise was yet to come. My friend warned me that when you let up on the accelerator, the car automatically brakes itself. Part of the electric engine feedback apparently. The brake lights even come on. For someone who can’t stand automatics because they take away my down-shift slow-down option, this was a whole new world. No matter how fast I gunned this quiet monster, it slowed to a stop in the tiniest of spaces. The worst part (the only bad part if we’re honest) of going really, really fast is having to stop really, really fast. This car had that handled. I felt like I had the world in the palm of my hand.

My friend directed me to the freeway, “the only place you’ll really be able to run it,” she grinned. “As soon as we’re on the on ramp, gun it.” As if I needed encouragement. We hit the ramp and I dropped my foot to the floor. I was slammed back into the seat, amazed and drooling but my friend still shouted “Go! Go! Go! Go!” as we zipped past cars and motorcycles. I couldn’t believe the speed and yet feeling of total control and safety. I was wowed. “Too bad you didn’t go faster,” my friend sighed “then you’d really see.” See what? I gasped. Faster and I’d see into parallel universes?

My friend is an unlikely super-car owner. She freely admits to not being a Petrol Head like me and only took her race driving course in order to better understand this machine. Turns out my friend, a rocket scientist – for real - is a special combination of scientist and activist. She and her husband bought the Tesla, not because they’d always hungered for a sexy sports car, but because it was the right thing to do and they could do it.

“People have these ideas about electric cars that they’re slow, unresponsive or unsexy. This car blows all that away” she explained. “It proves you can have what you love about your gas cars but in a way that has to be the future of all cars in order for this planet to continue. My husband and I felt if we could help fund this wave of electric car engineering, that opens up Tesla to develop their next wave of cars targeted and priced for the more average car consumer. We had to do our part to make that happen.”

I was amazed at their spirit and vision. But still, this is a $100,000 car. I wouldn’t let anyone drive it if it were mine.

“We want as many people to get the experience you just got,” she smiled. “The more people that get that electric cars can be this amazing, the better.”

Blown away by her conscientious and magnanimous spirit. I handed her back the keys, reluctantly of course. I had found my new love. I would definitely be ready for the Model S Tesla plans to release in 2012 (0-60 in 5.6 seconds!). But even more, I had a new goal for my dream showroom. You can keep your Ascaris and Zondas and Maclarens. Simply give me the Tesla Roadster Sport. Cherry red, please.

“But why do you need that?” My fiancée moans.

Because I do. Cars bring me joy like nothing else in the world. And I feel my scaled back showroom dream is pretty modest if not realistic. Just one super-car is all I need. And maybe my ’68 Camaro. And just one little DB9. And the Bugatti Vayron would be pretty amazing. And I have always wanted a Cobra.

OK so you can take the gas engine out of the car but you can’t take the gas engine car out of my heart. But those can be my weekend cars. I’ll stick to the amazing Tesla the rest of the week. How’s that for sensible?

Shiny Objects

I got a parking ticket today. And I had to go to the doctor for my apparent strep.

But the Universe balances it out for me.

You know it takes very little to make girls happy. It's a fact we like shiny things.

I got home from the doctor to discover one of the most beautiful sights as far as my little vehicular heart is concerned: my all time favorite shiny objects.

Ten Deloreans. In a row. Driving up and down my street.

License plates - of course - like McFLY, OUTA TME, TM MCHN...pitter patter goes my heart.

And then...

I got to sit in one. Aaaaaand my day is made.

Thank you, car gods!

Can you pay this parking ticket too?

Heidi's Rules for Successful Driving

1. Always let people in. You know, when it doesn't piss you off. You will probably need someone to return the favor in about five minutes.



2. If you are pulled over with a broken spedometer, do not answer "Do you know how fast you were going?" with "Actually, no, Officer."



3. Unless it's really hot or really cold, drive with the windows down. This allows the people next to you to share your music which is inevitably better than theirs. You are sharing and educating.



4. Keep your car washed and waxed. It goes faster without the wind resistance dirt causes.



5. If you should pull a jackrabbit start turning left off the line as the light turns yellow and then over-rev and showboat around a slow SUV and THEN realize the car behind you is a cop, immediately downshift (brakelights are an admission of guilt) and pull into the next mini-mall like you calmly yet urgently need an item from whatever store is in front of you. Park and wait for the cop to go away. It also helps to imagine you are bland and wearing beige and not a speedster at all. It may even help to imagine you car is beige. Unless your car is beige in which case I doubt any of this applies to you.

Saturday Ends an Era

For eighteen years I’ve driven according to my own rules. I’ve always felt the vehicle is an extension of my physical self. Kind of like Knight Rider, I’ve always thought of my self as above the law. Those silly traffic rules apply to lesser drivers; those less skilled or saddled with less responsive vehicles. The rules do not apply to an uber-driver like myself. Sometimes I even resent gravity. Universal law for whom exactly?

Driving a red sports car with a lead foot for eighteen years and, thanks to fate or magic, sliding by numerous cops will make anyone think they are in fact charmed. I’ve honed my cop-dar and am quick on the brakes and downshift when I see one - sometimes just when I feel one near.

So imagine my surprise when one popped up on the shoulder and shot out behind me before I could haul the reins in to mortal driver speeds. As the lights flashed in my rearview I willed myself to remain calm. What crazy story could I tell to get out of this? Racing to dad in the hospital? Bad juju. Avoiding a crazy driver I saw brandishing a gun? Hmmm, miiiight not buy it. Crying and begging? Not really up for a whole day of being emotionally drained. Admit to my broken speedometer? Probably not too smart. Offer a blowjob? Can’t even go there.

Officer Kwan came to my window and I froze, smiled and handed over my license and registration. “Clocked you at 85,” he smiled back.

“Is that all?” I thought. It didn’t dawn on me to argue my perfect driving record or simply ask please not to give me a ticket. It just occurred to me to smile like an idiot. After all, I figured karmically I’d earned it. He probably took my calm grin for indifference to the whole thing. Really it was shock.

As I drove onward safely tucked in behind a sluggy semi, it dawned on me that it had in fact happened. The unthinkable. That which I thought I was above. I had gotten a speeding ticket. Me. The girl with the God-given right for ground flight. As I exited the freeway I felt a rock in my stomach.

It was still there the next day when I noticed for the first time in recorded history, I actually avoided driving. If it had happened once, that meant it could happen again. This means I am not in fact charmed and above the law. The rock settled in. This means I am just a driver like everyone else on the road. That is the worst news I’ve had in a long time. If there is one thing the dudette cannot abide, it’s being average.

Is this what it feels like for the rest of you mortals on the roads? This super sucks.

An Ode to Bugs and Cobras

When I was six my father took me to a film that changed my life. It changed my core value system and my perception of what was possible. It sparked a life-long love and obsession. I have never been the same since. The film…was Herbie the Love Bug.

That fact that a sweet little car could get you from place to place, win races for you, and seemingly love you back was almost too much for me. I couldn’t wait to turn sixteen. That was a ways off though so in the meanwhile, I fed my obsession. I turned into a car junkie. It wasn’t just VWs. Anything with wheels and an engine. I loved The Dukes of Hazzard. Sure that Bo Duke was cute, but did you see what that Charger could do? Yee haw, indeed. KITT. Oh man, are you kidding? Many a night I dreamt of KITT’s clipped British voice telling me there were bad guys just around the corner. I would walk to school, talking into my giant Casio watch and imagining my gallant Kitt racing around the corner for me. When my sister played with her dolls, I made complex tracks for my many Matchbox cars and I drove the world with them. They all had names and stories. They all loved me back, just like Herbie.

When my sister and I used to play house, we’d get to the part where we’d pick what car we wanted and she’d always say she wanted a limo. I would endlessly dispute this with her. People don’t just have limos. That’s not a car you can actually drive and feel the joy of the open road, the thrill of downshifting into a tight turn as you would in, say, a 1965 AC Shelby Cobra. Granted, I had yet to experience these things myself but I was pretty sure they were out there.

My astute mom capitalized on this car-oriented world of mine. I earned my allowance with the weekly task of washing and detailing the giant 1979 Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme that had been her wedding present from my step-dad. White with red leather interior. Oh yeah. And pinstripes! I loved it. My mom couldn’t get me to weed the garden or clean the house but I was happy covered in car grime and suds. I christened him Phineus and made sure the white walls gleamed, the leather shined and the hood ornament sparkled. I took care of Phineus, or Big Phinny to friends, as though he was a prize thoroughbred. And, at 18, was duly rewarded with the car itself to take to college.

Phinny and I had good times together. I could fit everything I owned in him and I knew that was valuable in case I ever needed to bail from the dorms in the middle of the night. I was free with Phinny. If I pumped the brakes at a stop light, his giant nose bounced up and down – cheapie hydraulics. Once I reached for a CD and swerved onto a median, snapping off a 4x4 with a “Keep Right” sign with a rifle-report crack. Not a scratch on Phinny’s steel bumper. And a fitting political statement to boot. That crazy car had taste. At a certain point the muffler fell off and Phineus developed a big throaty growl which I loved. Some frat boys pulled up next to me one day and revved their new stick-shift Mustang at me. As if my old automatic would be up to the challenge. The nerve. The light changed, I stomped on the gas and big, muffler-less Phinny leapt ahead, leaving the Mustang in a black cloud. I was on top of the world. Phinny and I were together so long I used to say if I needed him to, he’d be able to drive me home on his own.

My sister didn’t yet have her license and she’d pine for it, posing in mom’s driver’s seat and sighing “I was born to drive.” Even back then, I knew she was wrong. Hers was just a teenage fascination with the freedom of the driver’s license. Mine was a deep seated passion.

Driving has become one of the most purely unadulterated joys of my adult life. I had to move back here from New York because I couldn’t stand the not driving there. My idea of a good time is a few hours driving serpentine, deserted roads until my car’s back end breaks loose in the curves. I think, overall, my driving philosophy can be summed up by the fact that my speedometer broke sometime last year. I hardly notice. How fast am I going? As fast as I can. It’s not just a means to an end for me. And it’s not reckless. The precision and hyper-alert control is part of the draw. It’s an experience I savor.

Phineus has long gone to the scrap head in the sky. But his successors have been no less loved. My current amour is a zippy little red 300ZX. Rufus. He’s of voting age which in my book makes him a classic. He’s stylish in a sharp-lined, old school way. And he can legitimately kick the asses of the frat boy’s Mustangs. Rufus and I have been through a lot together. I have an ludicrous pride in the fact that I can handle his high torque rear-wheel drive in blizzard conditions as well as on the perfect Cali summer day.

I’ve had opportunities to trade him in - get something practical. The very thought makes my skin crawl. “Beige Honda” are dirty words to me. Give me style, give me personality. And give me internal combustion. I know, I know. Not a popular sentiment. But I don’t trust those sneaky Priuses with their “quiet - too quiet” thing. They are practical and good for the world and they have completely missed the joy of curvy, kick-ass design and open road revels. You don’t have to scold me. I know my days of white-knuckled, gas-guzzling, ground flight are numbered. Someday we’ll have used up all the fossilized dinosaurs and I’ll be relegated to putting along in tight-lipped silence. But until then I think it’s no accident that, from across the parking lot, my little Rufus looks like a Matchbox toy car. My love has come full circle.