Men will be Boys

by Edith Hall Friedheim

My Swiss friend Andy Heller drives a 1982 Porsche 911SC. No power steering. No power brakes. Noisy, uncomfortable, and according to Andy, "primitive, like a beast, a driving machine you want to hear and smell and tame and bond with." For Andy, driving his 27-year-old Porsche "is like dancing on the edge", identifying with a lost youth, playing in a sandbox without having to borrow another kid's truck.

On a recent drive from Zurich to Basel, a distance of 80 kilometers (50 miles) the driver of a 2007 sedan tried to cut in on us during a tricky merge. Big mistake. Andy revved the motor, honked the horn and risked both our lives in an aggressive speed-up to show who was boss. I think the other driver, duly chastised, was just happy to be alive.

My Canadian nephew Doug waxes rhapsodic over his Mazda MX-5 Miata convertible built in 1990, the year Mazda introduced this model. Most Miata owners agree the first two model years were the best. Inspired by the Lotus Elan and Alfa Romeo Spider, with a bit of Jaguar thrown in, "the car is all about getting back to true and time-proven basics", according to Doug. It doesn't end there, however. Every month the members of The Miata Club near Doug's home in Ontario have a meeting to discuss the virtues of ownership and plan weekend driving trips.

If antique and vintage sports cars are the ultimate boy toys, what do women play with? Expensive minks too warm to wear most of the year, jewelry too pricey to leave the vaults very often. Brand new convertibles with nicknames - I called mine Hyacinth for its beautiful blue color - though hardly ever with the tops down because the wind wrecks our hairdos.

I attended the 2009 Cortina Car Club mountain races in the Dolomite Mountains of northern Italy  in early September. None of the requisite pre-1961 models, sleek and beautiful Jaguars, Mercedes, Alfa Romeos in the brightest reds and blues and greens, were driven by women. Granted, in the U.S. there are some women who own and race older cars. But in Italy, where liberation has barely made a dent, the men prevail.

Meantime, my Swiss friend Andy and my Canadian nephew Doug are kings of the road and masters of their universe, strutting their stuff with no competition from the likes of me.