Steve McQueen And Proper Education

Kids grow up in their world; not ours. There are pros and cons but there’s no point wishing it was otherwise. The biggest challenge (in my opinion) is the current tsunami of wishy-washy bullshit which conspires against your kid. Children start with unlimited potential but school and society work tirelessly to erode them until they’re clueless and weak at adulthood. The world doesn’t need more wimps (of either sex).

At a less philosophical level, I want my kids to know how to drive manual transmission vehicles. Why? Because that’s the right way to live. About this I’ll entertain no excuses. People who can shift with a clutch are better than those who cannot. Even people who can’t use a clutch know it (even if they’d rather not admit it).

Even if you can’t have a manual in the driveway, it’s best to know what to do with one. A cowboy without a horse still knows how to ride. A monk in a monastery still has a dick. If you can’t handle a clutch, you don’t even know what you can’t do.

Here’s the rub: If you raise your kids right, they’re not compliant lumps of clay by the teenage years. By then they’re getting pretty self-reliant (also opinionated and annoying but that’s another discussion). Dad haranguing them about proper vehicular life choices isn’t an easy sell. They just don’t see the point of learning a tricky skill that only applies to 10% of cars.

I blame the homogeneous squish that is a modern car. They’re grey, silver, or some derivative of a non-interesting color that makes the putty colored computers of yore seem a gaudy rainbow by comparison. The body is plastic lined and bulbous, the bumpers are plastic wrapped Styrofoam, and the whole thing will expensively and irreparably collapse in the smallest accident… but only after blasting you in the face with an air bag.

The engine is an appliance more than a machine. Despite nifty capabilities and fancy metallurgy, it’s a eunuch. It’s serf to the overlord; a computer controlled EPA mandated fuel management system designed to imbibe unholy gasoline derivative concoctions who’s main purpose is to win votes in the Iowa primaries. The fuel computer weighs a thousand options; none of which have anything to do with fun. It carefully censors any excess happiness you might accidentally experience and creates a life of regression to the mean.

Throttle input is received by the fuel metering system and routed to a committee meeting between the injectors and the mediocre, uninspiringly adequate, automatic transmission system. The transmission sends a memo to the traction control software, which checks a list supplied by the anti-lock brakes, and then the whole thing goes up to a vote. The EPA and safety regulations have two votes while the driver is like the representative of Puerto Rico at Congress; merely an observer.

When all parties have signed off on the safety briefing, the car trundles forward with all the joy of an insurance salesman’s regional presentation.

The driver, trapped in a safety-pod, peeking over highwall sides and glancing around massive A pillars has nothing to do but keep the lumbering box between the lines. In lieu of driving fun, they’re provided with six cupholders and a Bluetooth equipped radio that will inexplicably stop working when 5G mixes with a new OS in the next upgrade and the firmware goes to shit because the software was written by the lowest bidder in Elbonia.

The driver is only nominally in control. They’re mostly just meat, strapped to a crash cage, surrounded by red tape, and existing to make payments.

Is it any wonder kids of current times don’t pine for a car? The vehicles they’re used to are expensive dull computers on wheels. Their schools bathe them in mass transit Utopian bullshit and hazy predicted futures of self driving cars. I grew up watching Bo and Luke thrash a ’69 Charger, my national history was horse riding adventurers exploring the west, and my future was spaceflight. As a teenager there was a lot to learn about cars. I had to keep cheap primitive rusted behemoths running based on will, careful driving, and bailing wire. I drove junk that was about to collapse at any moment and learned plenty by it. I’d lost brakes on three vehicles before I was old enough for my first legal beer. I’ve had a hood fly in my face, headers collapse on me, things catch on fire, and I consider doors optional. I learned to drive when you had to pay attention or die. My kid has never been in a car without AC. I was Tarzan trying to tell Urkel about trees.

My arguments could only gain traction with someone who’s actually piloted a machine instead of sat inert in an SUV. So I played the chase scene from Bullitt. This would be inspiration. I added some followup questions. “Did you see Steve shifting like a bad ass?” They didn’t, it’s not really obvious in the clip, which was my point. Question two is what mattered. “Did you feel Steve McQueen shifting like a bad ass?” Yes!

Bingo. I had them. You can’t be Steve McQueen if all you know is to point a lever at D and piddle down to Walmart. The kids grudgingly accepted Dad might have a point… and besides I control the auto fleet at Curmudgeon Compound so they’re lucky I’m not making them drive a dump truck to school.

It wasn’t easy, but my kids can shift a car. Enjoy the little victories.

A.C.

P.S. An amusing side note, when they had learner’s permits I put a kid at the wheel of my Dodge. (Lord help me! I was a trusting soul.) Not realizing cars and trucks are apples and oranges, the kid dropped the hammer like they were in mom’s weaker and calmer consumer grade SUV. My truck lit up! I drive it mellow… like a man who hates repair bills… so the kid assumed that’s all the truck has. Nope! When the kid let fly with 300+ horsepower and God knows how much torque, the lightly loaded duallys tore a massive hole in the dirt road and launched us like a rocket. Thank goodness we didn’t wind up in a ditch. The kid had no idea folks can drive around using only 20% of an enormous beastly engine. I got a look of respect from that experience. “Dad, this thing is overpowered… can’t you dial it back?” Big smile, “I do every day, it’s called throttle control.” “But it’s crazy hard to manage.” Another smile, “If you think the truck has balls, maybe someday you’ll see what my motorcycle can do”. That got a second double take. Not often you can impress a teenager but I did it that day.

(Hat tip to Maggies Farm and The Borderline Sociopathic Blog For Boys which reminded me of the Bullitt clip I’d used back then.)

The clip is only 10 minutes, pour a cup of coffee and enjoy: