Why I Drive Stick
Mostly because I inherited it. When life hands you lemons… (my brother’s hand-me-down 2013 Ford Focus SE is an actual lemon)… you take the free ride.
I am not usually one to prefer complications in life. The idea of automating trivial decisions like my car’s rate of acceleration normally appeal to me.
Yet, I have begun wrapping my head around car enthusiasm: an engine roaring to your need for speed, a steering wheel responding to your will to turn, a gear box clanking to your want for power. Control.
“I drive stick.”
Although my millennial peers laud my limp flex, it always falls flat where it matters most. I wouldn’t call my gray hatchback an enthusiast’s car by any means. But owning a stick shift in America in 2023 must warrant some degree of adulation amongst the nostalgic and mechanically inclined aficionados. Or so I thought before attempting to engage in any sort of meaningful conversation with a handful of car enthusiasts. Shortly after disclosing my car’s banal stats—4-cylinder engine, 5 gear transmission, I really don’t know much else— to any sort of car-guy, the conversation turns to disinterest. Disappointedly, I change the topic to something I do know about, such as traffic or weather. Having tried to appeal to foreigners with my lackluster brag, I have learned that to Europeans, South Americans, and most other non-Americans, saying “I drive stick,” is basically equivalent to saying “I drive.”
Car enthusiasts care about things like horsepower, acceleration, torque, and speed. I care about getting from point A to point B. Yet, owning a car with a manual transmission has forced me to look beyond linear routes to my destination. Call it involvement, engagement, even fun.
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I’ve adapted a teenage-granny style of driving: The Fast and The Furious meets Driving Miss Daisy. It involves revving my engine at a red light and staring down an unassuming soccer mom in a 2024 Honda CR-V Hybrid beside me. When the light turns green, my tires screech as my adrenals inject a moderate dose of exhilaration into my humdrum day. I slam my black and white shifter from first to second to third gear, reaching a top speed of 45 mph one second before she does, then ease to a cruising pace. I smile, having treated myself to a controlled microcosm of a daring life.
At a downhill red light, idled behind my little gray Ford, between humming the chorus of your favorite lite FM song and sipping your half sweetened chain store iced beverage, you might say, “Here’s another Joe Shmo.” That would be until the light turns green and my stumbling foot flutters the clutch, shaking my car’s chassis as I try to catch first gear before rolling backwards into your front bumper. Then you might get scared and yell, “What’s up with this Shmo?” Depending on your demographic (namely, age and level of education) you could be inclined to characterize me as a total jackass. Or maybe you would judge me more favorably and put the blame on some automotive defect that you don’t quite understand. A courtesy flash or a beep beep might slip into the picture.
I assume most people do not put so much thought into their driving. Once in a while, downshifting to overtake a brutally slow left lane driver on the highway (why won’t anybody use the left lane correctly?), I glance at a “Please, Don’t Text and Drive,” billboard. Distracted driving has become the norm. Heck, cars practically drive themselves nowadays. I’ve witnessed driving Snapchatters, driving Netflixers, and driving Candycrushers. Must be nice. I can only dream of dozing off in a Tesla, one finger barely resting on the steering wheel as I scroll through Instagram. Instead, my left hand grips the wheel, my right hand holds the shifter, my left foot anticipates the clutch, and my right foot presses the accelerator. Have you ever had all four limbs so busy?
Perhaps it’s a gift, a last hurrah of physical engagement with the task at hand. A dance, where man leads machine through scorching desert sun by day and biting mountain blizzards by night. A story where people care about knowing not only where they’re going, but also about how they’re getting there.
Next time I find myself at an airport in Paris or Toulouse and the car rental attendant asks me, “Bâton ou automatique?” I might just embrace my inner Vin Diesel.
