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Published on 10/05/1998 All articles from this issue

Joy riding

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By Kerri Havnen Gordon

The Living Experiment

My husband and I went joy riding the other night. It was perfect. We had the top down on the shiny Mustang, our shades on, wind whipping at our hair, zipping along the back roads of Los Altos Hills.

While it was perfect, it was also a sham. The Mustang - late model, black, powerful - is on loan from a friend after our 13-year-old Subaru up and died recently. And we don't live in Los Altos Hills, although we do fantasize about it.

And another thing, we weren't alone. Our 6- and 9-year-old sons were in the back seat, squealing with delight. Throughout most of the drive their arms were raised above their heads, as if they were on a roller coaster. Ostensibly, this joy ride was a special treat for them as they rarely get to ride in a convertible. But then I realized that we were enjoying it as much as they were.

I have rarely ridden in, let alone owned, a car that purred or that felt as if there were a rocket underneath my seat. And sitting in that Mustang, I had to admit liking the sensation. We decided right then and there that if we ever had unlimited discretionary income, we would buy a hot little convertible and use it for joy rides like this one in the hills.

What surprised me more, shocked me even, was that my husband looked even more handsome than usual behind the wheel of a sleek, black, testosterone-charged V-8 race car. Since cars have never impressed me before, this was a startling discovery.

If anything, I have sneered at cars such as those and the deficient men who I imagined drive them. One thing that impressed me about my future husband 18 years ago was that he drove a beast he affectionately called The Whale. It was a 1972 Oldsmobile Delta 88, handed down to him from his uncle. It was the biggest car I had ever seen, and it was pea green and extremely uncool. I deemed it a good sign that my future husband had a strong enough sense of self not to be diminished by a car like that.

But last night I liked how my husband looked in that hot rod, shifting gears as he can't do in our station wagon or minivan. And I didn't even mind the looks of mothers in minivans at stoplights. They looked at us the way I looked at sport cars before I was in one. I imagined them thinking - as they looked at our precious children, all exposed in the backseat - that this Mustang was not an appropriate car for a family.

Let them think that we are more fun than we are, that we always drive shiny, late model cars with leather seats that have never seen a spill or a crumb. Let them think that we aren't waiting for our old wagon to be fixed, that we haven't succumbed to buying a minivan, or that we replace our cars more frequently than once every dozen or so years. Let them think us selfish, impractical, and dangerously free-spirited. Their looks didn't bother me. I had my guy sitting next to me, wearing shades, wind whipping what little hair he has left. And on this day, I liked it, a lot.