I can’t offer you a scientific explanation for the mysterious chemistry that there is between men and their cars because, I’m a man. But there is something about getting behind the wheel of a powerful monster that brings out the boy racer in nearly very bloke I know and no, it’s nothing to do with the er…extension theory. In my mind I think it’s more about control.

Let’s face it, although most men won’t admit it there’s a not a lot that your average adult male has the better of. If they think they wear the trousers in their household, they’re mistaken. And I’ll let you into a secret, most men know this. And we know that our wives know too. And we know that we are given this illusion of control, courtesy of our other halves, just to keep us happy.

Let’s face it a lot has changed since the good old Stone age times when men were really men. Now, I’m afraid to say, we’ve nothing to do. There’s no competition. There’s nothing to test our mettle against. In other words there’s no real meaning to our existence anymore. When the dinosaurs became extinct I’m afraid, so did we. No dinosaurs – no real men. So it’s obvious isn’t it?

There’s only one beast still around that we can test ourselves against and I don’t mean our wives. I’m talking about the combustion engine. Put it on wheels and what do you get, that’s right, the motor car. A monster of our own making that we must tame, that we must control, that we can take to the limit daring it to fight back, and of course, sometimes it does. So there’s your answer, an element of risk. That’s what we men need in our sad little lives, an element of risk. Just like when we hunted the dinosaur club in hand. An element of risk that sometimes, just sometimes, ended with fatal consequences.

Ah…the good old days. Grrr.

Ian

Ian Harris lives in Shakespeare country (Stratford upon Avon) in the UK and loves to write, unfortunately not to William’s standard, although he believes when he dies, like Will his work will be rediscovered and he will be recognised at last.