How a hunk of metal, well-hung and powerful, changed one woman’s life
By Wickham Boyle
It has been a long time since men whistled at me, ogled me, gave me thumbs-up and called out lustily as I passed by. Funny, but sometimes I miss the sexism I fought so hard against in my early years.
Now I am in a different geological period; I am less volcanic eruption and more underwater activity. I love the increased wisdom, I cherish all the friends, my kids, the diminution of financial terror, and, yes, I even love being only with my husband and eschewing inappropriate lust. I am not a fan of cosmetic surgery, of tons of products. I like my food hearty and my beauty routines minimal, but I do miss that rush of being noticed.
Many women at middle age experience a sadness that we no longer turn heads. In fact much has been written about the invisibility of menopausal woman. I am always trying to find the silver lining, so occasionally I exploit my older, less blatantly sexual self; it allows me to flirt egregiously with young men, shopkeepers, cops, and the hapless who ask the way to the Empire State Building. I couldn’t possibly be hitting on them, No one will misunderstand and take my frivolity for making a real pass.
Still, I do sometimes miss being that fabulous vixen who’s filled with energy beyond sexy. I recaptured that last week, and am reluctant to tell how because I feel so jealous of the experience. It is in fact nothing new; men have been boosting their sexuality with it for years:
A car. But this was no ordinary car; it was a perfect 1964 silver Shelby Cobra. I had the privilege of driving it around Manhattan on the last perfect day of autumn, ragtop down, roaring through the gears as part of a story I was assigned to do on a new Classic Car Club in Lower Manhattan. There are 20 heart-stopping cars available at the club, but I decided on the Shelby because it is my 17-year-old son’s favorite, and part of the story was about traveling from TriBeCa to pick up Henry on 22nd Street after school. I knew it would blow his mind, and of course raise his cool quotient among his contemporaries.
Let me just say I am a woman who can drive. I double- clutch, perform seamless downshifts, can spin a car, stop on a dime, and really know how to make a vehicle purr, roar, or in Austin Powers’s parlance, “Behave.” I am the product of a father who owned many sports cars and drank too much. He taught me to drive on a red Volvo P1800, then a Triumph Spitfire, and then a British racing-green Sunbeam. I drove well because he taught me hard.
My father took me to the bottom of a steep incline, pulled up the emergency brake, got out, slammed the car door, and said: ”I’ll meet you at the top of the hill.” The car rolled, stalled, and finally made it to the top. I was 12, and to this day I can slip a clutch so that the car remains perfectly motionless even atop a San Francisco hill. In college I found the first love of my life, a boy who raced classic British cars, and together we renovated and drove an Austin Healy 3000, the fabulous Jaguar XKE, and the original Mini-Cooper with its 10-inch wheels and 140-miles-an-hour engine. I love cars that are difficult to drive, I love the smell, the feel of the responsive wooden steering wheel … and I also did and do love how people snapped their heads to stare at me while I drove sleek machines, traditionally the bastion of men.
So when the director of the Classic Car Club said: “Let me show you how to drive the Shelby before you take off; it’s a little tricky,” I responded: “Well, it’s a classic H shift, high-catch clutch, overdrive five up and right, correct?” I hit the first shift perfectly, pulled out into traffic, and the young director said: “Well, I don’t need to show you anything. Have fun.” And I roared off.
I headed uptown, and the heads were turning. Cars pulled next to me and beeped their horns. Young stockbrokers out for a smoke gave me the thumbs-up, people cheered and smiled, and I could imagine they were leering at me, waving at me, loving me, appreciating me. After all, it was me cocooned in the bucket seat, exhaust pipes smoking; me clutching the walnut wheel and putting the car through her paces. It was me downshifting and making that engine scream as I went from fourth through third to second gear in a heartbeat rounding Sixth Avenue, leaving rubber.
In fact I even received an e-mail from my building manager inquiring: “Was that you I saw in the Shelby Cobra racing past the hospital?” Oh yeah, it was me, and I have never looked better, felt better, been hotter.
I was super-sexy again. It was all about me and my power, my particular brand of gumption and panache. This was not just a fast car, a vintage car, an expensive car; it was a difficult car – one that had to be driven expertly or it would leave you right there. The Shelby shimmied on the rough pavement before it exploded in a gush of power as I turned onto the West Side Highway and my son gripped the dash. I let her out, pulled her back down, revved past 4,000 rpm’s and then popped into fifth gear as the sun glinted on the East River. The sailing ships bobbed as we hit 85 zooming into the tunnel, where I down-shifted and the tunnel echoed with power. “Wow, Ma, that was great!”
Henry hardly knew the half of it. It was fantastic to feel this way again. I get how men purchase boy toys after a certain age. I see how fast cars can be a major phallic extension. But what about we women who long to experience just one more perfect, Indian-summer day in which we are lusted after, when people pause and stare because they can’t help themselves? For one afternoon a magic carpet that invigorated me past all imaginings rolled out in front of me – and I loved it.
