Some people, more so men are obsessed with road machines. They know the makes, models, sounds, and the pros and cons of each. As far as I am concerned, a car is at most a functional and convenient means to move around and accomplish errands fast. If it is clean, I am happy to sit behind the wheel.
But one of my brothers takes the crown for his in-depth love and understanding of motor vehicles. I can drive a car for weeks and not notice anything amiss with its sound or movement. If you sit with him in the same car, within minutes, he pricks his ears and shushes you. “Do you hear that?” He asks, turning aside, hunching forward to listen better. “What? Where?” You ask, assuming that he heard whistles and is cautious of a demonstration around the corner. “That sound…” he switches off the radio, steps on the speedometer, “Hear that? The sound from the engine.” I strain and strain but all I hear is the usual drawl. Other times, he will say, “see that?” as he points and reminds you that the car needs wheel balancing, or new shocks and springs. What gets his goat is seeing what he calls an abused car.
