In theory, I should have loved Nancy, a woman my mother set me up with back in my 20s.
This was long before eHarmony, but she was definitely ideal: graduate degree, brunette, slim, with an interest in literature and economics. We both came from military families. She wore a Chanel jacket on our first date. (I assumed that my mother had tipped her off to my tastes.)
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So why didn't it work? Probably for the same reasons that the 2003 Chevrolet Corvette Z06 left me cold, even though it had the best horsepower, braking and acceleration numbers in its class. As I've learned, specifications aren't everything - when it comes to love, whether it be automotive or human, there is such a thing as divine spark.
On to the Corvette. A friend of mine had just taken delivery of a brand-new Z06, and he was dying for me to try it. I was stoked. I'd drive the 'Vette, then return to my friend's garage to drink beer and rhapsodize about his new car. Like Nancy, the ZO6 looked perfect on paper: aluminum-block V-8 engine, giant brakes, fully-independent suspension - the list went on.
Then came the drive and the disappointment. Which was weird, because the Z06 did everything the specification sheet said it would. Heading down a deserted Georgia back road, the speed flashed up on to the digital display: 155 mph. Good God. And the suspension worked as promised - the Z06 blasted through my benchmark corners as fast or faster than anything I'd driven.
But that didn't mean much. The day before, I'd driven the same road in a 2002 Mustang GT, and it was a lot more fun. How could that be? On paper, the Mustang was inferior. It had an iron-block V-8 with pushrods. And the rear suspension wasn't independent - the Mustang had a straight back axle. Technically, it was an ox cart compared to the ZO6.
But none of that really mattered out on the road. The Mustang had a certain quality to it, and it was satisfying to slide it around corners with shots of throttle. The ZO6 had done all the same things faster, but it had left me numb. I told a friend it was like making love to a sex doll (not that I would know). So did the specifications lie? Not really. But when it comes to inspired design, you venture beyond the world of engineering into the realm of art. A great machine is more than the sum of its parts.
From boyhood onward, I studied road test numbers in magazines like Road and Track, memorizing 0-60 mph times, curb weights and lateral acceleration figures the way other kids absorbed batting averages and points per season.
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Until I actually began driving, I assumed that the best car would be the one with the highest horsepower, the highest top speed and, in most cases, the highest price. Then came adulthood, time as a professional mechanic, and countless hours behind the wheel of everything from Volkswagen Beetles to Formula cars.
And my favourites were rarely the cars that looked most impressive on the spec sheet. Instead, they were the ones that had a balance and enchantment that could only be appreciated first-hand. Take Porsche, for example, one of my favourite car brands. On paper, its 2010 911 Turbo is the car to go for, with 500 horsepower, all-wheel drive and the kind of crowd-parting cachet that comes with a $180,000 price tag. But I preferred the company's 2010 Boxster Spyder, a lightweight special-edition model that costs less than half as much as the Turbo.
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The numbers offered no basis for my choice. At Mosport raceway, I lapped faster in the Turbo, because its superior power blasted me up the back straightaway faster than anything else I've driven there. (There wasn't much time to look at the instruments, but I think I glimpsed the Turbo's speedometer needle passing 240 km/h.) When I was a boy studying magazine tests, I would have automatically chosen the Turbo over the Spyder. It had 180 more horsepower, a lower 0-60 time and a higher top speed.
But as a grown-up man and experienced driver, I loved the Spyder more, and for reasons that defy quantification. The Spyder felt more balanced and precise. It was smaller, it was lighter, and it conformed to some long-held image that was probably formed in my childhood.
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Cruising in it with my wife made me feel like I was in a grown-up soapbox derby racer. And because it didn't have turbochargers, it sounded better - to me, turbo cars always sound a bit like high-powered leaf blowers. The Spyder's mechanical soundtrack conjured up a four-wheeled saxophone, crooning a series of perfect notes as I clicked through the gears.
The numbers didn't lie. But they didn't tell the whole story, either. And so it has been with other things as well. Our house is 1,441 square feet, not counting the basement - tiny by many standards for a family of four, yet perfect for us. My brother makes approximately five times as much as I do. But I'd still rather have my job than his.
I imagined a spec-sheet comparison between my wife and Nancy, the woman my mother set me up with all those years ago. Both are about the same height and weight. Both are brunette and well educated. And yet it was my wife who weakened my knees. Twenty seven years later, she still does, and I reminded each and every day that love, cars and life itself are about something that numbers may point to, yet never capture.
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