The Case for a Boring Car.

What makes an interesting car? The enthusiast’s answer is simple – nice engine, good looks, manual gearbox. You must always look back at your car as you walk away from it. Your pants must get tighter when you floor the throttle, and a smooth shift must fill you with the virility of a fighting bull. And yet, the enthusiast’s car is his alone. A touchy throttle frightens passengers, and a sharp steering throws them out of their seats. That’s why those cars are a morsel of the market. But they’re the ones we dream about, because they make no concessions for the real world. Regrettably, the real world is where most of us (and our cars) live.

That’s our Honda CR-V. She came into our lives in 2012, after a crash in our decade-old Mahindra Scorpio forced us to let her go. The Scorpio had come to us on my 2nd birthday, when I couldn’t reach the door handle. With moist eyes, I climbed into the back of the CR-V, wondering if I could ever love another. It’d take nothing less than a 911 (Porsche) to lift my spirits, or so I thought. You see, I didn’t fully understand the concept of money. That’s why it’s a dream car, I suppose. 

Regardless, I was stuck with a people carrier. You don’t buy a CR-V because you want to, you buy it because you must. And you pay for it with the embers of teenage dreams lost to circumstance. Around the world, CR-Vs are bought when one ‘settles down.’ It’ll take the kids to school, the parents to work, and haul the weekly shopping. It will never be the car for a Sunday sprint into the hills.

The engine is shy, it doesn’t announce itself. I’d know – I’ve fallen asleep in the back several times. The throttle is dull, so the car doesn’t lurch. The ride is best suited to my 70-something grandmother. Then there’s that auto box, which leaves the left hand with nothing to do. She isn’t too pretty either, about as ravishing as you’d expect a people carrier to be. And it’s a workmanlike interior – not many buttons to fiddle with. Nothing to do except look outside; thank goodness the windows are large. 

She’s been with us for 11 years now. In that time, we’ve chased the sunrise with a boot full of camera gear. We’ve had coffee and biscuits sheltered under her open tailgate. We’ve trundled through muddy tracks to find a winery on the edge of a lake. She has hopped, skipped, and jumped across sandy beaches to get us to that one shack with the best fish curry in town, and tiptoed across tea plantations to deliver us to a fresh brew. We never turn back to look at her. What’s in front of us is always more interesting.

Still, life with our CR-V has been fairly uneventful. She doesn’t ask for much; we don’t have to sell our china to pay for spares. Given her age, some aching joints are to be expected. But she’s never left us high and dry by the side of the road. And believe you me, she hasn’t had an easy life. We were driving back from Goa past midnight when a drunk trucker rammed us into the back of another truck. I only felt a slight jolt that woke me up, and she still brought us home under her own power. Years later, I was in hospital when she was caught in a Mumbai flood with a hydrolocked engine. When I was discharged a week later, she was there to take me home.

I’m 21 now. These days, I’m making memories from the driver’s seat. Most recently, I drove my girlfriend across the Bandra-Worli Sea Link, with the wind in our hair and Springsteen blasting on the radio. I held her hand because mine didn’t have to change gear. I’ve only just gotten my hand on the wheel, but getting into the driver’s seat feels like putting on an old pair of boots. These boots know my feet. Not the shiniest or most exciting pair, but they’re as comforting as the promise of a hot meal. Our CR-V isn’t my dream car, but she makes my reality sweeter. And I love her for that.