One day in the early 1990s, I was standing in a shopping-mall parking lot, failing to get Deirdre, my ’84 Mercury Cougar, started. As I glared at the vast underhood space only marginally filled by the crummy Ford Essex V6 of the era “central fuel injection” (meaning they stuck a single injector in the same old carburetor-era intake) and a pathetic 120 hp a couple of Chevrolet fans yelled a few mocking phrases at me. I shrugged and went back to persuading Deirdre to stir, which she eventually did.
So I’m at least somewhat sensitive to this issue:
As a child, I was told that it was impolite to mention religion or politics at the dinner table, because such discussions tended to elicit irreconcilable differences between guests who would otherwise be perfectly compatible. Many years later, as an itinerant observer of the Midwestern street racing scene, I learned that there was a dinner topic that combined the worst aspects of religiosity and partisanship in its prospective combatants, and that topic was known to all and sundry as “Ford vs. Chevy.” It’s the third rail of car-guy discourse, and you’ll touch it at your peril. People take this stuff seriously; the bowtie and the blue oval were common tattoos back in the days before every size-12 Millennial female womens-studies graduate and her bewildered, low-testosterone life partner routinely got full ink sleeves as a way to ensure that they were exactly as different as everyone else.
Did you ever notice that all those non-conformists look alike?
For what it’s worth, while I was married, we bought one car: a Chevrolet. Once we split up, she became an ardent Ford fan. (Drives a Five Hundred these days.) Me, I’m in some overwrought Nissan. And for the benefit of any Coke vs. Pepsi warriors: I have five liters (about 302 cubic inches) of Royal Crown Cola in the fridge.