On the same day that I received a discount on my car insurance for dealing with a monitoring device that beeped incessantly in my 1 Series, I also had a long conversation on getting an upgrade to my old fuzz-buster (forgive me, I still have some old lingo stuck in me). I had gone an entire three months with a device in my car that was recording my every movement; every spirited on-ramp, every mountain fun run, every time a child with a basketball jumped out in front of me, it recorded that stuff. I was being tracked by Big Brother.
And truth be told, I sort of liked it.
There are certain times of day that I like to lay the hammer down and crank my way up through the gearbox, if only to hear the sound of my own engine noise. Getting on the Interstate after work and waiting until the engine is screaming for something to happen—and then giving it what it wants—is a sort of a carnal pleasure to me. I drag my drama from the day and take it out on the 1 Series, my poor, poor car.
Of course, after laying all of my aggression into the engine after a long day, it always seems that I run out of speed limit before I actually release all of my stress. Admittedly, in days before the tracking device, I’d probably still make my way to the left lane and lean on the engine for moral support—but now that’s a no-no.
Prior to Big Brother, I could always count on my radar-detecting device to let me know when somebody really wanted to talk to me about my excessive speed. I relied on my beeping buddy to let me unwind with speed and agility, as opposed to actual thought and rationality. Every once in a while, when my beeping buddy would alert me to upcoming, ahem, danger, I’d ease myself back down off of a speed-drenched, angst-ridden ride and act like a normal everyday commuter. But normal isn’t a word that works well with me, and abiding the speed limit isn’t, either. I enjoyed the freedom of pretending I was on the Autobahn, I enjoyed the feeling that I was some sort of DTM driver making my way to the finish line.
Actually, I just really like the engine noise.
When I received the device to monitor my “safe driving habits,” I assured myself that it wouldn’t change who I was as a driver, and my wild side would be waiting for me to return after my tenure with the speed nark. The first week or so, I found myself over-thinking the safe-driving bit, and became hyper-aware of all the obstacles and potential reasons the machine would get me in trouble. There were several times that I wanted to unplug the darn thing and chuck it out the window because I just wanted to go fast. That’s the cure for what ails me, speed. No dice; it had to stay put, I had to remain a law-abiding citizen. I thought my appreciation of fine automobiles was getting flushed down the toilet; there was actually a time that I wondered why I didn’t just trade in the 1 Series and get something more reasonable—like, say, a four-door import of some sort.
That didn’t happen, and of course once I got that big, fat rebate on my insurance, I was very thankful for all of that safe driving I had done. It didn’t really settle in until I found a site via a social-media page that was full of totaled cars; these cars were in every state of disrepair, from being stripped to being rolled multiple times. Leaving better judgment behind, I decided to do a little search to see if there were any good deals on totaled 1 Series out there.
I saw perhaps the most sobering images that I’d ever seen: cars just like mine, crushed, mangled, and unrecognizable. I couldn’t look away; I had flashbacks to all of the anger-driven rides that I had done up the mountains, and saw how just a little change in pavement could have sent me careening into the brush like the blue One on the website. How when I try to pass semi-trucks on the right while trying to merge, I could easily become just like that red One being auctioned off. I spent about an hour looking at different 1 Series, trying to figure out what could have possibly happened to cause them to be so mangled.
I came to the conclusion that every single car on that page could have just as well been mine. That could be my Sedona Red 128i on that page with a biohazard sticker on it.
After that awakening, all of my safe driving didn’t seem so boring. I can honestly say that when they ask for my nag device back, I’ll choose to keep it. I’d rather have something beeping at me when I’m trying to be safe than when I’m trying to be an idiot.
The itch is still there, however. I just have to find other ways to scratch it, like indoor karting and watching reruns of Knight Rider.—Nikki Weed
