June 18, 2003

Dad's Day gift: Reliable transportation

By
Herald Editor

      Father's Day gifts usually fall into three categories: hygiene products, ties or tools. A minivan, however, hardly qualifies as soap-on-a-rope.
      While technically not a "gift," this Father's Day weekend I joined the ranks of the sliding door damned. Parked in the garage - over the 1972 Pontiac Lemans project car oil stains - is a drip-free, seating-for-seven 2001 Dodge Grand Caravan. I now own the title to reliable transportation.
      Somewhere a pushrod V8 weeps.
      When it comes to being a father, I have no qualms about dirty diapers, cranky crying or chasing away nose goblins. However, hearing the words "removable third seat" made my skin crawl. Buying into the minivan culture meant a momentous step toward mundane adulthood.
      No transbrake burnouts or donuts in the parking lot - unless you count picking up apple fritters for a pack of hungry Cub Scouts.
      For nearly two years, I resisted joining the minivan movement. While other friends fell by the wayside, I stood my four-door sedan ground. If a minivan owner tried ergonomic indoctrination, I'd counter with fingers stuck in my ears "positive traction" chanting.
      Unfortunately, parenthood comes with excess baggage - car seats, playpens, strollers and enough stuffed animals to make Ted Nugent join PETA. Packing our compact car became an exercise in futility. The laws of physics were often bent to make room for 20 outfits, 40 diapers and reams of baby wipes for a weekend road trip.
      Although I've been blessed with superhuman spatial skills, even I was running out of room - and patience. Suddenly my wife and I were muttering the M-word outloud. A contortionist front seat diaper change outside Gary, Ind. three weeks ago finally sealed the deal.
      I never knew crow had such a bitter aftertaste.
      Of course buying a minivan runs counter to eons of testosterone. Man has a prehistoric caveman predisposition to travel light. In the Cro-Magnon recess of our minds, we honestly think too many bags might impair our ability to outrun a saber-toothed tiger. It could also be that we fear carrying the hefty suitcase of responsibility.
      Showing an ability to evolve, not only did I buy a minivan on Father's Day but the seller was my father-in-law. The karma from this deal should exempt me from tofu turkey at Thanksgiving this year. Or at least be good for a winning lottery ticket.
      After our first road trip, I'm sold on selling out to the minivan movement.
      I hate to admit it but the minivan does ride nice and Ella digs the extra leg room - even at 31 inches tall. However, I still have a hard time driving a vehicle with nearly as many cup holders as cubic inches under the hood. Although I've witnessed some minivan moms hauling something more than their kids to soccer practice.
      While driving our minivan home, I crossed paths with bikers out on a Sunday ride. For a minute there, I thought I heard "Born to Be Wild" over Ella's Veggie Tale CD. I even wondered how a Grand Caravan would steer with ape-hanger handlebars.
      The bikers and I shared the same road for a few miles, then we went our separate ways. Along with the trailing side pipe vapors, I picked up a faint whiff of Aqua Velva - or maybe soap-on-a-rope.
      Perhaps next Father's Day I'll get "Born to Ride - to the Mall" mudflaps for the minivan.
      Grand Traverse Herald editor Garret Leiva can be reached at 933-1416 or e-mail gleiva@gtherald.com