Testosterone

Summary

The text reflects on the phenomenon of muscle cars and their association with testosterone-driven behavior, particularly in a town with a high ratio of these vehicles, possibly linked to the presence of a nearby state prison with well-paid, young male employees.

Abstract

The author of the article contemplates the intrusive presence of muscle cars in their town, noting the loud noise and pollution they bring. These cars, symbolic of masculine prowess and testosterone, are often driven by young men who may work at a local state prison and have disposable income but limited local entertainment options. The author draws a parallel between the aggressive display of these vehicles and the territorial battles of mountain goats, suggesting a primal instinct behind such behavior. Despite the potential intimidation, the author, an older individual, feels safe amidst these displays, viewing them with a sense of detachment and relief that they are no longer part of such competitive dynamics.

Opinions

The author expresses puzzlement and concern over the loud and polluting nature of muscle cars.
There is a sense of bemusement and critique towards the macho culture represented by these vehicles.
The author perceives a connection between the high number of muscle cars and the demographic of young, well-paid prison employees.
The article suggests that the lack of nightlife and entertainment in the town contributes to the prevalence of muscle cars as a form of recreation and status symbol.
The author implies that the drivers of these cars are engaged in a form of territorial display akin to animals competing for mating rights.
Despite the potential for danger, the author feels secure in their older age, distancing themselves from the competitive behaviors associated with youth and testosterone.

Wild Mechanical Horses

Image by Author

Testosterone sings wild, mechanical horses A sunflower turns

What on earth is that noise? Momentarily leaving the fine sunlight-shower that keeps her both alive and believing, she turns to eye the screaming metal monster that approaches, then passes, then leaves her behind (bewildered) and then turns left at the next stop sign, not really stopping first — then again, few do.

She has seen them before, but still doesn’t know what to make of them. She never felt threatened, besides, rooted deeply in the earth below, what would she have done anyway, should the monster have decided to come for her and devour. But these monsters do not devour, she knows this. They pollute and poison ears and eyes and noses that turn and stare as it screams by on their hunt for whomever they do devour.

I am with her on this, I share her puzzlement and her question: What drives these so-called muscle cars, and their testosterone-spewing exhaust through their rubber-reeking pursuits (and of what) one wonders?

Then again, what drives two male mountain goats to fight it out to the death for the natural and ubiquitous privilege to mate? The muscle car has not reached that state yet, not in civilized (so called) society, anyway. Not as a rule, that is, for there are always the collision dares: hurling straight at each other, who veers first is chicken and the loser. If no one veers, they both lose, dead roosters, spectacularly.

The town where I live seems to sport a higher ratio of muscle cars than a national average. My theory: A nearby state prison employs a small army of young testosterone-enhanced males, each of whom are comparatively well paid and many of whom are unattached, as it were. So, a chunk of spending cash in hand but nowhere to spend it since there’s no nightlife to speak of in this town — a couples of cinemas, the usual fast food suspects, and, I believe, three bars and one pub. Solution: spend it on expensive four-hundred-horsepower mine-is-bigger-than-yours cars and display them as loudly as you can.

(I’d hate to see the insurance bills for these things, especially with a ticket or two under your belt.)

I often walk along the ocean and almost daily encounter a ratio of these testosterone tanks to regular cars that is a little frightening to be honest. And one wonders if there are not concealed weapons lurking in backseats as well, and open beers around, too. Luckily, as an old seventy-something usually-dressed-for-rain man, I am probably about as un-threatening as they come, probably about as un-competing (for the right to mate) as you can get, so I feel very safe. I just look, and marvel, as they muscle past, some with customized mufflers that don’t turn the volume down, quite the opposite — thoroughly making known their coming-froms, their whereabouts and going-tos.

And I draw a deep sigh of relief that these mountain-goat days are long over for me.

Testosterone

Wild Mechanical Horses

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