Chasing the Goat

There’s a 1966 Pontiac GTO for sale in Dallas right now.

It’s pretty much perfect. It has a Muncie M21 four-speed manual transmission linked to a Hurst shifter with a fuel-injected 389 cubic inch V8 that produces 335 horsepower. Judging by the photos, it’s super clean and the blue metallic paint job is beautiful. It’s less than $60,000.

If I were single—or if I wanted to be single—I’d buy it. I’ve wanted one since they came out.

Or maybe I wouldn’t. I’ve always been only sort of a car guy, in that while I’ve always appreciated cars, I’ve rarely indulged in them. While I’ve been fortunate enough to own a few nice cars in my life, I’ve never extended myself financially to have one.

So my best cars have always been low-key stealthy sorts like an Audi Fox that would do 160 mph, or a 1983 Volkswagen Rabbit GTI that was my first ever brand-new vehicle. But I’ve never had anything that might present as flashy to the average citizen. There are no Corvettes or Porsches or McLarens on my résumé.

Right now, I’m driving a car some people might call a station wagon. It doesn’t even have a stick shift.

And I guess I’m all right with that, though I’m not really joking about the

Goat. I’d like to have it. And shockingly enough, I’ve reached a point in my life where I probably could have it. But I’m not going to buy it or anything like it. Though maybe I will try to get Karen to buy it.

Because she’s more of a car guy than I am. She knows more about them than I do, spends more time on jalopnik.com than I do, and is a more disciplined negotiator than I am. She scored a new Focus SVT for under market price and drove it for a decade; she knew the revived Dodge Dart was really a rebranded Alfa Romeo Giulietta.

Her lease on her Mini-Cooper is coming to an end soon. So she’s about to embark on her next round of car shopping, which is yet another thing that used to be fun before it was ruined by the Internet.

Because car shopping used to mean driving around to lots and looking at cars. You’d go out on a Sunday afternoon, when all the dealerships were closed, and wander around, up and down rows of cars looking at what was available. You’d make notes and maybe come back in a just-browsing mode; a shady salesperson who’d been to a bunch of seminars on sizing up potential customers by looking at their watches and their shoes would try to steer you to a certain model with a certain package and ask what he had to do to get you in the vehicle today.

And you’d try not to let go of your keys, and maybe you’d throw out a ridiculous low-ball offer and try to walk out. And they’d say they had to huddle with their manager and eventually come back with a counter close enough to your offer to make you feel a little queasy, like you should have offered less. And you’d agree. And then they’d try to sell you undercoating. And throw in some floor mats.

Yeah, those really were good times.

Relative to now, when you’d think it’d be easier and better. I’ve “built” hundreds of cars online; I’ve emailed dozens of would-be automobile vendors with detailed descriptions of what I want, what I’m willing to pay and how I want the negotiations to proceed. None of them (not one, not even the ones I’ve bought and leased from, ones I came to like) have ever directly answered my questions and provided the information for

which I’ve specifically asked.

I have, on the other hand, had my query about the availability of a specific model answered enthusiastically by an Internet sales manager proffering an entirely different car—one that cost nearly twice as much as the one I’d expressed interest in. I once made an appointment to look at a particular vehicle only to show up on the lot to find that not only did they not have the car I’d asked about in stock but that the guy with whom I’d made the appointment wasn’t there, either. (This did not stop him from sending me half a dozen follow-up messages about the non-existent car.)

I get it. People who sell cars for a living are more about the selling than the cars. And most people really don’t know much about cars; they buy because of the image ads or because they perceive they’re getting a good deal. If I was managing a sales staff for a car dealership I’d look for people who knew how to sell rather than people who could talk knowledgeably about cars.

(Though I would insist my people learn about the product line; I probably wouldn’t have bought a Challenger anyway but I immediately eliminated it as a possibility when the sales guy incorrectly informed me it wasn’t available in a manual transmission.)

Karen knows a lot more than most car salesmen. I know a little more. But we’re outliers, and, like everybody else, we’re probably more susceptible to hype and having our loss aversion leveraged than we believe. We might not like the game, but we’re still going to buy cars.

Though maybe we shouldn’t. We could very easily get along with one car now. We have bikes, the office is a 10-minute ride—a 30-minute walk—away. Most young people aren’t very interested in driving; they can Uber, they see cars as utilitarian objects, an option of conveyance. That’s more realistic and practical than the whole romance of the open-road mythology I carry around with me. I’ve had cars since I was 14 years old; I don’t question whether I need one. I want one.

But we might be better off if we’d evolved in different ways, if we’d invested in more light rail and not stigmatized public transportation. Kids who aren’t into cars or driving have a better idea. (Not coincidentally, Ford’s essentially getting out of the U.S. passenger car market come 2020; almost 90 percent of the car maker’s North American portfolio will consist of trucks and utility and commercial vehicles.)

An expensive car is, by a lot of measures, an irrational, bordering on stupid, purchase. As frivolous as it seems, you’re better off buying high-end guitars and luxury watches than you are a car—those things hold their value and even appreciate.

On the other hand, that GTO cost about $3,500 in 1966.