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I have several important men in my life that are all very distinct. In an effort to size them up, I have utilized the relationships that each of them has with cars in order to understand them a little better.

My father is outdoorsy – a geologist by profession, although now retired. Nick a rock here. Gather a fossil there. He is a man’s man, but has never showed any fondness for machinery. Although brought up to be a gentleman, engines and gears had a way of bringing out the inner beast. Some of my earliest memories involve my dad bent over some motor, cursing out the Industrial Age.

My father would always switch the tires on our VW camper, but I never saw him fawning over aftermarket center caps or grille work. While he would from time to time dab some Rust-o-leum onto rusted spots on the van or put H2O in the radiator, you would never see him take a Q-tip to the dashboard knobs or scrub the headlamps with a toothbrush.

My father-in-law, on the other hand, is a auto man all the way. He knows make, model and year of everything that’s likely ever traveled the Pennsylvania turnpike. Scouring whitewalls or squaring a 1962 Chevy at the Antique Car Club show is his thought of a well-spent Afternoon.

Growing up in rural northern Pennsylvania, he rapidly graduated from teething ring to wrench and pitchfork. Farm boys learned the ABCs of automobile mechanics along with animal farming at an early age. The affinity with engines and wheels and all the associated gizmos stuck, although fondness for animals did not. He left the farm to go to college and never looked back.

My husband is a teacher, just like his father and my father, but that is where their similarities finish. He doesn’t meticulously clean his cars, collect rocks, or go camping. He likes to spend Saturdays enjoy java at a local Starbuck, grading papers, and connecting with friends on Facebook.

He keeps his car full of gas, but would in all probability use his Chevy center caps as paperweights on his desk, than as a fashionable way to floss his ride. Not that he has anything against someone who obsesses over their center caps. He vacuums his vehicle bi-annually, but is satisfied to drive about town with “Wash me!” scribbled above his rusted bumper for a year at a time.

The young man that my daughter dates is a jazzed up version of my father-in-law. When I have the chance, I am going to send them to an car parts store together so they can rapidly bond. My daughter gave her boyfriend a performance exhaust kit for his birthday and he is thrilled that the tailpipe growls deeply. He says it lets everybody know he’s arrived. My daughter smiles saying, “I can hear him coming from more than a mile away.” It’s obvious that she’s in the throes of young love!

It’s true that men and the relationships they have with their cars are complicated. It seems that their relationships can be an reflection of some men’s masculinity, while other men handle their cars as an opponent that’s a nuisance that must be conquered or endured.

Some men give their cars names and some curse them. Some give their cars a lot of TLC and others claim bragging rights because their car or truck is beat up or has the most mileage. Car stories are sold over beers, like war stories used to be shared at the campfire.

Why else is the auto industry able to sell billions of dollars of chrome, rims, seat covers, backup sensors, window tint, upgrade headlamps, dash accessories and aftermarket center caps, exhausts, hoods, car alarms and decals?

Whether the vehicle in the drive is fuel for cursing or cooing, I’m partial to suppose there’s some kind of mechanised mojo in there – something reminiscent to “If you build it, he will come.”