I’m currently flying to Phoenix. As I stare aimlessly through the seat back in front of me, awaiting my complimentary child-sized Coke Zero, I noticed my hands. They’re lightly stained with dirt, grease, and grime from working on cars. The sides of my pointer fingers have become dried out, probably from being in contact with solvents as I cleaned the front of an engine. Then oil and grease from all the other parts gets into the cracked skin, making it look like pale, dirty, cracked earth. I’m en route to Arizona for the launch of the 2026 Nissan Sentra, which I’ll cover for GearJunkie’s Motors section. It’s unlikely anyone will notice my hands. But if they did, I’d proudly proclaim the staining was from examining the crankshaft gear on my Japanese-market Suzuki Jimny, and how I was working on it.
Fellow car people would likely get a kick out of the fact that Mercedes and I own a rare little 4×4 runabout. Some might be impressed I work on cars and not just write about them. Others would identify and pipe up about their latest project vehicle.
Only in this line of work, automotive journalism, are dirty hands at a fancy restaurant something to be proud of. It adds legitimacy. It gives you cred. You’re not just a writer—you’re a gearhead. You have gasoline in your veins. You’re “one of us;” a cadre of people with a niche job that eats, breathes, sleeps, and shits cars. And it doesn’t matter if it’s sports cars or 4x4s; the make and model are irrelevant. You live to do car things.
Resounding Automotive Passion
Not every person at these events is a motorhead who foams at the mouth about four-wheeled transportation. Some are great writers who just happened to fall into the car thing. They could be prophetic scribes who can wax poetic about blenders, or politics, or art, or bovine health—it wouldn’t matter what the subject was—they’re authors.
But car people have passion; a passion unlike many other passions. It can be all-encompassing. It can be the thing that you chase all your life and make careers out of. You might be able to eke out a meager living doing it or you may need a side hustle. Hell, it might be your side hustle. But one thing is for sure: Most gearheads are cut from the same cloth, or should I say billet?
You can form life-long bonds over cars. Racing, restoration, repairs, road trips, breakdowns, nostalgia—it’s all there—and all relatable. You might be talking to a stranger that could be a future life-long friend because you found a shared interest in weird Japanese cars from 1991. Maybe because your uncles both had 1969 Fords. Or perhaps it’s because the two of you traveled through the Nordic countries in a Suzuki Jimny on a rally. Cars create bonds, no matter the language, nationality, or vehicle.
“ENJOY ICELAND”
Take for instance, the time Mercedes and I went to Iceland in the summer of 2019. We rented one of our favorite cars of all time, a 2019 Suzuki Jimny JB74W. On the roadside, we came across a large sign with maps, and a Land Rover Defender 90 that had been left after a serious accident. Anyone involved was long gone, clearly first responders had already responded. The SUV had been the recipient of the jaws of life. Part of the A-pillars had been snipped open. There was caution tape on the vehicle. A bottle of apple juice was still in the cup holder, and much of the front end was smashed in. This had recently happened. I don’t know the circumstances, but they weren’t good.
Our attention turned away from the wrecked Rover, and we moved towards the sign. It described the area as volcanic and warned potential travelers of the dangers of the road ahead in multiple languages.
A Big Icelandic Jeep
Suddenly, we saw a large Jeep on those uniquely massive Icelandic balloon tires. The tires are made for high flotation so vehicles can cross snow without sinking in, but it’s become a look, too.
The Jeep was bounding on the treeless volcanic horizon. Eventually, it stopped near us at the end of a dirt road. It was a CJ-7 with extensive off-road modifications. The gigantic tires were connected to a central tire inflation system, so the driver could air up the balloon tires while on the move. It had massive axles. We heard the rumble of a V8 under the hood. Two large Icelanders got out and were futzing about, getting ready the 4×4 ready to hit the pavement again after a morning on the trail.
At the time, I was working for Warn Industries, possibly the most well-known company in the off-road biz. Its claim to fame was inventing the locking 4WD hub in the late 1940s, and then pioneering the electric winch for vehicle recovery in the 1950s. Both were a result of surplus WWII Jeeps returning home after the war. This big Jeep, however, didn’t have a winch. So, we decided to ask.
The Universal Language: “Gearhead”
“I like your Jeep!” exclaimed Mercedes to the duo in hopes of breaking the ice and starting a conversation. Icelanders, like many other residents of Nordic countries, can be a bit standoffish. They’re not unfriendly; they just simply don’t make the yapping small talk Americans are accustomed to.
“Thank you,” he replies.
“It has a V8?” I asked.
The burly bearded Norseman, who was clearly of deep-rooted Viking heritage, replies with another single-word response. “Yes.”
“I notice you don’t have a winch,” I state. He looks at me somewhat confused. Most Icelanders speak very good English, unless they’re maybe 60 or older. He was likely right around that age.
“Uh … I don’t know this,” he says in broken English. He looks at his friend as I, a scrawny American, at 5’7″ and 140 lbs. soaking wet, is giving him the Icelandic Inquisition.
His friend understood me and translates something to him in Icelandic.
“It’s at home.” He replies. At this point, I don’t want to keep bugging him like a toddler who keeps asking rapid-fire questions about basic things. Why is the sky blue? Why are clouds puffy? How are babies made? Why does daddy drink?
The Warn Connection
Then I realize I happen to be wearing a Warn Industries sweatshirt under my jacket. I unzip my coat and show him the WARN logo—a big bold red W with WARN across it. I tell him I work for this company.
He stopped what he was doing and looks directly at me and says, “Oh, Warn. Everyone knows Warn.”
Next thing I know, he pulls out his iPhone and begins showing me photos of his Jeep build. He knows enough English to get the points across, especially with photos. Once he realized we were both gearheads, it was like we were part of the same club. We were both in the cult worshiping the same semi-benevolent gas-powered dictator.
After reaching the end of his photos, he tucks his phone back in his pocket and simply says in a rather stern voice, “ENJOY ICELAND.” He and his buddy jump in the ginormous Jeep and, with all the good V8 noises, accelerates onto the pavement, vanishing off into the Icelandic landscape.
United By Horsepower
I’ve since become friends with some Icelanders in the 4WD community. While their rigs and terrain are uniquely Icelandic, their passion for their hobby—their automotive lifestyle—is no different than mine. They love what they drive and drive what they love. They build friendships and communities around their cars, trucks, and SUVs, and you don’t need to speak Icelandic to get that, thank God. After all, the Icelandic language looks like what happens when your cat walks across your keyboard while writing an email. Random letters and special characters come together to create unpronounceable words to English speakers. I still don’t know how you string that many consonants together and make a word that then sounds nothing like it looks. There is no sounding out anything in Icelandic.
But this Icelandic example of car culture is seared into my brain like the perfect char on a hot dog, one of the more popular foods in Iceland. I’ll never forget how the love of 4WDs crossed cultural and language barriers. This was one of many times where the language of automobiles was truly the universal dialect. It surely just wasn’t Icelandic.