A trolley problem, some personal stuff, a bit of Islamic jurisprudence, and then the Honda.
1) Trolley time. Let’s start with the trolley problem. People proposing trolley problems often do them in two parts. First, there’s the anodyne one with the easy answer:
A trolley is rushing down the tracks towards a group of five people. If it hits them, they will die. If you pull a switch, you can divert the trolley onto a different track. There is one person on that track, and they will die instead of the five. Do you pull the switch?
And of course you answer “yes” and then you get sucker-punched with something like this:
Five people are dying of organ failure, from different organs. If they get transplants they will live out their normal lives, Without the transplants, they will die. In front of you is a healthy person who has the organs that they need. If you kill the healthy person you will save the five. Do you kill them?
Okay so on one hand trolley problems can be a legitimate tool for exploring values and morality. There’s a lot of interesting stuff you can unpack with them. But on the other hand these little bait-and-switches can be, frankly, very irritating. They’re set up to put our rationality at war with our intuitions, emotions, and habits of thought.
Yes, that can sometimes be a useful or at least informative exercise. But for most of us, the likely response is going to be less “Hmm, maybe deontological ethics are more appropriate here than a simple utilitarian analysis” and more “Oh, ffs. Now you’re just being ridiculous.”
We’ll return to this shortly. First, a short digression on living green.
2) La Vie Vert. Mrs. Muir and I live pretty green. That’s a bit of a surprise to me when I think about it, but that’s just how things worked out.
We live in a small town in Germany. We have a car, but we don’t drive a lot — public transport is a thing, and so are bicycle paths. Mrs. Muir rides an e-bike to work when the weather is fine. Our two older boys take the train home from university.
We have solar panels on the roof of the garage. Several rainwater tanks. A large backyard garden where we grow a lot of our own vegetables. We’ve got a compost pile, which I am weirdly proud of. Probably more relevant, we don’t fly off anywhere for vacation.
We sort of fell into this lifestyle, and we’re not doctrinaire about it. We certainly don’t proselytize, or even much discuss it. But yeah climate change is a thing and we’re pretty aware of that. We have four kids, aged high school through college. We think a lot about what kind of world they’ll inherit. So, you know, you do what you can.
(At this point someone starts prepping a comment about how riding a bike to work is meaningless, because the real cause of climate change is big corporations and government policy and putting solar panels on the garage is just a displacement activity that doesn’t address the real problems. To which I reply, (1) every bit helps, and (2) we are *also* politically active, details not relevant to this blog post, and (3) the personal is political. Of which more anon.
Right, so… green-ish by German standards, which means by US standards I’m basically Swamp Thing.
[he’s really green]
Okay, now a brief note on cars.
3) Cars. Cars are not great for the planet. There’s a lot of other stuff that’s not great for the planet, but cars are actually right up there: personal automobiles account for about 11% of global CO2 emissions. Planes get a lot of attention, but passenger cars collectively? contribute more than three times as much as aviation. Because the world has a lot of passenger cars.
We’ve all seen the graphics, right?
Passenger cars are just a mass of negative externalities. The CO2 is the biggest one, but there are a bunch of others — parking, traffic, accidents, other sorts of emissions, environmental damage, you name it.
So from this we can derive some… not rules, but let’s say guidelines. Passenger cars are sometimes a necessity, obviously. That’s especially true if you live in the United States, which has spent most of the last 100 years designing itself to be unlivable without a car. But you should use them responsibly, and as little as possible. Walk, bike, or take public transportation when you can, and don’t use a passenger car for silly stuff and whim. That’s all objectively reasonable, yes?
4) When the Almighty gives you side-eye. Islamic jurisprudence has a useful concept: “makruh”. (Makruh tanzihan if you’re being pedantic.) Actions that are makruh are not haram — forbidden, sinful — but they are discouraged. You won’t be punished, religiously or legally for doing something that’s makruh. But you just… shouldn’t.
One classic example of makruh is coming to mosque when you smell bad, either because you haven’t bathed or because you’ve eaten garlic or onions or some such. You’re not going to Hell for that. It isn’t a sin or a crime. But you’re being a jerk and you shouldn’t do it. In the opposite direction, another classic example of makruh is wasting water while cleaning yourself. A thirty minute firehose shower might be your preferred way to unwind, but water is precious and you’re wasting it on gross self-indulgence. You shouldn’t do that. Basically, makruh is Not Cool, Bro.
IANA Christian ethicist, but I don’t think Christian ethics have a close analogue. There’s venial sin, but that’s not really the same. Venial sin is still sin; it’s just not bad enough, by itself, to damn you. Makruh isn’t a sin and you won’t be punished for it. But you have to imagine God looking at you and shaking Their head and being like… really, my child? Really?
I like makruh a lot, because I think it covers ground that Christian and Christian-derived ethical systems kinda miss. To give a particular example, I think the stuff I mentioned a couple of paragraphs above — using passenger cars unnecessarily, excessively, or for silly stuff or whimsy — would come pretty squarely under makruh. It’s not evil, nor is it something you should be punished for. But you just… shouldn’t.
That said…
5) The Gearhead Gene. So I am neither handy, nor mechanical, nor particularly interested in engines or machines. But this was not inevitable. My grandfather was an automobile mechanic. My uncle was a mechanical engineer and an inveterate tinkerer. He was the kind of guy whose basement and garage were workshops, and who was constantly messing with his car. He had several patents. All were for mechanical gizmos intended to be used in, on, or adjacent to internal combustion engines.
And sometimes these things skip a generation. Our youngest son, who I’ll call Jack, got the Loves Things That Go gene.
When he was small, Jack would stop and stare at interesting vehicles and machinery. Bulldozers, backhoes? Cherry pickers? *Fire trucks*? Utter fascination. Okay, that’s pretty common for little kids. But Jack never grew out of it. Quite the opposite! By the time he was ten, Jack had encyclopedic knowledge of a wide range of machinery, from farm tractors to airplanes. Jack could talk for hours about airplanes.
And when he hit his teen years, he got into cars. Rally cars, muscle cars, differentials, gear ratios, whatever. If it was connected to cars, especially to how cars work, it was devoured and digested. A little while back I innocently asked whether he thought front- or rear-wheel drive was better for a family car. I got a twenty-minute answer, and it was basically a fast dense text-only PowerPoint presentation. Jack had read and thought deeply on this topic, and his thoughts were organized.
Okay, so now Jack is in his late teens. And he has just taken several years of savings, money from allowances and odd jobs, and he has bought a car. Specifically, a 1989 two-door hatchback Honda Civic.
[Behold.]
6. Wait, what?
I know. But here’s how it went down. Jack spent hours and hours researching what the best cars were that might be in his price range. “Best” here meant a bunch of things, but in particular reliability, simplicity, and ease of repair. He wanted a car he could work on. This nudged him towards an older car, because more recent models are more likely to be opaque or hostile to an amateur mechanic. And apparently the ’89 Honda Civic is well-nigh legendary for being rugged, reliable, low-maintenance, forgiving, and both cheap and easy to maintain and repair.
Furthermore, this particular Honda was what they call a “barn find” — meaning, a car that has been sitting in a barn (or wherever) for years and years, because reasons. Maybe the owner got too old to drive, but lived on for many years anyway. Maybe it was in legal limbo for years because of a contested divorce or disputed inheritance. Maybe someone just forgot about it. These things happen. Whatever the reason, despite being older than Amazon, Taylor Swift, Zohran Mamdani, Linux, Photoshop, Bagel Bites, Home Alone, Friends, the Lion King, and the independent nations of Croatia, Azerbaijan, and Ukraine, this car had less than 100,000 km (60,000 miles) on it.
So we drove for over an hour to a used car lot, which was run by — I am not making this up — a plump, sweaty guy in a sports coat with three days of stubble and hair implants. And then I spent two hours pacing around the lot listening to podcasts while Jack examined every square centimeter of that car, and then got on a series of intense video calls with his car-focused buddies to debate pros and cons. I would sometimes catch odd words and phrases like “cylinder head”, “torque”, or “after-market carburetor” but then I would just pop the earbuds back in and take another lap around the lot. There are times in life when my presence is a value-add, and this was not one.
And in the end, Jack went and haggled with Sports Coat Guy. And got him to knock a couple of hundred euros off the price, because the after-market carburetor was putting too much torque on the cylinder heads, which might reverse the polarity of the neutron flow. Or something. That stuff just skipped a generation, okay? I have other talents.
So now he has this car.
7. The Plan. Jack’s plan is simple. Step one is, fix up the car. It’s in working order — this is Germany, there are rules, you can’t sell a car that hasn’t passed inspection — but he wants it to be in excellent working order. This has involved more long conferences with his car buddies. Also, weirdly shaped packages have started showing up on our front porch.
Me: So… what is that?
Jack: It’s a tachometer!
Me: You found a tachometer that will fit?
Jack: Oh, that’s easy. You just go to EuropaCentralHyperMegaAutoPartsBay.com. You can connect with people selling over thirteen billion distinct parts for a hundred and forty thousand different makes and model of car, going back to 1883. They don’t do paint, though.
Me: Huh. When I was your age, we just had… junk yards, I guess?
Jack: [silence that mixes incomprehension with pity]
Me: Well okay, so… it didn’t have a tachometer… but you’re going to give it one?
Jack: Yup!
Me: (knowing it’s a mistake, but can’t stop myself) Why do you want to add an tachometer?
Jack: Well you see, with an tachometer you can see visually when the RPMs are departing from the zones specified in the manual. Obviously even in the absence of an tachometer you can still hear that, and you just shift gears or, perhaps, adjust the choke. But that just gives a crude approximation. Now an analog tachometer, which this is, is accurate to within about 500 RPM. You get that variance because there’s a magnetic coil…
[two minutes of, basically, white noise]
Jack: …pop the clutch, thereby reversing the polarity of the neutron flow. So, really, you should have a tachometer.
Me: That’s… that’s great, son. Good luck with that.
So step one is fix up the car. Step two is, road trip.
[road trip]
Jack has another interest, and that’s hiking. Specifically, minimalist hiking, where you just take off without much gear. Jack isn’t obsessive about it — he’ll carry the basics, a sleeping bag and a lighter, a water bottle and a knife — but he likes being able to throw stuff together in a few minutes and literally head for the hills. The problem is, he’s mostly hiked out the (fairly modest) trails around our small corner of central Germany. So the plan is — once he’s worked a bit more and saved up enough money — to take off in the Honda for some serious hiking.
He’s already poring over maps. The Camino de Santiago? The Seven Hanging Valleys? The Highland Way? Maybe some Alps? So many possibilities! Throw a bag in the car and hit the road, Jack.
[the mountains are calling and I must go]
8. And back to the trolley. Okay, so how do I feel about this?
Objectively, as a green-ish person, I should feel mild disapproval. Passenger cars aren’t great, right? One young man using a passenger car to drive thousands of kilometers around Europe, just so he can walk up and down some mountains, is objectively wasteful. The personal is political, right? It’s not a sin or a crime, but it’s probably makruh. This is at best a self-indulgent luxury, and Jack shouldn’t be doing this.
Okay, so I can recognize this intellectually. But I absolutely don’t feel it. What I feel is not disapproval, but a mixture of amusement, love and pride. And when I probe my feelings, it feels like someone is trying to force me into one of those gotcha trolley problems. I mean, objectively you should kill that one dude to save five, right? Right?
To be clear, I’m not looking for either criticism or validation of how I feel here. (Ha ha, looking for validation online. Who would ever do that.) No, this is more… thinking out loud. That trolley-problem gap between objective analysis and gut feeling is darn interesting. I don’t know if I have anything useful to add to the conversation — there are literally people who are devoting their careers to this stuff — but these things always get more interesting when they’re happening to our own wonderful selves, in real time.
And that’s all.