After more than a month of deliberation, I parted ways with an old flame this past week, and I felt compelled to account for the time spent deliberating when, by most rational expectations, I should have done the deed much more quickly. Once I set to the task, it didn't take long. I put up a classified advertisement on Craig's List Monday morning and within a few days a man I'd never met came to my house and drove her away. With a final look at the odometer and a quick pass of the pen on the title, I breathed a sigh of relief and felt a touch of sorrow. I was no longer the owner of a cobalt blue 1994 BMW.
The decision to say farewell had been looming formidably for over a month, but in many ways I'd been mentally preparing for the dismaying chore for much longer. Perhaps this was due to the numerous heart stopping moments when, hundreds of miles from home, the engine sputtered or the starter threatened not to engage and the car seemed loath to budge-only after serious coaxing did I convince it to carry me home safely. I knew the risks I faced by relying on my 15-year old 318is: unpredictability, malfunctioning electronics and odd quirks. Why did I wait so long to trade it in for something that would put my mind at ease when taking trips down the road?
The answer may come from understanding how the brain makes decisions. In the process of deciding, our brain must generate potential plans, evaluate them and finally choose the most appealing among them, and this can all happen in fractions of a second. Some brain regions-more primitive structures such as the amygdala-form and evaluate plans based on impulses and emotional value. Other regions, such as the more advanced prefrontal cortex, rely on rational considerations and are more concerned with long-term consequences.
When the separate regions agree, the decision is made quickly. What would you do if someone walked up to you and offered you ten dollars, no strings attached? It's easy to say yes when there's no downside, because there's little room for cognitive dissonance. The more different brain regions compete to determine the best outcome, the more complex the decision, and such was the challenge with my car.
Having owned the BMW for three years, it had firmly entrenched itself in multiple brain regions. It was my first car after graduating college, and for the first time my name was on the title of ownership. It may not have been the newest or fastest machine on the road, but it was mine, and that made it both humble and heroic. I was equally familiar with its frustrating peculiarities as I was with the freedom I felt driving to New Orleans on a summer evening, sun roof open, with Jim Morrison singing "Light My Fire." Every compliment I had received on the car had given my nucleus accumbens, part of the brain's reward system, a positive spike of activity. The reward system is what keeps you coming back for more of something that induces pleasure, like a piece of chocolate cream pie at your favorite restaurant. Just as an automobile runs on gasoline, the reward system runs on dopamine, and it flowed freely during the car's better days. It felt good to own a BMW.
Researchers at Japan's Tokyo Metropolitan University recently studied maternal bonding to observe which brain regions were most active when mothers observed videos of their own infants or of unknown children. When viewing their child, mothers had greater activity in the orbitofrontal cortex, a region just behind the forehead that assesses pleasant images. While I didn't feel that my car was my baby, I had an attachment to it that I didn't have to other cars. My eyes lit up when sunlight sparkled on the hood after a fresh car wash; my orbitofrontal cortex approved.
Yet, for all that I enjoyed and had become attached to, new troubles mounted faster than old ones could be repaired. I knew I was in a losing game. First the passenger door wouldn't open from the outside, then the passenger window started oscillating slightly up and down on its own accord, as if possessed. Repairs weren't cheap, and I cringed each time my mechanic tallied up the work orders and showed me the cost. Just as the nucleus accumbens gets a boost from pleasure, its activity nosedives when experiencing painful stimuli. The car put my brain in a delicate balance between reward and aversion.
Recently, a team of doctors and researchers at the University of Iowa College of Medicine had the opportunity to record nerve impulses directly from a brain region, the ventromedial prefrontal cortex, suspected to play a critical role in avoiding risky situations. During a rare surgery for epilepsy, the patient performed a gambling task where he selected cards from four decks of cards while electrodes monitored neurological activity. Two of the decks yielded an overall gain, what a gambler might call "good" decks, while the other two yielded an overall loss, "bad" decks. As decisions were made, the ventromedial prefrontal cortex continuously updated expectations about the rewards and risks of each deck. Over time, most people shift away from the ‘bad' decks and select primarily from the ‘good' decks, avoiding risk and earning more money. My ventromedial prefrontal cortex noted every penny I spent on maintenance and weighed it against the reward I got for holding onto my BMW. Each time my car hiccupped, my ventromedial prefrontal cortex ratcheted towards the decision to cut my losses and kindly ask my car to look for a new home.
Almost half a year ago, the engine began having trouble idling and I had to hold my foot lightly on the gas pedal to prevent the car from stalling. I took my car to the shop and find out that the engine computer, an electronic control unit which regulates power output, was no longer functioning properly and may soon fail completely. They could install a new one for around $1000, but I knew that the value of my vehicle wasn't much more than $2000. The mental anguish of investing money in a losing gamble prevented me from installing a new computer. My ventromedial prefrontal cortex knew the steep risks of driving the car, but I wasn't quite ready to sell it either. I had developed an attachment through all the dopamine released during positive experiences over the years. I was going to take my chances.
Then it happened. I hadn't been behind the wheel for a few months because I was out of town. A friend had been driving it once a week to keep the cobwebs from accumulating, and hadn't had a problem. When I returned, I grabbed my keys from my friend and blithely turned them in the ignition. It wouldn't start. Like Jean-Paul Sartre, I realized the futility of it all. I was stuck with a car that wouldn't drive and I wasn't going to invest any time, energy or money in repairs; it was time to say goodbye.
I could have put up a "For Sale" sign the next day, or the next week. There were many competing thoughts and feelings affecting the decision. My risk avoidance and rational brain regions had definitively outweighed the emotional and pleasure-seeking centers regarding the car, but it wasn't easy. It took me four weeks to put up a classified ad, but it's gone now. I feel relieved. Sadly relieved.
