A Jeep on an outdoor course at the New York International Auto Show at the Jacob K. Javits Convention Center in New York City on Friday, April 3, 2026.
John Breunig/Hearst Connecticut Media
The New York Auto Show the Jacob K. Javits Convention Center on April 2, 2026 in New York City.
VIEW press/Corbis via Getty Images
We’ve only been at the New York International Auto Show for five minutes and The Kid is flirting with Mrs. Met.
When did I become a wingman for a 14-year-old?
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I’m having trouble sorting out if Mr. Met even cares. He has that same unsettling smirk even when the Mets get shellacked by the Yankees. I should probably be more concerned about triggering a basebrawl at the Javits Center since Mr. Met is a bobblehead taller than either of us. Then again, he’s obviously not much of a fighter. His face is covered in stitches.
When my dad first took me to these shows during my childhood, it seemed like the models were in a competition for shortest skirts and highest heels. The women’s rights movement seemed to have stalled when Mrs. Met got labeled with her hubby’s uniform number (00).
After hugging Mrs. Met for a photo, The Kid asks if we can exit Ford’s baseball showcase. There are 750 cars at this show. Most of them are stationary. To The Kid, a car only makes sense if it’s in motion.
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So we hustle downstairs to the EV & Hybrid Test Track, where I repeatedly sign away my privacy on endless forms and invite open season from sales departments. We spend most of the rest of the day doing laps in a windowless room.
LAP 1: We’re told The Kid can’t sit in the front seat.
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“He’s 6-foot-1,” I counter.
The Kid, in his reliable “Baby Driver” varsity jacket, doesn’t care where he sits (though he’d seize the driver’s seat if they let him). For him, these are amusement park rides. April is Autism Acceptance Month. The Kid lands on a particular hue of the spectrum. He embraces The Thrill of the Torque that is delivered as every test drive launches with a punch of the pedal on a runway into illusionary peril.
“Whoo-whoo!” He repeatedly whoo-whoos throughout the day, like we are taking off for the moon on Artemis II.
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It’s a magic trick. A jump scare. Because The Kid keeps wanting back on these rides, I get to perform my own magic trick and steer the conversation away from sales pitches. The drivers reveal that they’re not allowed to go more than 45 mph on the “takeoff” and can’t surpass 17 mph when yawing around orange traffic cones. The indoor screeches echoing throughout the room boost the fantasy.
LAP 3: The Kid has figured out that if he keeps his mouth shut he can just get in front seats. I suspect this may be why I haven’t been able to persuade him to shave.
LAP 5: The drivers clearly take pride in how well they navigate cones and rattle over faux potholes. These are a pale imitation of the craters left in Connecticut’s suburban roads and local public works department budgets after winter’s snow finally melted.
“Why don’t you have speed bumps in the demo?” The Kid inquires.
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I sense the driver is reimagining the track.
“That’s a good question.”
LAP 8: We meet a lineup of wheelmen as we try out the Chevrolet Bolt RS, the Ford Mustang Mach-E, the Polestar 4, the Toyota bZ, and other EVs with stray consonants, vowels and digits. None fail to use the phrase “I’m a professional driver,” which we hear in Southern, New England and Australian (“we can go aught to 60 in …”) accents.
I suppose I would boast too if I were a professional driver. It probably works well as a pickup line for, say, Mrs. Met (or Mr. Met). I ask one driver if he can recommend any attractions at the show.
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“I dunno, I’m just driving around in circles,” he replies.
I’m tempted to explore if he’s being metaphorical. Instead, I ask about the hardest job he’s encountered as a pro driver.
“Logging in Maine,” he insists.
I now have so many more questions. But these interviews all end in less than a minute. I need to be more efficient.
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LAP 10: About the only decorations on the test track are a few inexplicable popup tents. No one could explain them on this opening day, so I spread a rumor in my most authoritative resting dad voice: “I understand the driver who knocks over the most cones has to sleep overnight in the tents.”
Finally, we get to see how the brakes work.
LAP 12: “This is the last one,” I beg.
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We explore other parts of the show. Since this is the first day, the show’s pit crews aren’t quite ready for prime time.
Nissan staff should hand every guest a GPS to understand its four-part scavenger hunt. When The Kid can’t wedge his frame into the frame of a Nismo, no one can crack the code on how to move back the driver’s seat (hint, it’s on the right side of the seat). Staff repeatedly point us in wrong directions when we interrupt them from soulful relationships with their phones.
When The Kid finally earns a spin of the prize wheel, he wins mints. I’m getting grouchy (I’d prefer the prize of a nap in the Nissan Frontier’s rooftop tent).
“Yeah, that’s not going to work,” I counter. “He’s diabetic.”
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The Kid scores sunglasses instead.
His autism superpowers kick in too. He defuses to hypercaffeinated spokepersons with tart insta-reviews (“I don’t like the mirrors”) and charms a member of the NYPD into letting him blare the siren. Which has exactly the effect you’d expect inside a packed Javits Center.
I’m impressed that my son is able to curb his enthusiasm and save a visit to his favorite car company for the end. He’s essentially an ambassador for Subaru, and I’d like to get him a souvenir to put in the Subaru backpack he carried from Connecticut.
But Subaru has zero merch at the show.
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“Really?” I ask a member of the crew.
“We have dogs,” he counters.
Indeed, the Subaru Loves Pets initiative includes meet-and-greets with shelter dogs. No test drive, simulator or tchotchke can ever triumph over a few minutes with a dog.
Security gives me a side-eye when we depart seven hours after we arrived. I’m the only person who wants backpacks checked as they exit.
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I need to be sure The Kid isn’t trying to smuggle a pooch back to Connecticut in his Subaru backpack.
Back home, it sinks in why the test drive jump scares don’t have the same effect on me as they do on The Kid: I get to experience the real thing every day on Connecticut’s highways.
John Breunig is editorial page editor. jbreunig@hearstmediact.com; twitter.com/johnbreunig.
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