I regard myself a modern woman, a feminist even. I've read all the right books and take strong positions on women's role in society.

I applaud the birth of New Man with his developed sensitivity, his ability to cry and be open about his feelings and his celebration of women's equality. But something happened recently with a guy I started dating which makes me think that all my feminist beliefs aren't worth the tin that my badges are printed on.

Patrick was attractive to me because he had the soul of a poet. He knew all the names of butterflies, cried spontaneously when seeing something beautiful like a flower opening and he could cook really complicated things. But as our relationship progressed I found myself getting a bit stuck on something.

He was all these wonderful things but I felt occasionally that his sensitivity was verging on the little-girlish. I wanted some affirmation of his masculine side and thought that perhaps if we took a trip in his car that speeding along the motorway might allow me to see him in a different light. So I suggested a weekend trip to the country. He thought it would be lovely. "Can we go in your car?" He looked a bit crestfallen. I felt disappointed, and it showed. He looked at his fingernails. "Alright then."

His battered Datsun Sunny wasn't much to look at. I strapped myself in and waited for the tug of acceleration, praying that this would inject a bit of testosterone into our wilting relationship. We stopped and started in the London traffic but finally broke free onto the M40. This was his chance to shine.

We were in the slow lane behind a lorry. I could feel myself leaning forward in my seat. He put his indicator on and did lots of looking but seemed reluctant to overtake. I couldn't speak. It was worse than I imagined. He finally broke out from behind the lorry into the middle lane but once we nudged in front, the car squealing like a pig, he nipped back into the slow lane - tongue poking out a bit with concentration, like a little boy reading a book. Hopeless.

Later that day, sipping beer in a pub by the river, I told him that I just didn't think it was working. He asked for a reason. How could I explain that his inability to own the road, to overtake and win in the motorway competition turned me off? I mumbled something about insurmountable differences and suggested he dropped me at the train station and I'd return to London on public transport.

Shocked by my need for a man who could overtake, I reflected on past relationships and found, to my surprise that I had been in love with several men who couldn't drive at all.

Martin Amis said "Poets don't drive", and my predilection for poets has proved this to be true in many cases. These are the men who shun all responsibilities and take pride in their inability to stay sober enough to even have a driving lesson. Their appeal is in the fact that they have shunned peer pressure and distanced themselves from the key car-buying demographic, finding status in places beyond the material. I find these men as attractive as those who burn across asphalt, busting the rev counter.

So my conclusion is that men who are ambivalent about driving are not attractive to me. And it's not just me.

I did a survey of my girl friends and asked how they would feel if they were on a date with a guy and were stuck in a slow lane behind a lorry and the man driving the car wasn't keen to overtake. One friend said "Urgh. How irritating. I'd wonder what was wrong with him." Another went further and said that she'd get out at the next service station and hitch a lift home. These women would consider themselves feminists but are suffering from this same syndrome as me.

At this point I should confess that I am an ambivalent driver. Technically, I can drive, but put me on a motorway and I freeze. I consider myself pretty able to cope in difficult situations - show me a fuse box, ask me to light a fire or install some software and I can do it. But on the motorway I'm a little girl, squeezing my eyes shut rather than facing oncoming hazards, sticking in the slow lane and blocking people's exits.

If I get stuck behind a horse box I will sit it out until it's time to leave the motorway rather than overtake.

This is an attempt at a Darwinian justification for my (and my friends) attraction to boy racers - that I need a man to do the thing I can't really do. But given that my girl friends are confident drivers I think I would probably just say that women like guys who are into and can handle powerful vehicles.

A few weeks after the trip to the countryside I received an email from Patrick telling me that he'd like to drive across asphalt at a hundred miles an hour with me, naked. Yeah, right.

• Names have been changed to protect the ambivalent driver