Of Cars...

Some photographs and some words ....

Personally, I refuse to drive a car - I won't have anything to do with any kind of transportation in which I can't read.

Arthur C. Clarke - Report on Planet Three

I’ll begin by saying that the LaFerrari Aperta above is not mine (although it could be yours if you have around £5 million to spare). I took a photograph of it while on holiday in Santa Margherita Ligure a few years ago, when Ferrari ‘took over’ the next town along, Portofino, to launch their car of the same name (it comes in at a more modest £140,000). The vehicles I’ve ‘owned’ in life were much more modest still .....

When I moved back to northeast England just over three years ago, I decided to dispense with a car and travel only by public transport or on foot. It’s better for the environment and for my health. In truth, I’ve not really missed having a car and being a natural planner; I am happy to spend time organising which public transport to take to get to where I want to go. Fortunately, travelling in the northeast of England usually offers several good public transport options, and connections to other parts of the UK are also dependable. If I want to travel to continental Europe (I have no desire to go beyond that these days), and since I’ve decided to avoid the tedium of flying, I can take the ferry to Amsterdam from Newcastle or head south and use Eurostar out of London St Pancras. Both of which I’m doing this year for my 70th birthday celebratory train journey across continental Europe. Of course, as I am retired, I have more time to enjoy travelling without the pressure of business or other deadlines.

That’s not how it used to be during my working years, and a recent exchange with a fellow Substacker took me back to my driving days, to recall some of the cars I’ve driven over the decades and a few of my mishaps along the way.

My first car was an old mustard-coloured 850cc Mini, though it didn’t quite cut the mustard in terms of power, given its top speed of around 65 mph, and that was downhill with a strong tailwind. Try to push it further, and it was like driving an unbalanced washing machine. The vibrations were so hard that they could shake your fillings loose. Nevertheless, I greatly enjoyed that early experience of being behind the wheel, just as I did with my next car, though I’m not sure you could call that a move upmarket, given it was a Hillman Imp.

Again, it wasn’t the most powerful car you could drive, and while it wasn’t as enjoyable to drive as the Mini, it did have some character, with a boxy body shape and, like the VW Beetle, a rear-mounted engine. There was, however, a drawback to that when it came to driving in freezing temperatures. I once saw an Imp described as ‘basic but airy,’ and never mind airy, I can definitely confirm it was drafty in wintry weather, and the heating was so underpowered that at times your breath froze on the windscreen, an unwanted optional extra. I reckon a lightbulb generated more warmth than the heater in that car.

Back in the late 1970s, when winters in the UK meant real snow, I remember driving home in the Imp to the south of England after visiting my mother in the northeast. The snow on the ground was so deep that the two-lane southbound A1 had only two tyre tracks in one lane. You might not see too many gritters or snow ploughs in England these days, but they didn’t seem to exist at all then. Anyway, as to the drive south, if you kept your wheels in the tracks, you were fine, but if you strayed, as I did once, the tyres would lose grip and, as happened to me, begin to slide. There was no central barrier, so the car gently pirouetted to a stop across the northbound carriageway. Luckily, there was no traffic heading north. The engine had stalled but started again on my first attempt, so I gently coaxed the Imp forward back onto the southbound carriageway and once more followed the tracks. That journey of around 240 miles from Newcastle to the south took over eight hours.

I wouldn’t call myself a ‘car man’ because I’ve never been very interested in a car’s style, performance, or similar aspects. I simply want them to get me from A to B without mishap (and for a period in my driving days as quickly as possible). I’ve had little connection with any of the vehicles I’ve ‘owned’, with maybe a couple of exceptions. One was my next car, a red Ford Cortina with a black vinyl roof, for which I had a soft spot. I was never as fit as when I owned that car, since I often had to push it! It was known as a ‘bad starter’, or more honestly, as was the case with many Ford models of the late seventies, a temperamental beast. The joy of hearing the engine fire into life was often lost to the dull click of an ignition key turning to no effect. Once the car was running, it was fine, but getting it started was always a gamble. The choke setting that worked one day might not work the next. Still, I was sad to sell it, but I needed to put down a deposit on a house. My next car, a much cheaper and much older, far less fashionable Vauxhall Viva, at least made my journeys more predictable.

Bring an old car, the Viva had a lateral speedometer and real wing mirrors, not the kind attached to the front doors. It was a reliable, cheap, and cheerful car, but I had a mishap in it once on a very icy January morning around forty-five years ago. I was driving to work and didn’t see a patch of black ice on a tight bend of a small road, so as I turned the steering wheel, the car wasn’t having any of it and kept going straight, up the curb, and into a lamppost. Luckily, I wasn’t going fast, so there wasn’t much damage, but a couple of seconds after the initial bump, the lamp fitting, displaced by the impact, fell and landed on the car’s bonnet like a bomb going off!

In all my years of driving, I never hit another moving vehicle. Well, except for the time my next-door neighbour and I both backed up without noticing each other and bumped rear bumpers. Other than that, all my accidents involved inanimate objects: trees (once sideways, once backwards), lampposts, the side of a garage, the side of my house, yes, the side of my house!, and I even managed to pull down my up-and-over garage door by catching the front bumper on the frame while reversing. Maybe it’s a good thing I stopped driving!

By now, the Viva had given up the ghost, so I moved on to a Vauxhall Cavalier, and that’s when I had one of my close encounters with a tree. It was a freezing cold New Year’s Day morning in 1984, and no, I hadn’t been drinking the night before. I was on my way to a football match, taking it steady down a long suburban road narrowed by parked cars. Ahead, I saw an elderly gentleman crossing with a small boy when, suddenly, I hit a patch of unseen ice, and instead of going straight, the car slid sideways down the road. I remember looking out the driver’s-side window to see the man quickly grab the boy and hurry across the road just as I sailed by, missing them and somehow the parked cars on either side. However, I didn’t miss the large tree by the road and hit it hard. People say time slows down during an accident, and I’m sure that as the car hit the tree, I saw the driver’s door mirror break through the window and cross swiftly past my nose. What I definitely saw as I sat there, somewhat stunned, was that a moment later, a small garden wall, which the car’s front bumper had scraped against, fall away from me almost intact. Although shocked, I was unhurt, and as the driver’s door was now wrapped around the tree, I climbed out the passenger side with help from a passerby. The car was a write-off, but the tree looked almost untouched. Nature: 1, machine: 0.

There’s a postscript to this story. Because I’d succeeded in demolishing someone’s garden wall, I called the police to report the accident and ask for advice, since the owner didn’t appear to be home despite my knocks on the door. The police told me to push a note with my details through the letterbox and, if I didn’t hear back within 24 hours, to file a report with them. I followed their advice, and around 5 pm, the wall’s owner called me. He thanked me for leaving the note and said it was a relief to read it. I was surprised at the second comment and asked why he was relieved. He explained that he had celebrated a bit too much on New Year’s Eve and got home in the early morning, collapsing into bed. He hadn’t heard the accident or my knocking. When he finally woke up and saw his garden wall (with my car now gone), he panicked, thinking he’d somehow demolished the wall himself while having a little too much of the hard stuff!

After writing off my Cavalier, I needed a replacement quickly, so I broke the usual rule about not buying a car from family or friends. I bought a Ford Escort from my then-sister-in-law, Marianne. It had given her years of trouble-free driving, but offered me only months of problems. By the time I dispensed with it, I’d replaced so many parts it could have been a new car. Marianne was apologetic, but I didn’t blame her. Maybe the car just didn’t like me, or as people used to say, it was a ‘Friday afternoon car.’

Fortunately, by this time, I was climbing the corporate ladder and entitled to a company car, so dispensing with the Ford Escort, I chose my first, a Sports Rated Injection 2000cc Cavalier. It did go like the proverbial ... off a shovel and I’d joined the herd as it was the company car favoured by thousands, earning it the nickname the ‘Rep-mobile.’ I wasn’t a ‘Rep’ and, even though I wasn’t a ‘car man,’ I did like its sporty performance. I know, I know, but I was young (well, youngish)and foolish. And there was now no more worrying about motoring costs like road tax, insurance, or repairs; the company covered it all. There was a personal tax liability because tax rules regarded the car as ‘income,’ but in a very unfriendly way to the environment, the liability reduced the more miles you drove. If you drove under 2,500 miles, you paid an amount of tax proportional to the car’s value; between 2,500 and 18,000 miles, that proportion was halved; and if you drove over 18,000 miles, the tax liability disappeared. Given that the company would also replace the car after 3 years or 36,000 miles, I racked up the miles. I’d think nothing of getting in the car at stupid o’clock in the morning to drive from the south, say to our Warrington office in northwest England for a day’s work, meet clients, and then drive back the same day and happily do the same to our Newcastle office, or that in Weymouth, Yeovil or any other compass bearing. Considering the distances I drove and the speed I was travelling, seeing the motorway speed limit as optional rather than mandatory, I was a serious accident waiting to happen. I can only thank providence that one never did.

As I climbed higher up the corporate ladder, the cars became more luxurious, and my expanding waistline, calmer driving instincts, and fewer miles travelled meant that both the cars and I were built more for comfort than speed. The Vauxhall Omega Elite I had for a year or two in the mid-1990s was so comfortable that it felt like I was driving an armchair. By this point, the UK government had acknowledged the flaws in the company car tax rules and, more sensibly, began taxing cars according to their emissions. It prompted a rethink by many, including me, about future car selection.

One car I really enjoyed driving later in my career was a Chrysler PT Cruiser, not for its performance but for its 1940s chunky eccentric retro style (maybe I’m definitely more of a ‘car man’ than I thought). I still recall Sarah, my wife’s, words when she saw it at the end of our first date: “Oh my God, you drive a Wacky Races car!” before she burst into laughter, likening it to the ‘Bullet Proof Bomb’ of that cartoon series. I’m incredibly pleased to say my cartoon car didn’t put her off a second date, and indeed, I reckon it was the sight of my car that sealed the deal on our relationship. Although, to be honest, Sarah wasn’t too far out in her description despite my belief that the car had style. In complete contrast to my earlier Cavalier SRi, it had the power of a twisted elastic band, so it’s a good thing that I didn’t care about speed by then. The car’s tall roofline and upright stance were eye-catching, but it felt like someone on a bicycle could overtake me when going uphill. As with the characters in the ‘Bullet Proof Bomb’, I really needed to put my feet through the floor and run to generate extra speed.

After the PT Cruiser, I confess I went through a phase in my mid 50s of driving a convertible for a few years, lost youth, and all that. Thankfully, that passed, and other, more sensible cars appeared on the scene. By the time I left the corporate world, I was driving a very sensible hybrid BMW. Still, it used more petrol than electric as the battery only lasted about 50 miles. Longer-range all-electric cars were still a few years away.

I learned something about driving a hybrid car from another incident. One morning, I drove from my then home in Wiltshire to the company’s office in Milton Keynes, a town famous for its concrete cows and roundabouts (you almost leave the place feeling somewhat dizzy). Since I was early, I decided to fill up with petrol ready for the trip home later that day. Normally, to fill up, you’d press a button on the dashboard to release the petrol cap. After a few seconds, while a safety sensor checks that the level of petrol fumes poses no danger from the battery, the cap would pop open so you could fill up. But this time, the cap wouldn’t open. I pressed the button again, and nothing happened again. I tried a couple more times, but still no luck. Realising I had a problem, I drove to the nearby office and called our company’s transport manager. He said he’d check with BMW, and a few minutes later, he called back to explain it was a sensor issue. If I wanted to fill up, there was a cord in the boot that would manually open the cap, but like a ripcord on a parachute, it was one use only. He suggested I shouldn't trouble myself and mentioned that BMW would collect the car and deliver a replacement to the Milton Keynes office. As I mentioned before, company cars do have their advantages.

All that is behind me, as these days I don’t have to worry about ice, sensors, traffic jams, trees, car tax, etc, etc., because I’m now chauffeured wherever I go by Bert or Bertha, my friendly bus, or Metro or train driver. To use the phrase featured in a train travel advertisement of some years ago, these days I let the train (or bus / Metro) take the strain…