“Why don’t you buy yourself a decent car – a proper car? You’ve been a young professional for long enough now and you should be able to buy something nice, surely?” I felt like I’d just been chided for not washing behind my ears or for dipping my dessert spoon into the ice-cream tub. It’s certainly not something you expect to hear when, at 39 years old, you find your father giving you a talking to about cars. Maybe it was the little oil puddle deposited on his drive from my latest “classic” in which I arrived when visiting my parents for a recent Sunday lunch. I blame him – lovingly of course – for the part he played in the hand-me-down cars that blighted the first ten years of driving since passing my test. For example, whilst at university, the embarrassment of being asked by a potential date to park one’s car around the corner so her friends cannot see it is matched only by having to admit that that the colour of one’s carriage is beige. The level of street credibility for a Fresher was akin to admitting to a devotion to Val Doonican.
Following many years of owning dubious, underpowered, second-hand suburban runabouts, I have therefore decided upon purchasing what my father calls that “decent car”. In that formative decade of motoring, my cars represented affordable A-to-B motoring - easy to maintain, reliable, predictable, boring. Upon graduation, trying to make a statement of intent to the business world - and as a burgeoning suitor of young ladies - these uninteresting vehicles showed me as nothing but an automotive ignoramus. I am not naïve, nor ungrateful – I am greatly indebted to my parents for their generosity in passing on to me these cars. In fact, it was humbling. However, when I describe the cars you might begin to empathise with my plight.
My mother’s 1986 Mazda 323 1.3L was a nippy little runabout and somehow survived my initial flush of driving exuberance through those University days. A great little starter car in life, deemed by some at college as “naff” – even my explanations to them of its fuel economy, its reliability, its build quality, its affordability to insure (as a student) fell on ignorant deaf ears. More fool them. I knew better and was happy to be making a start in life with any car at all. It was, however, beige.
Its replacement represented contented middle-aged spread. However there is more than meets the eye with a Nissan Bluebird 1.6LX. My father had decided to scale up to the new shape Mazda 323F at the time which meant my old beige 323 was passed on in favour for his trusty old Bluebird. College friends dubbed it the “Barge”. Commonly known in the suburbs as a reliable minicab, I had better ideas – a good friend and I joined the college motor club and decided to rally it. Nighttime navigational rallies around the New Forest and Hampshire countryside granted me the freedom to express to myself that I had a modicum of driving talent. Screams of fear emanated from John in the passenger seat as he tried to translate tulip diagrams into directional instructions to me. Somehow he maintained composure as I hurled the Barge through narrow, dark, greasy country lanes. We came first in class once. Second overall, only to a MkIII Cortina with Wolfrace wheels – such was the diversity of exciting motors in the Club.
The first car purchased with my own hard-earned money - soon after graduation - was a silver 1982 Audi Coupe GT. Aging gracefully, this 120000 miler provided me with five pistons of torquey pleasure. It was a vain attempt at buying what I considered that “decent” car. This car was fast – not difficult after the Barge - but the interior permeated with the aroma of cheap air-freshener and used cigarette. The engine was lubricated with more STP thickener than oil and I was trailed everywhere I drove by a fine blue mist.
However, I always had an affinity for classic cars believing the road presence of a classic motor is so free from the current shackles of an interfering EU or health and safety executive. Classic cars turn heads as observers make such touching, uplifting comments such as “my dad had one of those”, or “I remember my old Uncle Arfur had a banger like that”. So I traded-in the German smoker for an Old English White MGB GT. This rust bucket had the unique feature of being able to see the road pass by underneath one’s heels whilst driving. A quick succession of other popular classics followed; a Rover SD1 2300cc - four gears, as wide as a bus, top speed about fifty, a VW Scirocco - vibrated so badly above 30mph I suffered nausea, and a Triumph Spitfire which looked like a Swiss cheese. It also had a habit of detuning itself on short journeys before rewarding me by swapping ends on roundabouts without any warning whatsoever.
So, with my father’s recent comments on my mind, and mulling over my succession of classics, I considered my options. Returning from work one recent evening, a hollow-sounding, rising and rasping exhaust note catches my attention. I turn my head and catch sight of a car as it accelerates past me; the svelte, smooth and timeless curves of a black Porsche 911….
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