15 Sep 2014
I can get from A to B by aiming it in the right direction and pressing a couple of pedals. It is congenial, pleasant and utterly reliable, and on a rainy school run I suppose that’s a good thing. But I drive with no more engagement than if I were sitting on my sofa. I am comfortably indifferent to the landscape I am travelling through. It is the motoring equivalent of moving to the suburbs with 2.5 kids, a dishwasher and a spouse called Glenn. It’s just so BEIGE.
The thing is, I love driving. I mean, really love it. When I drive, I want to engage with the outside. I want to feel every bump in the road. I want to pull levers, adjust chokes and wind down windows. I want to work at it, and I want my car to answer back. Perhaps it’s an extension of my tactile personality but I need to feel it. It’s just more fun that way.
When I was 17, I learned to drive and passed first time. My boyfriend was a mechanic, and he gave me an old S registration Mini Cooper van. He rebuilt the 1.1 litre engine, and put in a new gearbox. At some point the steering wheel dropped off and the one he replaced it with was far too big for the car so it felt like you were driving the world’s tiniest bus. I loved that car, and have never enjoyed driving quite as much since.
Then yesterday, my mate Kate mentioned she was selling her car. I’ve been coveting it for some considerable time but apparently never said so. The vehicle in question is an early 1980’s Citroen 2CV. It’s left hand drive with a soft top, but of course you have to unclip the roof and roll it back by hand. It goes about 50 miles an hour, tops, and only by rattling every last tooth in your head. The windows fold and clip back, the air con is a flap to the outside that’s either open or shut, and the windscreen wipers can only cope with a light drizzle. It takes about £20 to fill the tank, requires a specialist insurer, and is notoriously unreliable.
I am, of course, beside myself with excitement. I’ll sell the Renault, buy the 2CV and take it to a specialist garage for a complete overhaul. Kate is less thrilled. You can’t go anywhere fast, she points out. You can’t pay at tolls without climbing over the passenger seat. It needs constant maintenance. It’s small. But, of course, I hear none of this. Instead, I see me in Audrey Hepburn glasses and headscarf, bombing through the streets as I pull out stops and push in levers, like a mad church organist. I will love it. I already love it.
