My first car was a Renault 5 Gordini — black with red seats, never mind some rusty bits around the edges. My friend had a silver one with racing stripes; we were twinning. Sporty girls with our first rides. Babes. I had somehow paid 1,200 pounds of my own money for my first transport at about 19 years of age. My father would have purchased for me the rather more sensible, much less sporty number (a shopping cart); but I just couldn’t go there. Again, I was 19. Brain hadn’t entirely filled in.
I thought this car was alive. Her name was Francoise — oddly enough — later to be my daughter’s name. She was compact, but sporty with her fat little tires and 5 gears. If memory correctly serves, she had a sunroof, even though I lived in a country where this was not something you ever opened. Regardless, it was super cool. She drove like a rocket. Never mind the rust and frequent mechanical issues, she was queen of the road.
Francoise and I went all over heck, when she wasn’t in the shop — ahem. We drove to France and enjoyed the wet cobbles of Paris surrounded by Parisian drivers — double ahem — and the sleekly cambered, incredibly fast autobahns in Germany. (If you ever drive on such a thing and want to overtake something — make sure there is nothing in front of you for miles, because there is no speed limit on the autobahns and their speeds can be eye-watering!) I learned that — as I learn most things — the hard way. No damage done but a little nerve-wracking at the time.
Francoise went the way of most first cars and, when I needed to work in London, there was no parking anyway, so car ownership was quickly removed as a practical option, but I never forgot her — the freedom, the exhilaration of the open road where no one knew where you were, the possibility of disappearing entirely.
After that, none of my vehicles were as sexy. When I became a Mama to the real Francoise, it was a sensible car (shopping cart) that would nicely accommodate a car seat and babyhood luggage. I no longer cared about the color of the seats or the rev of the engine as you went from 4th gear to 5th on the motorway. There was not a bucket seat in sight and the stereo was unremarkable.
When later, I started doing a lot of driving for my jobs (see newspapers and then real estate), driving became a super chore. It was just a way to get myself around, to make my money, pick up the kid from daycare. Given a choice I never wanted to drive — it was entirely associated with work and a lack of relaxation.
Move stage forward to my recent visit on the Isle of Man (where I always rent the same trusty Suburu, pretty much because I know how to open the gas cap on the car (it’s on the floor under the driver’s mat … my first time around I had to run into the gas station to enquire … mortifying!) It’s a decent vehicle, nice and sturdy in the inclement weathers one might find there, also an easy car for dad to get in and out of. She equally boasts heat, navigation and an automatic transmission (not an automatic thing over there, trust me!). I’ve also just got used to her, having now rented her about four times — there is that easy familiarity that comes over time.
I can fly from San Francisco to London — walk from one terminal to another, a couple of miles — get a coffee, have a wash and then knab the afternoon flight to the Isle of Man, where I pick up trusty Suburu and make the last leg of my journey to the hotel. This rather mammoth trip might not be for everyone, but I find it manageable, knowing that the Subaru is waiting for me and I will need limited tools to be able to operate her after my long haul across the world. (There was the time I came across a combine harvester on a skinny country lane and had to back up along the hedgerow, which I did masterfully and then chuckled to myself that the farmer had no clue that not only had I traveled across multi-time zones before being put in charge of this motor vehicle with all its driving tools on the wrong side of the car, but also that I was driving on the wrong side of the road backwards and he would likely not want me to go in a ditch, because he would then have to pull me out!)
Funny the thoughts that you can have when you are very tired. Though I might consider myself a competent driver overseas, I still have a hard time parking a vehicle (again, you are on the wrong side of the car) and near impossible to back into a space on the road, which is on the opposite side to me. I have been known to throw up my hands, put the car in park and make my passenger park the wretched thing. Another story entirely.
My sister and her husband have moved to the north of the island, which involves the use of the Mountain Road (very popular during the annual TT motorbike races with its fast surfaces, tight bends and slick camber). If you travel the road in winter, it is often subject to snow and ice, also fog, none of which I practice in my California driving! Father lives about 30 minutes away on the other side of the mountain road and this would mean some mountain, also winter driving for my trusty Suburu, not to mention me. I can see how this road is perfect for ridiculously fast motorcycles, but this grandma is not one of those and I found myself pulling over for all the locals who treated the road like a breeze. Never mind, the fog was on the ground and even my car told me I had no visibility, they still wanted to zoom past me, so I would pull over and try to be at the back of the convoy, which was always a complete joke, since I would instantly lose the speedies in the mists. I learned to talk myself through this and listen to the radio.
Then came the day that the mountain road was closed (snow, ice and poor visibility). For some reason, unknown to my mature self, at the barricades I took myself off cross country like a champion instead of following the Road Diverted sign. I was 19 again and we were going to have an adventure. I was almost giggling like a mad woman, because this was a bit mad, but I didn’t care and I kept on keeping on, until I came to a sign I recognized and got myself back on track.
“Oh, you took a long time to get here, sister,” my sister remarked. I just winked at my Suburu. She has now been given a name. Babe. Babe is her name and I will be seeing her again in April.
