Cars I have loved , and loved, etc.
I was the first person in my family to own a car. I bought it when I was sixteen years old from a U.S. Navy officer who had treated it as though it were a pair of his dress shoes. It was spotlessly clean, and white, and a Ford Prefect, with a visor. No car ever meant more to its owner than that one, and I’m not talking about the seller, I’m talking about myself.
With the transfer of documents something happened to me, and as I sit here all these years later, I’m not really sure what it was, but I changed from being just anybody to being a car owner. I had transport, and thanks to the seller it was elegant and looked as though it just came out of the showroom. I recall the rather bemused reaction of the officer who was a little surprised at how a simple car could mean so much to one person. He kept repeating, “Well, I did want it to go to a good home.”
That car confirmed that I had become a man, even though I was too young to legally own it, and to license it. That didn’t stop me from driving it, but looking back that was really a stupid thing to have done. The risk I took was having an accident that would have been uninsured, and all the attendant problems of driving without a license at the very start of my life. What the hell was I thinking?
When I finally went to test for my license I had to get someone walking nearby to drive the car into the testing area. He said he could drive but I really didn’t know if he actually had a license. Anyway, he parked it and went along his way. The examiner said he’d seen me arrive and asked where was my driver. The driver has gone, I replied. “What if you fail your test?” “I didn’t come to fail,” said I. What arrogance!
Later that day while I was driving on my newly acquired permit, a pedestrian stepped out into the road and I had to brake sharply. It was the examiner.
My next car was a Jaguar XK120, British Racing Green, and convertible. I was living in London then, and that car was all engine. One evening I decided I would attend a concert at the Queen Elizabeth II Concert Hall, with The Queen Mother as Patron. I had dressed in a tux and I attended solo. On the way I stopped at a red light and was immediately sought after for my autograph by some excited girls calling me Lennie. I had no idea who Lennie was but I milked the situation as much as I could.
After the concert I went to stand at the side of the red carpet to see the Queen Mother leave. To my utter surprise she came over to me to ask whether I had enjoyed it. I was so tongue-tied I‘m sure she didn’t understand a word I said.
I next bought a Ford Capri that was just lovely. It confirmed in me a fan for Ford cars, even though I never bought another. I would actually love to own a Ford Mondeo, but perhaps at a later date. The Capri gave me the same sort of prestige I had enjoyed with the Jag, as I was living yet again in Bermuda. I drove it for years and years, and when the time came to write it off, you might have thought I had lost a family member. In a way, of course, I had.
My next car was a VW Scirocco, a real prize that I bought from a man who sold it for reasons unknown, because it was sexed up and looked fabulous. It had oversize tyres, was shiny black, with tinted windows. The inside was like a space ship with all sorts of add-ons, and the sound system was to die for. In reality, it was a super stereo system on wheels. I drove it until I left Bermuda when I gave it to my brother. Unfortunately he was unable to keep it up and it died a natural death.
We came to Spain and bought a Fiat station wagon, that for me, was very down to earth. We made good use of its space, but in the end it developed a hiccup that no-one was able to rectify. It was therefore just left to sit. When I went back to it to start the engine and try and deliver some large refuse to the dump, it ran perfectly. All it needed was a vacation. However, because of its advanced age we sent it to the home for senior cars, and in its place I bought a Chrysler seven-seater people carrier. This is an American car that had such a wonderful roar, but some thugs decided it was much too nice a car for me to drive, so they stole it and set it alight.
In place of the Chrysler I bought a Volvo 850. This is my everyday workhorse and a really fine piece of engineering. I just love the car, although it developed a habit of trying to kill me by simply ceasing to run without warning. When I called on the Volvo experts to fix it they had no idea what was wrong with it, and instructed that I was to remove it from their garage. Stupid bastards! In other words I was to take it away and dump it.
I demanded from Volvo, Sweden that they find me some real help. They instructed the main concession for Spain to talk to the garage, and they came back to me, suitably chastened to ask that I let them take another look. It’s fixed now, and the problem was so simple. A change of the main fuses cleared that up. Gradually, I found that I was spending a lot of time in the garage with it as a number of parts needed to be changed due to its age, so when the opportunity of a lifetime came along, I was ready.
One of NATO’s VIP cars was put up for sale. It was a Jaguar Sovereign that had been treated like a mascot, and no-one had ever got in that car, with the exception of mechanics, of course, with dirty shoes. It sits outside my house now as my classic car that gets driven once a week, if the weather is good.
It was a silly thing to do, I grant you that, but at my age I may never get the chance to do anything quite as silly again. Here’s to life!!!!
Copyright © 2011 Eugene Carmichael
I was the first person in my family to own a car. I bought it when I was sixteen years old from a U.S. Navy officer who had treated it as though it were a pair of his dress shoes. It was spotlessly clean, and white, and a Ford Prefect, with a visor. No car ever meant more to its owner than that one, and I’m not talking about the seller, I’m talking about myself.
With the transfer of documents something happened to me, and as I sit here all these years later, I’m not really sure what it was, but I changed from being just anybody to being a car owner. I had transport, and thanks to the seller it was elegant and looked as though it just came out of the showroom. I recall the rather bemused reaction of the officer who was a little surprised at how a simple car could mean so much to one person. He kept repeating, “Well, I did want it to go to a good home.”
That car confirmed that I had become a man, even though I was too young to legally own it, and to license it. That didn’t stop me from driving it, but looking back that was really a stupid thing to have done. The risk I took was having an accident that would have been uninsured, and all the attendant problems of driving without a license at the very start of my life. What the hell was I thinking?
When I finally went to test for my license I had to get someone walking nearby to drive the car into the testing area. He said he could drive but I really didn’t know if he actually had a license. Anyway, he parked it and went along his way. The examiner said he’d seen me arrive and asked where was my driver. The driver has gone, I replied. “What if you fail your test?” “I didn’t come to fail,” said I. What arrogance!
Later that day while I was driving on my newly acquired permit, a pedestrian stepped out into the road and I had to brake sharply. It was the examiner.
My next car was a Jaguar XK120, British Racing Green, and convertible. I was living in London then, and that car was all engine. One evening I decided I would attend a concert at the Queen Elizabeth II Concert Hall, with The Queen Mother as Patron. I had dressed in a tux and I attended solo. On the way I stopped at a red light and was immediately sought after for my autograph by some excited girls calling me Lennie. I had no idea who Lennie was but I milked the situation as much as I could.
After the concert I went to stand at the side of the red carpet to see the Queen Mother leave. To my utter surprise she came over to me to ask whether I had enjoyed it. I was so tongue-tied I‘m sure she didn’t understand a word I said.
I next bought a Ford Capri that was just lovely. It confirmed in me a fan for Ford cars, even though I never bought another. I would actually love to own a Ford Mondeo, but perhaps at a later date. The Capri gave me the same sort of prestige I had enjoyed with the Jag, as I was living yet again in Bermuda. I drove it for years and years, and when the time came to write it off, you might have thought I had lost a family member. In a way, of course, I had.
My next car was a VW Scirocco, a real prize that I bought from a man who sold it for reasons unknown, because it was sexed up and looked fabulous. It had oversize tyres, was shiny black, with tinted windows. The inside was like a space ship with all sorts of add-ons, and the sound system was to die for. In reality, it was a super stereo system on wheels. I drove it until I left Bermuda when I gave it to my brother. Unfortunately he was unable to keep it up and it died a natural death.
We came to Spain and bought a Fiat station wagon, that for me, was very down to earth. We made good use of its space, but in the end it developed a hiccup that no-one was able to rectify. It was therefore just left to sit. When I went back to it to start the engine and try and deliver some large refuse to the dump, it ran perfectly. All it needed was a vacation. However, because of its advanced age we sent it to the home for senior cars, and in its place I bought a Chrysler seven-seater people carrier. This is an American car that had such a wonderful roar, but some thugs decided it was much too nice a car for me to drive, so they stole it and set it alight.
In place of the Chrysler I bought a Volvo 850. This is my everyday workhorse and a really fine piece of engineering. I just love the car, although it developed a habit of trying to kill me by simply ceasing to run without warning. When I called on the Volvo experts to fix it they had no idea what was wrong with it, and instructed that I was to remove it from their garage. Stupid bastards! In other words I was to take it away and dump it.
I demanded from Volvo, Sweden that they find me some real help. They instructed the main concession for Spain to talk to the garage, and they came back to me, suitably chastened to ask that I let them take another look. It’s fixed now, and the problem was so simple. A change of the main fuses cleared that up. Gradually, I found that I was spending a lot of time in the garage with it as a number of parts needed to be changed due to its age, so when the opportunity of a lifetime came along, I was ready.
One of NATO’s VIP cars was put up for sale. It was a Jaguar Sovereign that had been treated like a mascot, and no-one had ever got in that car, with the exception of mechanics, of course, with dirty shoes. It sits outside my house now as my classic car that gets driven once a week, if the weather is good.
It was a silly thing to do, I grant you that, but at my age I may never get the chance to do anything quite as silly again. Here’s to life!!!!
Copyright © 2011 Eugene Carmichael
No comments:
Post a Comment