Driving moments...
Discussion
…that will stay with you for a lifetime.
Some time ago, twenty year old me and my eighteen month old Citroen C2 GT were heading up to Carlisle to drop in on a friend. I had recently been dumped and morale was low, so the prospect of a hundred-odd miles of motorway tedium wasn’t relished. Thirty miles in, I darted off the M6 and aimed north through Kendal, taking a right at the Porsche Centre and advanced through the sleepy village of Shap. NOFX were thanking God it was Monday, the fresh macadam was as black as Prince Phil’s fantasy brothel but the weather, well, was a bit Radiohead. I settled in for a potentially long and bleak drive, gave the volume-up button a few stabs and maybe sighed a bit. Then, a meteorological miracle occurred; the melancholic greys and pastel blues of alternative 90s rock were blown wide open by a somewhat biblical string accompaniment, the sun did shine and other such adequate descriptive clichés were implemented. I passed the last of Shap’s local shops and cottages and, at last, the white circle wearing the black stripe. NOFX made way for Bad Religion at the very juncture I saw what was ahead of me…
Long and twisting tarmac scythed first down, then up and toward the undulating horizon of the Lake District, perfectly open-sighted corners walled by four feet of cobbled brick and not another car in sight. I made the admittedly spongy-s
t shift from fourth to third and pinned the right pedal. Sure, le trolley du shop* made only a smidge above one-ten horsepower and the handling, while agile enough, was hardly the final word on precision. But, all of that is what the point was not. The point was, for that short time, I had one of the greatest roads I had ever witnessed all to myself and thoughts of my ex-girlfriend vanished. I gathered my French horses and we (French for 'quickly drove') as safely as possible, making sure to profit from my lack of competition. Clear corners were cut, invisible apexes crossed, modest power maximised. Nirvana.
For me, my ‘moment’ doesn’t just lie in the drive but instead, the precise moment I saw what I was about to drive.
Some time ago, twenty year old me and my eighteen month old Citroen C2 GT were heading up to Carlisle to drop in on a friend. I had recently been dumped and morale was low, so the prospect of a hundred-odd miles of motorway tedium wasn’t relished. Thirty miles in, I darted off the M6 and aimed north through Kendal, taking a right at the Porsche Centre and advanced through the sleepy village of Shap. NOFX were thanking God it was Monday, the fresh macadam was as black as Prince Phil’s fantasy brothel but the weather, well, was a bit Radiohead. I settled in for a potentially long and bleak drive, gave the volume-up button a few stabs and maybe sighed a bit. Then, a meteorological miracle occurred; the melancholic greys and pastel blues of alternative 90s rock were blown wide open by a somewhat biblical string accompaniment, the sun did shine and other such adequate descriptive clichés were implemented. I passed the last of Shap’s local shops and cottages and, at last, the white circle wearing the black stripe. NOFX made way for Bad Religion at the very juncture I saw what was ahead of me…
Long and twisting tarmac scythed first down, then up and toward the undulating horizon of the Lake District, perfectly open-sighted corners walled by four feet of cobbled brick and not another car in sight. I made the admittedly spongy-s
t shift from fourth to third and pinned the right pedal. Sure, le trolley du shop* made only a smidge above one-ten horsepower and the handling, while agile enough, was hardly the final word on precision. But, all of that is what the point was not. The point was, for that short time, I had one of the greatest roads I had ever witnessed all to myself and thoughts of my ex-girlfriend vanished. I gathered my French horses and we (French for 'quickly drove') as safely as possible, making sure to profit from my lack of competition. Clear corners were cut, invisible apexes crossed, modest power maximised. Nirvana.For me, my ‘moment’ doesn’t just lie in the drive but instead, the precise moment I saw what I was about to drive.
- This simply must be translated as 'shopping trolley' in French, right?
NotfamousMartin said:
…that will stay with you for a lifetime.
Some time ago, twenty year old me and my eighteen month old Citroen C2 GT were heading up to Carlisle to drop in on a friend. I had recently been dumped and morale was low, so the prospect of a hundred-odd miles of motorway tedium wasn’t relished. Thirty miles in, I darted off the M6 and aimed north through Kendal, taking a right at the Porsche Centre and advanced through the sleepy village of Shap. NOFX were thanking God it was Monday, the fresh macadam was as black as Prince Phil’s fantasy brothel but the weather, well, was a bit Radiohead. I settled in for a potentially long and bleak drive, gave the volume-up button a few stabs and maybe sighed a bit. Then, a meteorological miracle occurred; the melancholic greys and pastel blues of alternative 90s rock were blown wide open by a somewhat biblical string accompaniment, the sun did shine and other such adequate descriptive clichés were implemented. I passed the last of Shap’s local shops and cottages and, at last, the white circle wearing the black stripe. NOFX made way for Bad Religion at the very juncture I saw what was ahead of me…
Long and twisting tarmac scythed first down, then up and toward the undulating horizon of the Lake District, perfectly open-sighted corners walled by four feet of cobbled brick and not another car in sight. I made the admittedly spongy-st shift from fourth to third and pinned the right pedal. Sure, le trolley du shop* made only a smidge above one-ten horsepower and the handling, while agile enough, was hardly the final word on precision. But, all of that is what the point was not. The point was, for that short time, I had one of the greatest roads I had ever witnessed all to myself and thoughts of my ex-girlfriend vanished. I gathered my French horses and we (French for 'quickly drove') as safely as possible, making sure to profit from my lack of competition. Clear corners were cut, invisible apexes crossed, modest power maximised. Nirvana.
For me, my ‘moment’ doesn’t just lie in the drive but instead, the precise moment I saw what I was about to drive.
Passing my test.Some time ago, twenty year old me and my eighteen month old Citroen C2 GT were heading up to Carlisle to drop in on a friend. I had recently been dumped and morale was low, so the prospect of a hundred-odd miles of motorway tedium wasn’t relished. Thirty miles in, I darted off the M6 and aimed north through Kendal, taking a right at the Porsche Centre and advanced through the sleepy village of Shap. NOFX were thanking God it was Monday, the fresh macadam was as black as Prince Phil’s fantasy brothel but the weather, well, was a bit Radiohead. I settled in for a potentially long and bleak drive, gave the volume-up button a few stabs and maybe sighed a bit. Then, a meteorological miracle occurred; the melancholic greys and pastel blues of alternative 90s rock were blown wide open by a somewhat biblical string accompaniment, the sun did shine and other such adequate descriptive clichés were implemented. I passed the last of Shap’s local shops and cottages and, at last, the white circle wearing the black stripe. NOFX made way for Bad Religion at the very juncture I saw what was ahead of me…
Long and twisting tarmac scythed first down, then up and toward the undulating horizon of the Lake District, perfectly open-sighted corners walled by four feet of cobbled brick and not another car in sight. I made the admittedly spongy-s
t shift from fourth to third and pinned the right pedal. Sure, le trolley du shop* made only a smidge above one-ten horsepower and the handling, while agile enough, was hardly the final word on precision. But, all of that is what the point was not. The point was, for that short time, I had one of the greatest roads I had ever witnessed all to myself and thoughts of my ex-girlfriend vanished. I gathered my French horses and we (French for 'quickly drove') as safely as possible, making sure to profit from my lack of competition. Clear corners were cut, invisible apexes crossed, modest power maximised. Nirvana.For me, my ‘moment’ doesn’t just lie in the drive but instead, the precise moment I saw what I was about to drive.
- This simply must be translated as 'shopping trolley' in French, right?
Ehhh thanks for the story...
I drove through Watersmeet in north Devon, I had been there on a day out with my wife and daughters, I was driving an E36 328 coupe with an M3 exhaust on, I was holding it in the low gears and having that exhaust booming off the high hedges, I wasn't going remotely fast but in the sunshine with the windows down and sunroof open I felt a million dollars.
Sorry its not exiting but I drive on my own 90% of the time and hammering my car down lanes is something I do Dailey, therefore forgettable.
Sorry its not exiting but I drive on my own 90% of the time and hammering my car down lanes is something I do Dailey, therefore forgettable.
My most amusing moment was leaving Belgium and heading into Germany with a mate. We were in a Ford Streetka (don't ask) and it had an MP3 CD player. There was a disc in there with about 500 songs on it. For some reason it had gone quiet but we were both hungover so hadn't done anything about it.
For reasons I'll never understand, just as we turned onto a long, straight uphill road through a stereotypical german forest about three miles from the border, it sprang into life - with the Imperial March from Star Wars. Couldn't have had a better soundtrack to drive the least manly car in the world into Germany.
For reasons I'll never understand, just as we turned onto a long, straight uphill road through a stereotypical german forest about three miles from the border, it sprang into life - with the Imperial March from Star Wars. Couldn't have had a better soundtrack to drive the least manly car in the world into Germany.
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