Everyone out there has their fantasy pop-culture moments. Be it your Almost Famous moment, which I incidentally tried while standing on my grandmother's balcony, too bad the dogs didn't understand what I meant by “I am a Golden God!”, your Armageddon moment, your Platoon moment and whatever other moments that float your boats. The moment that I want, for real, is my Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas moment. Now, there is no need to go to Las Vegas, there is no need for the ether, cocaine, adrenaline, amphetamines, no need for Raoul and Dr. Gonzo, just the moment. Cruising down the highway in a classic auto, top down, going flat out to Jumpin' Jack Flash. At this point, I will be well and truly leaving Fear and Loathing. This is what I want.
So what is it about cruising a classic auto with the top down grooving to the sound of Keith Richard's guitar? Can't explained, you just know that you've hit that moment when you're there and I sure as hell haven't got there yet. Its probably got something to do with the “bug”. The Petrol Head bug. I AM A PETROL HEAD.
The day that I got the bite, goes way back down the decade, to 98, as a 15 year old school kid, wrapped in a ghastly combination of white and navy green (I hope there wasn't a tie), keeping all the raging hormones in check, waiting on the school street corner just prepped for the bite. And then it came. It sounded like a helicopter from a distance, I was looking skyward, wrong direction, little did I know. And then it appeared, The Stag, a masculine beauty holding down 3 Liters of pure British muscle harmonizing with the V8 that sat under the hood to produce a hymn, which any God would approve of. I was going through emotions that had never been felt, what the hell was this? Couldn't tell at that point, probably down to the raging hormones I thought.
This particular Stag belonged to a mate's dad, it was just sad that the car didn't run much after the time I saw it, due to transmission problems. After years of parking in the shop, as known, is a common trait with Brit autos, it finally got jacked up to running condition sometime in 07. After waiting almost a decade for the beast to come alive, the time had come to rekindle my adolescent emotions. Firing up the engine went up on my wall of moments. And then the bellow came, the sound of the engine was so amazing that it took be back to the first time I heard Montoya's Williams screaming down the straight at Sepang doing 18000 RPM. Naturally, my heartbeat heightened, I started to shake uncontrollably and of course, the sweats came. And taking it for a spin? Well, my vocabulary isn't wide enough for that. Albeit at a crawling pace, the sound of the motor in gear could be best described with Clarkson's words in reference to the thundering roar of a 62' Mustang - “God Shouting”, and the seeping smell of the burning petrol…way more pleasing to the nostrils than the very expensive Polo Black that I've doused on my shirt today. (I don't think my woman would be quite pleased by this)
This is when I decided, who cares if the Ozone layer is thinning? Global Warming, the icebergs are melting, the penguins are dying and that everyone in Hollywood is driving a Prius. I want to drive a muscle car that burns a gallon a mile, that pollutes the environment with high levels of sound and spews the smell of sweet petrol as it burns the asphalt leaving undeniable tyre tracks while taking off from traffic lights….just like what every Petrol Head wants. Yeah, so these cars don't give you the efficiency the modern world requires, doesn't give you the confidence as it might die on your way to tea and it well might spend more time in the shop than in your garage, while interior upholstery is not a familiar word in these parts. For practicality's sake, we all should drive Corollas, which I incidentally do by the way, but the excitement that comes with that assurance can be best described as the adrenaline rush you'd get from eating oats. Then again, in my quandary, oats is all I afford to eat.
Driving should be an experience, instead of wanting to kill yourself everytime you get behind the wheel, it should be enjoyed, a car should be felt through sound, smell and presence. Most cars today sound like blenders, (seriously, listen to the punk kids' Evos), look like they've come out of some Japanese anime series and command personas that make the Clio look like the greatest car ever made. Motors have lost character. A character of a car cannot be finitely described as every petrol head would his own take. Its probably the reason why I think a BMW 2002 better looking compared to the current line of Bavarian monstrosities and that I would pick a 68' GTO over a Gallardo, given the choices of course.
Unfortunately, you and I, we live in a rapidly evolving world, where things aren't appreciated nor cherished as all the corporate plastic drones of the reality show called Life thrive on blatant consumerism. Guess we can't change that. But that doesn't mean I'm giving up on the chase for my moment, I'm going to get mine, my Fear and Loathing moment, just as soon as I find the car, and then the money to buy it, followed by the money to put petrol in it every 50 Km, etc. So go out and go find yours…it'll probably save your life….but just one thing to keep in mind, if your woman ever asks you which you'd pick between Her and a 58' DB5, be sure to give a prompt reply, to avoid domestic trouble/skirmishes. The answer is obvious.
