This week my car and my love are on a [his family] men’s holiday. This means that I was wrong in assuming both the gender of my wicked car, and its affiliation. Heartbreak aside, I have been leant a replacement for my ugly duckling, in the form of a smaller and uglier duckling. It looks like this:
It has a 850cc litre engine. That’s smaller than some bikes. It’s an automatic, and it’s very silly.
I have to say I have never been so confused in a car in my entire 3.2 year driving life! The clutch is my point of reference, the thing you need to know, and the thing that will make your car pull away smoothly or stutter and stall. A car without a clutch is like a computer without a mouse. It’s like a man without an appetite, all my knowledge on keeping car/computer/man happy & making it work is to do with good clutch control, mouse moving and lunch cooking. I had better luck driving the transit.
When I purchased my first love car, the paxo, its then owner said (puffing delicately on a cigar and drinking a glass of expensive looking red wine) “dear, it’s a very simple little car, it just goes.” The same can be said for the move, but this would be a massive understatement! No remote central locking, no electric windows, no stereo, and wing mirrors that you lean out of the car and wiggle around yourself. Mental.
I was tres spun out by this strange little machine. At 720kg, it has a nifty little power to weight ratio, and on fast roads it drives like a leaf. It has a top speed of a mighty 81 mph. Overtaking a lorry on a fast road you take your life in your hands, on a windy day you will get flung about like you don’t even exist and at 90mph I’ve heard it can take off. Despite this, I am glad to report that I am still alive and by the time I publish this post the little demon will be back with its rightful owners (phew!)
We May Never Know The Truth
7 hours ago