Notes From the Hard Shoulder - James May [32]
Contrast this with the demise of my chum Hammond's ancient MG Midget. That breakdown was such a drawn-out and agonising episode that there was time for us to have an argument about it while it was still happening.
It was an early autumnal evening, the air crisp and damp; just the sort of air, in fact, that a simple carburetted British sports car engine likes to breathe. We bowled along past hedges and ditches, the gleaming road illuminated by the urine-yellow glow of the Lucas so-called 'headlamps'.
A shudder in the bowels of the thing presaged its end. But it was still running, just not quite as vigorously as before. Then another, and irrefutable indications that power was tailing away: the headlamps became even dimmer. 'Fuel pump,' he cried. 'No, no, ignition,' I retorted, above the howling, but diminishing, 35mph slipstream.
Now we were like the crew of a Bristol F.2b Fighter, nursing our crippled kite back to base after an encounter with the Baron. We could turn back to the petrol station where we'd just refuelled, and give ourselves up. Or we could drive on, fortified by the thought of a hot cocoa back at the Hammond mess.
Another lurch, as if the far end of a long rope paid out behind us had snagged on something. And then another. The Midget was clearly doomed and yet refused to go quietly, continuing to rage against the dying of the headlights. If this were a crash there would have been time to ring the insurer and describe the damage as it happened.
Of course, we didn't make it, but this time it was impossible to discern the precise moment when the engine gave out. It simply diminished to nothing, as the sound of a bell does. Like an old soldier, it just faded away.
For the early RFC fliers, battling against a prevailing wind that usually blew east, the risk was always that you'd come down in no-man's land. And now here we were, alone and in the dark, somewhere only marginally less dangerous – rural Gloucestershire.
Still, I like a good breakdown. I like the drama, the tension, the heightening of the senses as you seek through fingertips, buttocks and ears for signs that you might just get home. And I like the finality of the silence that comes afterwards, when I sit and await the curling echo that heralds the yellow van of my despair.
LAMBORGHINIS ARE GREAT. YOU SHOULD HAVE ONE.
Little is of less consequence to the car enthusiast or general car consumer than the UK motor industry's sales figures.
I mean, who really gives a stuff? So Jaguar sales are down 19 per cent, and Jaguar is apparently 'in crisis'. But a mate of mine has just bought one and he's chuffed to bits. Aston Martin sales were up 182.4 per cent, which is nice for them, but another mate has bought one of those and he's very cross, because it keeps conking out. Maybach sales were down 26.1 per cent, but should that put the prospective buyer off? Of course not. There are far better reasons for not having one, such as a Rolls-Royce Phantom (up 7.1 per cent).
I am indebted to Autocar, a magazine that once fired me, for the brightly coloured bar chart currently laid out on my desk. And although it is really of relevance only if you happen to own a car factory, it's strangely compelling reading. For example, last year 18,137 of you came up with a presumably sound reason for buying a Chevrolet-nee-Daewoo, or Chevrolaewoo, which is 18,137 more reasons than I can muster. Elsewhere, I am surprised to learn that 1,281 UK residents bought a Ssangyong in 2005. I'm not sure I've ever seen a Ssangyong.
But here's the thing I find really shocking. UK Lamborghini sales were down 56.9 per cent in 2005. This is a tragedy.
Now. I realise that percentages are dangerous and misleading, and that in a sales operation as small as Lamborghini's, a few cars one way or the other