PHIL WHITE
THE STAR'S THE CAR
For reasons that make perfect sense to me (but little to many around me), I recently began to split my time between Dorset and the city of Sheffield. This transformation makes me happy, as I get to live in not one wonderful place, but two. It also means that I have to do a 250-mile drive twice a week. People quail at this, but for many years I did 40,000 miles a year travelling to magazine photoshoots, and for over six years I ran a business that required me to drive between the UK and Chamonixmont-blanc and back a couple of times a month. A weekly hack to and from Steel City is child’s play by comparison.
I tend to leave extremely early in the morning to avoid much of the murderous traffic that blights this nation’s motorway network between 7am and 6pm. And so I found myself two days ago, sailing serenely down the M5 at about 6am. Sailing was an appropriate word because the weather was atrocious for the whole journey, rain lashing down, water malingering on the blacktop and vast billows of spray hurling themselves off the HGVS as they lumbered along.
The entire experience should have been hell, but it wasn’t. I was travelling at around 65-70mph, music wafting from a very good car stereo, making steady progress towards home and my beloved. I felt relaxed, albeit maybe a smidge tired. But fixing that was easy. I pulled up at the absurdly pleasant Gloucester Services, had a short snooze and treated myself to a pasty. Then I resumed my journey. I got home before the rush hour hit, had a nice cup of tea, got changed and did a spot of work.
My serenity was partly thanks to a change of attitude. I recently spent three weeks away from reality, on the lovely island of Gran Canaria. It was my longest trip away for 19 years, and I took the opportunity to sit by the sea a lot and think about how to live the rest of my life. I decided that it would be a fine idea to slow things down and disengage from aggravating stuff. But a huge contributor to the tolerability of the situation was my car. It is a quality item, well-built and designed precisely for this kind of mile-munching life. It is large, nicely-built and quiet on the move. Its automatic gearbox is easy to operate and the cabin is a pleasant, comfortable place to spend time in. It has just the right equipment for long journeys. Middle age has brought me to an appreciation of heated seats, which take the sting out of early winter starts. I also love the simple-to-operate cruise control, which removes much of the tension from the seemingly-interminable speed-regulated sections that blight our overcrowded road network.
Yet, I realise, in less than a year this car will be eligible for classic insurance cover. It has stood the test of time well. Best of all, I really, really like it. I have had well over 40 cars in the 34 years since I gained my driving licence, and have only really liked about a quarter of them. This car has wormed its way into my heart.
So I am truly glad that it is proving perfect for these long weekly trips. I would hate to have to sell it and buy something newer. Looking at the variously massive and unpleasant machines that share the road with me, I struggle to find anything modern that I might want to pilot. Even less would I wish to part with several hundred quid a month in order to rent it from a financial entity. To take one example, to run a Land Rover Discovery Sport on Personal Contract Purchase, you are required to pay a deposit of £10,170, then a monthly mortgage of £419. For four whole years. After that you can purchase the thing outright for another £24,253, or crack into a whole new deal on a whole new ugly car. And you will get no more driving pleasure from the experience than I do in my old estate.
Conversely, I own my vehicle. It is worth just £2500. A year’s servicing and maintenance generally costs me less than two months’ HP on the Discovery Sport. It returns me very similar mpg figures to the mild hybrid diesel Land Rover engine option. Admittedly it gives out more CO2, but the majority of its carbon footprint was expended back in 2005, when it was built. Every year I run it is a year in which I don’t cause a new car to be built, guffing yet another catastrophic dose of gas into the beleaguered atmosphere.
Obviously, it helps that my car is a decent machine to start with. It is a W203 Mercedes C220, built to whisk German management types along the autobahns of the noughties. Thankfully it was created before crassness became the guiding precept of car stylists, and before engineers had been completely supplanted by accountants. This was one of the last Mercedes to be created as an automobile, rather than the short-term collateral in a finance contract. It is also the last C-class to have the wonderful upright chrome Benz bonnet ornament. Following yonder star brings me a curious feeling of comfort and wellbeing. After the W203, the three-pointed star lay down in shame.
I am due to point the Merc north again at about 3.30am next Tuesday. I’m looking forward to it.
I would hate to have to sell it and buy something newer. Looking at the variously massive and unpleasant machines that share the road with me, I struggle to find anything modern that I might want to pilot