One last big trip a fitting send-off for my loyal Mercedes

THE old Merc gets a fit of start-up coughing and loses power in Cork, which is about two hours from home. An old man passes me on a bike, and I had the pedal stuck to the floor. Now the old car – which one time cost a wealthy man a fortune – takes three minutes to get from zero to 10.

My car is done for on the finest winter-shortening Indian summer of a morning. She had a long old Indian summer herself.

I bought her for three grand during the worst of the recession. The old black Merc is 14, and while this is young enough in human terms, car birthdays are like a dog’s age. There’s a multiplier and I know this might be terminal.

Diarmuid Tarrant, who kept her alive for years, confirms the car is done for. There’s something wrong with the camshaft. I have no idea what this means but it’s bad. The cost of repairing the car would amount to a fortune, and you couldn’t be sure that something else would not go wrong before very long.

She owes me nothing. I have hardly had a day’s bother, even though I live the life of some sort of a travelling sports writer. Those nearest and dearest say I am mad for the road. But I’m mad for coming home too and my old car always got me back safely to the place I love best.

With gentle handling, I might knock another month out of her at most. Is it alright to call a car a her? I’m not insulting women, I hope. Even men who love women can say the wrong thing sometimes. They do not mean to insult women. It just comes out.

I’m looking for a new old car. There was this man who came to Listowel Races and he won a couple of million in the Lotto. The winner was from up North and he was a very nice man. We hit it off.

The Lotto winner was a good worker and he had taken a job after his day job delivering for a Chinese takeaway.

He used to get dog’s abuse in some of the loyalist housing estates so what does he do but buy a big huge new Merc and delivers the sweet and sour chicken with fried rice to his tormentors.

I might buy the old car off him, if he still has it. I like old cars. If you get a few scratches, there’s no drama. And no one bothers to vandalise or steal old cars.

The old cars are well made and their sell-by date is far longer than that of a sliced pan.

That old car of mine is the only place in the whole world I can leave as untidy as I like. The old car is the kingdom of me. It’s a sanctuary for empty Lucozade bottles and last month’s jaundiced yellow newspapers.

I knew a man and he had mice in the car. I wouldn’t go that far. I’m scared of mice and I would have to drive around with my pants tucked inside my socks in case a mouse ran up the leg of my pants.

I throw out old food but that’s about all. But it’s not dirty, just untidy. I like untidy. I like not having to pick things up.

I get annoyed when lads I’m driving home after closing time give out. “Hold on lads,” I say, “this isn’t a sitting room. Would ye rather walk or get caught for drunken driving?”

There’s great peace to be had in the car. I can switch off the phone and say, “Sorry I missed you but I was in bad area.” One man who never stops ringing told me to make sure the doors were locked.

I was thinking of inventing an app where if you were dodging someone a button could be pressed and on would come scratch static and crackling like the recording of an old hit.

The voice would say, “Sorry to miss you, but I’m in a bad area.” If any of you go off and make up that app, I’m halves. I thought of it first.

The USP is that the “you’re in a bad area” message wouldn’t really be a lie as it would be the app doing the lying.

I often wrote a column in the car without ever taking my hands off the wheel. For some reason the car is a gatekeeper and gets rid of all the unwanted thoughts and worries.

I’m sorry I didn’t take better care of her. The car minded me but the mileage was up and the clock catches us all out in the end.

There was this local chancer who told me I should leave the key in the car in a really bad area and hope she would be stolen. Then I could claim the insurance.

I was just thinking that if bogies gave a fraction as much time to planning honest endeavours as dodgy ones, they could some day become Dragons and might even end up as president of Ireland or America, or both.

I will miss the old Merc. We went through a lot together.

I took my mother home from the hospital in the car when she was diagnosed with cancer. Being the tidy and practical woman that she was, Mom warned me to clean out the car for her funeral in case she died. I drove an as-good-as-new 2004 black Merc to the church.

I didn’t think I could ever get so lonesome after an old car. The car is safe but slow to get going, like an old lover.

Today I will take my car on the last long enough journey. We will travel up the Shannon Estuary and on to Thomond Park for the Munster versus Gloucester game.

I love the big river drive along the ancient estuary road. The trip will be a fitting send-off for a loyal motor. This will be our last spin together. Sounds like a line from a sad love song, doesn’t it?

I’m fairly sure she will make it to Thomond and back, but if any of you happen to spot a second-hand man hitching a lift outside an old black Merc on the banks of the River Shannon, please do your best to make room for one more.

She owes me nothing, I’ve hardly had a day’s bother... I didn’t think I could ever get so lonesome after an old car. She is safe but slow to get going, like an old lover