Steve Cropley
MY WEEK IN CARS
Change of pace from a summer of cars – or so I thought – on a trip to the former RAF base at Duxford, now a thriving outpost of the Imperial War Museum off the M11 in Cambridgeshire. The classic Fighter Collection was staging its magnificent annual flying display: Spitfires, Hurricanes and Mustangs were everywhere.
I became somewhat overexcited at the sight of the world’s only Bristol Blenheim bomber, an aircraft we once used in an Autocar photo shoot beside the Filton-built car of the same name. The aircraft subsequently crashed, emerging last year after a 12-year restoration.
I’m no expert, but it seemed to have a shorter, less streamlined nose than the one I remembered, something members of The Blenheim Society, the venerable old plane’s supporters’ club, were quick to confirm. It’s now a Mk1 instead of a Mk4. Members pointed out the extraordinary photo above as their source of the new (old) nose the rebuild needed. Hail Mr Ralph Nelson! As time goes on, I’m more and more impressed with the irrepressibility of motorists after the war. And who ever said electric city cars were new?
Can I please just rattle on a bit about the joys of top-down motoring? So much nonsense is associated with it, yet it’s the soul of a simple pleasure. What is more, Britain is perfect for such cars, as I’ve been proving these past weeks. The nonsense? Some people see top-down driving as adding prestige to their progress, enabling them to be plainly seen and envied. Others see convertibles as performance cars, cramming themselves up your backside if they feel you’re not going fast enough. But in ideal conditions at the beginnings and ends of days, perhaps with just enough wispy cloud about to reduce heat and glare, I reckon many cars’ top-down capability exceeds any other capability they have.
After sorely undermining my allegiance with a succession of ill-founded and alarmist stories about diesels, The Times (which I read over coffee every morning) has redeemed itself with two recent, wise articles. First came a well-argued column from Matthew Parris on how much more sense a well-targeted system of road pricing would make than the collection of obtuse car tax measures we have now. Then Matt Ridley chimed in with a warning about the dangers of piling wholesale into electric cars, as if they were the only solution to our transport needs. I agreed with every word. Only one thing gave me pause: neither of these clear-thinking men is what you’d call a full-time motoring writer.
Britain is perfect for convertibles, as I’ve been proving these past weeks
Like a million others since 1963, a friend is about to buy Porsche 911, having come into a bit of money. He’s never had anything like this before but has thought about it for a long time and considered everything, from a Bentley Continental rag-top to something from the lower branches of the Mclaren model tree. Know what made the difference? The fact that the shortish wheelbase, fairly vertical screen and decent cabin packaging meant he’d be able to drive the thing to work. The Bentley looked big, the Mclaren too ‘supercar-y’ and even a Porsche Cayman (which, he acknowledges, has its engine in a better place) seemed impractical in its cabin packaging. He also derived solace from the fact that you see plenty of 911s about on weekdays. Shows they work, he argued. He wants exclusivity, but not too much.