‘This engine soldiers on, no matter what you put in the tank: low-octane fuel, tar, jelly babies or sand’
DRIVING ON THE motorway is stressful for me. I drive everywhere as quickly as possible, always late, my right foot mashing the accelerator so deep it’s like I’m trying to fish something out of the footwell with my big toe.
The problem is, motorways are busy and the outside lane is always jammed with cars. If the lane clears and I get a few moments of freedom, it fills me with such a strangely disproportionate sense of joy – a sudden, ecstatic rush of dopamine – I feel like a convict sailing away from a prison island.
But it never lasts. Soon I’m braking hard and backed up again by slower cars, asking myself once more, ‘Is it actually illegal to undertake or just a polite convention?’ (Answer: it’s not actually illegal, never has been.)
Fast-slow, fast-slow, frustration-joy, frustration-joy – motorway driving is like riding on an emotional fairground big wheel for me.
So let me tell you about an epiphany I had the other day: driving at a constant 50mph is actually a pleasure. This revelation came about because I bought another old Land Rover, this time a 1978 Series 3. Previously owned by one family from new, it’s a short-wheelbase 88 with a hardtop, a little worn but basically solid, original and honest. I found it locally, but I bought it as a project to share with my dad, who lives up in North Yorkshire. Which meant driving it up there, a 160-mile journey, so the car could live in his shed.
I don’t know why I was so nervous about this drive north. I mean, Land Rovers have explored the world, there are all those stories about families in the ’70s piling into Series 3s and driving overland to Baghdad or Singapore or Nouakchott. All I had to do was reach Scotch Corner on the A1.
And my car is powered by Land Rover’s legendary 2.25-litre four-cylinder petrol engine, designed to soldier on, no matter what you put in the tank: low-octane fuel, road tar, jelly babies or sand.
Still, undermining my confidence were other considerations. Like, it’s 40 years old, it was built by British Leyland in the ’70s; and the most sophisticated thing about the whole car is the blue dash-light that indicates you’re on high beam.
Forging ahead with the plans, I calculated I’d maintain a steady 40mph, making it a four-hour journey plus a half-hour break, to park in a layby and somehow massage my own buttocks back to life without getting arrested. My Land Rover’s seats are not the ribbed, shapely Deluxe items offered as an optional extra back in the day, oh no; they’re the standard cushions – flat, vinyl-wrapped foam, about as supportive as sitting on a ham sandwich for four hours.
So the time came, and off I set, early one Saturday morning. I joined the A1 and immediately swept up – galloped up – through the gears to a dizzying 50mph. Fifty! Result! And – wow – I could actually withstand the ear-crushing combination of engine, road and wind noise! This journey was going to be so much smoother than I thought.
And then I settled. And I mean really settled. Settled in the slow lane, settled into my destiny for the next four hours, settled at a uniform, monotonous, unalterable 50mph. No overtaking, no undertaking, no accelerating or braking, no impatience with the cars ahead. When we reached a restricted section of the A1 with speed cameras, I did my usual flinch for the brake before looking down at the speedo – oh no! It’s okay! I don’t have to do anything, I’m already going slow!
Driving at 50 was so relaxing, so serene… who knew? If it wasn’t for the incessant roaring noise – and the fact that I had to continually steer in order not to wander out of my lane and into certain death under the 16 wheels of an oncoming juggernaut – it was rather like lying in a bath. A time to think, to ponder, to admire the lovely Land Rover typeface on the speedo, to watch the world go by.
I thoroughly recommend it. And best of all, I really felt that other road users appreciated my new-found tranquility too. At least, I think that’s why they were beeping.