Blast from past’s still a ton of fun, 44 years on

LAST week I had to drive up to Holmes Chapel, a little town just south of Manchester.

It would normally be an uneventful trip. Sat-nav programmed, adaptive cruise control deployed, gearbox in full auto mode, brain largely disengaged.

But my journey’s 6am start last Wednesday couldn’t have been more different.

A fully restored, concours condition ’74 Datsun 240Z sat outside my house. And in the pitch dark my first job was to remove its padded, stretch-fit car cover.

After five minutes of rustling and wrestling, it was time to put the skinny chrome key in the door and lower myself into the vinyl bucket seat.

Ignition on – hear the fuel pump building up pressure – three pumps on the accelerator pedal to squirt some fuel into the inlet manifold and crank her over.

Blub,

Silence.

Fingers crossed (literally) and repeat the process, this time with my right foot ready to offer the firing process a bit more gas. The stone-cold engine blab, bang, cough, fart. reluctantly fluffs and coughs into life, the smell of a rich, petrolly mixture wafting in through the open door.

There’s a lever near the handbrake to increase the idle speed.

I juggle with it, making small inputs while keeping the revs low enough for the cold oil but high enough to stop it stalling until the temp gauge starts to climb.

Ready for the off, I depress the heavy clutch, engage first and feed the cold, skinny steering wheel through my equally icy hands.

The first few miles are nervous. Oil pressure’s low (maybe it’s not, it might be the ancient original gauge?). The rev counter doesn’t work at all and the speedo needle is bouncing around all over the shop.

The headlights are like glow worms in Guinness bottles. Roll on sunrise.

But when it’s warmed up, bloody hell it’s fast. On a stretch of dual carriageway, I floor the accelerator to make a gap for a wish-dicating learner driver. The noise from behind the firewall is like the wind section of an orchestra giving it their all. With their throttle butterflies fully open, the (non-standard) triple twin-choke carbs produce the most harmonious honking noise this side of the Royal Philharmonic.

And that’s a real, analogue 150bhp propelling what is a very small, very light car.

I don’t so much raise an eyebrow as laugh out loud. And swear. Out loud. To myself. This car must have been an alien from another planet in 1974.

Triumph Spitfire? Not a bloody chance with a 240Z on the same menu.

Corners – especially wet, cold ones – require mucho concentration. The steering wheel flicks and bucks over surface changes and imperfections almost like it’s alive.

Through the low-slung seat-base, your backside feeds your brain messages from the four wheels and their suspension. In the wet, the rear tyres break traction very, very easily.

Going backwards through a hedge isn’t an option. Must. Be. Careful.

Fifty or 60 miles in and I don’t want any of this to stop. After the simple pleasure of heeling and toeing the perfectly spaced pedals on backshifts, the motorway is an anti-climax. But the Z will happily keep pace with modern traffic, its leggy fifth gear allowing it to lollop along in a very genteel, unhurried fashion.

There’s also surpringly little noise inside the cabin at speed. You could easily make a hands-free phone call without raising your voice. Try that in a Triumph Spitfire. But the worst thing about this whole 200-mile trip is the arrival.

I hadn’t expected that. I had fully expected a 44-year-old car to be a pretty hateful thing to drive.

Wrong.

It is, without doubt, the most engaging, enjoyable driving experience I’ve had for a very long time.

Progress is clearly less fun.