JETHRO BOVINGDON
A family medical emergency forces Jethro to view cars in a different way
‘I tried to drive as smoothly as possible so as not to make Dad’s pain any worse’
THEY SAY YOU SHOULD TRY ANYTHING ONCE. And when life throws you a big surprise, it’s often time to re-evaluate and do just that. So, for the last month or so I’ve tried being one of those people who just don’t care about cars. You know them. The people who blindly go back to their preferred dealer every two or three years and trade anonybox A for anonybox B. The colour might change; over the years the box has got a bit bigger and, of course, higher. But to all intents and purposes the experience is the same day-to-day, month-to-month and year-to-year.
Drive modes? Left untouched, of course. Lane Assist? Tolerated because people who don’t like cars don’t have the energy to delve into the many layers of a touchscreen to remove it on every single journey. Plus, they get no joy from driving so a bit of automated misery doesn’t really make a difference. Just let it all fade away into the nothingness of driving along on a sort of semicomatose auto-pilot.
Circumstances got me to this place. Horrible ones. My phone rang at 2am on a Monday. This is never a good sign. It was my Mum telling me that my Dad couldn’t breathe and the ambulance would be two hours. I got there fast and delivered Dad to the local hospital. It was to be the last fully engaged drive for some time. On high alert I ran red lights, tried to drive as quickly and smoothly as possible so as not to make Dad’s pain any worse and, at one point, the car had all four wheels off the ground. (Sorry about that one, Dad. Blame Northamptonshire’s road ‘repair’ policies.) I doubt a Mazda CX-60 has ever travelled in quite such a committed fashion through a town centre in the dead of night. Do people steal CX-60S?
Ah, yes. The car. This is part two of the circumstances. Less horrible but still – for somebody who loves cars, at least – vaguely disturbing. For sins not communicated to me by God (or, in this case, editor Gallagher) I’m running a Mazda CX-60 right now. It’s fine. That’s all I have to say on the matter. But with my 996 Carrera down at Litchfield (I leave it there and occasionally text them with new ideas about what to upgrade next. Usually it magically happens. Sometimes stuff happens even without the annoying texts) and the Citroën DS rescued from storage but with various LHM leaks to sort and near-constant rain in our fair little isle, the CX-60 is my only means of transport. So, it helped save my Dad’s life. And ever since has provided comfortable accommodation for me and various family members as we schlep up and down to the brilliant Glenfield Hospital in Leicester, where the convalescence continues. Up and down we go. Emotions rolling in great waves between despair and hope, fear and optimism. The car is unmoved. Steady and predictable. Almost invisible. I don’t drive fast (although my Mum would disagree vehemently); I indicate at every lane change so as not to incur the wrath of my virtual co-driver; I use the cruise control to avoid any needless and costly speeding fines; I haven’t even laughed furiously or shouted obscenities at any motoring podcasts of late. A shame, as that is maybe my favourite hobby. In a world where somebody you love looks to suddenly be departing, it really does shake you to your core. The enthusiasm in me just sort of ebbed away.
The darkest days passed. There were moments of consciousness. Fleeting but real. First Dad’s eyes would open but seem to roll uncontrollably or just stare into the abyss, then they’d snap into focus to look at somebody. Pretty soon, there would be a nod or shake of the head in response to questions. And then, finally, words mouthed in silence. After 12 hours on the operating table, a week dosed up to the eyeballs on morphine and midazolam and a further 72 hours trying to clear his system of sedation, it felt like a truly monumental moment.
Mum, it turns out, is hopeless at reading his lips, so I lean in to try to understand what he finally wants to communicate. It’s tough. ‘How…’ something. I ask him to repeat it several times. Then it clicks. ‘How’s my Porsche?’ Not ‘I love you all’ or ‘I’m so grateful to be alive’. Dad wants to know if the gearbox on his Porsche has been fixed. I tell him it’s fine and he smiles and slumps back to sleep.
The journey home that day is different. I drive like a bit of a twat to be honest. Diving into gaps, sticking the CX-60 on its door handles, flashing people out of my path on the motorway. It feels great. Then, at home, exhausted and elated, I lay on the sofa scrolling classified ads for another car I don’t really need but seem to want from the bottom of my soul. I tried being a non-car person. I didn’t like it. Life is short. And after long, life-saving surgery, Dad has absolute clarity on what’s important. Doing the things you love. Thanks for the reminder. Oh, and for sticking around.