ROBERT COUCHER

The Driver

Both of my Renault voiture experiences ended rather badly. Actually, taking an optimistic view, both experiences ended incredibly well because I’m still alive. The first masterpiece I owned from this great French marque was an R4, which I absolutely detested. It was purchased under duress as an economy car when I was at the University of Cape Town because my thirsty Lancia Aurelia B20 GT, with its 3.0-litre V6, drank juice with more gusto than Oliver Reed on a bender.

Painted pale blue with its bum sticking up at the rear, the little Renault was not a car to satisfy the dreams of an ardent young enthusiast who thought he should be driving a Ferrari or a Porsche or anything but a pesky little tin can. So I did my level best to destroy the 4. I would rev it hard from cold, not use the clutch when changing gear via the ridiculous trombone-style gearstick, smash the car over rough terrain and dirt roads, and leave it unlocked in the hope it would be stolen. It never was. But like a rescue dog of indeterminate pedigree, the little Renault took everything I hurled at it and kept coming back for more. If it had a tail it would be wagging.

Being a softie, I soon started to appreciate the car’s unbreakability – unlike the blasted Lancia, which would never run for more than half an hour in one go – and the way it sipped the fuel I’d syphoned out of one of my father’s old bangers. He knew what I was up to and was amused when I felt sick, having inadvertently swallowed a mouthful of petrol. Soon the Renault and I were getting on like Stirling and Jenks, especially on the way to Varsity in the morning. A lot of the route was along the back of Table Mountain, a fabulous sinewy ribbon of road through the forest named Rhodes Drive. My aim was to get the Renault up to full chat and not lift for any of the corners the whole way.

And every morning some young thruster was commuting to work in his shiny new BMW. It would infuriate him when I pulled out of my road like a metal snail into his path on an uphill section of ‘the Drive’, as it would take the the 845cc Renault an age to get up to speed, so he’d have to stand on his brakes and wait. I wouldn’t catch him every morning, obviously, but the times I did he’d sit on my back bumper revving the big Bimmer, gesticulating in anger. Childish I know, but I was young and stupid. Yet the BMW never overtook me because, by the time we reached the straight, I’d got far enough ahead of him by taking the corners as fast as the Renault would go and he didn’t have time to make the move in the face of oncoming traffic.

One evening five Varsity buddies and I hit the town. Six blokes meant the visiting exchange student from Canada had to be shut in the boot. Matt didn’t look too comfortable but the evening promised to be exciting. Off we trundled and at the Dock Road intersection – notorious for laydeez of the night – a large Valiant came screaming out of the dark and smacked into the side of the Renault. It flipped the 4 onto its side and we skidded along the tarmac with glass and debris flying everywhere. I can’t remember what we’d drunk or smoked that night but my friend in the front passenger seat and I climbed out of the windscreen aperture while the three in the back clambered out of the upturned rear door and jumped down onto the road.

We looked at the car, at each other and burst out laughing. Then we realised Matt the Canadian was still in the boot. His ‘Oh my gaad, oh my gaad’ cries made us laugh even more. We pushed the Renault onto the kerbside and the other students in the Valiant gave us a lift to the party. This remains my only road accident.

There’ve been one or two on track, mind. Moving to Johannesburg, I thought a Renault 5 would be a good idea – a Group N car to race at Kyalami. The yellow 5 was an old dog but it ran. During practice we had to secure the exhaust with coathangers. The field was headed by BMW 745s and 530s, Alfa GTVs, Ford Sierra XR8s, Golf GTIs and our Renault dustbin at the rear. The flag dropped and the cars roared off towards Crowthorne Corner. Kyalami was one of the fastest F1 circuits in the game and, going through Jukskei Sweep, I was flat with the 5 up on three wheels. Being at the back of the pack I discovered too late that the entire field was braking hard due to an accident up front. I lifted, braked and the Renault carried on and rolled down Kyalami eight times, coming to rest on its roof at Sunset Bend. I suffered a bruised eye and a cracked tooth. Renaults? I love ’em!

‘THE RENAULT 4 FLIPPED ONTO ITS SIDE AND WE SKIDDED ALONG THE TARMAC WITH GLASS FLYING EVERYWHERE’