Sometimes driving the dream isn’t quite what it is cracked up to be. New contributor Chris Elvin outlines why he’s done a’ Rovering…
Despite passing my driving test shortly after my seventeenth birthday and having been enthusiastic about cars from toddling age, I managed to retain the position of being the only person in my immediate family never to have owned a car until quite recently, in my late 30s.
A combination of city-centre living and having spent most of my adult life in another country to that in which I learned to drive ensured that driving became an ever more infrequent experience, to the point of actively disliking it. This all changed when a new job required a daily commute that was far quicker by car than by public transport.
As a born-again (and somewhat nervous) driver, who had always preferred small cars with mechanical gearboxes, requiring practical, economical and above all reliable transport, I of course went out and bought a large, eighteen year-old V6 automatic saloon car from a defunct manufacturer lacking any such modern frivolities as parking sensors.
Though hardly universally acknowledged as a modern classic, the Rover 75 has always been a favourite of mine. Though I’m not about to argue the merits of the retro styling craze of which it formed part, I would argue that it was one of its most successful products and possessed of a genuinely elegant shape, upon which the chrome formed a pleasant decoration. Certainly, it is a world away from the current styling trend of huge, angry-looking grilles combined with seemingly random swoops, creases and gashes.
A car such as the Rover was well out of my reach when new, but could now be picked up for a (relative) song and to my nostalgia-addled mind seemed to be modern enough to be usable daily. When I started looking, I straight away spotted a seemingly immaculate example in my dream specification: A dark green 2.5 litre V6 saloon from the first year of build (when Rover was still owned by BMW and long before the cheapening of the cars began) with a matching dark green leather interior.
The dealer saw me coming from a mile away and I only had just enough sense left in me to insist upon a complete service with cambelt changes before throwing my money at him.
To be fair to the 75, which really was a lovely old thing, it was mechanically reliable in the months that I owned it and never gave me any cause to doubt it fundamentally. It didn’t, however, take long to discover that the central locking was failing on two of the doors (an expensive fix), the paintwork was in worse shape than I’d taken the trouble to notice, the suspension bushes were shot and that the brake lines were thoroughly rusted and needed replacement.
All par for the course on an old car perhaps but the lenses on my rose-tinted specs began to fade. Far worse than these mechanical foibles was the fact that, though I enjoyed looking at and sitting in the Rover, I rarely enjoyed driving it: Though pleasant on longer motorway journeys, the car was just too large for the cramped 17th century streets and traffic around my home.
Parking was a nerve-shredding nightmare thanks to my inability to mentally calculate the length of the Rover’s boot and it wasn’t long before I expensively scraped it’s flank on a pillar in a parking garage (my first ever such scrape, in my defence).
As these unpleasant products of my automotive naivete continued to mount, I got the chance to briefly drive two examples of a quite different type of car, one that I would never have considered for myself: The current model Fiat Panda, with both the four cylinder and turbocharged twin-air engines.
Both cars were pleasant to drive, but it took mere minutes for me to fall in love with the twin-air turbo. Everything about that car seemed right: The compact exterior dimensions combined with a practical and roomy interior, high seating position, good visibility, tidy road manners and most of all that bonkers, growly, twin cylinder turbo engine that propelled the little car down the road with an alacrity that was downright surprising.
Though I uhmed and ahed for a few weeks, and tried to tell myself that it would be idiocy to sell the Rover after investing so much in it, it was obvious I was smitten. In the end I booked a test drive in the Fiat and drove it to the coast and back, immediately after driving the same route in the Rover for comparative purposes.
The difference was night and day: Driving that windy, sometimes narrow route in the Rover was constantly stressful, whereas in the Fiat it was actively enjoyable. The big surprise was that the little Panda actually seemed to ride better than the big old Rover; clearly cars have moved on in the last eighteen years. By the time I got back to the city, I knew my ‘classic’ car adventure was over.
Of course, I took a financial hit on the Rover, but managed to get a decent deal on a new, pre-registered, Panda twin-air turbo in the spec and colour I wanted and, some mild dealer incompetence notwithstanding, the little Fiat has been a delight ever since.
Though the primary lesson here obviously concerns my own utter stupidity with cars, I think perhaps it also says something about the power of our illusions (car ownership is highly emotive) and, yet, how easily they can be punctured by the blunt-force trauma of reality.
I still sometimes see Rover 75s driving around here (the survival rate is quite high and they are undoubtedly well-made) and notice anew what an elegant car it is. But not once have I truly missed owning one.