Or if not dead entirely, it’s certainly deep into the arena of the unwell…
When was the last time you simply got into your car and drove – simply for the loving hell of it?
You are reading this today because, we are minded to assume, you are an enthusiast of the automobile. Of course it’s also possible you are here by accident, and if so, we can only apologise for your trouble.
As aficionados and captive users of the motor car, we probably don’t need to be convinced of its capacity to liberate, to empower and to unite. Our relationship with the automobile has long been suffused with ideals of escape, of freedom and of transformation, in no small part a consequence of the resonant iconography those who both make and sell these vehicles have fashioned on our behalf for over a century.
The fantasy of the open road, indelibly embedded within our collective psyches has become (if indeed it ever existed) a dystopian vision of panic, wild frustration, delayed gratification and relief at simply arriving. To embark purely in and of itself has become at best, a delusional act.
Today therefore, we cast our gaze back to November 2015, when reader and contributor Chris Ward (regrettably late of this address, it seems), presented this finely crafted piece which examines our thwarted romance with the ideal of the open road, which I urge you to revisit.