Testdrive
"Ok, moment of truth I suppose, let's see how it holds up." He curved around the slip road in fourth gear before pushing down on the accelerator and sliding the gearstick up in to fifth. This 80s' model had been foistering in that garage well before six gears became the norm, despite dating from the definitive transition decade of fuel injection.
His shotgun passenger was just as concentrated, switching his intense gaze between the road ahead, the speedometer and the driver's foot on the gas pedal as it pushed down. "How's does it feel?"
The driver's response came after a few seconds of seeming analysis: "It's good, feels steady, no wobble on the steering wheel."
"Give it a bit more."
*****
It had come with the territory as they say, covered in an eternity of dust, in the detached garage from the house. There had been so much junk left heaped in there from the previous house owner. Little more than the chassis and crusty stained windows were left that it seemed as insignificant as everything else it was almost buried under. On one decisive weekend, they slid the main door up and open and waded in to it all as if in the trash compactor scene from Star Wars. Bit by bit, accompanied by Chewbacca-like groans they removed the junk; light filtered in through the high windows to finally present a car to them. And a Britsh classic of a car it was. Then they both knew, it had manifested in them as an obligation to refurbish it. An old ugly duckling, ready to peel back the layers of dirt and rust to carress back on to the road. Giving it a thorough look over, it played on their minds, the both of them not actually saying anything about it for a couple of days, but they just knew, sooner or later.
Weeks of decisions followed by weekends and months of graft and tinkering in any spare time they had together. Finding bits that didn't work any longer along the way fed frustration, swearing out loudly when nuts and bolts would not turn. So many coffee breaks stood outside on the gravel driveway with mug in hand, shifting, crunching the small stones underfoot while contemplating if this was really worth the hassle. A beer took the coffee's place at the end of the day, going down as celebration or commiseraton, depending on how the day went.
There were plenty of days when they would ask themselves why they were doing this. Yet, there were laughs and giggles after many f-words, which was the secret shroud of their belief in the opportunity that had presented itself to them. Both car lovers, they just couldn't let any more rust rot it away for good.
When that day finally came, after the last swipe of turtle wax polish over the emerald-green paint, a couple of gentle nursery runs along the 30mph coastal village through road and subsequent toying on their toy, it was time for a proper testdrive.
One Sunday afternoon they had gently set out inland on vacant B-roads through fields and countryside before stepping up onto a single lane A-road artery in to the free roam of the North Yorkshire Moors. Soon they found themselves cruising the road they had done so many times as kids with their family, but in the other direction to the heritage coastline and its gentle bays sheltered by Jurassic cliffs. Their dad at the wheel of his Ford, in his comfort zone, tuned into the radio with their mum up front and their other brother with them in the back, each of them in their own journey through the heath and bracken and the reservoir they always passed. It was here they realised they had to keep going. Easing their restored ride to a peak in the heather-clad moorland, they stopped by that very reservoir as agreed to change seats and driving duties.
Just to be sure they popped the bonnet and inspected the engine. They swept their eyes over each part, paying close attention to each.
"Looks good to me."
"Yep, looks good."
They clunked the bonnet back down and turned to face the placid water of the reservoir, propping themselves back on it, feeling a soothing heat from the engine move through their bodies from their haunches. It was late spring and the days were getting longer, the British luxury of afternoon sun beamed down, fending off the set of the night.
"Did we ever fish here?"
The other brother thought for a moment. "D' you know, I can't remember."
"Me neither, Dad always preferred the stream near the caravan. Good trout."
"Yeah, many a good trout."
They sat for a little while longer looking out over the shimmers.
"We should pass by there."
They grinned at each other.
"Yeah, let's do it, we'll have to track back a little and on to another B-road, but for old time's sake..."
"And for the sake of this old timer, " the other patted a hand palm down on the bonnet. They snorted a laugh simultaneously and got back in, changing seats. They set off once again, the other now getting a feel for the car, working through the gears and steering through yet more moorland heath.
The sense of time was steadily dwindling from their concern, it didn't matter. All that mattered was the journey. They spied an endangered Merlin hovering above, eyeing its next prey in the dense purple green. Curlews stretched their long beaks and wings and seemed to follow them from the reservoir, while William Orbit's electro track Lark pulsated from the stereo to accompany and lift the glides of the birds.
Pulling off the A-road and back on to a country lane towards Sandsend, they turned left past a corner field of cud-chewing cows on to another green-surrounded lane towards the coast and up to Runswick Bay.
The bank top road dropping down to the bay was steep but not as much of an alpine trek as it had seemed to little boys all those years ago. A few cars were dispersed in the single large car park, but not so many as a sunny Sunday should merit. They liked that, it fed nostaglia and a feeling of it being theirs nobody could interrupt. They parked near the stone wall that seperated the beach. The tide was going out, leaving small pools within the rocks at one side under the charming red-roof village cottages in traffic-free cobbled streets, carved in to the lower cliff-side and which framed one end of the beach. It curved its golden sands around to Kettleness point and the cliffs protecting it from the elements. They stood at the wall, hands in jeans pockets looking out to the sea before them, the beach wide and sparse yet seemngly not as big as it was to those little boys who had jumped from rock pool to pool, looking for crabs, spirally fossils and imaginary treasure.
"Hungry?"
"You know it, Fish 'n' Chips it's gotta be."
And they walked from the car park along the stone wall that curved the beach in the horse shoe cove it sat in. They dawdled up steep stone steps of the winding lanes to the old shop. Sat outside on the bench with an overview, facing out to the sea, the sun now dodged and momentarily hid between cumulus clouds. They munched on battered Cod fish and chunky chips in a traditional plate of old newspaper. Beach goers with their four-legged friends dotted still wet and flattened sand from the previous high tide. There wasn't much to say, but so much to take in, so much to remember.
Glancing back over to the car park, there she sat, just like any other, except she wasn't. She was graceful and sat proud in a drape of deep green, much older than all the others, as if ready to tell her grandkids sat around her some stories of the glory days. They sat for some more long, silent minutes, and then a few more until it was time to go.
"Let's see how much puff she's got to make it back up the cliff." They sauntered back, and cautiously made their way back up in third gear, soon dropping to second as to be sure but steady to the bank top. The drive continued unhurried through the familiar countryside where the journey was to be revelled in more than any destination, a quiet belonging with nothing to chase. Yet they knew they still had to test her. They had to let her stretch her legs, fill her lungs, pump and sprint.
Leaving the country roads in their wake they winded back around, a last glide of a roundabout and they manouvred back round to take its stride and on to the A19 southbound.
"Ok, moment of truth I suppose, let's see how it holds up". He curved around on to the slip road in fourth gear before pushing down on the accelerator and sliding the gearstick up in to fifth.
His shotgun passenger was as concentrated as the driver, switching his intense gaze between the road ahead, the speedometer and the driver's foot on the gas pedal as it pushed down. "How's does it feel?"
The driver's response came after a few seconds of seeming analysis: "It's good, feels steady, no wobble on the steering wheel."
"Give it a bit more."
Keane's Everybody's Changing took over the stereo waves. With a flick of a finger on the indicator and a glance in the rear view mirror, he slid in to the outer lane of the dual carraigeway. There was little traffic that Sunday evening, everyone was done for the weekend; theirs felt like it was just starting as the road opened up infront of them.
Lowering slightly the volume of the distorted, vintage synthesizer-piano riff of Keane, they both tuned in to the noise of the vintage engine as it was now finally tested. They were focused more now than the rest of the drive, more than they had ever been on all those hours in the garage, restoring the '80s classic. They mentally went through the parts, hoping the block held it all together, the cylinder head sitting on top of it. The pistons moving inside the cylinders, the crankshaft and the connecting rods. The valves and the camshaft and their very breath held on the timing belt working in sync.
The twighlight was etching darker, the lights on the dashboard came alive as the driving brother tweaked the control stalk. The co-driving brother, turned the outer control knob of the old stereo between thumb and forefinger, moving the analogue frequency needle through the channels of the stereo until, almost on cue, Kavinsky's Night Call electromagnetically oscillated through the speakers. The retro-futuristic synth and robotic voice creating a hollow reverb on its dark rhythm. They glanced at each other, their grins mirroring. It was just right, it couldn't be a better song, their other brother would most certainly agree.
Where they were eventually going, they didn't know, but they had scranned Fish and Chips, they had the wheels and the motion, and they were going together with good tunes along the way.
- Inspired by Kavinsky (31st July 1975 - 28th July 2026) and William Orbit (15th December 1956 - 23rd July 2026). Two of music's finest and also gone too soon. RIP.
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