When Push Comes To Shove

Whilst there are many excellent benefits that come from owning a classic car there is, as with many things in life a lingering dark side.  As much faith as we have in our chosen aged conveyances and no matter how reliable they may seem it is inevitable that they will at some point let you down.  Ancient engineering, hard to find parts and creeping invisible rust will all eventually manifest themselves  in an unscheduled, and traumatic stop at the roadside. So I ask: is there anything more stressful than breaking down in your classic car?  Clearly life throws some nasty things at us as a matter of course and in the scheme of things a mere breakdown is, on the whole, quite trivial. But in the heat of the moment it’s hard to rationalise it in these terms. In my experience it always happens when you least need the hassle.  You’re in a rush. When it’s raining or snowing. You haven’t got your mobile phone with you. Usually when your classic car ‘fails to proceed’ not only have you the initial problem of why you have stopped to consider, but you can probably add any, or all of the following list to help deepen your roadside anxiety:

The wait. Until your breakdown organisation turns up – if they can find you that is. Even then, the recovery guy will look over your ageing motor and with a sigh, put away his high-tech diagnostic computer in favour of twiddling with the HT leads, flicking the fuel filter and testing the battery. I think they do this more for show more than any sort of informed mechanical opinion just in case they might get lucky. Eventually, after they’ve asked you to futilely ‘turn it over’ a few times, the only option will be to publicly hoist you onto the truck and take you home.

The cost.  Almost all breakdowns of the classic car type will mean the outlay of money.  Even if you can do the remedial work yourself, an exotic, long-in-the-tooth motor will mean sending off for parts, searching eBay or phoning round specialists who know the true cost of what you need and then charge you accordingly. This will be money you don’t really have because you’ve just paid for a new suite; a holiday; had the spare room decorated or worse, just paid out money on your car.

The hubris. This is the opposite of the smug sensation you get whilst driving around in a well-functioning icon of bygone motoring. The admiring glances, the smiles from appreciative onlookers and the self-congratulatory feeling that your investment is also adding to your self-esteem. However, when you’ve broken down in a very public spot you’re there for the entire world to see.  Some passing drivers will be inwardly laughing (if they’re polite) that your conceit of owning a classic car has come back to bite you on the ass. It’s no coincidence, because you’re probably thinking the same thing which does nothing to help your mood.

The regret. This will be related to the fact that last the time you went out in your car something wasn’t quite right but you did nothing about it.  Perhaps there was a strange, unfamiliar noise, the temperature gauge was just a little above normal, it crunched its gears once or twice or there was a strange smell.  All, you are now finding, were the tell-tale signs of cost and inconvenience looming ahead and were the primary reason why you went with the negligent it’s probably nothing route instead of getting your wheels checked over.  This way madness lies or at least the hard shoulder.

The lingering doubt.  Even when it’s all over. When your car is fixed and going again there’ll always be the persistent suspicion that this just the beginning. That there are more problems to come. And for that you love your car just a little less. You might go so far as to look at the classifieds to see how much your model is selling for and you’ll certainly lack confidence in it for a while. I’m sure many classic car romances have foundered against the rocks of recurring mechanical malady and roadside melancholy and I for one have been ‘there’. I wonder how many more forced pull-ins it’ll take to finally make me pull out?

Would you like to buy it?

I have a saying I like to use when people chat to me about my car.  If they ask how reliable it is I always quip: ‘I have total confidence in it… between breakdowns’.  However, if you asked me whilst I’m nursing my ailing motor at the roadside, a more apt response might just be: ‘would you like to buy it?’

Edited version from article first published in H&H CVC Magazine June 2014. Copyright Anthony Boe 2014 All Rights Reserved

Viva Las Vega's

I owned my first Lambretta Vega 75 back in the early nineteen eighties. I would have been 13 or 14 years of age and knew nothing about scooters or indeed mechanical engineering. It all started on a whim really. It was during the short-lived UK Mod revival around that time and I'd decided to buy a parka and some appropriate sew-on patches thereby labelling myself as part of this scene. One of the patches was of the classic Lambretta decal a vehicle brand highly associated with the Mod movement. Getting well into the mood, and on the off chance, I asked my estranged father, on one of the few occasions he visited, whether he could get me a Lambretta. To my surprise he somehow managed to drag a mothballed scooter out of some lock up somewhere and rang me to say it was on the way. I was, well, delighted

When he turned up I remember being instantly deflated and more than a little disappointed. I watched on, somewhat ruefully, as he unloaded from his trailer what I later found to be a tatty looking Vega 75 in its original, but battered, blue paint. Economical in design with funny girder type handlebars and very little adornment it looked more like that other retro classic; the Raleigh Chopper than one of the side-panelled classics that I was expecting to receive. In short, it was not the iconic Mod-mobile I’d hoped for. Anyway, swallowing my deep reservations and after some energetic work kicking it over, we got it started and, following some minor adjustments, all the major bits were soon operating; brakes, gears, lights and clutch. My first association with the so called Luna line had begun.

Fly me to the Moon

After some consideration, I decided that my grand plan was to take my machine and restore it to its former glory. This was obviously impeded by some quite major failings on my part mainly centred on lack of skills, tools, money or knowledge not to mention a driving licence or any experience of riding any kind of motorbike. Sources of information to aid this process were patchy to say the least. At the time the internet still resided with the US military, other Vega owners were thin on the ground especially when all you could do is hope to accidentally bump into them on the street. These issues set the overall tone for this my first foray into classic scootering. After several years of incompetent fettling followed by rallying my bike around various car parks and industrial estates and a few brushes with the police for lack of insurance, tax or indeed age I sold it for thirty quid, in a much worse state that when it first arrived. How I regret that now. If I'd laid it up in my Mum's shed I might now still be able to bring it back to life. To take some good from this I did in fact learn a lot. During the Vega’s time with me I had dismantled most of the major parts, learned how to coax it to life, even after months of being laid up, and perform some basic maintenance. This knowledge serves me well today but with so much more to learn.

No Helmet Needed

To offer some relevant Lambretta history: they were launched in three models known collectively as the Luna Line so called to invoke, or more likely, cash-in on the frantic space race happening during the 1968 – 1970 period in which they were produced.  There was the basic Lui 50cc Italian market only, which could be ridden in their home country, licence and insurance free, in much the same way as a push bike. Foreign markets were better served by the more practical and road legal 75cc Vega and the now rare Cometa Models.  The latter being the first commercially produced scooter to have a clever, automatic two stroke oil delivery system fed from a dual compartment petrol/oil tank (but limiting the range in the process). Performance for these machines was impressive due to the high revving engines and a beefy 20mm carburettor meaning they accelerated well and could manage in excess of 50mph with a good following wind. Scary stuff with such small wheels and virtually on or off drum brakes. Issues came with high levels of vibration caused by the highly ported engine which meant long journeys were a numbing experience for both the arms and the posterior.  Complaints were that they were not quite pitched right; 75cc was not quite powerful or versatile enough leaving them stranded between basic commuters and more powerful keep-up-with-traffic 100cc plus bikes. They didn’t sell well and heavy discounting was required to shift them in numbers.  They did, however gain a following, and success, as racing scooters where the adaptable engine and high ground clearance gave them good advantages in their class.  Indeed, many were broken down for their leg shields as they offered good aerodynamics to custom build racers and kept them compliant for their competitions. Even today this part makes good money on eBay and also means complete bikes for sale are increasingly rare.

And so it was that I came to love and admire these quirky machines. Even though they occupy a short but unique period in the Lambretta story their inherent novelty still appeals even despite the issues of scarce spare parts and under-powered performance.  I know they're not to everyone’s taste, even Lambretta enthusiasts, but those Bertoni-styled lines mean that Luna line scooters, when looked at critically, can be seen for what they are: true 60/70s classics that were way ahead of their time. The key to this appreciation is not to compare them, as I initially did, to their siblings in the Lambretta stable but to their contemporary small commuters on UK roads at the time this being mainly the Honda 90 Moped. In doing this it’s obvious there’s simply no comparison. The Italians win hands down and not only for their looks but also their performance and innovation.

Although they remain irrevocably stranded in the few short years they were made the Luna Line does truly evoke the era of space travel that inspired their naming. When considered over 40 years later it's clear they were truly revolutionary in terms of their overall design and you can still see some of their residual DNA when you look at modern scooters. It is for this they deserve to be admired and coveted by all who value innovative engineering coupled with unique retro styling.

Viva Las Vega's

I'm pleased to say there's a happy ending to my tale. I now own both a Vega 75 and a Lui 50 CL and have the time and money (still not sure about the skills) to do a better job of a restoration project this time. Love them or loathe them these classic machines are part of scootering heritage and their preservation and presence on the roads must remain a priority at least for the appreciative few.

Edited Version first published in H&H CVC Magazine Feb 2012. Copyright Anthony Boe 2014 All Rights Reserved

The Show Must Go On (I'm afraid)

Somewhere in the world, I’m sure there will be proud classic car owners getting their cars ready to take to a show or exhibition because, well, that’s what they like to do.

In the UK, May to September are the prime months for this bizarre pursuit and those who decide they’re participating know precisely the point to get out the bucket and sponge to give their cars a nice foamy wash, apply a glossy layer of wax and vacuum the winter’s detritus from the inside of their pride and joy.

On the day of the show, they will get up early; pack some camping chairs, a light lunch and a book perhaps. In the UK, an umbrella is always a good idea no matter what time of the year.  This is a ritual CCOs (classic car owners) will repeat many times during the showing season.  However, there’s always one more bit of prep’ I would recommend. Perhaps the most important. Making sure they’re mentally ready.

Seasoned CCOs, from years of experience know what’s going to happen. You see, looked at from afar, car exhibiting can seem like a strange activity. CCOs sit by their car in a field for a whole day shuffling around on one of those barely comfortable, foldy chairs as successions of strangers admire their motors and blithely finger their newly buffed paintwork as the CCO seethes inside.

Worst still, a good number of these visitors will engage the CCO in what are by now familiar conversations more often than not opening with one of a number of predictable questions:

·         Have you had it long?

·         Can you still get parts for these?

·         I/My Dad/Neighbour/Uncle had one of these years ago…

·         What’s the engine size?

·         It that its original colour?

·         How many miles has it done?

·         You don’t see many of these any more…

·         Where did you buy it?

·         I always wanted one of those…

·         How much did you pay for it?

·         Can I have a look at the engine?

Having shown our car on the circuit for a few years, I think I now know why many CCOs stick extensive explanatory notes in their vehicle’s window. These are extensive missives from which readers can glean most of the above information (whilst the CCO hunches on the back seat of their car reading a newspaper, desperately trying not to make eye contact). These notes include long histories, photographs, advertising materials, technical data - you name it.  

My initial reaction when first encountering this voluminous data was what helpful people, taking the time to share such interesting and useful information!  I now suspect that these documents, in less polite society, might easily be prefaced by the statement: please read this because if you intend, or try, to ask any of the above questions I shall be compelled to strike you with a wheel brace. 

These CCOs have endured years of such enquiries where the previous enthusiasm of answering has drained away to be replaced by a simmering ire which comes from covering the same material for the nth time. Love our cars as we do, there’s only so much of the same information you can repeat before self-harm becomes a welcome alternative.

There's innovation here too. As with all problems that need a solution. For example, some car clubs, I’m sure, have developed a rota system where each member draws straws and the unlucky ones take turns to singly patrol their display whilst the rest of the group hide in a walled gazebo putting off interlopers with hard stares and a tight chorale of foldy chairs which cannot be casually penetrated.

Others abandon their locked cars to extensively tour the auto-jumble (or hassle other CCOs) and, on any given day, there’s probably a good few who, after considering the options, decide they can’t face it and don’t turn up at all. 

Not to worry though. There’s always the new blood. These are the new CCOs who, having finally purchased their dream car, are fresh to the scene and excited to share their burgeoning knowledge. They willingly fill the wall of silence created by the monosyllabic, long-standing CCOs who avoid the chatter with their explanatory notes and high security gazebos.  

These are the plucky newbies who keep the punters engaged with their zeal (giving timeworn CCOs much needed respite). Perhaps you were like this once. Soon enough even they will sell up or keep a wheel brace handy. In the interim, though they help to maintain the buzz. Gawd bless ‘em one and all.  

As for me?  Please read the note above and keep moving (or speak to the wife)…

Edited version first published in H&H CVC magazine March 2013. Copyright Anthony Boe 2014 All Rights Reserved

Vive La Deuche (Bless You!)

I thought in this blog I'd ruminate a little about the Citroen Deux-Chevaux or 2CV. The stripped-down French classic that's having somewhat of a renaissance as a cute, practical and fun car. However, even we as fully fledged ‘Citroenians’, thought long and hard about yet another purchase of a quirky French voiture and eventually decided what the hell and took the plunge in April 2012. As it turned out it was one of the best car buying decisions we've ever made.

I’m sure most car aficionados are familiar with the unalloyed simplicity of the 2CV which, depending on your point of view, is its abiding appeal or the source of much mirth for those who like a little more content in their classics. Of course, their many owners love them, but I do enjoy, and empathise with the oft-quoted line from a British Autocar review of the early 2CV which stated that it is: ‘the work of a designer who has kissed the lash of austerity with almost masochistic fervour’. 

This is undoubtedly true when you’re familiar with the stripped-down nature of these cars, but it does somewhat hide the remarkable engineering that went into making what was essentially a French peasants’ car. Ruthlessly simple, utterly logical and the very definition of what the French writer Antoine de Saint-Exupery meant when he wrote: ‘[that] perfection is achieved, not when there is nothing more to add, but when there is nothing left to take away.’ He wouldn’t have seen the final car as he died in 1944 when the secret prototypes were hidden from Nazi tyranny but I think he would have happily had a picture of the Toute Petit Voiture (its development name) appended to his writing to make his point.

When Citroen was specifying the car, they had a simple USP in mind; similar to Henry Ford when he designed the ‘Model T’. They wanted to mobilise the French populous and move them from agricultural vehicles which still included the horse and cart. As such, it needed to be cheap to buy, easy to maintain and highly adaptable.

People familiar with the 2CV usually know one of the key design concepts that it had to be able to travel across a ploughed field carrying a basket of eggs without breaking any of them.  It has also been described, pretty accurately, as an umbrella on wheels. Citroen designed adaptability into the car from the start. Did you know that you can remove the roof, back window, boot lid and rear seats creating what is essentially a pick-up truck? In doing this, it can easily take cases of wine, bales of hay or livestock to the local market. 

Looking at it today you have a four-seat vehicle which has; progressively, a sunroof, can convert to a cabriolet or at its most stripped down, a modest flatbed capable of making a trip to IKEA very doable.

Sounds pretty good? But there are reservations some would express about power and speed. The original car, launched in 1948, had a 375cc two-cylinder, air-cooled engine. Slow, to say the least. It was progressively updated to a snaillike 405cc, and by the end of its production run in 1990, it only had a 602cc engine capable of 65-70 mph with a following wind.  Hardly a ball of fire. This, however, serves to mask the remarkable automotive engineering that underpinned the development of the deuche’s air-cooled powertrain. 

When considering the engine, you’ll be surprised by its breath-taking simplicity. There are no pumps, hoses, or complex electrics to go wrong and there are no belts to wear and snap.  All essential services including ignition, cooling and electrical generation are driven directly from the drive shaft. As long as the car is running it’s likely to continue to do so.  So robust is this simple engine that in bench tests it was successfully run at full throttle for 100 hours, the equivalent of 50,000 km of continuous driving without issue.

Putting all that together what most find surprising (including me) is that when used as a basic run-around the 2CV is highly adept.  In the low range it is surprisingly quick. When driven with some brio on suburban roads you’ll struggle to shake it off in any car especially as they can take corners at terrifying speeds assisted by its alarming body roll and long-travel, spongy suspension.

When you put all this together what you get is the distilled essence of a car. Everything you need is there and not a gramme more. Admittedly, it’s not that that safe when compared to modern cars. Crashing one should not be considered an option at any speed. But when used as a quirky urban road warrior, even today, there are not many cars that can compete in versatility, economy and in being sheer grin-like-an-idiot fun to drive.

So there you have it.  You might still have your reservations, and none would blame you but as a coda to my little homage, and to confirm the 2CV is the gift that continues to give, our humble example won, to our astonishment, the ‘Modern Classic’ category at 2014 Gawsworth Car Show this year. An outcome as surprising and delightful as owning such a plucky piece of Gallic motoring history. So let me end by wishing you: Au revoir et Bon chance!

First published in the H&H CVC Magazine May 2014. Copyright Anthony Boe 2014.  All Rights Reserved

Broken But Not Necessarily Bad

I had a difficult year in 2013.  Not for any terrible reason I hasten to add but because that year the final episodes of the amazing US series Breaking Bad were aired. If you're not familiar with this excellent drama take my advice; go out and buy yourself a box set, catch up on Netflix or stream it off the internet.  

Believe me, it’s absolutely outstanding.  In a nutshell: it’s the story of Walter White (brilliantly played by Bryan Cranston), a talented scientist, living a moribund life in New Mexico. He’s an underachiever eking out a living as a high school chemistry teacher which just about supports his family. When he's diagnosed with terminal lung cancer he decides to use his remaining time and exceptional skills as a chemist to make some serious money for his loved ones. He does this by secretly becoming a crystal meth manufacturer and salesman. 

As the story unfolds he becomes more and more conflicted as his initially ‘admirable’ venture leads him into the murky criminal underworld and he becomes increasingly like the dubious characters he has to deal with as he plies his new trade. Once you get into it you’ll find it as addictive as the subject matter itself. Soon, like me, you’ll be overdosing on back-to-back episodes desperate to see how it all plays out as you watch Walter on his slow descent into irredeemable decadence.  Sound good?  Yes it does some of you might think. Others, who are already watching, will agree with me I hope.

My interest here is the cars used in the programme. Throughout the majority of the first four seasons Walter drives a Pontiac Aztek. For those not familiar with this US only vehicle it is a car that has consistently been voted as one of the ugliest vehicles ever manufactured and regularly makes the top-ten of virtually every 'worst cars ever made' listing. What’s more, the Aztek helped to hammer nails into the coffin of GM as an independent car manufacturer. Designed by committee, seemingly styled by monkeys it was a travesty of a vehicle to rival the Allegros, Morris Itals and Montegos that heralded the death rattle of the British motor industry.

It was designed to serve what GM saw as a market gap to be filled with what they dubbed a ‘mid-size, cross-over SUV’. Basically; part road-car, part off-road utility vehicle and part people-carrier.  But when looked at as a whole the Aztek was at the time deemed to be entirely rubbish. Its sales figures confirmed that it was a ‘Frankencar’ that failed to capture the imagination of its intended audience, helped to put GM into a financial tailspin and deeply undermined the Pontiac brand. Conversely, when looked at objectively and functionally, it was apparently a pretty good motor and did what it was designed to do quite well. It was safe, stable and very practical in varied scenarios; if you could forgive its indifferent, plastic-clad looks. 

It seems clear that the makers of Breaking Bad gave Walter an Aztek as a metaphor for the man himself: Of high ideas that fail to flourish, life crushingly beige, good and bad in equal measure, increasingly desperate and ultimately doomed.  And yet, despite his ballooning wealth as a drug dealer, Walter keeps his Aztek through the following four series and it serves him well. He abuses it in car chases, races it on urgent missions and uses it as a weapon all without  issue.  

Perhaps that’s why Walter has kept faith with his conflicted conveyance. Interestingly, I wonder if this series has given some late-onset street cred' to a car which had been written off as an example of cynical and, in the end, futile car design from GM. So, if beauty is in the eye of the beholder, then the Aztek may be one of the most extreme examples of the notion that not all ugly cars are necessarily bad ones. Function and form are not always related in spite of what our instincts may be telling us.

              

It doesn’t stop there for the cars of Breaking Bad. Walt’s wife; Skyler (Anna Gunn) drives a pretty horrendous 1989 Jeep Grand Wagoneer in red, with faux wood panels which I suppose serves to distract attention away from the Aztek. Walter’s son eventually acquires a Chrysler PT Cruiser which is one of those cars that initially you think is cool and then you don’t. 

Overall, the White family has pretty indifferent taste in transport. However, the most sinister vehicle featured is that driven by the dangerous drug lord Gustavo Fring (played with studied menace by Giancarlo Esposito). He uses a ten year old Volvo 740 estate: one of the most practical and inoffensive cars as you’re likely to see, one that doesn’t attract undue attention and which stands at a polar opposite to the power, malice and wealth of its owner. Now that’s car casting at its most effective and subtle.

As a coda readers already familiar with Breaking Bad will know that Walter, in series five, sells his Aztek for a mere $50 and buys a suitably muscular, Chrysler 300 SRT8 – that’s more like it! Whether this upgrade does anything to improve Walter’s outlook is something you’ll have to put in the viewing hours to discover if you haven’t already.

The Chase Is On…

Occasionally I enjoy watching those TV programmes such as Stop Police Action which will always include a mad, real-life car chase (usually from the US). They normally take the same format. They start with a helicopter view of a car, containing some miscreant driving recklessly up the motorway, ignoring speed limits, traffic signals, rules of the road or in some cases the correct flow of traffic. 

Often the criminal will show great skill in what is usually an impromptu bit of untutored stunt driving with some truly amazing bits of off-the-cuff improvisation.  Inevitably they always get stingered off the road by high-speed pursuit vehicles and the driver, after a brief pursuit over rough ground, ends up face down, getting cuffed with a copper’s knee grinding the small of their back. I wonder in the aftermath and all the criminal proceedings that follow their brief moment of TV fame it was worth it?

I also wonder what it must be like to be them. To suddenly lose the plot and with a strong surge of adrenaline to just go for it. Maybe one night should you see blue lights flashing in your rear view mirror and instead of pulling over and enquiring: ‘How can I help you officer?’ you slam your pedal to the metal and indulge in some balls-out car insanity whilst being chased by the slightly surprised rozzers. Imagine at a later date watching your moment of TV infamy as your thermal image is wrestled to the ground soon after you make your final futile run for freedom whilst your crumpled car lies steaming in the hedge where you left it. 

What great fun that would be. Obviously, it’d also make you an anti-social risk to public safety deserving of the time in clink you’re likely to get and I, of course, can't condone such behaviour. So, if you can’t do it for real then vicariously will have to do via some of the fantastic classic car chases from the movies.  Despite the fact that most are staged affairs, taking weeks of planning and filming there have been some excellent, heart-pumping examples over the years.  Here are some of my favourites:

The Italian Job (1969 original) - One of the sixties chase classics and one that made a star of the Mini Cooper. ‘We are the self-preservation soc-i-et-ee!’ Those puny Fiat police cars didn’t stand a chance against sublime British engineering buzzing around the streets and rooftops of Turin.  I especially like the bit where they swing and sway (for no real reason) down that massive water pipe.  Shame the cars had to be chucked off at the switchbacks of the mountain roads later on.  

One thing to be confirmed (which they missed in the inadequate remake): when you see the cars doing their thing they always go in the order Red, White then Blue. Is that correct, or did I just imagine it?

Bullitt (1968): The other sixties chase classic. Ford Mustang versus Dodge Charger on the iconic roads of San Fran. Ice-cool Steve McQueen is chasing the bad guys. This is American muscle cars going ‘mano e mano’ in a strategic, vehicular fandango on the dramatic swoops and dips of the roads in one of my favourite cities. Exhausts get scraped, hubcaps popped off and when Steve finally toasts his hands on the resulting fireball it’s all very satisfying indeed. Apparently the whole thing took three weeks to film and is riddled with continuity errors but you’ll never notice them unless you’re wearing your very best anorak.

Ronin (1998): A relatively low key art-house film starring Robert De Niro and Jan Reno. Set in France it’s a heist movie where a group of skilled mercenaries attempt to acquire the mysterious contents of a briefcase for some nefarious purpose or other.   It’s worthy of our list in that it has two great chases but the second on the byways of Paris is a doozy. Driving a modest Peugeot 406 a grim faced De Niro skilfully chases the BMW of the lovely Natasha McElhone through the busy underpasses and ring roads of the French capital. And what chaos they cause. Eighty cars met their doom on this particular sequence but most were French makes so we shouldn’t worry too much.

The French Connection (1971): Coming in the wake of the genre defining Bullitt the producers of this film decided their car mayhem must be even crazier or not bother at all.  Luckily for us they decided to go ahead and gave us probably the best ever.  The innovation is that Popeye Doyle (Gene Hackman) is actually chasing a subway train by travelling at insane speeds under the elevated sections of the tracks in downtown Brooklyn.  The claim is that for some parts they are racing along in real, un-staged traffic and endangering un-briefed pedestrians.  

Some go so far as to state the nearly flattened woman-with-pram was not in fact a stunt person just some poor mother in the wrong place at the wrong time; hard to believe so I’ll let you decide. In whatever case, as celluloid, high-speed pursuits go this one really is still the benchmark IMHO.

The Transporter (2002): Jason Statham as ‘Frank’, strong of jaw and exacting of requirements is an unquestioning driver for hire. Early in the first film he acts as a getaway driver for a bank robbery refusing to move until the unspecified extra passenger is removed from his carefully set up BMW 5 series. There then ensues a chase around the town in which the steadfast Frank makes good on his contract and outwits the hordes of police which some extremely nifty car capering.  

Admittedly, it does get a bit cartoony especially the part where he drives off bridge onto the top tier of a car transporter but I can forgive that as it’s so well-conceived and filmed. You might disagree.

Diamonds Are Forever (1971): Sean Connery returned to the role of James Bond when George Lazenby decided to call it a day after just one outing. Some may not rate the chase scene or indeed the film that highly but I really like the stop-start action against a neon lit Freemont Street in old Las Vegas and as memories go it was the first Bond film I ever saw.  

Of course, it also contains one of the all-time notorious film bloopers where the Ford Mustang Mach 1 flipping onto two wheels enters an alley on its right wheels and exits on the left.  What’s wrong with that I ask? You’re forgetting, this is JAMES BOND we’re talking about, the British super-spy, he can do anything!  Haven’t you been watching?

‘C’etait Un Rendez-vous’ (1976):  A weird one this.  Made by French Film Director Claude Lelouch it features an anonymous man driving a V8 Mercedes (perhaps) at lunatic speeds through Paris to rendezvous with his girlfriend at Montmartre. 

Along the way many Parisian landmarks can be seen as road signs are ignored, one way systems breached and white lines crossed. That’s it, no other plot just mad driving filmed in cinema-verité style; sound tracked by the angry growl of a V8 engine and squealing tyres. It was filmed totally un-staged and lasts a mere 8½ minutes. It’s only the relative peace of the early morning filming that cuts down to amount of potential collisions as it was all done totally illegally. The legend goes that Lelouch was arrested after the film’s first screening and fined for such a reckless course of action.

The Bourne Identity (2002): Yet another Mini, this time a battered, bog-standard example which required the highly honed skills of Jason Bourne to get the most out of what most would say was a car not really up to the job. Despite this, with some ingenious road acrobatics, a highly effective chase ensues proving that it’s not necessarily horsepower that counts you simply need to be a bewildered but highly efficient killing machine to deliver high quality road mayhem.  Anyone out there fit the profile?

So that’s it. What more could you want?  It goes without saying there are many others I might have included; Vanishing Point, Duel, Death Proof and any number of other Bond films.  I certainly wouldn’t recommend you watching them all back-to-back as you might just go out there and have a go yourselves after that much adrenaline!  But if this piece has inspired you to go and watch some of these great film sequences may I wish you happy viewing and, more important, safe motoring.

Objets D'Art?

I know from experience that owners of classic cars are often asked a question similar to: ‘why did you decide to buy a Citroen DS?’  It’s the classic enquiry from the semi-interested punter who sidles up to you at a car show as you proudly display your recently polished automotive treasure.  And if you own a classic you probably have your stock answer whatever that might be such as the life experiences, emotions or irrationality that compelled you to shell out your hard earned money in the first place. Not to mention the commitment to ongoing flows of cash that inevitably come thereafter as you try to prevent your motor from oxidising to its base chemicals as it so desperately wants to do.

It’s a question I have tried to answer as the owner of a 1973 Citroen DS20 (affectionately known as The Goddess). My response, though is not at all simple.  Yes, I saw the all the classic films in which these cars appear so prominently: The Day of the Jackal, Scarface, The Green Berets but I don’t remember thinking: I must have one of those!  No, the answer is much more elusive and, like the car itself, as beguiling and complex.

There have been many words written about how cars work – the nuts, bolts, linkages and doodads - and given the ground-breaking innovation and ahead-of-its-time styling the ‘D’ has had more than its share of verbiage expended upon it. So, for those with a taste for remarkable machinery, and getting their fingers greasy, then the D’s attractive and challenging features will normally be enough to make the purchase. But that’s not me.  I’m at best a ‘tinkerer’ and more than happy to leave all the heavy spanner-work to my trusty mechanic.

My desire for a 'Goddess ' is more esoteric and was surely born back in my student days studying French philosophy and in particular my ongoing admiration for the work of that polytechnic poster boy: Roland Barthes.  Don’t worry, this isn’t going to be an in-depth analysis of the theoretical backwaters of France’s intellectual life but a little background will illuminate I think.  

You see Barthes was a pioneer in the field of structuralism or semiological analysis which, along with the work of Foucault, Levi-Strauss and others, was a way of asking not how things look, how they work or what they do but what things mean both formally and what is implied by them. And, in analysing these sub-texts (or as Barthes terms them: 'Myths'), it exposes how we are subtly ‘naturalised’ by the ruling elites to conduct our lives in a way which perpetuates the status quo. Phew!

As part of his own intellectual development Barthes wrote a series of light magazine articles (later anthologised in the very readable book: Mythologies) where he analysed elements of contemporary French life in the 50’s and developed his critique of what these (actually) mean. He looked at striptease, wrestling, steak frite and, germane to my point: ‘The New Citroen’ written when the DS was launched in 1955. To read this treatise there’s little mention of hydro-pneumatics, semi-automatic gearboxes or single spoke steering wheels. No, his view was much more left of field.  Here are some of the things he wrote in his article:

"I think that cars today are almost the exact equivalent of the great Gothic cathedrals: I mean the supreme creation of the era, conceived with passion by unknown artists, and consumed in image if not in usage by a whole population which appropriates them as a purely magical object."  

'It is obvious that the new Citroen has fallen from the sky inasmuch as it appears at first sight as a superlative object.'

'We are therefore dealing here with a humanised art, and it is possible that the Deesse marks a change in the mythology of cars.'

'.........the Goddess is...the very essence of petit-bourgeois advancement.'

Not a whiff of hydraulic fluid there then or anything else mechanical for that matter. Boiling all this down Barthes’ conclusion was that the new Citroen was more than just a revolutionary step forward in car design it also telegraphed that post-war France was transforming into an age of modernity, where new materials, space age styling and state-of-the-art engineering are used to create remarkable consumer goods which also happen to be also desirable objets d’art. 

What is implied is that all patriotic French families: the petit bourgeoisie, would naturally aspire to ownership and that tout le monde would look upon the French middle class with envy. It was exactly what the mandarins at Citroen wanted as DS development project team leader Pierre Boulanger opined: “to show the world...that France could develop the ultimate vehicle”.

You see, I got a bit carried away there.?  I didn’t mean to, but I kind of proved my point in a way. In describing a car in those highly intellectual terms, the long dead Barthes (ironically run over in 1980 by a delivery van) deeply affected my juvenile, but receptive, undergraduate mind and had a powerful long-term effect. The DS represented to me not only my entry into the ranks of classic car enthusiasm but also the perfect synthesis of mechanical, philosophical and theoretical complexity which for some reason appeals directly to the way my mind is wired up.  It was, however, a seed that had to lie dormant whilst I got about the business of earning some money for the next couple of decades. 

Then along came the moment when all this gelled into affirmative action. When travelling home from my work in 2001 I saw a pristine ‘D’ gliding effortlessly down the motorway weaving nonchalantly through the traffic with all the Gallic insouciance you’d expect from a languid goddess. And yes, it did look to me like a thing of wonder; a magical object, a piece of automotive art  not like a cathedral perhaps but just as profound. It was in one amazing object a thing from the past and the very definition of a car of the future and I decided there and then I would have one. And even at 60 mph, I again entered a pseudo-intellectual reverie from which I had to exit very quickly to slam on my brakes to avoid rear-ending the suddenly stopped car in front.

One wonders whether there are other classic cars that could be looked at in exactly the same way or whether such philosophical conceits can only be achieved within the French intellectual tradition. Maybe the Model T Ford represented the American dream of freedom and the open road. Was the Mini a triumph of British pragmatic engineering and innovation in the ‘white heat’ of the nineteen sixties? I’ll let you decide.

As a final coda, now after several years of ownership, when my D ‘fails to proceed’ (as it often does) and it’s returned to my house on the back of a breakdown truck (with a big bill in prospect) it’s not Roland Barthes’ name that passes through my mind. No, it’s something. much more profane. It’s what Monsieur Barthes would have aptly described as the very definition of hubris. Zut alors!

Copyright Anthony Boe 2014 all rights reserved