Recently, in the summer holidays, I went away on holiday with the family. It wasn’t anything special, just to North Devon. But after a while of sitting in the cramped car with what appeared to be everything but the kitchen sink, I began to realise something. Before I could dwell on the thought I was asked to put a destination in the sat nav. But, really that’s my point. The amount of gadgets and gismos that are available in cars these days is just utterly bewildering. You can spec your motor with stuff like active body control, electronic brake force distribution, torque vectoring control and enough other pointless acronyms to sink a cruise ship. All of this means that when the humble gentlemen fancies a little tinker, he will go out to his car, lift the bonnet and find himself smacked straight in the face with complicated, unfathomable witchcraft.
Back in the day of my step granddad, the car was still in its infancy. But despite this, he took his first car, which happened to be a 1931 Austin 7, all the way from just south of London to Gretna Green, just over the Scottish border. After a day’s driving with a car full of mates, the little Austin rolled into Scotland with not one thing breaking or falling off. And above all, with no special computers, no special set ups, and none of those massive acronyms that no-one actually understands.
Most people wouldn’t even drive that journey today, even if they have the most luxurious executive limousine, packed full of enough computing power to launch a rocket to mars. Which begs the question, does all of the car bumph in the brochures actually help? Let’s face it, the more stuff there is, the more stuff can go wrong.
When I completed the last part of my Pass Plus, I had the great opportunity to drive a brand new Mercedes-Benz SL500. For a large luxurious car full of electronics, it has mind bending capabilities. Mash your foot onto the accelerator and the naturally aspirated five litre V8 bellows while firing all of its 432 rampant horsepower to the rear axle. The acceleration from 0-60 takes a mere 4.8 seconds, and topping out at 180mph if the limiter is lifted. The roof can be retracted electrically. It will even stop itself if someone suddenly decides that they want a rather closer look at the front end. All sounds great. But, it’s missing something. It doesn’t have a soul. The steering lacks feel, the power is diluted by the ESP and traction control, the acceleration, although blistering, feels almost automated. That’s probably due to the engine. Tuned for economy, it will never turn its exhausts into flamethrowers or tingle and vibrate as it speeds down the leafy B roads. Plus it turns itself off at traffic lights. There’s no theatre about it.
All of this, I suspect, is why I prefer something with passion and soul. I would rather have something that actually feels like a car to drive, that pops and crackles on the overrun, spits flames during gear changes, makes your senses heighten and allows you to feel the road through your fingertips. This is why I prefer the older Aston Martins and Jaguars to BMW’s and Audi’s.
Land Rovers too are something that appeal to me. They are so simple to work on. This, after all, is what I’m trying to get at. It’s the simple things that keep us men amused, the simple things that let us tinker, and get us out of cooking the dinner.
By James Sivill, year 13
Columnist
