Seeking Alfa

Position: 51°10’50.6″N 1°15’43.6″W

Date: May 08, 2008

When I arrived at Heathrow Airport yesterday, Hertz had set aside a Ford Mondeo estate for me. (I hope I don’t have to translate ‘estate’ to ‘station wagon’, do I?) It smelled of smoke and the boot looked about as secure as a paper bag. So, I traded it in. The duty manager was young and good-looking with a thick head of black hair set just so. His white teeth looked brighter against his dark complexion and his polyester uniform fit him unnaturally well. He went through his motions on the computer and finally looked up at me and asked, “How many are there of you?”

“Just one,” I replied.

“You’ll like this then. I have an Alfa GT that I can give to you for the same price”, his accent rooted in West London, Fulham or Wandsworth.

I processed Alfa. Then Alfa Romeo. Sports car…Italian design…breakneck speed…and unreliable…

“Sounds good,” I said.

“Stall 126, just over that way,” he pointed with the keys before handing them and the contract to me.

Pulling my suitcase through the sliding doors and back out into the drizzle, I looked across the lot at acres of boring sales rep’s cars, until I found her. She was sleek. Bertone designed with six speeds and enough leg room for my freakishly long thigh bones. Very nice I thought folding myself in. Hang on! What’s this? Reading the green sticker on the dashboard: Diesel? Oh my dog! Diesel? WTF?

Pounce

Turning the ignition, she rattles away like an AEC Routemaster (London’s quintessential bus). Bollocks! I engage first gear and slip the clutch. My little bronze car pounces forward on her racing suspension. The contoured seat grips my kidneys and holds me tightly. I ease her out of her parking spot and follow the directional arrows. I tap the accelerator, and we momentarily rocket towards the exit gate. My pulse increases. This might not be so bad after all. I pass the gate attendant and he instantly disappears from the thumbnail-sized rear window.

The M25 is a slow-moving parking lot, but it is the only way out of greater London. After 30 minutes of frustration, I am backing off from 95mph after overtaking some git in an Audi. The M40 has opened up. It appears Alfa’s engineers have done wonders with diesel engine technology. Then they wrapped it in a sexy four-wheel package that sticks to the road like a gecko. Running a hand through what’s left of my hair, I imagine I’m Daniel Craig in the next James Bond movie. I drop a gear and red line my little car westwards towards Oxford. I’m going to stay with my friends Phil and Bev for a couple of days. Life sometimes throws a little lemonade your way.

Notes

If you drive south from Oxford along the A34 you have a choice to make when you reach Newbury. You can stick with the A34 or take the slower A339 towards Basingstoke. Since you don’t want to go to Basingstoke, you turn onto the B3051 at Kingsclere and head towards Overton and Micheldever Station. There you turn right onto the A30, an old Roman road that heads like a snapped chalk line directly towards Salisbury. With one lane in either direction, there are a few twisty bits to keep you occupied and stirring through the gears, but mostly it’s dead straight. I know the A30 well. When my sister moved to Salisbury many years ago, I travelled along it regularly. Now, I refresh my driving notes for the return journey.

After a couple of pleasant days visiting, it is time to get back to work. The time is 5:30am. I am back on the road heading towards Heathrow for my flight to India. I calculate the risks of putting my foot down for the hell of it. The car is up to the task. There is no traffic. The light is good. It is dry and the birds hear me coming soon enough not to get killed. Plus, my memory was refreshed two days before. Oh, what the frick! Let’s crank it! I stomp on the gas.

I crest a hill at 105mph and dip down, slowing in anticipation of the slight left-hand bend that I took at 98mph in my own car 20 years ago. This time I drop to fourth and slow to 85. At the apex of the turn, I press back down on the accelerator. The tachometer nudges into the red and I take her up to fifth, then sixth. She’s happy. We’re beginning to trust each other.

Dense

Throttling down ahead of a speed camera we slow to a pedestrian 50 mph. I’ve learned to obey the speed limit signs when there are cameras around, and there are cameras everywhere in the UK these days. (Orwell was prescient.) C’mon, c’mon! At last, there’s the sign with the white circle and black diagonal stripe signifying I can return to the national speed limit. On roads like the A30 that’s 60mph. Unless you know what you’re doing. Hah! Time for a change in music. New Order is in order: Blue Monday – How Does it Feel? Solid gone, man!

The British are good drivers. Or they were 40 years ago. Back then they were skilful, courteous, and got the hell out of each other’s way. Today, more cars on the road mean more traffic jams. That leads to more regulations, more automatic transmissions, and more speed cameras. All of which have made the average Brit a bit less predictable and a lot lazier behind the wheel.

Sharp

Pulling out of Stockbridge and cutting through two roundabouts, the Alfa barps and we’re back up to 60, 70, then 80. She labours in sixth trying to get past 95. It’s a granny gear, not a pulling gear. I drop to fifth and we pick up the pace again – touching the ton. Dense hedgerows reach out on both sides, narrowing my path. Slow, slow, slow down! Signs! Caution, sharp left-hand corner. Brain now instinctively reminding feet that British road signs are extremely accurate. It is time to slow the hell down! Crap it’s a T-junction with a motorcyclist crossing our path. The perfect chance to test her anti-lock brakes. They work! I’m almost done. In a couple of miles the A30 becomes the A303 which then joins the M3. Now it’s all wide, dull highway to Heathrow.

Damn that was pure, unbridled fun! I can’t do this at home in America. Sure, you can drive fast, but you can’t find narrow roads that make you feel like you’re flying straight down a slot canyon on the Death Star. That kind of topography doesn’t exist in Oregon.

It is just past six in the morning. I am ahead of schedule.

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