Having a tough day, or maybe just a non-productive one? Perhaps you need some motivation or inspiration or suppose the things you love just aren’t moistening your loins as much as they used to. In a case like this, sometimes you've just got to take that low slung 1980s coupe standing in your garage and stick it in some dirt.
Now that's not a mantra you've heard before because well, two reasons. I've just made it up. And secondly it's not a particularly great idea. But there I was, cooped up in my house while a team of plumbers, builders and contractors were having a debate threatening to turn violent over who was to blame for the hot water pipes that had in a moment of insanity decided to divert their efforts through the walls themselves. Gushing. Down the stairs. Flooding our ground floor and ruining my evening two nights prior. After frantically clearing and drying and mopping and switching off water systems and geysers and such I was left with three gaping holes where previously there was none.
Two days later, most of the wall was absent, a newly crafted echo chamber for the rantings of three middle aged men with their cracks more than a bit exposed. For two full days I sat with my humble laptop in dutiful harmony with coffee and WiFi in my makeshift office while ten pairs of feet marched in and did things. I was trapped. They'd disappear for a few minutes at a time, not long enough for me to leave the premises just fleetingly, enough time for me to count the bricks in what was left of my wall. Madness had by now set in.
It happened at 2.45pm on the third day. "We'll be back at 4pm to plaster" a dusty foreman said in my general direction as he pointed his stubby arm at the clock above my head. I was too stunned to reply, instead watching in disbelief as an army of gumboots marched out of my life for the next hour and a bit. I sat for a minute. Then I bolted. I burst into the garage via the kitchen, switched on the lights and there she was, my 1983 Toyota Celica Supra shod with semi-slick rubber and less ground clearance than you'd want for my next activity.
I dribbled myself into the front seat (tis a tightish fit, this single garage of mine) and proceeded to swing her ignition into rumbly, rorty life. Headlights up-and-on because one should always roll with one's popup lamps fully erect, I began to back it up out of its cave and onto the tarmac of our street. Rumbling along, its smooth rubber kissing fresh asphalt for the first time in weeks, but not for long because it was the gravel, compact sand and loose dirt of the construction area and farms around my home I wanted to play in. The opportunity for catastrophic failure was certainly there, but I was quite mad by now remember? So I chucked her in, and had the most thrilling, dirty and unwise 10 minutes of my life (well, that day anyway – it's all relative), bumpy as all hell, and proceeded to tear up the terra firma.
It should come as quite some surprise to note that while the Toyota Celica especially in GT4 trim was an epic rally car in its time, its DNA is wholly absent in my 35 year old, rear wheel driver quasi-banger. But oh man – what a blast! My point of entry was obvious, avoid the earth moving equipment (these were easily identifiable as the large yellow scary-looking objects with teeth) and whip it onto the gravel network that would at a later stage be paved. It turns in... eventually. Mostly too much, sometimes not enough, fun! And because I've stripped mod-cons such as carpets, sound and noise inhibitors of any nature, it was shatteringly loud by virtue of just about anything and everything could make contact with the undercarriage, and WAS! I eventually exited the play area and proceeded to a garage some 6km away for two reasons, excellent cappuccino and an excellent waterless car wash – we ARE experiencing a drought after all. At 3:55pm I rolled back home with a fresh cup of java and a smile that wouldn't go away for days, just in time to let the plumbers in.
The cabin fever had subsided and much like my wall earlier, I was gushing.
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