chapter six: ready, steady, Fangio...

The muscle memory of her embrace still clings to your thoughts when the thumping sound of the bass shakes the window and you look across to a white Vauxhall Calibra full of what used to be teenagers but now must be called ‘yoof’. Hoods up, caps down, the two in the backseat are sharing a spliff, heads nodding like toy dogs in time to the crashing reggae beats. The front seat identi-kid passenger leans out and surveys your new car with a look of utter contempt. He leans across to the driver and they mutter something as the lights stay on red.
You didn’t really need that pint of milk, and you certainly didn’t need to drive all the way to the 24 hour Spar for it but at 1 a.m. the roads are quiet and well, you thought you might go for a little spin, didn’t you.
‘You wanna race, mate?’
Identi-kid is back again.
The lights are amber and before you can tell him no the Calibra fishtails all over the road and eventually straightens up at the next set of lights about three hundred yards down the road. You drive as slowly as you can but they let a change of lights go because they’re waiting for you.
‘Oi, dickhead! You fucking racing that shitheap or what?’
Backseat passenger identi-kid is now hanging out the rear window.
He tosses an empty can of Stella onto the road and belches for emphasis. The identi-kid passengers and driver bray. Move over Oscar Wilde, there’s a new sheriff in town.
The lights go green and the Calibra raises blue smoke from its rear wheels but stays still. Or rather it bounces on the spot before the identi-kid driver lets the brakes go and the whole thing lurches, swerves and accelerates for a hundred yards before a clumsy handbrake turn brings them round to face you.
Ok, so there’s no one about at this time of night but travelling the wrong way down the dual carriageway is stupid even for drunk, stoned teenagers. They circle round and pull up along side.
‘You fucking give us a race or we get out and piss on your fucking foreign wank machine. Identi-kid navigator is there again. But he’s not finished.
Cunt’.
Well, your thoughts exactly.
They all get the giggles at this but they’re not giggling when you tell them Meadowhead roundabout.
‘Yer wot?’ is the best identi-kid can manage.
‘Meadowhead roundabout, mate. Need and A-Z? We’ll race from here to Meadowhead roundabout. And back’.
Identi-kid is puzzled.
‘You deaf as well?’
He’s still struggling so you ask whether it’s a bit late for him to be out. A touch on the throttle seems to assist understanding. The message is obviously getting through for the volume goes up on the stereo and the backseat identi-kids strap themselves in and both start to make calls on their mobiles. They obviously want an audience. You tell them to turn round at the next roundabout onto Prince of Wales Rd.
The Calibra streaks away and it’s almost a mile before you’ve caught them up. The plan is you let them show off till you lose the tram tracks at Herdings. Even if you don’t get past them on the straight before the mini roundabout at Lightwood there’s the long stretch up to Meadowhead itself. And then there’s the return leg. If they’re still there.
But the Meanmachine has other ideas. You catch them up just after Manor Top and from there a new tactic evolves. Obviously they’re taking the outside lane, when they bother to stay on lane at all. This makes overtaking too dangerous to contemplate. So you hang back till they approach Herdings Park where there’s a tram stop. For almost a mile the tram track runs down the centre of the dual carriageway, separated from the road by a kerb-like barrier. Not even the Calibra kids could jump it. And they’re bound to drive along the tram way at that point just because they can. With them safely off the road for a short space you can let the beast off the leash and take the lead in style and safety.
The tram stop is glowing in the distance. 85. 90. You look across. 95. You give the kids your crispest 'Tom Cruise in Top Gun' salute. The Tomcat is catapulted down the flight deck. 100. Now’s the time.
When the twin turbos kick in it’s like you’re being pushed back into the seat and held there. The human body is a notoriously poor accelerometer but these are fairground G-forces. The acceleration is simply ferocious and the Calibra just disappears in the rear view, apparently going backwards fast. As you approach Manor Top you look back to see them struggle up the incline. Their image recedes. Fast. Faster.
The big roundabout has some traffic so you slow to legal limits and spot a squad car on the forecourt of the BP station. The identi-kids are so far behind you’ve time to pull in casually and park up next to the shop. This’ll be good. The bored night attendant glances up at the sound of an engine under strain. The cops are having a quick smoke but they too have heard the approaching car. Right on cue the Calibra takes the racing line at the roundabout, fails to negotiate the curves and careers across the empty carriageway, all four wheels screaming. It straightens up, eventually, and carries on in the direction of Greenhill. The cops sigh, stub the ash and flick the siren and lights. You share a weary look of hopeless resignation with the guy at the counter and then you coax your victorious machine gently down the hill towards Woodseats.
Well, that was fun, you reflect as you lean against the veranda wall, a cold can chilling your palm. Fun, but ultimately hollow. The MLC has brought possibilities, for sure, but the nagging doubts are there again. Ok, so the finances and the childcare are sorted. The flat is in good shape. Work looks after itself. But…….
You look out across the city and a line from Neil Young pops up. Got fuel to burn, got roads to drive. The cooling night air sends you back inside. The refrain sends you to sleep. Got roads to drive. Got roads to drive. Yeh, but where to?