Sunday Mornings: Coffee, Reflections and Music

I had a very interesting experience recently. Interesting and a bit scary. I had to conduct some official business for which proof of identity was needed and without any second thoughts, I produced my driving licence. Sweet’eart, the Jamaican-accented lady told me, your licence expired three years ago. Dincha know? Cue jaw hitting the floor (mine), eyes wide open (hers) and much laughter and mirth (both). Three years! Just to give you an idea of why I was laughing so much here’s a quick rundown of what I have done during these three years and how my driving licence has been involved. I have rented cars in Italy and Cuba (2012 and 13 respectively) and I have been the main driver. That means that my (ex) driving licence has been photocopied and kept for their records. I have been one of the designated drivers of two minibuses hired by the school federation for which I used to work. Obviously, before being given the keys to the vehicles I had to submit a copy of my driving licence. And, of course, I have driven. I have driven everywhere. Cornwall in 2011, Shropshire, summer last year. But this is the best bit, or the scariest one. If I had been caught by the police with an out-of-date driving licence I could have been fined up to a thousand pounds.

Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?

Anyway, this column today is not about officials failing to realise that I held only a provisional licence for more than seven years and for three of those years this document was not valid (I have since renewed my licence, by the way, so if there’s a copper reading this, I’m all right now). What I would like to write about today is my love of driving.

But what if it's expired?

It is ironic that through this blog I promote a greener and cleaner way of living, both consciously and unconsciously. I strongly believe that our planet would be better with fewer cars around. At the same time, though, I can’t deny that I get a big kick out of being behind the wheel, on the open road, going on a long journey somewhere interesting.

I used to write a section called Road Songs years ago when I first started blogging. It was a way of romanticising what I saw as the “art of driving”. Unlike other people my early childhood perceptions were not shaped in the back of a car, but in the middle of a crowded bus in downtown Havana. So, recreational driving was not a part of my upbringing.

That is why as soon as I learnt how to drive and got my licence I became the weekend driver in the family (except for my daughter’s last two years in primary school when I used to do the school run every day). Weekend driving is different to its weekday counterpart. You don’t go somewhere because you have to clock in and out. You go places because it is a pleasure.

Road Songs was never about melodies that mentioned motorways and cul-de-sacs. As a section I wanted it to encompass the feeling that driving awakened in me. The beauty of a bend on the road, the exhilaration of letting the wheel slip through my fingers as I turned it, the art of braking. All these aspects of driving were included in this short-lived section. For all blogposts I sought clips that somehow encapsulated my feelings about being in control of car.

Whilst writing this section I came to the conclusion that perhaps my only gripe when it comes to driving in Britain, if gripe is the right word, is that the UK doesn’t boast iconic roads. Yes, we all know about the M25, but is it the same as Route 66 in the US? And would a motorway running from Scotland to south-eastern England inspire a Dylan-like British singer songwriter in the same way Route 61 inspired Bob to write Highway 61?

That doesn’t mean there’s no poetry in driving. There is, because the car symbolises freedom, if not, ask Bruce Springsteen who has made a whole musical career out of it. Even the shortest car journey has a certain sense of leave-taking about it. You are going somewhere and leaving something or someone behind. Even if it is for eight hours. Then, there’s also the interaction with the machine. The process of learning how to listen to your car’s engine, how to recognise its moans and complaints. That is why Roger Taylor, Queen’s drummer, wrote I am in Love with my Car, because he fell for his motor’s carburettor.

Yes, this column is a bit of a contradiction today. I am on two wheels five days a week. I can’t praise my bike enough. Especially because being a rusty, second-hand one, it’s gone beyond its sell-by and use-by date and it's still going, carrying me on its saddle. Yet, as soon as the weekend arrives I can’t wait to get inside my four-wheeler.  The episode with my (ex) driving licence made it clear. I’m in love with my car. Even if I might not have the valid documentation with me sometimes.



© 2014

Next Post: “Food, Music, Food, Music, Food, Music... Ad Infinitum”, to be published on Wednesday 25^th June at 11:59pm (GMT)