Transmission starts...
Night driving. It's what I do when I cut loose. Cut loose from the hio polloi, hustle bustle of the everyday.
The poet and I had been debating theology at the local Alpha course.
"Fancy going for a drive?" I'd asked. After dropping The Pipe Smoker off we'd filled up on fuel and set a course to nowhere. The Audi does this well. The mid-size V6 takes high speed cruising in its stride, it's only let down by a relatively large amount of wind noise. Amazing really. There is only one generation of R and D that separates this from the Starship Diesel, a car whose name comes from its lack of wind noise, unhurried nature, blue sci-fi instruments, in all; Its touring ability.
And yet.
The Starship was created by a non-premium manufacturer. It is a Peoples Car. Welcome to expected growth and the exponential rise of the microchip...
So;
From Spa Cheltenham to Big City Bristol with its Victorian riveted Iron, its revived city centre, its preserved Banksy, Portishead, Massive Attack heritage. We merely skirt all of this.
On and out we dash up the long hill M4 to the A46 junction then a sharp acceleration and a long sweeper that shows the Audi to be grippy but non-communicative. We get stuck behind a C3. I drop the pace. We talk of past journeys, past relationships, past conversations and the relentless passage of achievement and failure, not wanting to get off of this pressured rat race, human race for fear of breaking a leg.
I find an overtaking opportunity and we pour along the Cotswold pass occasionally slowing to impulse speeds for the odd village, before winding out the V6 to yowl at the night.
We enter the small town of my childhood, creep past my parents house, creep past my Mother's Mothers' house, creep into the green field of my childlike dreams. We climb out and watch the clouds race overhead, talk of beauty, luck and possible grace.
The Audi ticks in the orange street light, but not for long.
All aboard and we idle down the street my Mother and I shared our childhood but for time.
On we press, then up the hill, up Coopers Hill to Minchinhampton/Rodborough Common. Tugging at the wheel reminds me that for some reason this car doesn't like a cross wind. I think back to a couple of hairy high speed moments on the French Alps Auto Route in driving rain.
We press on across the common and down the hill into Stroud. We enter a lake of lights, the orange glow washes over us. We rejoin the A46, through chocolate box Painswick, turn off the A46, up the hill to the beacon, as far as the track takes us where we climb out and march up the hill, wind flickering my shirt and making The Poets hair dance. We stand and survey the glow of Glevum, the dark River Severn, the defined edge of the Cotswold Hills, perhaps, where 12,000 years ago the ice sheet had ground to a halt, pushing the skin of the land to make this wrinkled, hilly green paradise in this United Kingdom. We race back down the hill, stumbling, shaking in the cold. The Audi welcomes us back, protects us from the wind, the coming rain, as we drop down from the lofty heights back into Cheltenham. One last winding out of 5th gear reveals the theoretical maximum cruising speed .
"I like this car. It's comfortable" says The Poet.
I agree.
I drop The Poet off and creep home. As I climb out I take the time to look the Audi over. She ticks in the wind . I think I may be beginning to like her;
"There is playful element to the character of this car"
Funny, I thought she was too serious.
Maybe I was wrong....
Transmission ends....
