London Express

Transmission Starts...

Climb in, turn on, wait for the cold warning sign to go out.

Reverse out, turn in, join the traffic.

Coast on, warm the clutch in the traffic, warm the gearbox on the short-section M5, warm the suspension on the long sweep that dips and undulates as it leaves the M5 and joins the 417.

Cruise up the hill, stretch out the revolutions past the Air Balloon, hold back for the dip past the Golden Heart.

Duel Carriegeway with angry Focus close up. Every so often I can show him who's boss by flooring the PanzerWagen. I tell myself to let it go, let it pass, let it breath...

I pull over, let him pass. He sprints off into the distance. Today is not for sprinting or getting into silly pitch battles with reps on a mission. Today I'm going to London.

417 skirting Ciren, up the hill to Swindon, join the 419, turn off to M4, settle back to low warp. Switch on In Our Time, sit back and cruise.

Stop outside Reading. Coffee in Burger King, spot an Elise in Gulf colours, press on. Flow into London, past the Glaxo building, past the Porsche dealership, join the press of traffic. I sit in Kensington at the lights opposite the Bristol dealership. Ben Fogal sits next to me in a Mini Cooper S convertible. His chocolate labrador rests its chin on the door, looking bored and hot in the muggy, close 30 degree heat.

Summer in the city and the girls are pretty. They line the streets, I almost crash here and there. The North Circular does its job and I reach the East End, parking in the shadow of The Guerkin. A Guinness fuelled night ensues. We paint a pub with the songs of our youth. All ends and sleep comes.

Transmission interrupted..............

Redirecting..................73032783t...vyownt893wnuw52u...otn295tn2v835ut80............

Junction 235 > 237

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Transmission Resumes...

Wake up, breakfast in Brick lane, leave. About to join the North Circular but spot ClassicCarClub.com. Can't resist but to walk in. The creaking PanzerWagen barely fits in as two men manhandle a Cobra 427. It pops and gargles as a genuinely big man groans under the weight of moving that steering rack at low speed. I'm drunk on it. I walk in, ignored, touch the F355, the XJR, the GT3, the Mustang, the E-type(s), the Ferrari(s). Amongst all is a ZT180 estate.

Ha.

Told you they're brilliant.

No one bats an eyelid as I get right under a ramped and stripped E-type. I touch the sump of the glorious, cultured, legendary straight 6. The heart of one of the greatest sports cars ever made lies dormant above my head.

A Bentley Continental T sits big and proud dwarfing a P6. Always wanted both of those.

I stroll back out into the sunlight and engage in a 15 point turn in front of the mechanics. I'll bear they're grins better than putting a hole in a 360 Modena.

Pull out, join the circular, rush on, join the M4, spot an MR2 in Martini colours, cruise back in the heat. No air con, no matter. Worse things have happened at sea.

This is just one side of the story but for Auto Eclectic this is the whole side...

Transmission Ends...