The other day I was driving to a Patient Forum in the woolly wilds of Worcestershire. The day was crisp, bright and autumnal. The sun was low in the sky but bright enough for me to drop the roof on the NobbyMobile, and I hit an A Road that had almost as many tempting curves as Darqflame.
The engine was growling through the straights and roaring as I dropped down through the gearbox and slammed the power on to exit each bend. The straight bits were comfy at 80-90mph. Some of the tight bends needed a drop down to 5th or even 4th to get full grip. The road was my *****, and my confidence grew.
The lush pastures sped by, and the only break in the sunshine was from the occasional canopy of golden leaves from overhanging Oak and Ash trees, their sparse branches forming a victory arch above my triumphant leet car-skillz.
I was slowing to 50 or 60mph for the tighter bends, and when the back of the car wanted to slide out gracefully, I realised I needed to let the car do it's thang. The gentler bends offered a slight tail-slide at 75, but the tighter, 4th gear ones took me down to 60 with a hint of handbrake giving me a sweet, sweet, drift.
One bend gave me a rush of adrenaline as I hit it at 30 degrees off of head-on, and the clock never dropped below 70mph. I was on a roll!
Did I say 'roll'?
The next bend was a sweet left-hander. I dropped from 6th straight to 4th, and using a bit of rear-wheel lock-up, a smidgen of handbrake, I kicked out the tail and started sweeping sideways round the bend like a rally-hero. At that stage, I was grinning like a grinning thing and a shade short of an un-British "Yee-Ha".
That's when I found a huge pot-hole in the road. The front left wheel dug in viciously, while the other 3 decided that Gravity is something that just happens to other people. Within the space of a second or two:
The car rose in the air sideways and tilted so that the road surface was directly to my left. With a gut-wrenching crack, the automatic roll-bars punched through the ABS rear-valance as the engine management system told the wheels that they were slightly more skyward than is healthy.
I landed at about 50-60mph, 45 degrees from straight, and the car had an internal monologue abaout whether to land with the tyres pointing down or up. I slewed into a soft grass verge in the gateway to a field.
I opened my eyes to see I was halfway into a field of cows. Their faces all bore the same expression which said "Dude! That was fUckin' close!". One or two seemed to be saying "***************** while a large, wet-nosed heiffer, no more than a yard away seemed to be saying "Ahh. Over-cooked that left-hander eh? Well you ain't the first, and you won't be the last"
Eloquent things, cows.
So of course, now the car's repaired (roll-bar refit, new shocks and a few bits of roof assembly replaced) I will now adhere to Her Britannic Majesty's desingated speed limits.
What?
I will!
