tim's experiment

While driving home the other day I found myself leading – or at least preceding – a white Ferrari. I had some difficulty in identifying it at first, because you rarely see a white Ferrari. Many Hong Kong drivers will not consider white for a car because it is the colour used for the government fleet.  I suppose if the car you are painting is a Ferrari then that question does not arise. Anyway, the traffic was heavy and neither of us was racing. He did not seem to be in a hurry and I am too old for that sort of thing. So we remained more or less in formation from the traffic lights in Waterloo Road to the traffic lights before the bridge over the Shing Mun river in Shatin, though by that stage he was in front of me. When the lights changed we both advanced, and I was treated to the music of his four exhaust pipes. I noted that he had to change gear twice before we reached the speed at which my Prius, with no prompting from me, abandoned the pretence that it was an electric car and started the petrol engine.

Now clearly a Ferrari — supposing I could afford one — would be an impractical choice for me. I often want to carry more than one passenger. Even if that were not the case I could not consider a car which could not accommodate a bass drum in the boot. The Ferrari drinks petrol, it is far more polluting than my Prius, and it would not fit in my garage. There is no road in Hong Kong where you can legally approach its maximum speed. And yet… I felt that little irrational burst of suppressed emotion. It’s impractical; it’s expensive; it’s polluting, but what red-blooded male – or for that matter female – would not like, at least for a while …?  This makes no sense, but then many instinctive feelings about cars make no sense.

Consider Jeremy Clarkson, whose work – both broadcast and print – I enjoy and admire. He nurtures a violent hostility for the Prius. On one programme he took great delight in destroying one with a heavy machine gun. And I understand the hostility. When you drive a Prius you finally lose contact with the old world in which “motoring” (so called to distinguish it from “driving”, which meant steering horses) was fun. The Prius does not pretend to be a sports car. It does not make those lovely noises. It does not make the nice smells. It is as far as you can get from the old days when the roar of the exhaust drowned out the non-existent radio, the wind ruffled your hair and the characteristic odour of Castrol R tickled your nostrils. The Prius admits that modern travcl is functional. It is a good car to drive in a tunnel queue. It doesn’t have a rev counter but it does tell you how much petrol you are using. It is a sort of metrosecxual motor – practical but in touch with its feminine side.

No wonder Mr Clarkson hates it. It is the wave of the unwelcome future. Mr Clarkson’s affection for a world in which drivers changed their own gears, rode with the roof down and frequently let the tail hang out round a corner is charming, eminently shareable and totally anachronistic. It is on a par with the nostalgic yearning for sailing ships, aeroplanes with four wings and steam locomotives. The world is changing and future cars will increasingly take over the work now done by the driver. This is a pity if you happen to enjoy the work, but on crowded roads enjoyment is anyway in short supply. Where in Hong Kong can you really drive a Ferrari as it ought to be driven?