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Mirror, signal, meltdown… Mirror, signal, meltdown: the emotional sanctuary of a car
(about 11 hours later)
When I was learning to drive, I thought the big milestones were changing gear, changing lane and three-point-turns.When I was learning to drive, I thought the big milestones were changing gear, changing lane and three-point-turns.
Not so, according to a friend of mine at the time who said: “Those are mere technicalities. You become a driver on the day you first confidently apply mascara while going round Hyde Park Corner.” I wonder what he’s up to these days.Not so, according to a friend of mine at the time who said: “Those are mere technicalities. You become a driver on the day you first confidently apply mascara while going round Hyde Park Corner.” I wonder what he’s up to these days.
As a result of that exchange, I never felt like a fully fledged driver because the idea always remained daunting. But it turns out I needn’t have worried! According to a major new study, putting on makeup behind the wheel increases the chances of an accident by 0%. That’s right: statistically, it’s not one jot more dangerous than not putting on makeup.As a result of that exchange, I never felt like a fully fledged driver because the idea always remained daunting. But it turns out I needn’t have worried! According to a major new study, putting on makeup behind the wheel increases the chances of an accident by 0%. That’s right: statistically, it’s not one jot more dangerous than not putting on makeup.
This was a proper, widespread, academic research project, by the way – 35 million miles of American driving data and 3,500 motorists monitored over two years in “the largest light-vehicle naturalistic driving study ever conducted” – not a quick poll by Rimmel.This was a proper, widespread, academic research project, by the way – 35 million miles of American driving data and 3,500 motorists monitored over two years in “the largest light-vehicle naturalistic driving study ever conducted” – not a quick poll by Rimmel.
The study also found that “dancing in the driving seat” had no effect on accident statistics either. I was confused by that one. Do people dance in the driving seat? I wonder why. In response to a favourite song on the radio? In triumph after being proved right in an argument about the map?The study also found that “dancing in the driving seat” had no effect on accident statistics either. I was confused by that one. Do people dance in the driving seat? I wonder why. In response to a favourite song on the radio? In triumph after being proved right in an argument about the map?
I’ve never danced while driving, nor put on makeup. (Hardly surprising; those are things I barely do when not driving, either.) Neither have I been drunk at the wheel, nor significantly broken the speed limit, which were found to be two of the largest contributory factors in crashes.I’ve never danced while driving, nor put on makeup. (Hardly surprising; those are things I barely do when not driving, either.) Neither have I been drunk at the wheel, nor significantly broken the speed limit, which were found to be two of the largest contributory factors in crashes.
But I pulled up suddenly, as it were, at the news that an accident becomes 9.8 times more likely when the driver is “angry, sad, crying or emotionally agitated.” And oh yes. I have been those things in a car.But I pulled up suddenly, as it were, at the news that an accident becomes 9.8 times more likely when the driver is “angry, sad, crying or emotionally agitated.” And oh yes. I have been those things in a car.
Suddenly, the report was a tiny time machine, powering me back to a lay-by off the A1 somewhere north of York; a dull stretch of the M4 between Bristol and Cardiff; Berkeley Road in Boars Hill near Oxford, just by the golf course; Prince Albert Road that runs round the edge of Regent’s Park in London; Convention Center Drive, just off South Las Vegas Boulevard between the Wynn Hotel and the airport…Suddenly, the report was a tiny time machine, powering me back to a lay-by off the A1 somewhere north of York; a dull stretch of the M4 between Bristol and Cardiff; Berkeley Road in Boars Hill near Oxford, just by the golf course; Prince Albert Road that runs round the edge of Regent’s Park in London; Convention Center Drive, just off South Las Vegas Boulevard between the Wynn Hotel and the airport…
My God, the steering wheels I have cried into. The windscreens I’ve shouted through. The gearsticks I’ve thumped in frustration.My God, the steering wheels I have cried into. The windscreens I’ve shouted through. The gearsticks I’ve thumped in frustration.
It was usually something to do with boys. In one case, bad news about a family illness at home; otherwise, always complicated matters of the heart. Infidelity, confusion, deceit. Guilt, regret, fear. Nostalgia, claustrophobia, impatience. They wanted to break up with me, or I wanted to break up with them, always timed perfectly for maximum surprise and hurt to the other party. One of them had never really split up with his ex-girlfriend. Another turned out to have a wife.It was usually something to do with boys. In one case, bad news about a family illness at home; otherwise, always complicated matters of the heart. Infidelity, confusion, deceit. Guilt, regret, fear. Nostalgia, claustrophobia, impatience. They wanted to break up with me, or I wanted to break up with them, always timed perfectly for maximum surprise and hurt to the other party. One of them had never really split up with his ex-girlfriend. Another turned out to have a wife.
The funny thing is that I remember so little about the cars and so much about what happened in them. That drive near Boars Hill – it was 20 years ago! But I could still tell you where in the wardrobe Jon had hidden his letters from Lizz, and what they said – whole paragraphs, I could quote to you verbatim – and I could tell you about that exact conglomeration of roads that I circled round and round, alone, in repetitive wheeling cycles like a zoo-trapped polar bear for four straight hours, and have never seen since… but I couldn’t tell you whether the car was a Ford Fiesta or a Fiat 127. And it was my car! My first car!The funny thing is that I remember so little about the cars and so much about what happened in them. That drive near Boars Hill – it was 20 years ago! But I could still tell you where in the wardrobe Jon had hidden his letters from Lizz, and what they said – whole paragraphs, I could quote to you verbatim – and I could tell you about that exact conglomeration of roads that I circled round and round, alone, in repetitive wheeling cycles like a zoo-trapped polar bear for four straight hours, and have never seen since… but I couldn’t tell you whether the car was a Ford Fiesta or a Fiat 127. And it was my car! My first car!
It may have been an Austin something.It may have been an Austin something.
If you asked my father about cars, he could have told you everything from the engine capacity to the diameter of the wheel arch on every vehicle he ever owned. I think that first car of mine, or was it the second, might have been blue.If you asked my father about cars, he could have told you everything from the engine capacity to the diameter of the wheel arch on every vehicle he ever owned. I think that first car of mine, or was it the second, might have been blue.
(Austin 1100? Is that a type of car? It may have been that.)(Austin 1100? Is that a type of car? It may have been that.)
But I remember everything that ever happened in it. And, wary though one must always be of gender distinctions, I think I remember it because (for all they say about men’s “love” of cars) for women they symbolise so much: so much freedom, and power, and safety, in being able to drive. From the comfort of your little four-wheeled home, you can see the world yet be sheltered from it at the same time. It gives you adventure yet privacy, novelty yet familiarity. The car is a method of escape and a place of refuge. Like a garden shed with magic powers.But I remember everything that ever happened in it. And, wary though one must always be of gender distinctions, I think I remember it because (for all they say about men’s “love” of cars) for women they symbolise so much: so much freedom, and power, and safety, in being able to drive. From the comfort of your little four-wheeled home, you can see the world yet be sheltered from it at the same time. It gives you adventure yet privacy, novelty yet familiarity. The car is a method of escape and a place of refuge. Like a garden shed with magic powers.
I have cared so much and so little about the cars I’ve owned. My last car was a constant companion through so many trips and traumas, I loved it like a brother; I sobbed when we said goodbye, but I never quite knew its model number. I took so much interest, and none.I have cared so much and so little about the cars I’ve owned. My last car was a constant companion through so many trips and traumas, I loved it like a brother; I sobbed when we said goodbye, but I never quite knew its model number. I took so much interest, and none.
So the car is where I always cried and shouted. (My driving test examiner was surprised, but understanding.) It’s where I went to do those things; it was the means of running away and also the destination. What are we to do with this news that being “angry, sad or agitated” in a car is five times more likely to cause a road accident than talking on a mobile phone?So the car is where I always cried and shouted. (My driving test examiner was surprised, but understanding.) It’s where I went to do those things; it was the means of running away and also the destination. What are we to do with this news that being “angry, sad or agitated” in a car is five times more likely to cause a road accident than talking on a mobile phone?
We have to stop being emotional, of course, just like we stopped drinking and phoning at the wheel. But the only point of the car, really, is the emotion of the thing. It’s not quick, cheap or comfortable any more. So if you’re not going to thump the wheel and burst into tears… well, you might as well be on the train.We have to stop being emotional, of course, just like we stopped drinking and phoning at the wheel. But the only point of the car, really, is the emotion of the thing. It’s not quick, cheap or comfortable any more. So if you’re not going to thump the wheel and burst into tears… well, you might as well be on the train.