This is the second piece in a series published in Mazda MX5 Magazine. The first was
Cutting the umbilical cord
The day before Christmas Eve, the presents wrapped, a drink left for Santa, there was only one thing left to do. Heavy hearted I walked into the garage and set about cleaning out Ralph, my 1991 assure blue MX-5.
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| thanks to zbyszk0666 |
Ten years in any relationship creates a lot of stuff. Thankfully Ralphs tight dimensions meant our ‘baggage’ could only extend to the glove box, the boot and a small space behind the driver’s seat created by my lack of height. And yet Tardis-like Ralph had managed to horde a substantial array of items; old birthday cards, parking stubs, photos and the odd gem that set us both off down memory lane.
Two hours later I turned off the garage light and began a fitful sleep contemplating what incriminating items remained trapped under the seat. That’s something they don’t tell you on Top Gear….with no backseats once something slides under the seat in an MX5 it’s lost forever.
In the morning the short drive to the Mazda dealership took on a convoluted route, as I squeezed out our last moments together, while trying to avoid an inopportune accident.
Earlier on having provided the insurance representative with my birth date, and a brief description of Ralph, she’d launched into a protracted description of her own lengthy car history, followed by a lecture on the intense loyalty that plagued Taureans ‘like us’. The conversation ended with her declaring it ‘unthinkable’ of me not to have one final night with Ralph, and consequently she threw in an extra days coverage, free of charge. Once again Ralph had weaved his magic.
Realizing I could delay it no longer I arrived at the dealership and parked Ralph, who proceeded to sit up straight, flatten his eyebrows (windscreen wipers) and look his shiny best.
Shortly afterwards having completed the paperwork and handed over the ignition keys, I was left alone to contemplate what I’d done, while the dealer bought the new car around. I was about to get a real car. A grown ups car.
A car with proper door handles, legal headlights, and a radio that actually worked. One where the driver could actually reach car park ticket machines, without having to throw out a guide rope, and haul themselves out of the seat in a move reminiscent of Silvester Stalone in that mountain rescue movie. A real car. I’d always described Ralph as a toy car, a cute covered rollerskate, one step up from those gofers with the plastic drycleaner bag covers, currently all the rage with groovy octogenarians, apparently.
Does this mean I would have to grow up too? I pondered.
As the new car came around the corner, the sunlight hit Ralphs windscreen wiper and bounced a single gleam in my direction. A tear? Not wanting to be out done Ralph had captured my heart once more.
‘Oh no, please don’t park him there’, I pleaded outloud to an empty room, as the dealer backed the new car into the empty parking spot right next to Ralph.
Striding into the office the dealer handed me the key saying ‘come on let’s show you a few things in your new car’, then sensing my hesitation added ‘don’t worry we’ll look after him’, while patting Ralph on the roof as we walked passed.
Fifteen minutes later, as I drove out watching Ralph shrinking in the rearview mirror, I was sure I could hear him muttering ‘et tu brute’.
That night a friend in England suggested a name for my new steed, ‘Rusty’ in deference to his copper colouring. I quickly rejected the idea, thinking it may be tempting fate and beside I was determined not to get attached this time. I mean it’s only a car, just something to get you from a to b, right?
The next day the consumer psychologist part of me recognised the mounting post purchase dissonance, as I pondered whether I had done the right thing. In need of a calming coffee, and wanting to try out one of the four, yes four, drink holders in the new car, I dropped into the local café.
Walking back to the car, coffee in hand, I pondered how I’d gone through life without cup holders, and more importantly why a two seater car needed four drink holders. Clearly the car designers thought that, sans cup holders, the driver and his passenger would regularly find themselves confined to the garage, unable to start the days journey because both hands were full. Meanwhile I had difficulty contemplating even one situation where I’d found myself in a car with both hands cup laden, but then perhaps I’d lived a sheltered life in my toy car. Maybe in my new grown up status I would frequently come across such situations, and praise god that my cup did indeed runneth over with ….plastic cup holders. Still, I would’ve thought that had I developed that much of a drinking problem, I’d be better served walking straight into the nearest AA meeting and surrendering my keys forthwith. It was then that I saw it….
The car, my new car, had been christened.
Within 24 hours the passenger door had acquired a huge dent, courtesy no doubt, of the large black 4WD that had been parked next to it and was now conveniently missing. To create a dent that size the owner would have to have known they’d done it, and yet there was no note on my windscreen.
‘Oh Cooper, how could they have done that to you’, I lamented rubbing my hand over the side where the copper coloured paint was missing.
‘Damn’ I shouted slumping into the leather seats, only momentarily aware of a slight warm shiver of delight running through me as I placed my coffee cup into the holder without even thinking.
‘Damn, damn, damn’
‘Damn….I’ve named you’.
Just then from somewhere deep in a suburban car yard I could hear Ralph flipping his headlights closed, first one, then the other, in one final wink in my direction.
I was left to ponder……..
I can only hope that my adventures with Cooper will be half the fun I had with Ralph, and that we run into each other again some day….not literally of course, as I have no desire to test the protective capacity of my new cup holders, with or without polystyrene cups inserted.
Coming up: Crossing the line at Billy Connolly
