Sunday, August 5, 2012

Simon Charlesworth wrote a piece about the car addiction, "The Old Car Spiral"... he nailed it. Absolutely spot on

these are selected excerpts from: written by Simon Charlesworth, ( car guy expert analyst! ) photos I pulled from my archives to put them where they seem to add visual context

Whatever you call your old car fixation – a hobby, interest, movement or scene – by now you should have realised that it is not a static creature. You may start drooling over retro machines from the Eighties, but I can tell you now that it won’t end there.

 Indeed, if you value your sanity and sense of perspective, I would advice you to run, forget all notions of old cars and to adopt a normal 2012 life instead. 
 whilst an appreciation of old cars is both an enjoyable and enriching part of life, it starts a craving for ‘new’ old car experiences. As with anything which is experienced enough times, the extraordinary soon becomes ordinary and in little time, you find yourself chasing a different more intense sensory buzz. 

New cars are deftly placed in perspective and quickly, you lose touch with what is what. When mates rave about the latest wheeled contrivance, it won’t register because it won’t provide a big enough hit of the good stuff: feel multiplied by involvement and excitement. 

 Seat belts will disappear, whilst dynamos, crossply tyres and then all around single-circuit drum brakes will start to make an appearance. 
 Retro motors become yesterday’s score, classics cars just don’t do it and now, you’re chasing a veteran fix.  
You might think this madness, but this really is the fate of all old car junkies who can’t resist experiencing a wide spectrum of old cars. Once I was happy tooling around in a knackered Marina, now I’ve got it bad for Thirties sports cars. 
The challenge of central throttle pedals, the knack of a crash gearbox – or better still, a Pre-selector – cable-operated brakes, front and rear live axles, and suicide doors which threaten to spit you onto the road during left-hand bends.
 Even with a speedo full of big MPH, the hit is no where near the sensation you can obtain at 50mph in a sports car bathed in pure eau de Castrol R. 
 Bearing this in mind, if, one day, you come across a dishevelled looking individual in a derelict shop doorway who is holding out his palm, begging for pennies and rambling on about an Edwardian chain-driven aero-engined special – please do be kind to the old bugger. 


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