I’m 44, I have a beautiful wife and two wonderful children. Life has been good to me so far. As I write this I have a reasonably well paid job which has furnished me with a comfortable place to live but….was this my crisis! It’s joked about in pubs all over the world I’m sure, the chubby bald guy who buys a new Porsche and drives it at weekends with a pair of vintage aviators on, is having a crisis. Was I going to be that guy? I hoped not, but do we get to choice? Fortunately dream cars from my youth were mostly quite horrible. With my earliest automotive memories being of Vauxhall Chevette’s, Ford Cortinas and various early attempts to break into the UK car market by the French with some truly horrible iterations of their peasant chariots. My dream cars actually became those cars of the mid 90’s, as I was learning to drive at the time. All of the hotter cars of that era were targets of my desires, one such vehicle manufacturer was TVR, with the 280 and 350 “wedges” being the first cars to really pull at my heart strings.
As life, family and work commitments took over, my dreams of owning the car of my dreams seemed quite distant. My career in financial sales has meant a life on the road. I’ve enjoyed lots of nice cars, Mercedes, Jaguar, Audi, Jeep, Chrysler, BMW, Land Rover and of course the ubiquitous Porsche but none managed to scratch that itch. The problem was the vehicles, for which at times were upwards of thirty thousand pounds, were all compromises. Most of my cars are large comfortable barges with one eye firmly on economy. Driving over thirty thousand miles a year limited my choices some what. Tell that to almost anyone and they’ll comment that their heart bleeds but this is about me, not them. Imagine having the budget for the car of your dreams but a requirement to buy something sensible, that sounds a bit like petrolhead torture. So was it meant to be, that my budget would be continually recirculated into middle management executive saloons? I hoped not. In the mean time I’d had a brief affair with motorcycles. I’d lusted after two wheeled freedom after riding a Putch Magnum X at a friends business when I was about nine. As soon as I was old enough, and against my parents wishes, sorry Mum, I took my test and bought a friends Kawasaki GPX600R. Horrible! Apart from it being a few years old yet still absolutely mint, it was not the one. Later in my twenties I was fortunate to own a Ducati 748R. Bought second hand the previous owner being an eighteen stone monster meant the bike took many a wallet emptying trip the the local bike mechanic in an attempt to set it up for my ten stone frame. In the end I got it as close to perfect as one could realistically expect and we had many an enjoyable road trip together. Track days, European tours and trips to the Isle of Man were some of the most enjoyable holidays I have had. Several motorcycles and an excursion into dedicated track motorcycles eventually saw it all come “crashing” down around me…literally! The saying goes you’re either a motorcyclist who has crashed or a motorcyclist about to crash, I was the former. On cold tyres around the famous Shell corner at Oulton Park in Cheshire my motorcycling bubble burst along with a collar bone and all my ribs down my right hand side. So that was that. My garage soon had a little more space in it as my collection of five motorcycles was liquidated. Although disappointing at the time, I can now look back and see the rebirth of my dream…a weekend car!