An Ode to the
Unexceptional
Words & Pictures by Alex Jaskowski
”In the age of digitally-augmented, flappy-paddle, point-and-squirt super-hot-hatch-ery, never has there been a stronger case for simplicity.”
“What have you gone and done that for?”, a chorus of derisory cries went up around the office as I triumphantly announced the purchase of my little 1990 Rover Metro GTa. “It only needs a little bit of work, and I got it for a steal” - the excitement had taken over at this point, I was completely blinkered to the ensuing mockery. I was extatic. I think it's fair to say that I've bought perhaps more than my fair share of cars over the course of the past few years - a habit which the non-afflicted often hasten to label a problem, we addicts often delusively refer to as 'enthusiasm'. The emotions that the purchase of this diminutive period warm-hatch evoked, is testament to the lack of correlation between level of expenditure, and that often - at times - seemingly unquantifiable quality, that is joy. Don't get me wrong - if I had children, which thankfully - in the context of this analogy - I do not, I wouldn't hesitate to trade them for a right-hooker F40, or a DB4 GT. The point that I'm belaboring is; you don't need to spend a fortune to visit motoring nirvana.
It’s often difficult to explain why, when we ourselves often struggle to explain it; the charm and allure of the dated and mundane, a fascination with all things unremarkable, and objectively pants. Paradoxically, that is in itself, the very reason why. Sitting in the Metro is like sitting on one of those foldable Aldi garden chairs that is inexplicable too large for a child, whilst simultaneously being ever-so-slightly too small for an average-sized adult - a vision in cloth and vinyl. A manual choke, of course; no fancy fuel injection here, because where's the joy in merely turning a key? You have to awaken it - a gentle prod, a shake of the shoulder. The little 1.4 litre, 4 cylinder 8 valve takes a moment to collect itself, before settling to a rhythmic hum; where are we going today?, it excitedly beckons. A survivor, that bore witness to the decimation of so many of its fellow everyday heroes, under the merciless tyranny of many a government mandated scrapage scheme. (cont.)
“It has, in a way, achieved a somewhat classless status - exempt from the fevered social climbing that has afflicted modern society, and by extension, the cars we drive.”
It scampers about the narrow English lanes like an excitable terrier, on the scent, searching - with anticipation - for it's next adventure; an enthusiastic growl emanating from the exhaust, as you wade your way up the H-pattern. It has nothing to prove, no image to upkeep. It has, in a sense, achieved a somewhat classless status - exempt from the fevered social climbing that has afflicted modern society, and by extension, the cars we drive. It quietly sits, and observes. It's noble without appearing self-aggrandising. Fun without feeling contrived. Conspicuously cool without seeming aloof. There's no clever computer trickery to massage the ego, just good old mechanical - slightly underpowered - fun.
So next time you’re scouring AutoTrader, try setting your upper limit a little lower, you may be pleasantly surprised with the outcome.
