After the post-apocalyptic fall-off in traffic at the start of lockdown, cars are now slowly starting to return to the roads. Well, if you’ve seen a smug git cruising through north Perthshire in a 1989 Atlantic Blue BMW 320i convertible, that’s me. I’m rediscovering the love of the car.
I started lockdown in London, hurtling down Edgware Road blasting out ‘Ghost Town’ by the Specials. Having decamped to the Highlands (in defiance of the SNP edicts to stay away), I now chug along at 20 miles per hour below the speed limit, with a gentle accompaniment of Hall & Oates. It’s pure bliss.
Is driving for pleasure within the government’s lockdown guidelines? It’s certainly not ‘essential’ travel. I’m not on the road for medical reasons or going to or from work, but many of my sallies are the preludes to vigorous walks, which makes them technically kosher. Nonetheless, Covid driving certainly feels illicit. Since the government is still advising the public to stay at home as much as possible, it’s no wonder everyone on the road looks so shifty. Whenever I set off for a drive it feels like I’m stealing my own car. It’s as if twocking has made a comeback. ‘Twoc’ (taking without owner’s consent) is the acronym for the criminal offence of joyriding, which more or less died out when vehicle locking technology improved in the 2000s. It feels like we’re all twockers now.
Apart from the thrill of auto-grand theft auto, lockdown is revealing another of driving’s charms: privacy. The car has always been a sanctuary. It’s like the loo, in a way, but without unpleasant smells and pictures of your schooldays staring you down. In these cooped-up times the car can be a refuge from family and an adyton when the churches are closed, especially for those who live in inner cities, where private space can be hard to come by.
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