Drive safely, sweetheart. Those are the parting words of advice my late grandfather would deliver ahead of a journey, no matter how ambitious or mundane. It’s been seven years since he last spoke them. Navigating life since he passed away has been easier to write about than it has been to do; he was my best friend, my moral compass and my confidant.
Before we’d set off on a summertime dally in his 1960 MGA, I’d often pour my heart out, knowing he’d provide a wisened answer. We shared an incredible intergenerational bond. The country drives in his classic convertible were part of his remedy for lessening life’s burdens. A way to leave those woes behind. “Drive it off,” he’d say, “let’s have some fun.”
I was the willing Lady Penelope to his Parker. He was my faithful and trusty chauffeur. With the roof down and the wind speed up, our hair would be whipped into a frenzied coiffeur. Cherished memories were made doing miles in his MGA, but I never considered what would happen when he was forced to retire from the job. That time came on the 12th May 2017, when his heart took its final beat.
Bestowed with the custodianship of FSK 302 was a privilege I’d never considered would be mine; I became the first woman to be caretaker of the keys. The transition from passenger to driver’s seat felt bittersweet. With no such luxuries as power steering or assisted gear change, I learnt to drive in a different way, but finding empowerment in the context of such devastating loss was a sensation that didn’t always sit well. Moving on is an essential stage of mourning.
Returning to the roads my grandfather and I frequented, I did my best to get to know his roadster. Chariot red and blessed with a voluptuous bottom, she’d been a racy retirement present to himself. Cheekily, he named her Frisky. Going it alone, she and I, shall we say, had our moments. Coasting to a halt on the middle of a roundabout amid a biblical rainstorm isn’t a favourable scenario to find yourself in when behind the wheel of a low-slung Sixties roadster, nor is losing power on the M25, but those experiences were an essential part of my schooling.
Forging a steady course, I discovered, can be physically and mentally draining but shying away from a challenge is not my style. If I was going to strive beyond the safe parameters of my comfort zone, so too was FSK 302. Leaving all feelings of ease at the bottom of crumbling tracks to take on 33 per cent gradients and disorientating, steep switchbacks, together, we’ve conquered some of the UK’s toughest, most demanding stretches of road. From Hardknott Pass in the Lake District to Bealach na Bà in the Scottish Highlands, the sense of achievement has sometimes moved me to tears. The fear of failure and the relief that follows can be overwhelming. This summer, we’re driving to the Arctic Circle.
As the daughter of a mechanic, I’m lucky to have 24/7 mechanical, technical (and emotional) support. My father’s skillset has afforded me, quite literally, the ability to keep Frisky on the road and our father-daughter relationship has flourished because of it. As a journalist by profession, I have transformed into a willing workshop apprentice as Dad has tutored me in the basic tricks of his trade. At times, though, he has found my inquisitiveness a little too intrusive. Who wouldn’t want to be interrogated about what they’re doing when administering a repair under pressure on the side of a busy road?
As well as encouraging me to explore the wilds of Great Britain, and the point of which my nerves begin to fray, FSK 302 has changed the course of my career. Becoming an advocate of our community, my work has been recognised with various awards. But beyond the trophies that are gathering dust, there are more important things to boast about, because what’s truly wonderful is that ownership has widened my circle of friends. FSK 302 has introduced me to so many other likeminded enthusiasts.
It’s thanks to my late grandfather that I’m part of this gang, and the opportunity to nurture those connections as an ambassador of Hagerty Driver’s Club is cause for celebration. I consider it an honour to be involved.
