Driving

The day I bought my third car, I felt like myself again.

It happened quickly and seemingly seamlessly. I was in Crantock during the first few real days of summer, sat outside my friend Becca’s house and scrolling through Auto Trader. A silver Toyota RAV4, exactly two decades old, ULEZ compliant, petrol, automatic, in my price range and conveniently located approximately 20 minutes from my brother’s house.

I bought it from a man four years younger than me who was selling it to make room for his growing family. I told him I would be driving it mostly alone in Cornwall and he smiled. I test drove it around the neighbourhood, feeling the purr of the engine and imagining it out of the speed-restricted roads of the London suburbs. I transferred him the money there and then, driving back home in the sticky heat, no phone battery and no music, but happy as hell.

Tevi, in all her glory

Months later I found myself on the winding back roads from Gwenver to Penzance. I’d watched the sunset from the sofa at Sam and Sandy’s house, after feeding various family members sticky white rice and baked chicken thighs glistening with gochujang and a salad dressed in the only vinaigrette worth making. The ritual goes like this: turn on the engine, flick on the headlights, plug in phone and carefully choose the soundtrack. The touch screen display unit doesn’t work and there’s no way of changing the volume. Luckily it’s set at the perfect medium. As I turned left I listened to Sam Fragoso’s dulcet tones in conversation with playwright Annie Baker, who spoke of how the past is ephemeral, that your perception of it changes as you get older. I wished the drive was longer because it was on these roads, in this darkness, under that moonlight, that I wanted to be listening to this kind of wisdom.

The night before I met a friend for wine and pizza in my old neighbourhood. We left full and happy, her journey about 80 minutes north and mine 45 minutes back west. We discussed what we’d listen to on our drive. On the way in, Harri had found herself down an Arthur Russell rabbit hole. The best kind. That night I tuned into another conversation; perhaps it was the beginning of Annie Baker’s. I drove those familiar roads back, the A394 the route home now, as opposed to the one that takes me away, and I revelled in the length of the journey. When I got home, Harri texted me saying Florence & The Machine had come on and didn’t stop. I loved that we both found such comfort and nostalgia and entertainment in navigating our old tin cans home.

Car Crushes: '98 Peugeot 106

A few weeks later I was returning home from that same clifftop house. This time I’d fed the family orange and miso-glazed chicken legs and schmaltzy potatoes and the same salad because why would I change? Engine on, headlights up, plugged in and as I turn left down the road that takes me home, a familiar quiet crackle of an introduction becomes audible. Promise. It’s a song that immediately transports me to the early hours after my grad ball, and the boy I’d convinced myself I was in love with was lying on my bed, telling me he wished we just could have been friends. I cried as he left the front door and played this song on repeat until it stopped hurting.

It sounded different to me now. More hopeful. There wasn’t a single other car on the road and I drove at a middling pace, enjoying the harmonies, the inky midnight blue of the sky. I find it impossible to listen to this song whilst standing still. I must be moved and moved and moved.

The stasis that I’d been reluctantly held by earlier this year has dissipated. Back then I could not turn on the engine or flick my headlights or plug into myself. I could not be moved. Everything had changed.

This morning I walked 12,500 steps. I moved myself. It was joyful and necessary, mainly because there’s a hound named Alfie who requires me to move him. But what I thought about the whole time was jumping in my car and listening to Pavement or Big Thief or Wilco and driving along the coastline to a certain pub, where I’ll eat a crab sandwich on soft malted granary bread and drink a half pint of Guinness. And on the way back maybe I’ll listen to Pink Moon by Nick Drake and take the long route home, because I like feeling like me again.