Gertie - A Bid Farewell
A Farewell Blog for My First Car
The time has come. I’ve finally decided to part ways with my beloved Gertie. We were together three and a half years, since I was 22 - just a young hooligan sporting TNs and a Stone Island shell jacket. Since then I’ve matured greatly and have achieved many things. I wear ties, eat avocados, and I can do a handstand against a wall. It’s clear then that I have come a long way and it's also probably fair to say that we were a bit more suited to each other back then.
Being a Ruislip yobbo and desperate to impress fellow yobbo strangers passing by, I succumbed to the inevitable and invested in the mandatory Maxton plastic tat accoutrements. Nothing says speed like a bit of black dustbin cut into the shape of a splitter and bolted onto your front bumper. I got what was coming to me when I was walking back to Gertie from paying for petrol after a solo trip to the New Forest. The go-faster kit clearly got caught on a speed bump on my travels, and was hanging no more than a couple of inches from the ground. Of course, it had been bolted to Gertie's bumper, so that too was hanging, leaving a gaping hole in her chin.
She's really been through the wars. The hanging dustbin remained until it was eventually ripped from underneath her while navigating Houghton Festival car park (a bumpy field). She also had a cyclist ram into her backside while we were stationary. I stupidly asked if it had left a mark, to which he obviously replied “no” and sped off. Big mistake. Big dent. I should have got out and lumped him but I've gone soft in this new, mature, self-aware state - I'm now an expert in REM and I get excited over fancy kitchen cloths. She's taken foursomes to festivals (tents and all); been up Snowdon; witnessed some “we need to talk”s; and sat on the North Circular for many eternities.
Despite all this, she's never let me down. Not so much as a cough or a splutter in over three years. I gave her the regular MOT and Service, accompanied with the occasional full tank of 98 Octane. Not what you'd call high maintenance. What a loyal friend she’s been - like a bouncy little Labrador puppy, full of energy, always eager to please. Being a Lab, she only has one mode - ravenous. I don't know if it was me or the car but it felt as if she always wanted to go faster. If there was food on the table, she was going to eat, whether Auntie Maureen was ready or not. Lashings of Pedal-to-the-Metal Pie, please.
The Polo GTI is light and nimble, the brakes are sharp and reactive, and the manual gearbox is extremely lively. Its power to weight ratio is the same as that of the Golf GTI, so I never once wished I'd opted for the bigger, fatter, uglier older brother. You should not buy this car if you want a comfortable city cruiser. Despite the interior feeling like an Bentley in comparison to its plasticky, basic rivals such as the Fiesta ST and the Corsa VXR, it's still a hot hatch, just with tartan seats and nice stitching. And that means it's one-and-only objective is to bite your head off every time you set off, but stylishly.
As one is with a brand new puppy, I was ecstatic every time I saw her. Like a huge Tupperware box of chicken, rice, and vegetables; or an excitable girlfriend; it was a great sign that she never grew old on me. But the excitement couldn't last forever. After the poor girl inhibited the bumps and bruises, to make matters worse she was relocated to Canonbury. Beautiful place to live, but driving a manual hot hatch here is worse than cycling down the A40 in Storm Darragh with no gloves and a runny nose. Speed bumps and speed cameras at every turn. So, very quickly, it was if the chicken went saggy and the girlfriend lost her seasoning. Sure enough, the dates dried up, and I got a craving for steak. I stopped driving her and soon found AutoTrader redownloaded.
We've spent some time apart now, and I sorely miss her. It really sunk in when I got back to my flat and there was a Gertie-shaped hole in the recently-fallen Autumn leaves. She's not yet sold and so she's not yet been replaced. It's the first time I've been car-less in four years. The magic of a car is as much about the act of escapism as it is driving. I'm sure a lot of people understand what I'm saying. I love racing someone off the line; I love sending it on a sunny Spring morning down some flowing country roads; and I love going on an adventure with a car full of people; but, most of all, I love the freedom of being in the car alone. It might be the introvert in us that craves a space to wind down when our social battery is low. It might be having that quiet place in a busy world where we can slow down and get lost in their our own thoughts. It might be that our cars, that we all believe are living creatures with hearts and souls, are listening to us and, in doing so, offering up a safe sanctum of important, indulgent self-therapy in a world where it is often to easy turn to dopamine-fulfilling acts of ignorance, greed and laziness. Whatever it is, I miss it.
Since departing with Gertrude, my mind has been focussed on pastures new, what could possibly replace her, but sitting here writing this has made me appreciate what a wonderful companion she has been. I've grown so much over the past three years, and in that time and there's not been anyone I've spent more time with. Through thick and thin, fast and slow, you've undoubtedly been the best first car I could have hoped for. You've been the perfect partner. I only hope that your next owner can give you a better life than I did. Now, I better sign off before I start to cry.