Wednesday, November 06, 2002
The following story has been posted on the Telegraph motoring pages this week.
My brother-in-law has recently purchased a Mercedes C Class and very kindly has allowed me the opportunity to drive on more than one occassion. The car is a dream to drive, it is "class" on wheels.
However before I get carried away, here is the full merc story of another owner published in the Telegraph. (Not for reproduction).
Portrait of a driver
(Filed: 02/11/2002)
Harry Mount talks to the art critic Brian Sewell about his life behind the wheel and takes an alarming trip in his 17-year-old Mercedes
Going for a drive with the art critic Brian Sewell is an alarming experience. Not because he isn't a safe driver. Far from it. He navigates his great, long Mercedes through the backstreets around his Wimbledon home with stately grandeur - slowly and gracefully picking, if not the racing line, then the most comfortable ambling line.
"Driving should be like drawing," he says. "You make an elegant line. You can steer a cleaner line through the road than the line of the road itself. You're not 'going for a walk with a line', as Paul Klee said of drawing, but you're driving with the line."
Because of the multitude of parked cars in London, it's no longer possible for Sewell to see far enough ahead to develop a proper driving line. But he still steers like a pro, carving out fluid curves as he turns into corners.
He does all this without any shoes or socks. "I don't understand why it's more comfortable. I just prefer it." His naked toes, though, keep perfect control over brake and accelerator - the only thing he doesn't like about his 1985 Mercedes 560 SEC is that it's an automatic. "A manual would be perfection. You feel more in control," he says. "Still, in some imperceptible way, the huge, lazy engine seems to work in the same way as my brain."
With the driver in such effortless control, his lack of footwear has little to do with the low-level panic I feel. The reason why this journey would be like no other was made clear by Sewell before we got into the car. At any moment, he warned, he might make an "emergency stop for a dipping blackbird". Devoted to his dogs, Sewell will stop for any animal.
"I'm often hooted by drivers for going too slowly. I am going too slowly - not because I'm a little old lady, but because I know where the foxes cross, which trees the squirrels are in."
And the blackbirds? "When they swoop, they're literally eight or nine inches above the road. What's the split-second touch on a brake pedal compared to the life of a blackbird? For me there is no question what one does. I would just like a large notice on the back of my car, saying: 'I stop for birds, squirrels and foxes, never mind little old ladies and small children'."
As we drift gently past large, detached Edwardian villas, a light rain and a thin layer of autumn leaves on the road are the only hazards to contend with. But still I adopt a braced version of the casual posture - shoulders back, legs stretched - that the squashy, cream leather seats and deep footwells of the 560 encourage. For the moment, the streets are blissfully free of wildlife, but that could change in a second without warning - Sewell knows where the squirrels live; I don't.
Most drivers are forgiving of Sewell's blackbird-friendly pace and sudden halts. He puts it down to the Mercedes being left-hand drive. "Other drivers can see that it's left-hand drive, and that it's got this white-haired thing driving on the wrong side, and they're remarkably forgiving. They make the assumption that you can't see anything."
Sewell thinks this thoughtfulness is a rare throwback to a gentler age of motoring. Otherwise, the aggression of London drivers has snowballed. He had a heart attack in 1994, so didn't drive for five years. After a lifetime of happy motoring, mostly in Daimlers, the break was disturbing. "Going back on the road was one of the most nerve-racking things I'd ever done. The standard of driving had deteriorated. People had become infinitely more aggressive, unforgiving, abusive. One wasn't allowed to hesitate or make a mistake."
That increased aggression means London driving is no longer a pleasure. The forthcoming congestion-charging scheme does not escape censure. "I would quite like to stand on Ken Livingstone with a dozen other people. He doesn't care what an effect his scheme will have on those who persist in using public transport. Successive governments should have said: 'We'll take on the motorist once we've provided reasonable alternatives.' "
Since a disappointing trip to the Continent this year, he's also lost the taste for the long jaunts across Europe that he describes in his latest book. "The misery of the trip was nothing to do with the car, and more to do with going back to places that hold lots of memories but have changed." The Mercedes went like a dream. "It's very fast, comfortable, quiet and a good deal of fun."
He plans on having the car until it explodes. "But I shall probably explode first. Because of the heart condition, I have to have my licence renewed and, when my licence next comes up for renewal, the doctor might not be able to sign the piece of paper. I can't expect him to perjure himself. So that would be the end of driving."
My brother-in-law has recently purchased a Mercedes C Class and very kindly has allowed me the opportunity to drive on more than one occassion. The car is a dream to drive, it is "class" on wheels.
However before I get carried away, here is the full merc story of another owner published in the Telegraph. (Not for reproduction).
Portrait of a driver
(Filed: 02/11/2002)
Harry Mount talks to the art critic Brian Sewell about his life behind the wheel and takes an alarming trip in his 17-year-old Mercedes
Going for a drive with the art critic Brian Sewell is an alarming experience. Not because he isn't a safe driver. Far from it. He navigates his great, long Mercedes through the backstreets around his Wimbledon home with stately grandeur - slowly and gracefully picking, if not the racing line, then the most comfortable ambling line.
"Driving should be like drawing," he says. "You make an elegant line. You can steer a cleaner line through the road than the line of the road itself. You're not 'going for a walk with a line', as Paul Klee said of drawing, but you're driving with the line."
Because of the multitude of parked cars in London, it's no longer possible for Sewell to see far enough ahead to develop a proper driving line. But he still steers like a pro, carving out fluid curves as he turns into corners.
He does all this without any shoes or socks. "I don't understand why it's more comfortable. I just prefer it." His naked toes, though, keep perfect control over brake and accelerator - the only thing he doesn't like about his 1985 Mercedes 560 SEC is that it's an automatic. "A manual would be perfection. You feel more in control," he says. "Still, in some imperceptible way, the huge, lazy engine seems to work in the same way as my brain."
With the driver in such effortless control, his lack of footwear has little to do with the low-level panic I feel. The reason why this journey would be like no other was made clear by Sewell before we got into the car. At any moment, he warned, he might make an "emergency stop for a dipping blackbird". Devoted to his dogs, Sewell will stop for any animal.
"I'm often hooted by drivers for going too slowly. I am going too slowly - not because I'm a little old lady, but because I know where the foxes cross, which trees the squirrels are in."
And the blackbirds? "When they swoop, they're literally eight or nine inches above the road. What's the split-second touch on a brake pedal compared to the life of a blackbird? For me there is no question what one does. I would just like a large notice on the back of my car, saying: 'I stop for birds, squirrels and foxes, never mind little old ladies and small children'."
As we drift gently past large, detached Edwardian villas, a light rain and a thin layer of autumn leaves on the road are the only hazards to contend with. But still I adopt a braced version of the casual posture - shoulders back, legs stretched - that the squashy, cream leather seats and deep footwells of the 560 encourage. For the moment, the streets are blissfully free of wildlife, but that could change in a second without warning - Sewell knows where the squirrels live; I don't.
Most drivers are forgiving of Sewell's blackbird-friendly pace and sudden halts. He puts it down to the Mercedes being left-hand drive. "Other drivers can see that it's left-hand drive, and that it's got this white-haired thing driving on the wrong side, and they're remarkably forgiving. They make the assumption that you can't see anything."
Sewell thinks this thoughtfulness is a rare throwback to a gentler age of motoring. Otherwise, the aggression of London drivers has snowballed. He had a heart attack in 1994, so didn't drive for five years. After a lifetime of happy motoring, mostly in Daimlers, the break was disturbing. "Going back on the road was one of the most nerve-racking things I'd ever done. The standard of driving had deteriorated. People had become infinitely more aggressive, unforgiving, abusive. One wasn't allowed to hesitate or make a mistake."
That increased aggression means London driving is no longer a pleasure. The forthcoming congestion-charging scheme does not escape censure. "I would quite like to stand on Ken Livingstone with a dozen other people. He doesn't care what an effect his scheme will have on those who persist in using public transport. Successive governments should have said: 'We'll take on the motorist once we've provided reasonable alternatives.' "
Since a disappointing trip to the Continent this year, he's also lost the taste for the long jaunts across Europe that he describes in his latest book. "The misery of the trip was nothing to do with the car, and more to do with going back to places that hold lots of memories but have changed." The Mercedes went like a dream. "It's very fast, comfortable, quiet and a good deal of fun."
He plans on having the car until it explodes. "But I shall probably explode first. Because of the heart condition, I have to have my licence renewed and, when my licence next comes up for renewal, the doctor might not be able to sign the piece of paper. I can't expect him to perjure himself. So that would be the end of driving."
