On the road with Fitz

A short while ago, I was stuck in traffic between Paignton and Torquay, not an uncommon experience, I believe the road was being dug up.
When I reached the blockage, it looked like they were re-arranging the potholes in attractive groups of three, either that or drilling for oil. But as I sat there in my MX4, used to be an MX5, but a lot of things have dropped off due to said potholes, I had a sudden wave of nostalgia.
The condensation running down the inside of the windows transported back to the late 1970s when you carried a towel as air conditioning was twenty years away. I used to wait at the bus stop to get to college but if I was lucky my mate ‘Dodger’ used to grind past in his 1600 Triumph Vitesse and offer me a lift.
I normally change the names of those involved in my writings but there is no need where Dodger is concerned as I never knew his real name. Anyway, to be offered a lift by ‘Dodge’ was a unique 70s experience.
First, when you opened the door, there was the smell of old leather, WD40 and damp (the car not him) which I swear was sprayed in at the Triumph factory. You then had to sit in the birthing position, feet slightly apart, either side of the rotted through floor pan.  It was very trendy in the 1970s to have a missing footwell. Journeys were far more interesting watching the road slide by underneath you.
Once in Babbacombe it also became profitable as when Dodger stopped at a junction, and I spotted a one-pound note between my feet. Seasonally there were issues. In spring it was a little breezy and by the end of the journey you started to show symptoms of hay fever but only from the knees down. Summer was slightly more enjoyable as you could direct a cooling draft up your flares. Autumn, you collected nuts and leaves but when wet, it could lead to a terrible case of athlete’s ankle. Winter was plain and simply frost bite on bits that should not be frost bitten.
There was one other piece of non-factory, non-standard fitted equipment in the Vitesse, namely a length of string. This ran right across the dashboard anchored around the choke knob. (Ask someone over forty if you don’t know what a choke knob is … do not google it). The string was then fed through both quarter lights (Same routine re the choke knob) with the ends of said string tied in a firm knot to both windscreen wipers. In light to heavy rain, it was the duty of the passenger to grasp the string and see-saw it back and forth. The wiper motor was long since defunct.
Towards the end of the Triumph’s life, it developed a tendency to ‘toot’. It started one afternoon driving along the seafront past the Princess Theatre, some part of the electrics shorted and the horn went off ‘toot … toot’.
Dodger started to hammer his fist on the steering wheel column in a vain attempt to stop it. I started to wave to the turning heads in hopes that they might think that it was a friend trying to attract attention. I got several waves back but more in the way of vacant and confused faces.
You just do not see cars like that anymore, except mine. Twenty-two years old, curious dent on the rear wing and a slight lean to the left. I think three working shock absorbers are more than enough for a little car like mine. The fourth absorber is still on the Brixham road. The last time I saw Dodge and the Triumph was in 1981 as it was being dragged to a scrap dealer outside of Exeter. His foot and the clutch pedal had gone through his floor pan.
Rust in peace.
Fitz