They say most accidents happen in the home, which means we must currently be living in one of the dangerous periods in human history. Being legally restricted from leaving the house puts everyone right in the line of fire, supposedly protected from catching the virus or being run over by a bus but trapped at the mercy of loose stair carpets, 240 volt electrical shocks and random gas explosions. Never have we been so exposed, even if we are now doubly-legally barred from indulging all the stuff we were warned about in our youth such as playing on the railway line or flying a kite near overhead power lines.
To prove the point that we would be safer if allowed outside, I set fire to myself this week. It wasn’t some kind of Buddhist monk inspired protest, instead I put it down to plain old incompetence and as it was breakfast time I wasn’t even particularly drunk. In retrospect, I had perhaps become blasé to the perils of making cheese on toast under the grill and as I inserted my oven-gloved hand into the danger zone to turn the bread over, the flash of flame served as stark reminder that although cavemen may have harnessed the use of fire, it hasn’t got any less hot in the intervening million years.
It was only later when I inspected the charred remains of the glove that I discovered it was largely composed of polyester; it said so right under the statement warning “keep away from fire”. I would have preferred to have understood the highly flammable nature of the glove before flapping my blazing hand around the kitchen, but you can’t read everything in advance, can you. As I stood with my fingers under the tap, the icy water numbing my blistered digits and the spectre of blood poisoning taunting me, I ate a cold cheese sandwich with my left hand and reflected on the nature of risk.
A friend of mine who pretends to read these pages (hello, Jimbo) was recently musing about buying a nice old car for summer day trips out with the family. As I pretended to listen, he described his preference for a four-seater convertible from the 1970s or 1980s into which he could pack his partner, young child and dog and take them all off to some mind numbingly tedious horse trial or something. I said that was a great idea assuming he actually wanted to kill them all, rather than taking the precaution of cocooning them in a proper car with a roof. What if a horse turned rogue and deliberately jumped on the car? He dismissed this as unlikely but that proves how little he knows about horses. I mentally lodged a note to base future arguments around the risk of falling trees, runaway cement mixers or freak clay pigeon mishaps, but then Covid intervened and he had to hide indoors like everyone else. When we are finally set free again, I’ve decided I won’t try to steer him away from buying a four-seater convertible from the 1970s or 1980s anymore, because set against everything we’ve missed out on, his planned day out now sounds delightful by comparison. Risk is all about perspective, after all.
For someone who has spent two decades doing silly things in rally cars, it might come as a surprise that I worry about automotive risk at all, but I’m really quite squeamish when it comes to hurting myself. I don’t necessary always notice when I’ve developed a cut or a bruise, but I make damn sure to tell everyone about it whenever I do. However, it’s the near misses that really focus the mind.
A few years ago I saw one of my BMW E36s off by barrel rolling it across the tarmac at speed. After a momentary awareness of the car leaning more than expected, the novel feeling of weightlessness as it completed its first inversion was accompanied by thoughts of “this will be expensive” rather than any particular fear. By the time it had been over again and come to rest with me dangling in my seat with the ceiling having become the floor, there hadn’t really been time to be concerned. People will tell you time slows down but if it had I might have been able to pop myself out at the first sign of trouble and video the ensuing acrobatics on my mobile telephone from outside the car. I’m still disappointed that nobody else did. However, the incident did prove that you can flip an E36 at 40mph and do every panel on the car without it touching the roll cage. That’s quite impressive, and certainly better than a time I helped to recover an inverted and non-roll caged Peugeot 205. It sat on its roof at the side of the road quite happily and seemed easily repairable but as we manually rolled it back the right way, the windscreen popped out and the previously undamaged A-pillar immediately squashed flat. Disturbing.
It’s inevitable that driving classic cars puts you at more risk if the worst should happen, compared to an air-bagged modern with rifle slits for windows. However, given the last year of missed opportunities I don’t think it’s anything worth worrying too much about anymore. I vividly recall the first time I spun my Austin Mini 1000 shortly after I had passed my driving test, a result of having mismatched tyres, worn radius arms and insufficient talent. I cocked it up on a fourth gear sweeping bend at around 60mph and managed a full 360 which involved violently hopping the kerb halfway through the rotation. That early experience certainly focussed the mind as to what could go wrong, and you really don’t want to get it badly wrong in a Mini.
We have the Scandinavians to thank for leading the way on crash testing and giving the world the three-point seat belt, and having been in the passenger seat of an out of control Volvo Amazon, it’s comforting to know when you’re in a crash test pioneer. After extracting ourselves from the beached Volvo, clambering out of the ditch and shuffling like penguins across the black ice, it was only a matter of time before a willing passer-by hooked our tow rope to his Range Rover and we got going again. The damage was far less than would have been inflicted to a modern car, which would have no doubt triggered a load of sensors and forbade us from driving off. While you may be less likely to be injured while crashing a modern car, being in the right classic isn’t necessarily a complete death-trap. There’s only so much cotton wool you should wrap yourself in.
As I think about risk, I am also reminded that a world hobbled by the notorious virus is a world in which it’s become statistically safer to drive a classic car. Less traffic means there are fewer people to run into you, whilst your own risk of making a mistake surely remains the same; therefore your overall risk must be reduced. Hopefully your motoring remains uneventful but I’m now less inclined to worry than ever before. After all, as I have proven this week, it’s staying inside that’s really perilous. If you’re wondering about my smouldering oven glove, don’t worry; I have replaced it with a pair of welding gauntlets which allow for enhanced dexterity when making cheese on toast and definitely aren’t made from polyester. Safety first!
