Off roading in your Catertin...
Discussion
In an attempt to wake up yesterday, the R400 received some warm soapy fluid in the almost freezing, not so great outdoors.
A great vehicle to clean, it was spotless in about 90 seconds.
Yet simple joys are so easily crushed by the hand of fate for any foolish enough to brave the ranks of cranially disengaged molluscs, sliming hatefully along to clutter & confound any vague hope of modest progress.
Never mind, the road had eventually wound far enough away from the orcish epicentre that darting quickly left presented one of my favourite little test routes.
It was 1945 hours, the plebtail parks had thrown out the last scrote scratcher and the road before me, though threateningly moist with grease and iced by the chilled winds of Asgard, quite free.
With nearly 500 miles up, the venerable X-Power was beginning to feel genuinely looser, blips were (unintentionally, of course) yielding exposure to equine prowess hitherto unreleased: the schnellerap intoxicating and the tin's only occasional grip frankly, borderline terrifying.
Feeling Satan's hot breath laughing down, I levelled the hammer and went sheep spearing.
It's hard to describe the sensation but the phrase "ah, Mr. Reaper, would you like a pot of tea" seems fitting.
Barely three slain rams' horns later, a corner I knew all too well loomed into perspective: joy, for here, a cheeky little twitch was aching for a drop of correction...but no.
With understeer of proportions not experienced since the attempted remake of 'Tron - the Stagecoach Years,' the contraption into which I was strapped decided to take issue with a very muddy, slightly grassy, knoll.
Cursing the assembled ranks of Hades, Dartford's finest suddenly decided to turn sharp right at precisely the moment of my impromptu moment di RAV4.
And what a slightly surreal envelope of existence it was.
First, with the car banked up to the left by a good 30 degrees, my initial concern was which pieces of undercarriage had been destroyed; then, which delicate shards of carbon fibre might be missing from the appropriate parts and finally, had I bent anything bendable?
Amazingly, pulling up to a laybay, conveniently lit by amber's glare, a quick survey seemd to reveal all was well: the relief was immediate and overwhelming and on reflection, the extreme mud enclaspuclation seemed to empower the black tin with a visual aspect hinting at an automotive policy not dissimilar to Johnny Jap in the depths of Burma, namely, no prisoners.
Rejoicing, I regirdled myself back in the mobile maiden and fired orf down the road, flashing over a reservoir bridge, stone wall either side, providing the perfect reflector of side canon's belligerent blare rekindled.
This, is going to be immoral fun.
>>> Edited by derestrictor on Monday 13th December 15:25
>>> Edited by derestrictor on Monday 13th December 15:32
A great vehicle to clean, it was spotless in about 90 seconds.
Yet simple joys are so easily crushed by the hand of fate for any foolish enough to brave the ranks of cranially disengaged molluscs, sliming hatefully along to clutter & confound any vague hope of modest progress.
Never mind, the road had eventually wound far enough away from the orcish epicentre that darting quickly left presented one of my favourite little test routes.
It was 1945 hours, the plebtail parks had thrown out the last scrote scratcher and the road before me, though threateningly moist with grease and iced by the chilled winds of Asgard, quite free.
With nearly 500 miles up, the venerable X-Power was beginning to feel genuinely looser, blips were (unintentionally, of course) yielding exposure to equine prowess hitherto unreleased: the schnellerap intoxicating and the tin's only occasional grip frankly, borderline terrifying.
Feeling Satan's hot breath laughing down, I levelled the hammer and went sheep spearing.
It's hard to describe the sensation but the phrase "ah, Mr. Reaper, would you like a pot of tea" seems fitting.
Barely three slain rams' horns later, a corner I knew all too well loomed into perspective: joy, for here, a cheeky little twitch was aching for a drop of correction...but no.
With understeer of proportions not experienced since the attempted remake of 'Tron - the Stagecoach Years,' the contraption into which I was strapped decided to take issue with a very muddy, slightly grassy, knoll.
Cursing the assembled ranks of Hades, Dartford's finest suddenly decided to turn sharp right at precisely the moment of my impromptu moment di RAV4.
And what a slightly surreal envelope of existence it was.
First, with the car banked up to the left by a good 30 degrees, my initial concern was which pieces of undercarriage had been destroyed; then, which delicate shards of carbon fibre might be missing from the appropriate parts and finally, had I bent anything bendable?
Amazingly, pulling up to a laybay, conveniently lit by amber's glare, a quick survey seemd to reveal all was well: the relief was immediate and overwhelming and on reflection, the extreme mud enclaspuclation seemed to empower the black tin with a visual aspect hinting at an automotive policy not dissimilar to Johnny Jap in the depths of Burma, namely, no prisoners.
Rejoicing, I regirdled myself back in the mobile maiden and fired orf down the road, flashing over a reservoir bridge, stone wall either side, providing the perfect reflector of side canon's belligerent blare rekindled.
This, is going to be immoral fun.
>>> Edited by derestrictor on Monday 13th December 15:25
>>> Edited by derestrictor on Monday 13th December 15:32
Gassing Station | Caterham | Top of Page | What's New | My Stuff