Joy ride

Today I got my car serviced or should I say I got cheated into driving around in an automatic Ford with a fifty litre engine for the afternoon. I mean you really know that you’ve hit Sydney’s west when your mechanic says “so you’ve brought your little Focus in for a tune-up, have you?” and then as a replacement courtesy car hands you the keys to something white, shiny, loud and lowered.

And I don’t mean that in any kind of offensive way.

I mean, had I known about this trend I would have brought a date and shown him a good time. Only, of course Mark would have wanted to drive. But I was alone and I had six hours to kill – and let’s be honest, there’s only so much you can do around Penrith in that time – so I decided to drive the beast up for a visit to my parents’ place.

To, you know, let it ride wild and free within the boundaries of the ridiculous local speed limits.

If you’ve ever driven up to the Blue Mountains you have undoubtedly noted these. I’m not sure how they came about, but I suspect they involved some sort of disagreement between a government worker who drives a Volvo and a perfectly amiable hoon. When you drive from Emu Plains to Hazelbrook the speed limit yoyos from 110kph to 60kph up to 80kph then down to 60kph, then on to 70kph and finally back to 80kph before it hits 50kph.

In a normal car this is slightly irritating (especially if you, like I, have lead foot tendencies), but when strapped to something with a thousand cylinders resembling all manner of letters of the alphabet, it was really irritating. The beast wanted to go faster – I could tell because even the slightest tap of the foot threw it into light speed. And, as a sign of encouragement, it changed the radio stations until it shook with R&B. It wanted me to break the law – or at the very least to circle a local train station displaying appalling music taste.

Being a responsible adult – and one not gifted with a large savings account – I decided to do the right thing. That is only go as fast as the person in the bright blue, lowered monster in front of me (a person who probably gave their Barina in for a service at the local Holden dealership). And boy was it fun. Until, that is, I rolled in to pick up Freddy (the Focus) and the service bill.

It turns out that aside from replacing the petrol that I used up, my afternoon of mechanical mountaineering cost as much as the service itself.

So today I learned an important lesson: when someone willingly (even a little enthusiastically) hands you the keys to a large, shiny motor vehicle ask (don’t assume) whether the “courtesy car” is free or you might end up taking yourself out on a rather expensive date.