My finger hesitated over the starter. It was a button I’d pressed before on innumerable occasions, housed within an interior of wood and leather I’d known my entire life. Despite flicking every switch and pushing every button inside that hide-trimmed cabin, there’d always been a certain disconnect between the buttons and their purpose.
Not a literal disconnect caused by rotting wires or long since expired fuel lines, but rather a disconnect between desire and intention. I had yearned to drive my grandfather’s Daimler V8-250 since before I could stand. Where most children measure their height against doorways, my reference point was the distance between my dangling feet and the accelerator pedal.
As the years passed and I steadily grew into that driving seat, fleeting fancies for other cars came and went, but the yearning to drive my grandfather’s Daimler never left. Until on a bright August day in Cheshire, that desire was realised, and I found myself pumping the throttle in earnest. But to be trusted with such a machine as a 19-year-old was a daunting task. This car had spent many more years on the road than I had months. And so, with a lifelong dream about to be realised, childish expectation transformed into adult apprehension, and I finally pushed that button for real.
It didn’t start.
