In the late summer of '88 the Beast tired of commuter traffic and decided on pastures new. Being its "owner" I felt obliged to follow to Edinburgh, and while I was there I took up Astrophysics, which is a good conversation-killer. It would go home for Christmas and Easter and to laze on the farm in summer months, and would sometimes give lifts to fellow students living in Orpington. It travelled the 500 miles well and looked after its "driver" nicely.

But up in Auld Reekie it discovered an activity unheard of in peaceful Leighton Buzzard: Grass AutoTests. The handbrake cover was ripped off, the exhaust tried once more to get away, and the boot jammed shut. So, despite its joy in flattening a gorse bush and covering some helpers in mud when it got bogged down, it will be sticking to road tests in the future.

It did meet its match when it contested parking space with a concrete post; it was hiding below the front left wing (honest guv) and I swiped it as I reversed out, catching the front of the wheel arch and twisting it all about. The inherent strength showed itself again in the ease with which it was straightened out. They don't build them like that, etc...

Learner Drivers! Of course, we've all been learner drivers, but we were different weren't we? The Beast decided that being big and bossy and ex-London-traffic veteran wasn't enough - it needed to be a Learner car! So it girded its rear axle and L-plates, and out it went, on Sundays of course, with a crowd of students hanging out the windows, in the boot and strapped to the roof rack. Things were about to become entertaining.

My no-claims-bonus flashed before my eyes as it narrowly missed a rather nice Sierra when Felicity (I name the names!) didn't turn the wheel far enough to go around a corner. It caused great embarrassment to Damian, who kangarood 100 yards in first, changed to second, and kangarood down the high street in second, shrieking all the while for me to tell him how to stop it. Thrashing about in the passenger seat, trying to get a grip on something, half hysterical, my answer of "Clutch! Clutch!" may not have been all that helpful.

Watching these drivers, many of whom have driven their parents cars at home, you can see the difference in the "feel" of the car. The high bonnet and seating give a deceptively smooth and "slow" ride, giving considerable surprise at corners. The high bonnet also makes it difficult to judge road positioning, with the result that most people stuck to the crown with the exception of Amy, who attempted to drive with one wheel up the embankment. Being American, she was also pretty good at turning onto the right (or wrong) side of the road, which caused some mild hysteria, especially from the poor chap riding the front bumper because the roof rack was full.

One afternoon I drove out with two friends for some lessons. Within half an hour there was a regular clonking sound that appeared to come from the floor. All sorts of dreadful thoughts clamoured for attention as Damien stopped, and I looked underneath. All looked fine. I took the hot-seat, and sure enough, there was this clonking sound again; proportional to the road speed but not the engine speed. It was Jon, head and shoulders out of the window, who spotted the front left wheel vibrating. The nuts were very loose. That morning I had painted the wheels black without taking them off, and left the Beast in the University Halls car park for them to dry. I worry about that; I hadn't touched those nuts...

Despite my ineptitude, El Guru Pater has attempted to teach me over the years the basics of fixing cars. Certainly, the cost of paying a mechanic to perform simple operations on a strange car has encouraged me to learn, quite apart from the simple enjoyment of working with my hands. If the weather's nice it feels good to be bending over an engine and achieving something physical with the sun beating down on your back. It's handy when you break down. And people can be very grateful if you can fix their car for them, miles from home.

But all this came to nought one night; my father still shakes his head at the memory, and I cringe in embarrassment. After a long stretch on a return journey from Edinburgh, I turned off the M6 onto the A5 and stopped at a petrol station. It wouldn't restart. As it had been somewhat reluctant starting before I used up valuable battery juice just turning the engine over.

Using the old lever-the-pointy-bits-about-with-a-screwdriver-while-trying-not-to-get-shocked trick, I got a spark. Fine. Petrol was getting through (spark plugs nicely damp). It was damp, dark & miserable, the only weather in which anybody ever breaks down in, and my passenger had conked out. Being a member of the National Breakdown Service, I resorted to calling them out. One very cold hour later, the mechanic turns up, goes straight to the distributory doo-dah and adjusts the pointy-pegs. "It wears" he said "and so they don't separate properly..."

In the spring of '89 it had a carburettor transplant from HOO, as it had been running too rich before, giving me 6mpg around town! With a good servicing from the Clockmill Classics boys, it was up to high-power Beast status. The future looked good.