As the garage door lifted, a glossy red flash came into view, like a shock from the heavens on a cloudy day. She was shiny and new, fresh from the showroom floor. A Ferrari. Or maybe a Lamborghini? No, definitely a Ferrari with her beautifully crisp tires and unmarked, gleaming shell, like a show model at the Concours D’Elegance. She rolled back smoothly onto the driveway as if to say, challengingly, “I’m here and what next?”
I was reminded of “Ferris Bueller’s Day Off” — the classic ’80s movie, when Ferris is bunking off school again, looking for naughty things to do and he opens the garage door to — stand back, forbidden fruit — his father’s divinely lush and very red, also immaculate classic car. Red has a certain iconic gleam to it that is enticing and mischievous at the same time.
Back when we all lived in London, we owned a red VW Polo, perfect for London town. Neither iconic nor gleaming, it was a most useful “shopping cart,” which is primarily what she was used for. When I was a young driver, I was cruising up to Hampstead Village in said red shopping cart, when I didn’t notice the large RED bus to my right and we had a little scrap and a scrape right there by The Coffee Cup (where I hoped none of my high school friends were sitting, watching!).
Mortified, I crawled home to confess to father that I had banged up the adored red Polo. Without even asking me if I was OK — me, his oldest daughter — he flew down the stairs and checked the damage. I remember watching him lean down and review the side scrapes from my position in the upstairs drawing room. One of those youthful memories that stay in the brain bank forever. Ever since that episode, I’ve never liked driving alongside a red London bus.
I also remember that nobody ever wanted to steal the VW Polo! (This is important when you live in London where stolen cars or at least broken windows and robberies are quite the thing. In fact, dad stuck a note in the vehicle’s window advising THERE IS NOTHING OF ANY VALUE IN THIS CAR!) He might as well have recommended they bother the neighbor’s likely much higher-end vehicle, but I digress. (Note to self, must rewatch the classic Ferris and his adventures.)
Purring along the Marine Drive on a summer’s afternoon with the Ferrari purring like a happy cat, the scene was reminiscent of a leisurely cruise along the California Highway One, with the soft top down, inhaling the heady sea salt like a rare oxygen you had been missing for far too long. The sea sparkled below in azure and sea-green dance, and all measure of boats were on the move to tantalize the imagination. Far below, a fisherman’s lobster pots bobbed around in the shallows. This was our perfect day.
Late summer, and the heather gorse is a delicious raspberry color you only wish you could reproduce into material for a fancy dress with a buttery yellow flower addition as a backdrop. Nature’s gift for the day. It seemed as if we were moving faster than usual, the wind in our hair, sea birds swooping overhead. Dogs stopped by for a sniff and a pet, but we kept on going, pausing only on the open road to look for whales and dolphins in the swirling deep below.
And before you know it, he had had enough, and the Ferrari was paused momentarily and then turned around in the road to purr softly back down and up the hills again. I do recall my grandpa Harold telling me that, as a photographer, it is vital that you always look behind you with your lens in place, because sometimes those are the best pictures you would otherwise miss. Could the grass have been any greener that day, the sky any bluer, the puffy clouds any more like a bowl of frothy white cream? Oh, and the gorse? I wished I could whip myself up that lovely dream-dress of raspberry and custard-colored fabric, perhaps with some green hedgerow hues thrown in for good measure.
Once the Ferrari was parked safely back into the garage (unlike the escapades of Ferris who, I believe, drove his father’s car off the side of the house and destroyed it), the accolades continued. “You were going so much faster today!” we cooed. “What a great addition to the fleet!” (This is one of three Ferraris he owns in varying levels of coolness.)
“Oh, I call it my stroller, not my Ferrari,” he said, and we had to stop him there, so impressed were we by the latest acquisition. At the youthful age of 95, there are to be no more actual Ferraris, Lamborghinis or even Bentleys in father’s garage or on the street outside his London house, or even the spacious driveway at Glen Vine, where he currently resides. Our dad is the proud owner of a brand new, bright red mobility walker, for want of a better description, with a seat and backrest, also a strong word like “turbo” or “vroom” on the side. It has brakes and wheels just like a real Ferrari and maneuvers him safely up and down the hills with a sturdy precision. There is a place for him to put his walking stick and even an add-on drink holder should you so wish. This new Ferrari has given him such a confidence boost in still wanting to get out and walk, that his speed has improved, and his general enjoyment of the outdoors multiplied.
It has been so fun this week on the Isle of Man with dad and sister, enjoying the versatility of the new Ferrari and watching how she folds up so neatly inside even a small Mini! I’ll definitely be getting one of those I thought to myself — or maybe three — when the time comes. I think I would stay with a cooler color like white or grey. I’ve heard that red vehicles are in No. 1 position for speeding tickets all over the world and we can’t have that. They also, apparently, have unlikely collisions with the likes of a large red London bus!
“Take kindly the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth … with all its sham, drudgery and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world. Be cheerful. Strive to be happy.” —Desiderata
