It's the dream of every young bloke to one day drive his own car. Dads do nothing to discourage this ambition. Before we can reach the pedals, Dad had us on his knee letting us hold the steering wheel, while he quietly talked instructions into our ear.

When I was 13, I had a classmate whose Dad had given him an old bomb. Looking back now, it was a bomb, but at the time it could easily pass for a Mercedes. My friend's Dad had a spare allotment next to their house and this became the "race" track. My mate told me that if I could bring some petrol, I could have a drive.
I didn't need to be told twice. At 13, I had no money so pinched my Dad's can of mower fuel. It had oil added to it, but who cared when the rare chance to drive a real car presented itself.

Getting the idea of the clutch was the first challenged. We stalled and made jumpy take-offs. Forget about changing gears. Getting the hang of smooth starts was a triumph.

There were two trees growing on the block of land. They were tricky obstacles. You had to judge it right. By gaining a bit of speed down the long length of the yard and hanging a hard left, you could just pass between both trees. I'm sure we left door handle marks on the bark.

Learn more about this author, Miles Togo.
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