24 May 1971.
Before the Luqa was extended to be larger than the island that carries it, Hal Far, was an isolated spot where, as kids, Middle-Agers, like myself, considered as Holy ground. This place, a few hundred square meters in area, was the starting point of an illustrious carrier as a Maltese driver.
Flanked by mountains of soil and gravel, this spawner of future accident victims, was a godsend. Most of the island had what little land available, not being lived or farmed on, turned into killer roads; not a place for the uninitiated. Somewhat a little left of centre was a miniscule patch of grass, the only colour among the whites and yellows.
There I was, a pimply 16 years old, at the wheel of an Austin A40. My heart was pumping, the legs trembled with anticipation and the dream of winning Le Mans was finally on it's way.
"Ok, clutch all the way down, gear lever in first and don't let me see you cross your hands on the steering wheel…now feed the power in and let go of the clutch."
The voice of my late father, not known for its patience, came from the passenger seat. He looked a touch uncomfortable and the hand on the door handle did not inspire me with confidence. Not having control of one's destiny does that to you. Knowing him for who he was, it was unbelievable for him to offer his only son, a goofball who's mouth only opened to exchange feet, his first driving lesson.
Staring fixedly through the windscreen, I could see, to my left and in the distance, a goat nibbling at the grass. The place was otherwise deserted. 850cc of raw power was waiting for my command and I determined this would be the glory day that would change my present useless existence.
I stamped on the clutch, dragged the long lever into first, fed in the power, bit too much, touch too little, just right and started to ease the clutch out. The car was still at a stand still.
"Now, while I'm still alive!" encourages the man in the passenger seat.
Letting go of the clutch caused the car to jump forward, slamming me into the seat and releasing the toehold I had on the accelerator. The reduction in power stalled the engine, which dug the car's nose to ground throwing me into the steering wheel and forcing the accelerator foot to floor the pedal. The beast leapt forward, automatically restarting the previous chain of events. I was frantic, my arms were everywhere. The normally timid workhorse for my father's blacksmith shop, turned into a bronco.
The terrifying events finally stopped with a skid and jerk as the engine finally lost the battle with logic. I took a deep breath, inevitably I deserved the abuse that was to follow, but the termination of the ride placed me fairly and squarely on the patch of grass. The bemused goat had not even flinched, except for making the necessary few back steps required to avoid being hit.
I turned towards the passenger seat; it was empty. From the rear view mirror I could just see the Old Man 50 meters away, heading towards me. Must say that I have to admire the man for jumping ship so early in the adventure.
He strode unsteadily to the driver's door. The look on his face held volumes of cutting, well rehearsed sarcastic comments. The rugged, sunburned face looked decidedly ashen and a rip had appeared on the seat of his pants. Without a word he flicked his head sideways, indicating I was to surrender the driving seat. I could see he was fuming, but there was something else showing on his face, was it fear?
The goat was unperturbed by the emotionally charged atmosphere and had decided this particular blade of grass, was particularly fascinating and no amount of honking would make her move. The drive home was in silence. The episode was never discussed, but no offer of driving lessons was ever made again.
I still believed I could win Le Mans, but it looked like I'd have to pay for the lessons after all. As the renowned prophet, Confucius, said: "Life's a bitch and then you die!"
E-mail to Ray Agius: Ramel@bigpond.com
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