SUMMER SUMMER SUMMER TIME
“THE LAMBORGHINI IS A TRUMPETER, THE ITALIAN NATIONAL ANTHEM PIPING FROM ITS POSTERIOR”
“Are you single?” The words are directed at Rowan Horncastle, who’s been cultivating what he refers to as a ‘Swedish billionaire’ look during lockdown. The rest of us refer to it as ‘Seventies TV presenter’, and will do doubly now it seems to have irritatingly attracted the right kind of attention. Charlie Turner and I, 15 years his senior, the former afflicted with an entirely voluntary Mexican moustache, the latter with a dome not of his own choosing, but so burnished and rounded it would make a Byzantine cathedral jealous, look on.
“You realise,” twitches the moustache, as we watch Rowan sashay off across the sand, “that you and I are now too old to pull off the yellow Ferrari roadster thing.” A discussion ensues. Under 35s only, is the conclusion. Maybe 40 at a push if you go for navy blue. Same applies to the Lambo, with the added proviso that you must also be short. If not, your head pokes out the top like a whack-a-mole. Or, if you’re me, something else entirely. The McLaren, that’s a bit more grown-up, and you’re fine to the grave in the Porsche.
I am making a point here. These are supercars. The only thing that separates them from their coupe cousins is that the roofs come off. And yet this small fact means we view them entirely differently. No longer are they steely-eyed, sinewy driving machines, now they’re just another means of conveying your wealth, along with your daft watch and sockless loafers (Rowan’s yet to conform).
Among us car people, the loss of, you’re lost. But up to that point, away from chi-chi Mediterranean harbours and Mayfair hotels, and driven roof down through the swaying, chirruping countryside on a summer’s day with the sights, sounds and smells filtering in, these cars feel wonderful, multi-dimensional in a way the hard-tops aren’t.
