The Garage in the Control Room

Tiny asked me what I would buy if I had space for five cars and no need to explain myself to anybody. This is a dangerous question to ask a man who has not driven since July. It is also a question I have, in effect, been preparing to answer for most of my adult life.

We were in the engine control room during a quiet period, with permission to be there and my hands kept firmly away from anything attached to the ship. Beyond the glass and the insulated walls, the machinery carried on with its usual enormous indifference. Inside, it was possible to have a conversation without shouting directly into another person's skull.

Five spaces, no sensible purchases

I started with the Miata, because loyalty matters and because I know exactly how much entertainment can be obtained from a modest car with an immodest turbocharger. Tiny allowed it, but only after asking whether I intended to spend the whole imaginary budget on fixing things I had already fixed.

Then a Porsche 911 for the days when I wanted competence supplied by somebody else's engineers. A proper old Land Rover for journeys I would almost certainly never make. Something with a large American V8, entirely on emotional grounds. The final space remained open, which Tiny said was cheating and I said was strategic flexibility.

His list involved a Skyline, a very fast estate car, an old Mercedes, and two choices he kept changing whenever I offered an alternative. We agreed that the estate car was the sensible option, although we appeared to mean one capable of upsetting several sports cars while carrying groceries.

The conversation moved naturally to engine swaps, at which point all restraint left the room.

We discussed a V8 in the Miata. I defended a lighter installation with proper cooling and manageable weight. Tiny suggested that if we were imagining the garage, we could also imagine the cooling. I pointed out that an imaginary car could still be badly engineered. He looked delighted. Apparently that was exactly the argument he had wanted.

A professional opinion

Kev came through, heard thirty seconds of the conversation, and stopped beside us.

"You two are arguing about an engine that does not exist, in a car neither of you owns."

We said yes.

He considered that, glanced through the window at the actual engine, and said, "At least use a decent gearbox."

This was not a dismissal. This was participation. Within a minute he was explaining why our imaginary clutch would have a short and disappointing life. Tiny reached for my notebook. I felt we had achieved something important, although I could not have put it on a work order.

Outside, the southern islands of Japan appeared as low blue shapes before we cleared Kyushu for the Pacific. I went up later to look properly, and it was beautiful. I am aware this should have been the principal event of my day.

Nevertheless, I have five garage spaces, three disputed transmissions, and a revised theory about the Miata's engine mounts. None of it costs anything. None of it leaks oil on the floor. I may have discovered the financially responsible way to miss driving.