This month Dan explains why the Renault Clio RS helps him feel ‘more manly’
|Date acquired:||March 2014|
|Kilometres this month:||2277|
|Costs this month:||$0|
|L/100km this month:||7.6|
It would seem that, as a fella, I am slowly losing control over things I do that are manly. Everything from eating white bread, staying in the sun a little longer than I should, staying up late, eating after 8pm and not being able to rev my engine to the limit (well, that’s the case in the wife’s car at least on the school run). All activities that placate my inner hoodlum/warrior and pass for ‘primal scream’ therapy, and which are now beyond salvation. Thank goodness I have the Clio.
For a while I was convinced a Ducati would help me blow off some steam. I know a lot of Ducati/Augusta/Yamaha guys in the UK, and their unanimous sentiment was ‘you never see a bike a parked outside a psychiatrists’. And it makes sense. I used to snowboard and ski, and that whole sentiment of getting out of your current moment and thinking about just one thing (in this instance, getting down the mountain alive) resonated with me. So, a bike it was. Then I came to Dubai and things got put on hold.
So what to get? I knew I wanted something that gave me a more visceral experience. Something that in effect let me take control. Something that made me feel – dare I say it – a little more manly? Now you may laugh, but a Renault Clio? As I mentioned last month, the car is a little monster. It’s loud, uncouth and always up for a fight. It’s got be. I mean, have you seen the size of it?
So when you sit in the driver’s seat, you take on a new persona: like a dog looking like its owner, you drive the Clio like it needs to be driven with lot of high revving, corners being taken like the tyres are on rails. On the way back from footie training on a Friday morning is when I get my dose of primal screen. Late braking and getting the revs up to 8000rpm make for some great wiggly back ends, all accompanied by a tremendous soundtrack. There’s a great popping sound on the limit and a real throaty raw from the exhaust when downshifting, like popping bubble wrap. It’s my yoga, my time, my therapy, even if my 5 year old is in the back discussing the goal he scored that morning.
So, if you’re massively depressed about the fact that you can’t have white toast, you have to drink decaffeinated coffee and/or lactose free milk (no cream), and are the only guy being dragged to Pilates, my advice is go out and get yourself a manual gearbox.
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