When I was young, I had a Ford Fiesta Supersport as my first car. It had all the bits: flared wheel arches, a tailgate spoiler, a front air dam, Recaro seats, a leather-clad steering wheel and best of all … Go Faster Stripes. It was a chick magnet and I thought I was the bollocks.
One day, I was racing from one girlfriend’s house to another’s and the lights marginally in front of me turned amber and then red as I crossed the white line, just a tiny bit over the speed limit. As luck would have it, a cop car was waiting for the lights at the junction. He was clearly in a bad mood because the blue lights went on and he set off in hot pursuit of the clearly dangerous young hooligan in the hot-rodded Fiesta.
He pulled me over and walked up to my wound down the window. I’d plastered on a look of innocence a transgressing rugby forward would have been proud of and asked, “Yes officer, can I help you?”
“Who do you think you are?” said the policeman, “Stirling Moss?”
I wasn’t, few people could get close to being the great man, but such was his fame, his name became synonymous with cavalier and speedy driving. He was an icon and part of the national vocabulary. Now he is no longer with us and we are diminished.
RIP Sir Stirling Moss. You grew on this rolling stone.
Be First to Comment