I saw it before I smelled it, but only just. And I can spot one of these at a thousand paces. In the hills above the Côte d’Azur, a Peugeot 205 was working its socks off. I wish I could tell you it was a Rallye, or even a GTI, but I could see from a great distance by the lavish amounts of body roll on display it was something far humbler than that. There was no mistaking that acrid whiff either: there was oil in those cylinder bores, a 1768cc XUD7 smoking its way north as if its life depended on it.
As we approached, my amusement at the angles of lean was replaced by instant admiration for the dedicated student of motoring clearly behind the wheel inside that faded, rusty, 40-year-old shell. The lines were impeccable, the speed carried into the apex simply outstanding, the brake lights notable only for their absence. Perhaps they weren’t working, but I doubt it. I only overtook because I couldn’t stand the stench of undercooked diesel any more.
But as I whooshed silently past in my safe, modern electric appliance, I stole a glance across and saw a short, ruddy faced old man staring impassively into the distance, flat cap on head, near-spent Gauloise (or similar) dangling precariously off a lower lip. He could have looked more French, but not much. I reckon he and his Peugeot have been plying this route for half his lifetime. Or at least I very much hope so.
