Over the last 5 years, I have been fortunate enough to be able to ring fence a week in September and take a road trip in the 1959 Thunderbird that I bought at the side of the road in Newport Beach, CA after my excitingly successful first year exhibiting as the Stephen Webster brand in the USA.

The car always had beautiful lines but the condition could only be described, at best, as faded. Many years later and fully restored, I drove with my friend Jeff from the East coast to the West coast. We limped onto the beach at Santa Monica after an incredible 10 day adventure.

One of the major breakdown spots on route was in Nashville. A mechanic called JD spent 5 hours replacing all the hydraulic cables and got us back on the road.  In the back of his workshop was an old body shell, a 1961 MK 8 Jaguar saloon. That body played on Jeff’s mind for over a year, those curves drove him crazy! Unable to resist any longer – ‘car struck’ - he called up JD and secured it. 

Four years and more dollars than Jeff wants to admit to the car is finally restored.

It’s Saturday morning, September 25th 2011 and I’m on the Croton trail on a train out of NYC to meet Jeff and see the car for the first time. I’ve seen photos, it looks amazing but I’ve also been told the inside smells like a polo players Hermes saddle in a forest of burled walnut trees… Jeff would have come into NY to get me, but unfortunately, the roads between his home and the city are flooded. Yesterday was one more monsoon, par for the course for this is the wettest month in NY ever. Once we clear the rivers of Upstate NY we have a self indulgent week to get to New Orleans in the slow lane.

More ‘Driving Miss Daisy’ than ‘The Fast and the Furious’, this will be an education for me. The part of the South we will drive through will show me a side of America that I’m least familiar with. Steamy, both metaphorically and literally. I can’t wait to find out what’s in store for the three of us.

With a collective age of 154 (including the car) we intend to travel at a pace that shouldn’t attract too many speeding tickets and, hopefully, allow us maximum exposure The plan was to get to the South and out of the North as fast as possible while respecting the age of our wheel.

This would mean I-95 most of the way to Virginia. Not pretty but efficient.

First we head back toward NYC, take the George Washington bridge across the Hudson into New Jersey, then due South. My journey began at Grand Central station. Jeff was waiting for me at Croton station, “You can’t miss me” he assured me. He wasn’t kidding; the car was just so beautiful. Two tone purple and dark blue. Chrome everywhere. And an interior worthy of a Riva: Walnut picnic tables (far more practical than cup holders, I’m seriously considering one for my Ural sidecar).

After much detail spotting such as the elaborate twin chrome handles to open the boot; twin petrol tanks and the toggle switch labelled “speed hold”, we rolled out.

On the freeway to NYC cruising at 75MPH, Jeff reached for the large chrome handle and pulled the oversized sun roof closed. The wind caught under the roof, ripping it from his grasp. I turned round to see it spinning like a huge sheet metal frisbee and slam into the front of the small Honda behind. Everything screeched and smoke, rubber and panic is all I can remember.

Miraculously, the audible smash never came. We pulled over and a hundred meters back was the recipient of our debris, an old Honda, still wrapped on one side by our sunroof. I reached the driver first, a very buff African American who I was expecting to chin me, not for any other reason than had the impact been a few inches higher we would have decapitated the poor fellow.

Fortunately, Dwayne Long was shaken but not stirred. With some colour back in our cheeks we extracted the sun roof (now contoured to the classic lines of an 95 Honda Civic drivers side headlight and fender assembly).

Like Michael Flatly verses Jesus, Jeff and I performed the river dance on the hard shoulder in a vain attempt to flatten the roof to a point where we could slide it over the luggage and Opec quantity of spare oil we had on board. The $100K worth of restoration now broken, JD had a lot to answer for.

It was once again looking like rain as we sat back in the now permanent convertible to ponder our next move.

Option 1. We could drive three hours the wrong way and pick up the 59 T-bird.

Or Option 2. We go back to Jeff’s and swap the Jaguar for his brand new Fast and Furious, 5.7 litre Dodge Challenger. The Dodge won.

The journey had been turned on its head. We headed South not in the slow lane but in a piece of pure Detroit Muscle.

Those confederates had better watch out - we weren’t in the mood for taking prisoners.

NY - Philadelphia - Baltimore - Washington DC - Richmond Virginia.

Thank you for Smoking. I haven’t seen a cigarette girl in a restaurant for ages.