If we all drove Lotus Super Sevens, the world would be a happier, safer, more wonderful place.
Admittedly, there would be a brief initial spike in the death rate, but as the man said, you can't make an omelet without breaking a few eggs. And those people were probably trying to text "WHEEE!" to someone anyway, so at least they died happy.
Let me give you an example of how my little plan might work. That cyclist that was most recently hit by a left-turning driver at Main and Lynn? If the car had been a Lotus Super Seven, the bike would have simply sailed right through it as through a sheet of tissue paper. No injury, no scrapes, merely a driver who had inconvenienced only himself by not checking twice before turning left.
And, happily, he wouldn't inconvenience anyone else either. The Super Seven is so light, any wreckage may be collected with a medium-sized dustpan and simply placed in the closest recycling bin. It's also so tiny, you could just drive around it.
Now, I see you raising a finger and preparing to rebuff my plan with a few teensy concerns. "But Brendan," you protest, "It rains all the time on the North Shore. And what about other drivers?"
Fair points, fair points indeed. But as to the former, dealing with our West Coast climate is as simple as putting on a hat. And/or deep-sea fishing gear.
And yes, you are correct: the average person on the road is a blithering imbecile, a clumsy, inattentive buffoon with all the co-ordination of a drunk hippopotamus. Putting these people behind the wheel of a 4,000-pound killing machine is like letting Kim Jong-un choose your next haircut. (Not talking about you, dear reader, obviously. You are smart, and talented, and careful, and conscientious, and have nice hair and good teeth and, say, isn't that a nice colour of shirt you have on? Really brings out your eyes.)
But you see, that's the genius of this whole scheme. What I'd be doing is wresting the steering wheels of the behemoths from the hands of the bunglers and giving them instead something with all the potential threat of a misdirected Hot Wheels.
There will be a few barked shins. There will be an epidemic of sunburn. And yes, a few people will fly off the road and into a tree — that's called a learning curve. If you die horribly behind the wheel of a small British sportscar once, well, you're hardly likely to do it again, are you? Lesson learned, Mr. Singed Corpse? I very much think so.
So that's the first benefit, turning our modern multi-tonne killing machines into wheeled meringues that bounce off pedestrians like badly thrown balsawood gliders. Safer streets, less traffic (every road instantly gets an extra lane, thanks to the Seven's tiny footprint), and a return of Darwinian principles to eliminate the really bad drivers on the road. Not to mention the economic boost to the struggling hat/deep-sea-fishing-gear industry. However, it's the second boon that really gilds this concept with glittering brilliance. Unlike a modern car, in a Lotus Super Seven, you are entirely exposed.
We've all seen it happen. You're driving down the street at a reasonable clip when some poltroon dives in front of you like a deranged wildebeest, and then stampedes down the street at 9/10ths of the speed of light only to be held up by a traffic light.
You glide alongside. You prepare your sternest glare. But the other driver/poltroon is staring fixedly ahead with the thousand-yard-gaze of a marine on the beach at Iwo Jima.
Not so in a Super Seven — you simply reach over, gently grasp the offender's ear between forefinger and thumb, and enquire, "Now then, chum, what's the bleeding hurry?" (Terribly sorry — prolonged Lotus ownership causes one to affect a terrible British accent. No known cure. Can't be helped.)
A quick box 'round the lug-hole and you're off on your way, leaving the miscreant duly chastised and nursing a reddening ear. I expect the really bad drivers would all have elephant-sized appendages attached to their heads by the end of a few months — you could see them flapping in the breeze and know to give 'em a wider berth.
However, it's not the ability to dole out criticism that's to be hoped for, it's the ability to interact in other ways. To converse. To apologize. To say, politely, "After you," and be heard. The Super Seven doesn't have doors to shut the world out. You can cruise up alongside somebody and have a little chat at a stoplight.
"Nice day, eh?"
"Yes, marvellous."
"Out doing the shopping?"
"Just a few necessaries."
"Did you see that idiot with the big flappy ears? He must be absolutely rotten behind the wheel."
"No, no, that's just the Prince of Wales in town for a visit."
No more little metal boxes, insulating us from the humanity of others. No more protective cages that allow ordinary people to behave like callous thugs. A kinder, gentler road society, with everyone waving and nodding and smiling, all set to the tune of sparkling little Kent crossflow four-pot engines.
We'll get more sunshine. We'll get fresher air (sort of). We'll all become electrical experts thanks to the vagaries of Lucas electrics. Lotus reliability being what it is, we'll all do a great deal more walking, which we'll have to do anyway because if we're fat we won't fit.
It is, I'm sure you'll agree, the very best of plans. Pray, attach your name to the upcoming petition. Hell, if they'll try to shut one of the downtown bridges for a yoga-athon, the government ought to at least consider this.
