I'd drive a classic car over a new-build any day

EMISSIONS:Technological progress has sucked the soul out of new cars, writes KILIAN DOYLE

BMW ADVERTS these days put great emphasis on the concept of “joy”. I can understand where they’re coming from.

Their wares are, with a few exceptions, superb examples of the car-maker’s art. But does this necessarily mean they can elicit this most elusive of emotions in their owners?

Not having driven every model, I can’t rightly say. Maybe the M cars would come close, but I’d be too mortified if I ever found myself driving any of the hideous, vulgar aberrations that make up the X Series to experience anything but abject self-loathing.

Perhaps that is because I am, unashamedly, a motoring gerontophile. Most modern cars leave me cold. Despite being stuffed with as much technology as a space shuttle, they have one major drawback: all this progress sucks the soul out of them.

That’s not to say I don’t appreciate the Millstone, my newish BMW 320d. I marvel at its electronic wizardry, revel in the grip and experience a stirring in my loins as the turbo spools up and slingshots me down the road. But does that really qualify as joy, namely “the emotion of great delight caused by something exceptionally satisfying”?

Which is where the Duchess, my 1975 BMW 2002, comes in. She, to me, is joy made metal.

You may remember I bored you recently with my woes concerning her various maladies, not least having an engine that leaked oil like a sabotaged Kuwaiti rig. I was in despair. The drastic surgery she required was far beyond my meagre ham-fisted tinkering talents. I’d need professional help. But it’d have to be someone who’d treat her with the same respect that I would. I am very protective of the Duchess, to the extent that I sometimes think of her like a child. So you understand my reticence to entrust her to just anyone. You’d hardly send your offspring to a school run by sadistic freaks, would you?

Fortunately for me, Mark Allen and his crew at Straffan Motors share my passion. They took her apart with the precision of cardiologists, rebuilt her oozing heart and stuck her all together with utmost care before handing her back. I was chuffed. It’s not normally my wont to give people blatant plugs, but in this case, I’ll make an exception.

The Duchess is now sprightly as a spring lamb. There’s a lovely throaty rasp from her dual-barrel carburettors and her new high-lift camshaft rumbles like a dyspeptic Frenchman’s stomach. I’ve also revamped her suspension so she handles like she’s being carried aloft by a cohort of angels in Stig suits.

That said, driving her can still be a raw, white-knuckle experience. There’s no power steering, so she requires the shoulders of a weightlifter to manhandle through the twisty stuff. With no ABS or traction control or fancy gizmos that delude owners of modern machines as to their driving skills, she gives back exactly what you put in. Pilot her like a driving god and she’ll reward you accordingly. Make a mistake and she’ll fly into a tree out of spite.

It is a visceral, immersive thrill to drive her hard and well. The satisfyingly fuzzy tingle I get in my synapses when it all comes together can be giggle-inducingly wonderful. Is it joy? I think it may well be.

Despite the above, you may not yet be convinced of the merits of driving a classic over a new-build. So let me put it this way: it’s like choosing between living on steaming bowls of delicious cassoulet slathered in goose fat or macrobiotic salads designed by earnest nutritionists. You know which one is better for your health and general well-being. But also which one you’d much rather eat every day. Even if it kills you in the end.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, the Duchess awaits. She won’t drive herself, you know. I may be gone for some time.