Nevertheless, the car needs to get out, with me. “Means of transport” is the complete opposite to a garage-shaped cage with paranoid parents. Admittedly, “classic car” is also synonymous with a special appreciation of value. My classic isn’t handled with silk gloves, my 380 SLC is like a schoolbook, a beer, a kiss. Present in everyday life, used, loved, with cellulite on the bumpers and cavities in the paint of its doors. Terrible really, but love is blind. When I drive a new car, its youth conceals itself behind my age; I feel old and invisible. Going about my daily business in my classic is indecent and irrational, especially driving it every day whatever the weather. If there were an aptitude test for drivers of classic vehicles, I certainly wouldn’t pass it!