A few weeks ago, I was driving four of my children to school in my tinny, battered Toyota. We were running late – as per usual – and were speeding – or, rather, chuntering – down a particularly treacherous road. Of all the questionable surfaces in my area of rural Essex, this one is notorious: marked by a huge pothole the size of Snoopy the dog’s head, which bleeds into a smaller, gloopier crater. As I was trying to navigate it, however, a large shadow zoomed into sight in my rear-view mirror. With a jolt and a tremendous bang, it pushed me, my family and my poor, beaten-up Toyota into the crater.
Who would be so sadistic as to do such a thing, you may wonder? Was it a vengeful ex? A drunk driver? Another parent running late and pushed from road rage to road insanity? Of course it wasn’t. It was an entirely unknown-to-me, entirely stereotypical Range Rover driver.
Is there a greater menace to motorists than Range Rovers? With their tinted windows, monstrous height and luxury prices, Range Rovers are the undisputed kings of the road, and their owners the bullying tyrants.
I have been countlessly tailgated by Range Rovers over the years, and twice had my wing mirror knocked off by one. On both occasions, the Range Rover driver did pause 100 metres away to check the damage wasn’t worse. But, when they were satisfied that I had merely lost one of my actually-not-so-cheap wing mirrors, they turned on their wheels and drove into the distance at breakneck speed. Unfortunately, I didn’t get the assailant’s numberplates so I was left to foot two £1,500 bills to replace the mirrors myself.
The second time this happened, I attempted to chase after the culprit – to no avail. My teenage son complained it was ‘crazy’ and that I was far from James Bond. He was right. But, even so, we lost the Range Rover at the T-junction on the approach to our village and I seethed over it all weekend.
Even worse, their bullying numbers appear to be growing. Range Rover wholesales reached a record high last year, and this year saw the launch of the luxury Range Rover Velar, which boasts an ‘air of sophistication’ and ‘flawless modernist design’. Perhaps growth will be stymied by the recent cyberattack on its manufacturer Jaguar Land Rover. But you wouldn’t think that looking at the raging roads of rural Essex.
Even so, the pothole saga was different. Once I’d pulled my poor Toyota out of the crater, made it to school in the nick of time and driven on to the hairdresser, my trusty steed finally gave up the ghost in the car park. In a strange twist of fate, my friend – a Range Rover driver herself – was also having her hair done and said she’d drop me home afterwards. On our journey back, she extolled the virtues of Range Rovers, such as their smooth acceleration from 0 to 60mph in just six seconds and advanced electronic towbar. Indeed, there wasn’t much to dislike: the black leather interior had that delicious new car aroma and the dashboard glowed in our tinted-window bubble. Still, I couldn’t get my father’s age-old joke out of my head: ‘What’s the difference between a Range Rover and a hedgehog? There are pricks on the inside of a Range Rover, not on the outside.’
Range Rovers are the undisputed kings of the road, and their owners the bullying tyrants. Is there any greater menace to motorists?
I didn’t share this joke with my chauffeuress, who is far from a prick, but when I got home I had made up my mind. A new Range Rover costs as much as £200,000. I’m too frugal (and, frankly, self-respecting) to justify such a purchase. But its humble sister, the Land Rover – particularly a second-hand, scratched, battle-weary one – can be picked up for around £10,000. Phew, I thought. That wouldn’t break the bank and, who knows, maybe it would solve my road bullying issue.
I know others who have taken up this same stance: if you can’t beat ’em, join ’em. My friend from the local primary school said she never wanted to drive a ‘Landie’ but reasoned: ‘They are jolly useful in a snowstorm and at least no one messes with you on the road as they presume you’re a good driver.’
After less than a week in my new-ish super-sized car, I would have to agree. My Land Rover Discovery 4, which I have affectionately named ‘Snowy’ due to its colour, is by no means the most glamorous car. It’s the same age as my 14-year-old daughter, it’s dented and it looks like it has seen more warzones than a UN vehicle. As a neighbour recently commented: ‘Your white Land Rover fits right in here in Essex.’
And yet, on my first journey, I was amazed. Though not quite top of the range (excuse the pun), my Land Rover was giving me ‘road cred’ at long last. A shiny gold Range Rover let me cut in front of her and another navy number flashed me to give way in a rare act of road politeness. After the fifth day of this, I wondered whether this was the key to surviving (almost literally) my daily school runs. Now, I have a leather seat at the car table and am no longer ignored, cut up or tailgated. Range Rover drivers dock their chauffeurs’ caps for me – and, more importantly, don’t run me off the road.
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