Freewheeling

At 17, Raffaella Barker had nothing on her CV but her driving licence. But that, she found, was all she needed. Photographs by Dario Mitidieri

Inspecting my life path, I see junctions rather than bends. Somewhere along the way, without regarding it particularly, I have made choices. I chose not to go to school and, therefore, university. I chose to dye my hair black with blue streaks and look ridiculous. I chose not to finish my typing course and remain to this day unqualified for anything at all.

Except driving. I passed my driving test when I was 17. This was a high point as well as a turning point. My life path is, in fact, a road, and the car is my talisman.

Having grown up seven miles from the nearest cigarette shop and 20 miles from the nearest clothes shop, learning to drive utterly transformed my life. The terrible dependence on my parents was over. I was free as a bird. Able to skim along any road I chose to any destination on earth. This was my way of thinking. It was not the same for my parents. I had no car and no money for petrol because I spent my pocket money on cigarettes and lip gloss. Any extra cash went on pink plastic stilettos, blue nail polish and records. Awful records. The first was 'Seasons in the Sun' by Terry Jacks, but that phase was long over by the time I could drive.

Anyway, as soon as I passed my test, I hijacked my mother's green deux cheveux Citroen. The 2CV is remarkable in many ways, but it was outstanding in its ability to travel for hundreds of miles on no petrol. It collapsed, I think coincidentally, after I had been using it for six months. I moved on to my own car, an ageing yellow Fiat sports car, bought for pounds 200 by my generous and long-suffering mother for my 18th birthday. This car was heaven. I almost gave up smoking to support its petrol habit, and I loved it as much as I had loved my Shetland pony. But no one told me that cars need oil and water. I thought that giving it so much petrol was hugely caring, and was smug about the fact that my petrol gauge was always way above the reserve.

Six months passed, the amount of time I now realise it takes to destroy a decent car, and the Fiat exploded on the B1134, never to go again. Losing my car through gross negligence should have been a turning point, but it wasn't. It did not detract from the glorious knowledge that I could still drive. I belonged to the exclusive club of the driver.

Members speak of carburettors and route-planning with authority. They go where they choose to. My father lent me his car one weekend when he was away. He did not issue any instructions, or indeed restrictions, with the car, but, as I headed for the motorway and London, I knew I was abusing his trust. The journey was a nightmare. It was raining and the windscreen wipers broke within moments of my setting off. I discovered the G-force effect (at least I think that's what it was) by driving as fast as possible and thus keeping the rain off the windscreen. I cannot remember if I had a good time in London, I just remember a sense of exhilarated shame at getting away with it.

But then there was the much worse time when I did not get away with it. Another blind bend on the life path occurred when I was 20 and even more stupid and irresponsible than I had been at 18. I had a car of my own again, a cowpat-coloured Cortina. I lived in London. The car and I attended a black-tie party. We left at dawn and made our way to the West End. I had drunk a great deal, so my driving style was erratic. The Cortina was full of other people who wanted to go to the West End too. We all thought we were going to have breakfast at a hotel. In the event, my parking on the pavement outside Vine Street police station was my last motoring manoeuvre for some time. I was arrested, so was the car, so were my friends.

I debated ad tedium as to whether or not I should remove this episode from this story. It is gruesome and shaming, and drink driving is inexcusable. I did not remove it because that incident represented change. For some time afterwards, I was very depressed and lay around reading Edith Wharton and The Master and Margarita and wondering what the point of life was. I sold my car for pounds 25 to a pair of Rastafarians in Ladbroke Grove and great was my chagrin thereafter when I saw them sweep by, music blaring from a new sound system, the Cortina transformed by the addition of go-faster stripes and other accessories.

I didn't need to drive in London. The loss of the car itself was in some ways a relief. It was expensive to run and bits kept falling off, most memorably the prop shaft which clattered to the ground on Shepherd's Bush roundabout. But the removal of my driving licence was a constant small irritant. The court appearance was grim. Just like school, except the stakes were higher. The magistrate at Bow Street eyed me with the same distaste my headmistress had shown in her dealings with me. There is a sense of stagnation and hopelessness in having your licence taken away, which is nothing to do with not being able to drive. It is more about loss of privilege and the stupidity of reaching a point where this can happen. It was my only qualification. Without it, I had nothing to put on my curriculum vitae. I had no job and no money. I was used to having no job and no money, but usually I could drive. I had enjoyed finding my way around London in a car. I liked beating the traffic and having secret places where I knew I could park. Driving had been a valid and challenging way to fill some time. What could I now do instead?

I did nothing spectacular, of course, but very slowly things began to change. I became more reliable because I no longer had the excuse of a broken-down car to hide behind. I became thinner because I had to walk. I got a job and began to earn money. Effectively, I began to grow up. I do not know what would have happened if I had not lost my driving licence. Maybe I would have begun to take responsibility for myself and my behaviour without the shock. At some point I would have had to. But it is easy to drift along waiting for things to happen and expecting the world to come to you.

After a while, I was allowed to drive again. But it was no longer as important as it had been. I had other things to do, and my work was engrossing. Several years passed before I found myself buying Exchange & Mart again. A series of disasters, inevitable and short-lived, heralded my re-instatement into the drivers' club. There was a 1964 Volvo, which cost pounds 50 to buy and all my salary for three months to get on the road. I only drove it once. All the windows slid like icebergs into the cracks in the doors, and no kicking or screaming could get them out. In disgust, I sold it to the mechanic who had restored it for me. After that, my boyfriend gave me a weird car with a square steering wheel. I don't know what make it was, and I did not take proper care of it. It broke down in Portobello Road one evening and I never went to collect it.

And then I fell madly in love. It was a red Lancia with wooden and chrome knobs and facias. It was parked near my flat, a For Sale notice tucked discreetly in its rear window. I wanted it desperately, but I knew I had to be grown-up about it. I persuaded a male friend to come and inspect it. He crawled under it, opened the bonnet, scratched his head and said "Well..." in the typical way men do with cars. I took advantage of the long pause after the "well" and thrust the required pounds 400 into the car owner's hands. The red Lancia was mine.

That Lancia lasted longer than any car I had owned. It took me to the party at which I met my husband. It took us on a date to Oxford. It broke down on the way to the airport for our honeymoon. We had it fixed for when we returned to our new life. But someone else in our street wanted it, too. Once a week, we would find it broken into and a part missing. First it was the gear stick knob, then the hubcaps. We sold it before it lost all its dignity.

I know it is not caring and environmentally sound to like cars, but I can't help it. There are too many, and we are disabled now without them. The cars of today reflect the anti-auto mood in the anonymity of their shape and form: if they all look the same, perhaps we will be able to believe that they are fewer and less harmful. The issue is urgent and the message is clear. We must learn to get around without cars. We must remember that to drive is a privilege. We abuse it at our peril