From The Motorway of Memory by James Cayce takes a humorous look at the trials of early motoring and the frustrations of modern car technology.
From scorching vinyl seats and passengers pressed into pushing duties to a sat nav that never stops giving instructions, James weighs up how far cars have come — and how much patience they still require.
From The Motorway of Memory
By James Cayce
I still recall the days when I first began to drive
and the car in which I spent them back in 1965.
It wasn’t much to look at, it didn’t run that well
and the vinyl seats in Summer time were branding irons from Hell
The tyres were all retreads, balder than Yul Brynner
The brake shoes were wafer thin and soon became much thinner
When the indicators worked it was purely accidental
The handbrake wouldn’t stop a bike and was purely ornamental.
It was long before the seat belt and the electronic key
It always kept me guessing if I’d get from A to B.
Life was much more simple then, this car even more so
and push starting the bugger guaranteed a manly torso.
But before I’d think of driving there were things I had to do
like check the oil level, the radiator too,
tighten up the belt that drove the generator
and say a few ‘Hail Mary’s’ that I’d get back safely later.
A rosary was useful and floor mats were a must
They helped to keep the water out and cover up the rust
The springs within the seats would perforate your toosh
and passengers would know they might all be asked to push.
Its radio antenna was just an old clothes hanger
It backfired like a musket so I called it ‘the old banger’
And four turns lock to lock always made the steering manic
so a change of course took longer than a ship like the Titanic.
A description of the handling would be a total folly
approximating closely, a Woolworths shopping trolley.
Steering needed guesswork in any rainy weather
with oversteer and understeer – often both together.
The windows all would wobble and let the weather in
Talking was impossible above the muffler’s din
An oven in the Summer only occupied by fools
An ice box in the winter that would freeze the family jewels.
The steering column rose like a spear poked through the dash
Ready to impale me if ever I should crash
The seats were hard and slippery and your bottom froze or fried
And cornering was done as you slid from side to side.
But the vacuum driven wipers were a wonder to behold
A source of incredulity and grief, if truth be told
A masterpiece of madness, an engineering flop
For whenever they were needed most, the bloody things would stop.
The diff was always whining louder than Prince Harry
A driver was the only thing it ever cared to carry
The speedo was always wildly optimistic
But any speed was reckless and somewhat fatalistic.
So I’m glad those days are gone and that progress has persisted
and everything in motor cars has been power assisted
And happy too that through it all I managed to survive
And that cars are far more comfortable and easier to drive.
But the one thing that’s remained is no better than before
With a voice too reminiscent of a nagging mother in law
It’s the good old back seat driver that never seems to quit
In condescending tones that treat you like a twit
Only now it’s called a sat nav and it messes with my head
‘Turn left here’; ‘turn right there’; ‘school zone up ahead’
This disembodied entity reminds me of Big Brother
A source of much annoyance which at times I’d like to smother.
And worse, they’re making cars that somehow drive themselves
Electrical contraptions steered by electronic elves
But trusting them to know when to steer or when to brake
is a monumental leap of faith I’m not prepared to take.
So for now I’ll do things for myself and cease all this complaining
I’ll turn the lights on when it’s dark, the wipers when it’s raining
For if I have to tolerate more electronic squawking
I reckon I’ll just buy a bike or do a lot more walking.
© James Cayce 2025
Keeping The Verse Alive
From The Motorway of Memory is shared with permission from James Cayce through Keeping The Verse Alive, Country Campfire’s bush poetry preservation project.
By preserving poems like this, we’re helping ensure the stories, humour and characters of country Australia continue to be enjoyed for generations to come.
James Cayce
Bush Poet • Humourist • Storyteller • Parody Writer
James Cayce is the pen name of Zbigniew “Zig” Ignaszak, a bush poet and storyteller whose work blends humour, parody, memory, gratitude and Australian country verse.
Poems, recitals, photographs, stories and original works remain the property of their original creator and are shared by Country Campfire with permission.
