Since this is Unique Cars #504, I pay tribute to one of the best cars I ever owned … a 1974 Peugeot 504GL, inherited from my father. I must also voice my regret at not keeping it and (a little too late to matter) apologise to Dad along the way.
I learned to drive on my mother’s then fairly new 1972 Renault 12. After a succession of English cars – Morris Minor, Mini, Austin 1800, Morris Nomad – my father had gone all in for the French. Lurid almost golden yellow, with those ghastly tombstone-back kack-brown seats, it was a four-cylinder front-wheel drive four-speed manual, with a gearstick like a wooden spoon in a bowl of porridge.
My father patiently taught me to drive – handbrake starts on steep hills, reverse parking at the shopping centre with delivery trucks up my backside honking at my laboriously slow efforts, making me sweat – all the drill.
My mother only occasionally supervised my L-plate adventures.
She was never a confident driver, and once, after a collision with a tram, explained that “it had suddenly swerved” and thus she was unable to avoid it.
When I failed my driver’s test for the silliest of mistakes, Dad felt personally affronted and quite rightly was furious. He had drummed into me to pause and count to three at every ‘Stop’ sign, but in my impatience (nothing has changed in the 50 years since) I rolled up to the line, looked both ways and took off while still moving, albeit at snail’s pace. Instant fail.
Second time, having learnt the hard way, I passed the test and had to beg each time I wanted to borrow the R12.
My friend Andrew also had an R12 – ghastly bilious green – that his doting parents had bought for him as a reward for his excellent Matriculation (Year 12) results.
Another friend David also had a R12, blue and battle scarred. His cousin Geoff zipped around in his Mum’s Celica. My girlfriend’s pale blue Datsun 120Y was a tad underwhelming comparatively.
Together, we would gather late at night, gulp down pizza, play pool until closing time and then race one-by-one down the bitumen of the deserted main shopping strip, hitting the level crossing at the end as if it was a ski jump. Whoever could get airborne the furthest won bragging rights.
I shudder now to recall how stupid we were. I was desperate to escape the indignity of having to beg my mother to borrow her car every time I ventured out, so without telling my folks I bought a 1963 Renault 4 advertised in the Trading Post. It was brush-painted grey and white with hideously uncomfortable red vinyl hammock seats.
My disapproving parents were aghast at my rebellious assertion of independence and predicted that my brash over-confidence would backfire, along with the car. It did not take long.
Boasting all of 603cc and a three-speed gearbox controlled by an umbrella handle poking out of the firewall, it struggled to get up steep hills – passengers had to get out and walk up to the top where I would wait for them before we could move on. The front seats were loose in the floor, the radiator leaked and the heater didn’t work.
Within a few months, I was pulled over by an unfriendly policeman and the poor R4 got a canary (unroadworthy) sticker slapped on to its cracked windscreen.
A quick assessment from the mechanics established that it would cost more to fix than it was worth (along with the inevitable bog-patched rust, the entire front end was collapsing) and it went on a one-way trip to the knackery. “I told you so” might have been said a few times by Dad, but I like to think he was smiling at the same time.
Some years later, after a Light 15 Citroen (sold to finance a backpacking trip to Europe), then another R4 (also a dog), a Peugeot 203 (lost gear linkages atop the West Gate Bridge in peak hour) followed by a 404 station wagon (rear-ended a ute outside a pub when I was distracted by the lunch menu board), and having astonished everyone by actually finishing university, my folks probably thought driving a grown-ups’ car might help me mature.
I was given the keys to my father’s then ten-year-old Peugeot 504 – bought new and always doted upon. He had been offered next to nothing as a trade-in for a fancy-pants Toyota Cressida (his first but not last foray into Japanese cars) but it was to my advantage. It was not made clear whether the car was a long-term loan or a gift.
The 504 was the 1974 dual-headlight model, olive green duco and thick camel-brown low-rise vinyl armchairs as seats. The smooth and sleek action of the stubby 4-speed gearstick was quite simply erotic. The lay-back seats were appreciated for all the obvious reasons and having a ‘proper’ car for the first time made me feel almost respectable.
I confess to taking it out to the hills one day and flooring it to see what happened. My eyes went wide in amazement as the speedo hit 100mph. No car in my ownership until then had been stable above 50mph! As the front end started to lift, I lost my nerve and returned to the real world.
Lucky to be alive, most of us, if we stop to think about it.
The 504 was other-worldly comfortable, utterly reliable, survived multiple trips to the snow, camping, up and down the coast and just coped with anything it was asked to do. Until I sat in a DS Citroen, I thought the front seats the most comfortable cocoon ever to grace a chassis. Although it lacked all the features that we take for granted today, like power steering, air-conditioning, central locking – it swallowed mile upon mile, never broke down and was easy to work on.
I have no idea what madness came over me but after four trouble-free years and shortly after my now wife and I started to live together, and in a forlorn attempt to impress her (still can’t) I traded the 504 on a Peugeot 604, a misconceived effort by Peugeot to try to compete with the German luxury brands that dominated the luxo-barge segment.
Cursed with the Volvo/Renault/Peugeot joint-venture V6 engine, my new chariot had all the trickery missing from its predecessor: real leather seats, air-conditioning, power steering, an auto ’box, central locking and – hold the applause – an electric sunroof.
But beyond the tinsel, it was a dreadful barge that nearly sent Peugeot – and me – broke. As often as not the auto choke would spontaneously jam in traffic provoking a toxic and bellowing cloud of black smoke worthy of the Flying Scotsman. It was insatiably thirsty and spent as much time at the mechanic as with me.
When I chugged along to my parents in the new, big shiny car that wasn’t a 504, and explained I had in fact traded it in, my father turned purple and pointed out that the 504 was in his name not mine and he had not signed any transfer papers.
He indignantly inquired whether I had committed forgery or fraud. To help him out, and being a smart-arse baby lawyer by then, I added the ancient tort of conversion to his catalogue of my sins and we parted on non-speaking terms.
The 604 was sold – my beloved cheered as it drove away, still unimpressed and doubting my judgment for not the first (or last) time. When the buyer rang a few weeks after delivery I expected expletives. Instead he wanted advice.
The windscreen washer bottle had fallen off the bulkhead, rattled around the engine bay for a while until eventually landing on the front hub. The plastic had melted into the brake calliper. Typical.
Dad has been dead for four years. It is now safe to admit that he was right, I was wrong and selling his 504 was a crime against sensible motoring.