The moment he pulls the front door open, a wave of chill air rolls over him, shocking him like a sonic boom suddenly going off in a monastery. Gazing out, he surveys the scene before him, the landscape frozen, frosty and forsaken. But showing no fear he steps straight out, knowing retreat is not an option – that any hesitation will leave him vulnerable to the siren call of a still warm, soft bed waiting upstairs.
He stamps his foot down through the snow and onto the pathway, marking his territory and declaring his intent and he thinks he can hear the faint crackle and burst of breaking ice crystals like distant gunfire. Suddenly he’s aware of quite how unusually quiet it is – the silence of a thousand deserters’s each putting off the morning commute, surrendering to the cold and taking that extra five minutes in bed that the snooze button offers.
But despite this dread and the hesitant stop start progress, he gradually edges his way across the garden towards the driveway and the sheltering embrace offered by his comrade in arms, the car. Pausing momentarily, his eyes dart about surveying the terrain on the lookout for any hidden menace, but it looks all clear so he pulls the car key from this pocket, and in the same movement zaps the car to trigger the lock and is greeted by the friendly chirrup from the car alarm, “tweep, tweep” and flash of light to signal “All clear” as the car unlocks. Like a million times before he reaches for the handle to open the car door but this time it doesn’t open, another tug this time a little firmer but the ice has glued it shut. A moments panic, perhaps he should return to the kitchen to seek out an ally – a kettle of boiling water to liberate the door – but he won’t admit defeat and gives it one more try, feet planted as firmly as possible in this terrain, shoulders locked, and muscles straining, he summons his full might and follows through with a sharp tug. For the merest moment it seems like nothings changed, but then like a 6th sense or a radar contact he can suddenly sense his moment of triumph, contact has been made and sure enough the mechanism shifts, the icicles snap and the door swings open.
Smiling to himself despite the chill air tightening his cheeks, he reaches in, past the driver’s seat to the passenger box and there amongst the car handbook, pocket umbrella and packet of mints, ferrets out the ice scrapper. The thrill of combat surges through him once more, he doesn’t need a boiling kettle, this scrapper will be his weapon and with it he will force the ice into retreat and embark on his journey. He applies the scrapper to the front windscreen but this is not destined to be a quick victory, for rather than the easily vanquished gentle frost he had planned for, he finds a harsh rough ice that clings tenaciously to the glass and needs to carefully be scuffed, scratched and prized from the screen. But slowly inch by inch, like clearing a minefield he carves out a clear pathway through the screen ice to ensure a good driving view.
Swelled with satisfaction from a first successful engagement, he can escape the grime of the trenches and slips into the Drivers seat, turning the key in the engine and as anticipated the motor grinds and splutters into life first time – the reward of a well maintained tool. With the well practiced ease of a man whose done this a thousand times, he throws the clutch into reverse ready to pull away, but no the enemy has a counter strike ready, and whilst the engine roars and churns ready to proceed the car doesn’t move. Is something broken? Sabotaged? No the engine sounded all right and the car has been regularly serviced, he presses gingerly down on the accelerator and there’s a slight shudder and he can feel the wheels rotating but the car doesn’t move. He opens the driver’s door and peers out, and from this simple reconnaissance can immediately see that below the car the packed sheet ice is preventing any traction.
Time for a call to arms - he prepares to break out the heavy artillery. Abandoning the car he returns to the house but as he trudges back demoralised and his attention diverted, he almost looses his footing - a near slip, saved only by a supporting hand able to reach out to the side wall. Chastened by this near miss, he shortens his strides and returns to his cautious progression. Even so he completes the long slow march back to the safe ground of the hall way and when he reappears at the front door; he's brandishing his new tools - a garden spade and new tube of table salt. The journey back to the car is a little easier this time as the spade provides some additional balance, so his soon once again inspecting the snow and ice below the car wheels. Then he begins to implement his battle plan, sprinkling the salt behind the wheels, and instantly like a cloud of poison in some futuristic chemical warfare, he can see ice crystals under attack begin to breakdown and thaw. But he doesn’t give the enemy any opportunity to retrench, immediately following up with a surgical air strike from the spade, whistling on its downward trajectory like a dropped missile splitting the ice further, the ice shards like shrapnel propelled out from the centre. Methodically he scrapes and shovels up the remnants, discarding each blade full for burial in the slush pile at the edge of the garden path.
Building on this foothold he continues to press the advantage, building two trails for the tyres to follow, like parallel army trenches lining up through the snow and streaming back from the wheels to the end of the drive and the open road. Its hard heavy work and he longer notices the cold, in fact he considers discarding his jacket but decides to retain its protective shelter a while longer.
Now he knows he has his enemy in retreat, but before putting the car once more to the test, he follows the approved drill and returns his weaponry to its housing (ready to be called out in support in some future conflict) and once again boards the car. He slips of his jacket and settles into the drivers seat, the key turns and the engine engages, and this time he even feels confident enough to bring in additional support from the heater fans to keep the windows clear, then with a shit of gear, this time the wheels begin to roll slowly backwards like the treads of a tank pressing through the mud and slurry. This is it the moment of victory; in his head he imagines the cheers from the troops, the victory flyby, and the ticker tape parade.
The car glides serenely backwards off the driveway and into the road, and the moment’s pause, before swinging round the car in a graceful curve to draw itself into a forward position. Ready to go now, he first puts the local radio news on – ready for their traffic reports and weather bulletins on the road conditions he will face ahead. Then foot down on the accelerator the car moves off, chewing through the brown churned snow and ice left battered from encounters with other motorists … this battle is won – but now the war continues.
