Modified Adventures on a European Road Trip.

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Editor’s note: This is a guest post from one of our UK readers.

The ground beneath us rose up in a cloud of earth as the car tyres slide across the narrow road. Alex spun the steering wheel and rammed his foot into the brake pedal. We lurched towards the riverbank. Selina screamed. The dirt and gravel crunched beneath us, and we stopped. Something fell out the back of the car. The air around us turned to smoke and dust, greying out the red-orange sun. “Sorry, guys,” said Alex. “I think we might have killed her…”

Our European adventure had started three months earlier. My friend Alex wanted to do a summer road trip across the continent. We’d spent years watching road trip movies, from the surrealness of Fear & Loathing in Las Vegas to the feminine empowerment-fest Thelma & Louise. We’d both always shared the romantic idea of the open road, the wind in our hair and some kind of country playlist pumping out of the speakers. So fine, I said. Let’s do it.

His girlfriend hadn’t originally been part of the deal. Selina’s a nice girl, but I’d just imagined Alex and I going it alone. The best way to do a road trip is either solo, as a duo or as part of a large group. I mean, the film wasn’t called Thelma & Louise & That Guy Brad Pitt Played Before He Was Famous. Trios are awkward in a road trip scenario. Someone always has to get orphaned in the back. Like Brad. I protested, but by then it was too late. I’d been gooseberried.

The vehicle is important in any road trip. Cadillac. Chevy. Buick. These are the archetypal road trip cruisers; built for speed, not comfort. Or you could go for size over style – an RV, perhaps a Winnebago. You could even try and get the best of both worlds, like a VW Beetle campervan. So many options. Whatever we got, I thought we’d go for something cool.

We ended up with a Nissan Micra.

She wasn’t a beautiful machine; a 2003 hatchback model, with a 1.2lt engine and three doors – two of which opened properly. Alex bought her off a friend of a friend of a guy who really liked modifying his cars. The windows were tinted, the suspension was lowered, hub caps had been added, the seats had been ripped out and replaced, and her previous owner had installed an arena sound system into the interior. She’d had so much work done we instantly named her Jordan.

We sorted out all the stuff like tax and modified car insurance, then stuffed Jordan full of backpacks, sleeping bags, Doritos and Coke and caught the ferry across to Amsterdam. From the UK you can drive in Europe without an international driving permit; you just need your driving photo card and the paper bit of your license. Driving on the right is a bit weird, but you get used to it.

In Amsterdam we slept in hostels. We spent time in cafes and museums. We would have stayed longer, but this was supposed to be a road trip. We drove alongside the canals and rivers and across low-lying country. We stopped at Gouda to sample their cheese. Lots of cheese. We dropped into Rotterdam. We listened to our country playlist and Dutch pop music on the radio. We spoke to locals, who disappointingly never wore clogs. We took photos. We Facebooked and tweeted about our trip. At night, we turned down quiet country lanes and camped in a tent outside the car.

Basically everything was going well. Our road trip dynamic was working. Sadly, the car wasn’t. We first started noticing the problems when we crossed into Belgium. We heard noises. Rattling. I made a show of looking at the engine, but had no idea what I was doing. None of us did. We decided to ignore it.

It got worse, obviously. To the point where it sounded like we were carrying a clattering toolbox underneath us. Near Antwerp we decided to push on into the evening and find a mechanic. It was a couple of hours later when we swerved and almost drove into the river. Selina and I got out and surveyed the damage, while Alex hitched a ride to a garage and brought a mechanic back.

We got towed to a garage and were given the news, which was half-Dutch, half-mechanic but all bad; our little Micra was gone. We couldn’t believe it. Jordan was dead. The engine had, in laymen’s terms, exploded. We were lucky not to have crashed, or worse.

The next day our journey changed. Jordan was scrapped, and we recycled or dumped our excess gear. We bought some InterRail tickets, and carried on by train. Our road trip had been a failure, but we all agreed we would do it again – all three of us. Just with a different car. Road trips rock, and I highly recommend doing one. Brief though ours had been, we still had some cool stories to tell.

We’re looking at a new road trip next year. It’s going to be the big one: America. Endless highways. Truck-stop cafes. Grand Canyons and grungy roadside bars. It’s going to be amazing.

We might avoid using a pimped-up Nissan Micra, though.

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