‘Happy motoring, customers!’ That was a catchphrase recognised by most Australians in the early 1950s. It belonged to Bob Dyer, radio quiz star, and paid due respect to his sponsors, Atlantic Union Oil Company (later Esso). In those days motoring for our family was happy because it was a novelty.

Recently I attended a function for people who had been members of the RACQ motoring organisation for fifty years or more. First, I was surprised there were so many of us! Then there were many who were older than I, and when formalities began it was clear. Some of those present had been members for more than sixty years!

Afterwards I reflected on the changes they must have experienced in their lives as motorists since the 1940’s and 50’s. As a child I can remember times when car travel involved the risky business of starting with a crank handle, then grinding through stubborn gears and double de-clutching to encourage a protesting engine to accept the challenges of Brisbane’s hills.

Mind you, our family was spared this trauma by the simple fact that we had no car. Tram travel was the norm for us, so much so that I can vividly recall the few vehicles in which I travelled before I reached the age of ten. There was, first of all, my grandfather’s never-to-be-forgotten Bedford truck that served him during World War II and gave the appearance of having also served on a battlefield during World War I. My father had two friends who often gave us a lift whenever they could. One of these vehicles was a comfortable 1940-ish Buick sedan, the most luxurious I had ever been close to, and the other was a Dodge Utility in which I, as the eldest child (I was all of 8 years old), was allowed to travel seated on a sack in the back. Dust and grit and wind could not wipe the smile from my face as I enjoyed this adventure. Whenever we headed to our grandparents’ place to stay for the weekend on the other side of town, we were really highfliers. One of our neighbours was a cab driver and with a friendly family discount dad found that the taxi journey cost about as much as our combined fares for the double tram trip and took about half the travel time.

My career as a motorist began as the nervous owner of a second-hand Ford Prefect, a vehicle designed and built in Britain with city streets and country lanes in mind. Around Brisbane it was at ease if you gave it credit for having a significant lack of performance credentials. This did not deter me from sawing on the steering wheel and leaning like Stirling Moss into corners being negotiated at almost forty miles per hour. The greatest blessing in owning such an unassuming car was that it had never developed a thirst – I could motor wherever I needed for just ten shillings a week.

The little blue Prefect met its match and I my waterloo when my government employer banished me to serve the state in a distant town where the folk were friendly, but the roads were not. A narrow car on narrow roads, piloted by an inexperienced driver on gravel surfaces, was a recipe for hair raising and suspension torturing moments. Added to this was the English reared vehicle’s distaste for hot weather. It boiled as often as a cafeteria kettle and I had to endure from locals the jibe that it was just as well that ‘Prefect’ was spelt the way it was, because certainly my car could never be called ‘Perfect’.   

Michael Goodwin