I have a terrible memory, and it’s getting worse. Up until now, that’s been a blessing in disguise. Let’s face it, as a photojournalist who has covered war and natural disasters, who wants total recall? But as I said, it’s getting worse.

Until now, life has been like driving a car through the dusk with the headlights on. That cone of light is like my perception. As I travel towards the future, it illuminates the way ahead. And the wash from the tail lights covers my past. Only it feels like a bulb’s blown.

Worse still, aside from the twilight, I now have to deal with the fog. While the road ahead is hazy, I can just about see where I am going. Yet the mist diffuses all that has passed and my memories, so it’s getting much harder to see where I’ve been. I keep looking ahead, but like all good drivers, I need to check the mirrors. Yet the process is unnerving.

The longer I drive, the more difficult it gets to see the road. The headlights are still bright, but the bulbs at the rear are failing, and thus that ever-dimming pool of illumination seems shallower by the day.

The distance from the bulb to the outer reaches of my memory keeps shrinking. As the direction of travel is all one way, there seems to be little hope of it getting any better. And whilst I won’t lose my way, I may well forget where I have been.

As I rattle down life’s highway, the car has been taking a battering. Life in the fast lane has taken its toll. The hard shoulder has been pretty bad too. My styling may have gone out of fashion, and in comparison to the newer models, I may look dated—but under the hood is a V8. It can still roar. Will you look as good as me when you have as many miles on the clock? Thankfully, only the tyres are bald.

When I started on this journey, I was top of the range, and while I may not have had all the optional extras, I could still take you for a comfortable ride. You may even have rubbed my gear knob. Shifts were smooth, as was my paintwork. I was not a careful driver. The antidote to much of that hard driving was oil. Trouble was that I began drinking too much. And problems with the dipstick.

It’s like a road trip. I can remember the rough details of the route I’ve taken. I could, at a push, draw you a map of the roads travelled—the major junctions, the big cities, and the accidents. But the B-roads and U-turns? Can I remember the pedestrians I’ve passed, and all those other lives? It’s not the winning but the taking part. Who cares who wins as long as you are in the race.

I wanted to be a winner, and drove that way too. Don’t spare the horses. But do spare a thought for the losers. And perhaps me.

Head down with the thought of only the destination, I have driven all through the night too often. Too many hours have been spent at the wheel. I know that now. Yes, I regret it, but it’s too late. The long hours alone in the cabin were pointless. What was the point, when in the end, I was made redundant just like those who coasted?

I never took my foot off the pedal. Even when I knew I should. Accelerating when I should be braking. The bends and high-speed corners were exhilarating and addictive. To hell with the shock absorbers.

I apologise if you were one of the people furiously waving as I zoomed on by. I was concentrating so much on the future. All I could see was the road ahead. And the past had not happened yet.

Sorry that you did not attract my attention, more so if I’ve even forgotten you stood there waiting, having a picnic in some layby. If you were one of those who slashed the tyres or put sugar in the tank, perhaps, maybe, enough miles have passed to forgive and forget. But those who fouled my sparkplugs, not yet.

I accept that I’m yesterday’s model, but I’m not powered by the past; it only looks like it. Disregard those unfashionable lines, take a deep breath. Not too deep. And behold a classic. Take me for a spin and you’ll see. I just need a bit more maintenance. Travel more forgiving roads. There are plenty of miles left in the tank. Best let’s just try to avoid the potholes.

Along the way, we’ve encountered all kinds of weather, sometimes sunny yet wasted time avoiding danger in the rain, or coasting downhill trying to save dosh. There never seems to be enough money for the MOT or the servicing. The sleek racing lines are long gone, the big end is growing, and the rust is emerging. The muffler rattles, and if you stand too close, the exhaust fumes will make your eyes water.

At times, it’s been a slow-motion car crash. Sometimes, a cheerful afternoon drive to that country pub in our dreams. The one where time stands still and we sit sipping beers in the joyous rays. But too much time has been spent on those monotonous motorways, munching up the miles. Day in. Day out. Pedal to the metal. Racing to oblivion.

I don’t want to end up on the scrapheap. Nor do I want a pampered and polished life of leisure laid up in a garage and only driven on Sundays. I want to be used, not abused. I want what’s fair. Treat me with respect, and I will last a lifetime. Kick the tyres, not the driver. I am not an old banger. Just an old head banger.

Yes, I had a few breakdowns. But you rescued me. I am both the driver and a passenger, and for the last thirty years, I have not been alone in this car. My partner has been sitting alongside, sharing the driving. But now I am worried I will forget her. Perhaps that is too strong a word, for I could never forget her, but I’m scared I won’t be able to remember her.

It’s our age. The time has come to face up to the fact that, at some stage, one or both of us will be leaving the vehicle to go on a trip on their own. The end of the road. The end of the road trip. Journeys End. Will we pull over, or will it end in a crash? Who knows.