When I get into a car - any car - I still find it amazing that

Host: The morning light spilled gently across an English countryside road, the air crisp and gold-edged, filled with the scent of dew, petrol, and possibility. A Jaguar E-Type, polished like liquid bronze, sat idling beside a stretch of quiet meadow. Birds chattered, fog rose from the hills, and somewhere beyond the hedgerows, the world prepared itself for the usual noise of civilization.

Host: But here — in this small clearing between road and reverie — time seemed to pause.

Host: Jack stood by the driver’s door, tracing a hand along the curve of the fender as if it were something sacred. Beside him, Jeeny leaned against a fence post, coffee in hand, the steam rising between them like a visible sigh.

Host: From the radio inside the car, a familiar voice — warm, wry, tinged with wonder — cut through the quiet:

“When I get into a car — any car — I still find it amazing that I’m allowed to drive it away.” — James May

Host: The words lingered in the air — part humor, part humility — a simple sentence that contained both nostalgia and reverence.

Jeeny: smiling faintly “You hear that? He still sounds like a boy who’s been handed the keys to magic.”

Jack: nodding slowly “Yeah. That’s the charm of May — always slightly astonished that the modern world hasn’t revoked his license to wonder.”

Jeeny: softly “It’s beautiful, isn’t it? The idea that something as ordinary as driving still feels miraculous.”

Jack: grinning “That’s the difference between appreciation and entitlement. Most people think mobility is a right. He treats it like grace.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “Maybe that’s why he loves cars — not as possessions, but as portals.”

Jack: quietly “Portals to motion, to freedom, to escape. And yet — somehow — also to self-awareness.”

Host: The engine purred, steady and deep, a mechanical heartbeat syncing with the rhythm of the countryside. The rising sun caught on the windshield, scattering light like an approving nod from the universe.

Jeeny: gazing out at the road “You know, that feeling never really fades — that first time you sit behind the wheel and realize the world just got bigger.”

Jack: smiling faintly “And smaller at the same time.”

Jeeny: softly “Exactly. You hold a machine that can carry you anywhere, and suddenly distance becomes a decision.”

Jack: quietly “And yet, we forget. Cars turn into traffic, motion turns into monotony. It’s rare — someone like May — who keeps the child alive inside the driver.”

Jeeny: smiling “Maybe that’s why he calls it amazing — not because it’s new, but because he refuses to let it get old.”

Host: The sound of gravel crunching under tires echoed as Jack climbed in. The door shut with that satisfying, solid click — the kind that belongs only to craftsmanship and memory.

Jack: calling through the open window “You ever think about how trust this is? Society just hands you the power to move — to disappear if you wanted.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “Trust and risk. They give you freedom and expect you to behave.”

Jack: grinning “And that balance — that unspoken faith — that’s what makes it amazing. It’s not just mechanical privilege; it’s moral trust.”

Jeeny: softly “Exactly. Every driver on the road is a symbol of belief — that humans can handle power responsibly. It’s a fragile, beautiful illusion.”

Jack: quietly “Maybe that’s why we romanticize driving. It’s one of the last acts of individual trust left in a collective world.”

Host: The car rolled forward, the road opening like a ribbon. The fields blurred, the sky widened, and the world seemed to hum in rhythm with motion.

Jeeny: watching him drive “You look like a man who’s in love with the simplest miracle — that motion exists at all.”

Jack: through the window, laughing “Isn’t it mad? Metal, fuel, combustion — and somehow it feels like flight.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “It’s not madness. It’s gratitude.”

Jack: nodding “Exactly. Gratitude for being allowed to go — anywhere, everywhere. No permission slips, no explanations. Just road.”

Jeeny: softly “And that, right there, is freedom’s purest form.”

Host: The sun climbed higher, scattering gold across the asphalt. Jack stopped halfway up a hill, the car idling, the view stretching infinite — fields, fences, and a thin silver line of horizon.

Jeeny: walking up beside him “You know what I think James May was really saying?”

Jack: glancing at her “Hmm?”

Jeeny: softly “That amazement is a choice. Every time you start the engine, you decide whether to see a car — or a miracle.”

Jack: smiling faintly “And he keeps choosing the miracle.”

Jeeny: quietly “That’s the secret, isn’t it? Wonder isn’t something you lose with age — it’s something you surrender.”

Jack: after a pause “And he refuses to surrender.”

Jeeny: smiling “Exactly.”

Host: The wind picked up, carrying the scent of cut grass and engine heat. The car’s chrome caught the sunlight, flaring briefly like a star fallen to earth.

Host: And as the two of them stood there, looking out over the endless road, James May’s words returned — simple, human, quietly profound:

that the amazing thing
is not the machine,
but the permission —
the invitation to trust ourselves
with motion,
with freedom,
with choice;

that every journey,
whether across continents or down the lane,
is a celebration of the possible —
a small, daily astonishment
that we are allowed to go.

Host: The engine revved once more,
the road opened like a story waiting to be told,
and in that moment —
between stillness and flight —
life itself felt
amazing.