The one guy had a Licence to Kill. I’ve got one for the racetrack. Part 2: Taxi rides, parts hunts, and electricity on instalments

 

 A few hours earlier — Friday morning.

Sitting in a taxi on the way to the track felt like some parallel universe. I was technically heading for a racing licence — something that should smell like control, precision, and “I’ve got my life sorted”. And yet there I was in the back of a taxi, while my own car was six kilometres away, parked up somewhere, probably having a quiet little pity party.

The road to Poznań was harmless. The taxi was warm, quiet, reliable. I realised my body was reacting to every normal bit of acceleration like it didn’t trust it — as if it was asking: “Hang on… so it can move without drama?” I leaned my head against the window and stared out, and somewhere between exhaustion and adrenaline an annoying thought popped up: maybe today would actually be… easy.

Luckily, day one was theory. No car needed. No starting. No chasing volts. No praying for 14. Just a classroom, rules, flags, behaviour, safety — all the stuff that makes motorsport feel like responsibility instead of improvisation. And I soaked it up, because that was exactly what I needed: something that felt normal.

Still, every now and then, this little sting showed up: you’re sitting here, learning the proper way to do things… while your Polonez is out there in its hotel-car-park universe, quietly trying to destroy itself. I pushed the thought away as best I could. First theory. Then chaos.

After the course, reality came straight back for me. I took another taxi to the hotel and went straight into what I can only describe as a “parts hunt with no ending”. In my head it was simple: Poland, Polonez, spare parts — like buying bread. You walk in, say hello, get the thing, job done.

Wrong again.

The options nearby were… limited. Somewhere there was a starter. Somewhere there was an alternator. And “somewhere”, in my case, meant bouncing around in taxis through areas that all looked the same, meeting people who showed me parts that either didn’t fit, didn’t work, or made me question my entire life.

When I finally had a used alternator in my hands, it felt heavy in a very specific way — like hope turned into metal. Which is why it was extra bitter when it turned out to be useless: either it didn’t fit, or it was just as dead as mine.

I stood there holding it, staring at it, and I was genuinely close to talking to it like it had a personality. That’s the point where you realise you’re running beyond your limits. Like your body, your head, your thoughts, your nerves — they’re no longer one unit. They start drifting apart. You’re right on the edge again.

And “again” means: pull yourself together. Because the clock is still ticking.

So what was left? Buying time. Ordering time. And somehow, in Poland, you actually can.

It was getting late, so I had to move. Without a battery, I wasn’t going anywhere. And I wasn’t going to spend another hour zig-zagging around the city in a taxi. So I organised it all by phone and planned it properly: the taxi driver would pick up the battery on the way and deliver it to me.

That’s Poland. Flexible and pragmatic — when it wants to be. And this time, it did.

I saved myself at least an hour. An hour bought. If you really want to put it that way: I had an hour delivered by taxi.

Once the new “juice giver” was in the car, the calculations started. Because in Poland you’ve got daytime headlight rules. Which means: even if you behave yourself and cut every electrical load down to minimum, the car still eats power like a hungry dog that’s somehow got into the entire food store.

For the track day itself, that wasn’t the main issue — I’d only be doing a few laps, and obviously not with the lights on. But overall, the maths was clear: I needed a second battery as backup.

Meaning: I had the old one (dead), the new one (fresh), and now I also needed a third one on top — the “absolute reserve, because I’m not an idiot… apparently” battery.

Next stop: the petrol station, to buy a charger so I could charge the old battery overnight in the hotel.

And yes — another picture for the gods. Everyone else walks through a hotel carrying suitcases. I’m the one walking in with a car battery. Standing out at any price. That’s basically my brand at this point.

Saturday morning: track day

And this is the moment where, for a second, everything feels justified.

It’s hard to explain if you haven’t experienced it: once you’re on track, the world gets quieter — not in noise, but in your head. There’s only line, braking point, turn-in, vision. No muddy field tracks. No fuse boxes. No oily engine bay. Just you and what you’re doing.

I drove, learned, felt the limits, pushed them a little. And I realised: this is mine. This isn’t just “some course”. This feels right. Theory and practice — passed. Goal achieved.

For a moment I stood there with that “Okay… I actually did it” feeling. And if Ölvis had had a voice back then, he probably would’ve made one short approving noise. Not words. Just… approval.

And then the normal world came back. The world of distances.

Coburg is about 650 kilometres. On a map it’s a number. In my head it had become a unit: car batteries. If you’re driving like I had to drive — with a dead alternator — 650 kilometres isn’t “a drive home”. It’s an experiment.

Coburg was five car batteries away. At least.

I stood there, did the maths, swore, did it again, and realised: this isn’t happening. Not today. Not like this.

So plan B: Katowice.

Katowice is closer. It’s not “home”, but it’s at least “not the middle of the forest”. It’s a city I know well. And it was only two — maybe a bit more than two — car batteries away.

It sounds like a stupid joke. But it was a plan.

Before I set off, I did what you do when electricity stops being something you take for granted and turns into a lifestyle choice: I started saving it. Bulbs out. One front right, one rear right. Not for looks. Not to save weight. Just because “50% less consumption” suddenly sounded like a serious technical achievement — like a little rolling power-saving strategy that gives you hope.

Hope… and probably courage. The sort of courage that borders on madness.

Because if we’re being honest, Katowice is east. Not on the way to Coburg — the opposite direction.

And as I drove off, a feeling crept in: I’m driving towards repairs, and at the same time I’m driving into the next chapter of escalation. Sometimes you can sense it.

And sometimes you’re right. Completely right.

BP station, battery surgery, and a young couple with problems of their own

Somewhere halfway to Katowice, when tiredness was starting to win its fight against my concentration, I decided to stop: top up the tank, stretch my legs, get coffee — and most importantly, lift the bonnet and swap the battery. Better to do that operation on a petrol station forecourt than unexpectedly in the middle of nowhere.

And “better” also meant: prepare for the starter motor. Because I was almost sure it would do its usual thing again. It absolutely hates being hot. After two hours of driving, it would’ve reached the point where it decides to take a little heat holiday.

So I was deliberately looking for a big station with enough space — somewhere I could get a run-up if I had to push the Polonez, without doing it on the road.

Then I saw a big, new BP station. Quick decision: turn in, brake, stop. Engine off. Break time.

Right there at the pump, I swapped the battery and started scanning for potential helpers — proper pushers. But it was already evening and the selection was… poor. Basically: nobody. Apart from one pensioner I didn’t really want to drag into my circus.

Fine. Five minutes here or there. Someone would show up, I told myself.

I filled the tank, then did a lap around the car, checking if it had prepared any fresh surprises for me. It hadn’t. Everything still attached. Everything still sealed. No new leaks. No new drama.

The good old Polonez has its issues, but at least it’s consistent. It always breaks in the same ways. Very considerate, really.

After paying, I headed for the exit with an XXL coffee, and as the automatic glass door opened, a young couple stepped in front of me. Shy. Lost. That particular look people have when their car has just betrayed them.

“Sorry… would you be able to help us?” they said.
“Our car won’t start.”

Honestly? That made me grin.

“Of course,” I said. “No problem. But you’ll have to pay me back.”

That threw them for a second. They looked at each other like they were negotiating silently.

“Relax,” I said. “Nothing dodgy. I mean: you’ll have to push my car afterwards.”

And just like that, the comedy club was open.

Them with a newer little “rice cooker”, and me with my old Polonez. Two cars, both condemned to be pushed.

As we started lining the cars up, more people wandered over — because apparently watching strangers push cars around a petrol station is prime entertainment. It turned into a little impromptu meet-up: coffee, jokes, car talk. Almost like we’d planned it.

The best part? Now there were enough people to push both cars.

It worked straight away. Both started.

And if I’m being honest: with my FSO I was 100% confident it would. With their little red Japanese rocket, it felt like a 50/50 coin toss. Either it goes, or it doesn’t.

It went.

A quick wave as thanks and goodbye — and I was back on the road to Katowice.

…