Speed Queen

I feel the need, the need for speed - and behind the wheel of a car I love the surge of power that pressing my right foot on the pedal produces.

Let's face it, I'm a speed queen. I'm not in the ranks of Michael Schumacher; I enjoy controlled speed - safe, within the legal limits speed - and I have no secret desire to wear a jumpsuit and race round a track with a load of overgrown boys. But get me on a quietish motorway and I enjoy turning up the radio, accelerating to 70mph ... honest ... and feeling the wind in my hair.

My love affair with my car started when I turned sweet 16. Because I received higher rate DLA, formerly mobility allowance, I was legally allowed to learn to drive a year earlier than everyone else. The first step was adapting a car to my needs. Due to my short stature I required a specially constructed raised seat, extended pedals, and a very funky, rally-style sports steering wheel. Not forgetting the dog lead attached to the boot to enable me to shut it. Add to the melting pot some dual controls for my driving instructor, a vehicle through Motability, and I was ready to hit the road.

Though a nervous driver at first, it was the thought of freedom that spurred me on, and also the hope of not wanting to look like the biggest plonker who ever sat behind a steering wheel. Not being able to use public transport without help, I was reliant on my family for lifts, and the opportunity of being able to go where I wanted, when I wanted, was too revolutionary to let slip through my fingers.

So on I persevered, practicing the essentials:
• Emergency, whiplash-inducing stops;
• Exaggerated, notice-me-looking-in-the-rear-view-mirror head movements;
• Hill starts, hoping to God that the car behind keeps a 20ft distance.

Numerous times I thought my car was broken when I accelerated and nothing happened, only to find that my driving instructor had his foot on the dual control brake - and there was an unseen cyclist whizzing past me. Yet eventually my cold sweats of fear diminished to lukewarm dribbles, cyclists had no need to worry in my presence, and my instructor uttered those immortal words, "I think you're ready for your test".

Although the idea of my taking the driving test caused the utmost hilarity in my family, I did take the test and miraculously passed first time. This was it - goodbye 'L' plates, hello fully-fledged driver.

The freedom that the keys to the road gave me is hard to underestimate. I could go and visit friends, go shopping, go out in the evening, go on holiday - all on my own. It took time for my confidence to grow, but my newfound freedom opened my horizons and expanded my world. I didn't have to ask for help, feel guilty about asking favours from my family or rely on other people's schedules - this time I was literally in the driving seat.

My car is like a friend; it's something I have to take care of so that it can take care of me. I'm now onto my third - with a little tinkering and lots of elbow grease, my cars have kept going longer than some people's relationships. And like a boyfriend, hey, I'd like to have an Audi TT convertible, the Tom Cruise of motors, but I'm more than happy with my comfortable, cheap, reliable supermini ... and don't be deceived by its looks: behind that metal exterior there's a real goer.

These days I'm more likely to be stuck in commuter traffic than zooming along an empty highway à la Thelma and Louise, but the freedom I have to navigate around my environment is still precious. I feel it's so important that disabled people have access to a car, whether we're the drivers or the passengers, and that cost isn't prohibitive. The day that buses, tubes, trams and trains are accessible to all is the day I'll hand back my car keys. Looks like I'm in no danger there, then.

In the meantime, I wonder if Top Gear is looking for a new presenter? Move over Jeremy Clarkson, get me behind the wheel of an (adapted) Ferrari and you won't see me for dust!