It was on the M1, about ten miles south of Luton, where I spotted him.

The roads were quiet and he was exercising decent lane discipline at a moderate, near-limit speed.  

His uniform caught my eye as I neared: the dark jacket, stripes at the wrist. A pilot. He didn’t have the hat on. Obviously.  

He was probably in his 50s. Grey hair. He was even rocking a Chesley “we’re going in the Hudson” Sullenberger ’tache. In short, he looked the sort of bloke you’d be reassured to see to your left as you boarded through the forward doors. And the car? A dark grey, decade-old Ford C-Max. Disappointed? I was, a little. 

I feel bad about that. But, captain, or first officer (I’m no expert on these things), a C-Max is just not very interesting, is it?  

For better or worse, piloting is still seen as a rather glamorous career. Muscling 200 tons of jet-powered machine at several hundred miles an hour, through all that nature can throw at you, these skilled, über-intelligent men and women at the controls are heroes. And heroes do not drive C-Maxes. Where is the Porsche 356 Speedster? The Kawasaki GPZ900R?