Why Car Sharing Doesn’t Work

Because people hate each other

There’s a car-share scheme (covoiturage) near where I live in Normandy in a town called St Pierre-en-Auge, about 40 minutes from the city of Caen. The idea is that people drive there, park their cars, get in another car, and drive happily into the city together.

It doesn’t work.

The car park is empty and is mainly used these days by fruit vendors and people selling wood carvings. This comes as no surprise. French people, by their own admission, aren’t the best in the morning. So the idea of sharing a car, when they could drive alone, listening to their own music or smoking Gitanes to their heart’s content, is not that appealing.

And I’m in complete agreement.

I used to car-share with a guy called Alan when I lived in Plymouth in 2002. A guy who was perennially on the verge of a breakdown. Each morning, I used to get into his tiny Peugeot 205 that smelt of his dog Sabre, and within seconds, he would launch into the latest saga of his failing marriage.

What was worse was that the soundtrack to this tale of woe and heartbreak was BBC Radio One: a mix of teen pop and banging techno that he always had turned up as he claimed he was slightly deaf.

HOW ABOUT ME!

Alan was a nice guy and was clearly going through some midlife meltdown, but it was pretty wearing on the soul. The daily monologue of his life started to affect me, and I only tolerated it because it was either listen to Alan or take the bus. Or more accurately, take three buses, as at the time I didn’t have a car, and had no other way to get to work.

Furthermore, he never asked for money for the petrol, as he must have decided that listening to his rants was payment-in-kind. Although, the word ‘kind’ was probably pushing it a bit far. More excruciating!

I can therefore understand why the covoiturage at St. Pierre-en-Auge is a dud, and why the car park doubles up as a free stall for local vendors and wood carvers.

At least the council are doing something to support the arts and sellers.

Car sharing is a good idea, and probably works well in other places. Just not here. No one wants to be stuck in a car first thing in the morning with someone else when you are at your most irritable.

People have their foibles and habits. Especially when they are driving. They suck on their teeth, they mutter, they talk, they touch their crotch too often, and they sing along to the radio.

This is the worst. Singing along to the radio. This kills me! Especially when the music being sung along to is stuff I used to listen to at school discos. I would prefer people just talked.

Another thing I find irritating is heat levels. I like a car to be warm, but not boiling hot. Not 100 degrees hot like Alan used to have it, so it felt like I was travelling in a microwave.

Alan was a thick-set, hairy man, who you would think would never be cold. But even in late spring, he had the heaters on full blast for the forty-minute drive. Meaning we normally arrived at work like two cooked turkeys.

One morning, I asked him if he could turn it down a bit. Only for him, quite incredulously, to ask me if I was hot!

‘Hot,’ I replied, ‘I’m practically dying here.’

He laughed and turned it down a notch, which made no difference in the slightest.

I’m not against car-sharing. They are a very good idea if folk can’t walk, cycle or take the train or the bus to work. But they don’t always work, for reasons I’ve outlined above.

The biggest problem, though, is that once you’re into them, they are very difficult to get out of. Especially if you work with the people involved, as I did with Alan. You’re stuck, and if you don't like it, the only way to get out of it, is to get fired.

This is what happened to me. I got fired.

It was down to various reasons, but part of me thinks that I engineered it in order to forfeit my lift with Alan. It was a way out without having to hurt his feelings. I lost my job, but sometimes you’ve got to take the hit!

He was gutted when I told him. Even suggesting that he could have a word with my boss. But I told him things had gone too far, and that today would be the last lift. So when we got to Plymouth, we had a few pints in the pub and promised to keep in touch.

We never did. I never saw Alan (or Sabre) again. I also vowed never to do a car-share again, as I didn’t fancy getting fired every time I got fed up listening to someone’s troubles. And while this is a shame, it’s good news for the fruit vendors and wood carvers of this world.

Do you car-share? Or do you sell fruit?

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