Right outside the rail station, fenced off from the street in a dirt sealed yard, are three or four cabs, that look like they’ve had all their windows shattered. Or, first replaced with Perspex ...and then shattered.

In any case, they are well customized, with hand painted, matte-black Duco roll cages, very little in the way of side panels or other luxuries, and half-complete repairs and makeshift alterations, amounting, in the main, to the wholesale removal of anything broken or damaged, along with whatever bracket mounting or chassis assembly was holding it in place.

The vehicles are slowly evolving towards an essential state of being – retaining only that which makes them ‘go’, and still remain in one piece.

The ground, everywhere, is littered with shards of metal, and glass, shredded plastic, strips of old wiper blade, smashed reflectors, torn off decals, and greasy engine washers trodden in the gravel, giving the impression that the body work was all done right there, on site.

The lead cab, skewed up at an angle to the rail entrance, has a sizeable hole – or "sunroof" – cut fore and aft above the offside, and no doors.

The driver appears paralyzed, from the waist.

On closer inspection, I realize, with some dismay, that he is actually built-in to the cabin – driver and vehicle, one – in a grotesque symbiosis.

The legs are partially concealed from mid-thigh beneath translucent fibreglass fairings – firstly braced in a series of mesh restraints, and then split or grafted into three or four 80mm hydraulic compression shafts, each with a servo-controlled sub-assembly fed by complicated bundles of flexible tubing and fibre optics, finally extending through the floor, and coupled directly to the drive shafts and automatic transmission.

The upper torso and arms, slouched heavily into the thick, vinyl padding of a custom moulded seat, appear sewn in, but free to perform all the normal functions of driving – steering, looking in the mirrors …smoking cigarettes.

A mess of insulated wiring, like distributor cable, drifts up into the roof on all sides, routed back and front to ignition, dash lamps, alternator circuit, D.C. chassis grounds…

He appears huddled into the corner, and with something unnatural about the incline of the neck, pointing the face a little up ..and right, contributing overall to the cellophaned look of a chrysalis.

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I swing into the cracked blackened passenger seat, holding on to the roll-cage tubing, and regarding him with some interest.

The servo controls give a detectable whine under the fairings, sending a slight recoil through the upper thigh as the hydraulic transmission drops out of neutral.

He squirms in the seat as though numb from sitting. But there is a telltale jolt as the four disk brakes bite down gently in response to the engagement of low gear, and a new note joins the soft whirr of lo-torque induction motors.

He turns, slightly – oblivious to his plight, or at least to my searching examination – awaiting directions.

"…North side, Mate…" I say, on cue, satisfied with his driving credentials, and turning to face the large rectangular space that once contained a windshield.

There is a tweak of carburettors and a momentary abyss of reverent silence for the idle rate …and we’re off, crunching a tight U-turn across the debris.

He seems to recede, lost in a private world of coolant pressure and shift ratios – daydreaming of red-lines and airfoils, or shock-absorption – concerned, possibly, by spark advance, or tread compound – is he haunted by wiring diagrams, and crumple zones, …or just high on fuel mixture, and exhaust emissions.

It’s hard to say from where I’m sitting. I’m not exactly plugged in and firing on all cylinders, quite like that.

In his position, I’d probably devote myself to the eternal question… Power, or Economy.

The quickening breeze soon drowns out the imponderables. Just enjoy the ride. He probably doesn’t care all that much for chit chat.

Still, I suppose, at least, that one feels confidently in the hands of ‘a professional’.