Cars Part 4. I had a vague idea about what I was getting into with the Lotus. Its worth repeating that Lotus translates into “Loads Of Trouble, Usually Serious”. It was an ex-works rally car, first registered by Ford in December 1965 as NOO 29C. The bodyshell was pre-airflow, which means that it did not have the eyeball vents at the ends of the dash, which was superceded in 1964. That set the scene of something created from what was around and what was in the parts bin. It had leaf spring rear suspension with a Watts linkage. Body seams were welded, the fuel tank was a huge 25gallon affair in the boot, behind the rear seat, filled from behind the rear screen. All the brake lines, fuel pipes and cables were inside the body. There were two electric Facet fuel pumps in the boot, each switched from the dash and with a fuel tap on the floor by the driver. A heated front screen was a novelty, as was the Twin Halda Tripmaster thingy for the navigator, which we never mastered.
Safety equipment consisted of a roll cage, proper seats, full harness seat belts and fire extinguisher. Curious items were the umbrella handbrake (it pulled up alongside, and parallel to the steering column) and an additional silencer fitted across the back of the car, which I removed.It was on steel wheels with off road tyres. It did not like town traffic, and the idle would become erratic in the time it took for the average set of traffic lights to sequence. A blip of throttle and the twin Webers would make as much noise as the exhaust and a steady rumble would resume. The clutch was mighty heavy. However it always started for me, even when under a pile of snow. Get in, switch on the lower power fuel pump, wait for the pump noise to slow (a bit like a mini or morris minor) two full presses on the throttle, then hold a touch of throttle and turn the key. As soon as it fired hold a nice fast idle while you did up the belts. Do Not, under any circumstances touch the choke. I found some Dunlop alloy wheels with nice road tyres, which made it much more civilised, given that I was now living in Queenborough (someone has to) and working in Snodland (ditto). Detling Hill was my daily challenge.
At one point it began to charge erratically, so the regulator was checked and found to be faulty. I wandered in to Lucas on Duncan Road, Gillingham and asked for a replacement, quoting the number. No such part, mate. So I got him to actually come out and look and he agreed that was the number on it. Back in Birmingham we had been to Lucas’s Competition Department in Plume Street, (sounds imposing but was a glorified shed up some white wooden stairs) so I phoned them. Much thumbing through lists later it turned out that my car was fitted with a high output dynamo and matching regulator as a comparison to other cars that were being fitted with the early alternators. This feature, he said, confirmed that it was built for the Monte Carlo Rally as an ice note car. Bottom line was just use a standard regulator, should be fine, and it was.
Martyn and I had entered the November Rally run by my old B.U.M. Club (I said they were unfortunate initials!) but the delay getting the Lotus meant a change of plan. We therefore decided to use his Anglia, I would still drive and he navigate. I picked up the Anglia from Reading, and did our usual middle of the night run through central London (no M25 then). When I got to the end of Blackheath there was an old van coming around the roundabout, no indicators used (times don’t change) and I braked to a comfortable halt to let him round. At this point I was hit quite hard from behind with just a short tyre screech as a warning, which enabled me to take the brakes off. The impact took me to the centre of what was quite a big roundabout. I got out and was surprised to see a flashing blue light already there. That was quick I thought, then it dawned on me it was the Police Rover P6 3500 that had hit me.
We had to wait for the Station Sergeant to arrive, and everyone was very civilised about it.
The Anglia took it quite well, probably the only solid bit of the car was the rear, which was now an inch or so further towards the front. Everyone happy with the paperwork and I went on my way. Only a few hundred yards down the road and the exhaust fell off. So I stopped at the next phone box, called the police and explained. A few minutes later a police van arrived, the driver chucked the exhaust in the back and just said “follow me”. He took off a fair rate, me with open exhaust just behind having a great time. He took me to Clifton’s on the South Circular roundabout where at about 2am a bleary eyed mechanic did a good job of bodging the exhaust back together with couple of new bits.I don’t know about now, but back then the Met Police were not insured, they had deposited a bond and simply paid out claims themselves. Martyn did quite well I believe.
Our expedition on the Rally was not so good, somewhere in deepest northern Oxfordshire there was a bang and the ignition light came on. A quick look and the fan belt had gone missing. A quick reverse to where it happened, and there it was on the road. But… we were unable to refit it because the crankshaft pulley had lost the front section. They were simply spot welded together, and a properly uprated engine would use one machined from solid. The engine was a bit tweaked, as were the brakes, but this had not been considered. We then reported to the next control so our position was known to the organisers and set off back to Reading, with the heater on, high gear, low revs, no lights if there were no other cars, apart from my pair of Cibie Oscar driving lamps that had been fitted for the occasion. We made it just before dawn, with a misfire at any speed over about 40mph as the battery slowly died, the windows wide open despite the November chill outside, as the heater tried to keep the engine cool, just. We never rallied the Lotus. We did a couple of Sector Marshalling roles on a Maidstone and Mid Kent M.C. rally. That was fun. However the marshals meeting a few weeks before was held at the Fountain pub in Barming, so we went up Hermitage Lane, which was still more a lane than the main route to what became Maistone Hospital. The railway bridge was quite a humpback, which I took at a pace, there was a yell from the passenger seat and then cries of Stop!. Martyn was smoking a cigarette at the time, and when we leapt over the bridge his seatbelt caught under the recline lever tipping him backwards to near horizontal, legs and arms everywhere, and his cigarette landed on his crotch – hence the panic. Soon sorted, and we were both much more careful with the belts after that.
The first Sector was around Bicknor, with our finish control near the water tower at the top of Hollingbourne Hill. The second one was along the Military Road from Appledore towards Rye. Out of interest we stopped where we knew the section start was and did a lowish speed cruise along to where we were to man the finish control. Back to the start and this time absolutely flat out, with the engine hitting the rev limiter on the way. Martyn timed it, looked at me and uttered some choice words as we would have dropped a load of time. In the parlance of the day, the watches were “tuned” to make that section impossible to clear.
I kept the car for about 18 months, rebuilt the 1650cc engine, the man who rebalanced the engine was mightily impressed when he saw “Cosworth” on the con rods. I met a Capri on the Paddlesworth Road near Snodland, he braked, locked up and blocked the road, I had nowhere to go and we had a relatively gentle impact. Some months later I sold the engine to one person, the gearbox to another and the rolling shell to a guy who wanted it for grass track racing. I doubled my money by doing this, old cars were just that at the time. By now I was living in Culverstone, near Meopham. I took over the lease for a four bedroom house with a 3 acre field, 3 Nissen huts and an open fronted shed that could hold four cars. I sublet the other rooms, and if everyone paid up on time, and in full, I lived for almost free. It rarely happened.
Some fairly mundane cars followed, typically a horrible beige Austin 1100 with matching rust. However, browsing the KM one day I found, went to look at, and bought, a Fairthorpe Electron Minor for very little money. As I had virtually memorised my 1954 and 1960 copies of “The Observer’s Book of Automobiles” in my youth I knew what it was. I was, and am, a bit of a sad soul. These cars had grown out of the “specials” movement and were based on a Standard 8/10 or early Triumph Herald chassis and running gear. It was bodied in fibreglass, open two seater with a pram hood in fetching beige. It was slow, reasonably ugly and quite rare. After getting it home and checking the fluids I went to the petrol station just up the road and while filling it up struck up a conversation with one of the locals who was interested in what it was. He was a known car enthusiast, had previously had a Lamborghini 350 or 400GT. Again old cars were still affordable. By then he had an early Aston Martin DBS, 6 cylinder, ex show car with a pinkish leather interior. Very questionable taste!
How much did I want for it? Hang on, I’ve only just bought it, but we parted with his insistence on first refusal. Only a couple of weeks later we met again, my enthusiasm literally dampened by the ingress of weather, and his sharpened by it now looking a bit clean and tidy. We parted this time with me doubling my money and him a happy chap. Motoring News (aka Muttering Nudes) was the weekly paper with the classified ads to use to buy and sell competition and interesting cars. I went after a part-built Ford Escort. The owner was being sent to the Middle East for work at short notice and he needed it gone in a hurry. So a mate from work and I went to see it, I think it was Dorking but maybe not, taking the firms dropside Austin FG (the strange one with little curved windows by your knees) we did the deal. A black RS body shell, with front suspension fitted and most parts to build a Mexico. The truck had a tail lift, we wheeled the front wheels on, wheelbarrow style holding the rear aloft, then the tail lift took it up and we pushed it on. The rest of the bits followed.
We took it initially to my boss’s house near Barming, as he had a nice wide garage, and the rear axle, steering and brakes and fixed glass were all fitted there. Helped at times by his large black Great Dane, Cleo, who did a Scooby Do impression and was under the car with me, licking my face while I tried to tighten the suspension.
By now I had modified one of our Nissen huts to make a garage so it was time to get it home. Bob from work, who had helped collect it, drove a 2litre Cortina Estate which he used for towing a caravan, so we did no more than attach the Escort and tow it to Culverstone. I had no instruments so had no idea of speed and was a little surprised to be charging along the M20 passing many other cars, foot hovering over the brake pedal very close to the Cortina. Bob later admitted that for a short period he had forgotten that I was there, it weighed so little.Eventually I admitted defeat. Whenever I had the time I didn’t have the money, and if I did have the money we were probably in the pub. I advertised it back in MN and got a huge response, the best being a guy from Hoo. I accepted his offer of his Mini Cooper S, with some spares, and cash.
Only a few weeks later he turned up to show us the car. Nicely done, but not how I had wanted to do it. The Mini was wonderful, quick enough and huge fun through the lanes that I used to get to work in Snodland. Part of the pile of spares was the original gearbox, the one in the car was from an unknown source, but used a standard mini final drive, which boosted acceleration at the cost of top speed. 80Mph on a motorway got you a noisy liver massage. Returning home one night with my friend Mick (the one who used to live down the road and had the old Ford on L plates) we went through the kink on the Gravesend Road just before the Vigo pub, and had a huge slide as we hit some black ice. Keep the power on, do not lift off and most certainly don’t brake. Heart rate still high we crept up to the Vigo where there was a police car parked on the forecourt. I started to get out, but to my surprise, he stopped me. I said about the black ice up the road, to which he replied not to get out, as it was here as well. With that we headed off, hardly able to get traction until around the corner.
So impressed with this performance, Mick nagged me for weeks to let him buy the Mini, showing me ads for interesting cars. In the end he took me see a Triumph TR5, which he paid for, then we settled for a little more for the Mini and we went on our ways.
The TR5 was a high speed lorry, huge chassis, and the fuel-injected straight six engine a dream. The previous owner had spent a lot getting the notorious Lucas injection system to work properly. Unfortunately I tried to fit between a Peugeot and an oncoming Escort, which in doing so made a bit of a mess of all three. I got into a fair splash of hot water for that, and the TR5 was sold off to a workmate who put it in his garage and left it there. A reasonably clean, white Morris 1000 saloon came my way, as Bob’s neighbour knew it had problems but was mechanically ignorant. The front suspension lower pivots (or trunnions) were worn and needed replacing, I knew the symptoms as mine on OMO 876 had failed, tucking the nearside front wheel up into the wheel arch. It was dark and wet (of course) when that happened, roughly by the Doddington & Newnham war memorial, I was doing alright, I thought I had it all under control as I held it into the bank to slow it down, and then one of the three young ladies in the car started screaming, very off-putting when you are trying to concentrate. This new Morris served me well, and I got brave enough to try and teach my girlfriend (now wife) to drive. How to start an argument, or what. The usual example that I use is approaching Wrotham Heath traffic lights, London bound, I suggested that she should slow, no response, brake, no response, and with queuing traffic ahead I heaved on the handbrake. Minors can have excellent handbrakes and I had fettled this one with this job in mind. To my amazement, with the rear wheels locked, she calmly applied opposite lock as the rear stepped out on the slight bend, still not braking. We never tried that again, she was packed off to BSM. The next door neighbours were an older couple, Eddie a plumber from South London, and she a very shy thing that we hardly ever saw. He made a point of finding me one day as his Rover was very sluggish. I opened the bonnet, and with it running there was a very pretty fireworks display from the ignition HT leads. These were the early suppressed ones that really did not last and I ended up replacing them with copper cored ones and suppressed caps. This was a Rover P5B, the fastback, V8 engined, heavyweight flagship of their range. The motor club had been to Solihull and I had seen these built, with an endearing memory of a very large gentleman with what looked like a simple bit of 4x2 wood using his strength to “Adjust” the fit of the doors. Ahh Leyland build quality… Anyway I was asked to test drive it, which I did once I had reversed out of his horribly narrow drive between the house and our wall. What a beast, no doubt the memory is rose tinted, but I could love one of those today. Sadly so would a lot of other people and the prices reflect that.
One of our inmates came with a non-running TR3. He never touched it and when he moved on simply scrapped it.
Another resident was a New Zealander car salesman. After a while we came up with a moneymaking scheme. If someone wished to part exchange a suitable car, one that his employers would simply put out to the trade, he would suggest that to clinch the deal he could get a little more if they sold it direct to the trader – me. Pete would effectively negotiate the price, all I had to do was turn up and make sure that it was what it seemed, and pay for it. We usually stuck to Minis as they were easy to tart up, and quick to sell. A purple automatic was horrible to drive, constantly changing gear, but made good money. A 3litre Capri was such a handful in anything other than bone dry conditions, we got rid of that before we broke it. I fell in love with a 1300 Alfa Romeo Guilietta Sprint. A rather understated dark blue, I could forgive a few of its quirks, like interior releases for boot and fuel cap, but on the left hand side of the passenger seat. However, one wet night coming home I basically spent most of the descent of Star Hill in Rochester trying to get it to point down the road, not across it. It went.I paid for a pristine H reg Spitfire myself, meaning to keep it for a while. That was until I drove it. It was still on its original Dunlop Groundhog cross ply tyres, and the first serious corner I went around you could feel the swing arm rear suspension deciding whether or not to kill you today. No thanks. I sold it to another girlfriend who had fallen in love with it, and drove in a far more genteel way.
Pete also brought home other interesting cars, although officially he was meant to drive a “nappy brown” Allegro, which, unsurprisingly, he hated. An NSU Ro80 saloon stands out, super to drive, once you get the hang of the semi-automatic gearbox with the clutch operated by touching the gear knob. An early, brand new XJS was a thrill, and a Triumph Dolomite Sprint was a superb mixture of smart interior, understated exterior and good performance.
Then our Rental Agents announced that our landlord, who worked for Royal Dutch Shell in Holland, had died, and his widow wanted her house back. I had accumulated about £1200 in my car fund, being torn between a BMW 2002 Tii, or maybe an old DB4 Aston Martin as I was increasingly interested in what were becoming known as classic cars. I found out later that the definition of an optimist is someone who thinks that they can just about afford to run an Aston. The alternative definition is of a Motorcycle Courier with a pension plan – I actually knew one!
So dreams of a decent car were put on hold and I used the money as a deposit to buy a house.
