AFTER A GOOD dose of old carness at Race Retro and hearing about how much progress Gez has made with the Landcrab, I took a long hard look in the mirror.
Plan A – to replace the daily hack cum motorway mule – just isn’t happening. It’s either a case of, don’t want one, would be mad to drive one or can’t afford one. In the meantime, my old precious tin is doing nothing but going stale. The Gazelle was one of those Ebay attacks which I just needed to have (no further explanation available); the Midget, my first car, came off the road due to my potless finances.
So with the sun-a-shining and nothing in the diary, I ambled around to the garage where the Midget is stored. Shamefully, the MG’s been off the road for nearly five years, and I could almost sense the hostility and resentment when I lifted the door. ‘Oh so you do remember me, then…’ it could almost have uttered.
The problem with being a frequently potless old car junky is that the greater the lack of funds, the longer the off-road lay-off and the greater the numbers of problems. Solution? More money. And so, continues the merry go ’round – or should that be – the woe go ’round.
During its internment, the Midget has gathered two dings (lower rear wing and lower door) – and if there’s one thing which really does make me shit a kidney, it’s someone buggering up one of my old cars. Do I complain to the landlord (the garage adjoins his house and he’s had work done recently) and risk losing the garage? Do I suffer in silence? Or perhaps I should assault a brickwall until the fury subsides…? One sore throat and two bleeding knuckles later.
Anyway, the last time I looked, the fuel pump had packed in – but there’s no way of checking because, yes, I remembered the battery charger but not an extension cord. Damnation! Cue, another dose of Raging Bull wall pummelling.
A look under the bonnet and apart from more cobwebs, it’s looking like the tap which controls coolant flow from the cylinder head to the heater has sprung a leak. Leaving a tell-tale blue piss-mark down and along the cylinder head. Great.
So that’s: 1) rebuild or replace fuel pump – which requires a bigger trolley jack for access; 2) remove stale petrol; 3) charge up battery to check everything’s okay. All of which just leaves the pedal box to be refurb’d (it’s worn, but Gez has just bought a milling machine) and me to replace the old buggered discs and pads. Oh and probably, a new set of those new-fangled round tyres. Then a full service. And then, it should get through the MoT in time for summer lovin’.
Note should because I know how cruel the gods of classic car fate can be… Still, it’s far more preferable than pawing over new-car classifieds – and more rewarding.