:: Diary - October 2016 ::

:: Sunday, October 2, 2016 ::

It’s TVR Car Club day!

And I don’t have a TVR… well I do, but there’s a problem… You see, it’s along at the garage, and the plan was to collect it yesterday, after I collected the Chevrolet. But there was a problem - two problems in fact.

Problem 1 was that the Chevy owner had to go down south because his brother was taken very ill. He’s ok, but obviously I couldn’t collect the car… And I had thought about taking it to the meeting but can’t, now, because I don’t have it!

Problem 2 was that instead, I was going to bring the TVR back yesterday, so that I could wash it before using it today. But I was out at a dinner on Friday night, went to bed at 3.30 am after consuming enough drink to sustain a very thirsty meeting of the pissed farts club. So driving the Chevy would have been a bad idea anyway, and trying to get the TVR out of the barn would have resulted in severe injury and outbuilding collapse. So I went back to bed instead.

So today, I’m going to the TVR meeting in a Porsche. I meet up with Jim and we trundle through.

There’s only two TVRs there, and only a handful of members. Nevertheless, we have an interesting conversation about a variety of unexpected subjects, then retire to the car park for further deliberation, as you do.

:: Tuesday, October 4, 2016 ::

Remember at the start of last month I talked about the car that mysteriously shot up in price after I called about it? Well it’s still advertised at that price. But I got a message from the seller today asking me to call him. Now the temptation is great - not to buy the car but just to hear him squirm! He can shove his car though!

:: Thursday, October 6, 2016 ::

Another update on “project acquisition”. How can I put this succinctly? It’s all fucked. The seller emailed first thing this morning, saying that he’s really sorry, but he visited his brother, who apparently also has a huge american car of some description, in hospital. No he doesn’t have the car in the hospital, he is in hospital, and also has a car, ok? Just to placate the grammar police. His brother says “you’ve just finished sorting it, you need to enjoy it.” Bastard. Anyway, net result is that he has decided that he wants to keep the car. So the deal’s off.

Now that’s a bit disappointing, obviously, but I can understand how he feels.

So, after a brief period of mourning, I hit the classifieds, despite the fact that I have a shitload of work to do, an interview with my bank (not car-related, but it’s always nice to remind them that I exist) and various phone calls to make.

And there, in all its glory, is a very nice 57 Chevy Bel Air V8. Nice shape, nice colour, cool as a penguin’s naughty bits, and as smart as nippy sweeties. So I phone the seller, and he sounds reasonable, he sends me more photos, and it’s still nice. Anyway, net result is that I’m going to see it on Saturday. No more details for now, until the deal is done (or not) - I’m not jumping the gun this time!

In other news, the Range Rover is being a pain - it has electric retractable side steps, an option that costs about the same as a small national debt. I discovered last Friday that the one on the drivers side has a broken bracket, so it goes down, but not up. A bit of the bracket has snapped right off so it’s not repairable. So I could have ordered a bracket, but looking at it, I don’t think the other 3 brackets are too healthy either. I’ve also read that the control module is prone to giving up the ghost.

For the price of 4 brackets, I can buy a whole (heavily discounted!) kit of steps, brackets, wiring, module, switch, mounting bolts etc. The simple application of man maths makes the solution obvious.

So those arrive today. I don’t have the time to fit them though. In fact, I barely have the strength to lift them! This old age doesn’t take prisoners. I need to think of a way to lift both ends into place at the same time and get 6 bolts in, on my own… doesn’t sound possible? Watch this space! (but you’re sensible so you’re probably right).

In the meantime, I have the system switched off, so I have to recruit passing urchins to kneel down so I can step on them to get in and out. At 50p a time, it’s nearly bankrupting me, so I need to get this repaired urgently!

:: Saturday, October 8, 2016 ::

Up at first sparrowfart for a road trip to Manchester to look at this motor. Get your kicks on the M62 - doesn’t have the same ring to it, does it?

The drive down is pretty uneventful, until I get to around 2 miles from where I am going, where there are road works on the motorway. Those last two miles takes over half an hour…

As I turn into the forecourt, there it is baby, just a’gleaming in the sun. It looks absolutely beautiful. I speak to the seller for a bit, while I look around the car. It’s not perfect, there are a few paint blemishes, a couple of tiny bits of peeling chrome, but it’s nearly 60 years old FFS, and it’s still gorgeous.

Then he starts it up. Sold! It sounds fan-bleeding-tastic - classic American V8 burble, tiny silencers, best music there is.

The standard engine in a 1957 Bel Air is a 283 cubic inch (4.6 litre) V8 with a two-speed “Powerglide” autobox. This car has a newer 350 c.i. (5.7 litre) small-block V8 with twin carbs, and a 3-speed T350 box. Probably around the 300 horsepower mark (yes, yank V8s are grossly underpowered!)

He takes it inside and puts it on the MOT ramp so that I can look underneath. Again, not perfect, there’s a couple of tiny bits of welding to the body just in front of each rear wheel arch, but it’s been done properly and rustproofed again.

The rest of the underside is in excellent nick - it has lived in California until June this year, so has hardly ever been wet. There’s evidence of newish shockers all around, it has brand new whitewall radials all round, the handbrake mechanism has just been rebuilt, and the two exhaust silencers are the size of bean tins.

The interior is also in excellent condition - new headlining, the seats have been re-covered - the only obvious defect id the steering wheel, which is badly chipped. Repairable though.

So at last it’s time for a drive. Slide onto that front bench seat behind the enormous steering wheel, move the column change from “P” to “D”, release the umbrella-handle handbrake, and we’re off! We burble out of the garage for a wee circuit. I would like to say that we manage to pass virtually un-noticed along Cheadle High Street, but I would be lying. I thought that the Cerbera got people’s attention, but it’s almost invisible compared to this.

It does handle like a barge, and tight turns into side roads need a bit of pre-planning and very very fast arm movements - the steering is light (largely because of the size of the wheel, but mainly because it has about 300 turns lock-to-lock) but the car certainly isn’t!

Am I going to buy it? Too damn right I am - it’s exactly what I was looking for, and at a price considerably less than the one I looked at first, even before he humped 10 grand onto the price.

So the deal is done. It’s mine. I’ve handed over money, I’ve got a receipt and the V5 bit and everything. I just need to get it 220 miles back home.

I could come back down for it during the week, but I am really busy with my poxy part-time business, which is currently occupying my every waking moment, so I might decide to have the car transported up to me. Aside from anything else, this also saves me the stress of coaxing a 60-year-old car up the M6, and with the best will in the world, I don’t think that mixing with modern fast traffic on my first drive in it, is a very good idea.

It’s beautiful!

:: Monday, October 10, 2016 ::

7.00 am - I receive an email from the man who was selling me the red and white ’59 Chevy. He’s changed his mind again, he’s seen a mid-70s Cadillac Eldorado, which he wants, so he’s putting his Chevrolet up for sale. I don’t need two, do I?

Later in the day, I organise door-to-door transport for the car, to be delivered here on Saturday. Can’t wait!

I also order a couple of little stickers to put on the bumper where the two rusty bits are. The rest of the chrome will polish up fine (or “real nice” as they say in America).

:: Saturday, October 15, 2016 ::

The seller has been in touch regularly during the week, the car was loaded on to a trailer last night, and his mate Bernie (who has a couple of American cars of his own and is used to delivering them to customers) set out this morning at the crack of 10.30.

He makes good time though, and is here by 2.30 pm. How do you unload a bright blue behemoth from a trailer without attracting the attention of all your neighbours? Answer is, apparently, that you can’t. Curtains are twitching like crazy while he unstraps it, then he starts it up to drive it off. Now noses are pressed unashamedly against windows…

We exchange the remaining paperwork, including some more bits of paper with pictures of the Queen, and he drives off, while I put the car in the drive.

Aren’t Range Rovers tiny?

I’ve got loads to do, so I can’t have a drive yet.

That lasts about 10 minutes, and I’m back out to the car, just to sit in it, you understand. And maybe start it up. Yes, just for a couple of minutes.

Maybe I should go and put some petrol - erm I mean “gasoline” - in? It’s at 1/4 and I don’t now how reliable the gauge is (I’m learning, see?) so just to the nearest petrol station. Yes.

So I start her up, a couple of pumps of the pedal (no choke) and she roars into life with the subtlety of a Harrier Jump Jet. Move that old column changer down a few notches and we’re off… down the street to the roundabout at the bottom. This is where I realise that there were no roundabouts on the test drive route, so getting round it involves twirling your arms around like a Jedi Knight taking on 4 Darth Vaders at the same time. Ultimately, speed isn’t dictated by grip of the tyres on the road, it’s about how fast you can wave your arms, and also by the amount of grip your arse can maintain by clenching onto the bench seat so that you don’t slide over against the passenger door.

Keeping over to the left takes a little bit of getting used to, but it doesn’t take long. Steering by tiller that’s only loosely connected to the intended direction of travel takes a little longer. I don’t feel brave enough for the first petrol station, or the second, but go into one that has the pumps side-by-side so there’s plenty of berthing space.

I stop beside a young lady in a Fiat Cinquicento. Wish it had been a 500 because that’s easier to spell. Anyway, I remember to park with the back bumper alongside the pump (the filler is inside the fin, above the lights). The front of the car is nearly in the shop. She says “Oh I love your car, I love that colour…” I give that little “thanks, yes I know, yes” shrug that you do, not wanting her to think I’m an old perv by starting chatting, and she says “I love old cars, my dad’s just bought an E-type”. Thinking that’s pretty safe, unless she’s into daddy-phaelia, I say “What kind?. “Green” she says… Anyway, this banter continues until she’s finished refuelling, then she goes in to pay.

Then the guy returning to his car on the other side says “Beautiful - how old is it?” “It’s 1957” I say. He gets in his car and drives off with a cheery face, I go in to pay and the women behind the counter say “I love your car, love the colour.”. I realise that I’m going to have to start practising a response to this.

So back in the car, after nearly getting in the wrong side (I stopped myself just in time, before I had to do a too-obvious change in direction) and set off for home. Not directly to home…

:: Sunday, October 16, 2016 ::

I’ve been trying to figure out how to get the CD player to work, but I can’t suss it.

Anyway - weather forecast says “dry until 1pm” so… time for a drive, purely for acclimatisation purposes. I set off into Edinburgh for a wee drive around the city streets. First step - set the heater to “tandoori” - and it’s surprisingly efficient. There again, when you’ve got a 5.7 tire engine heating the water, it’s bound to be, eh?

Now, driving a noisy purple Cerbera used to get a bit of attention. Driving a classic Porsche, a little less so, but still quite a lot. This thing, though, is off the scale. I don’t know how many people spoke to me while I was sitting at junctions - there were quite a few pedestrians, a bus driver and a lorry driver. I saw a few people taking photos as I passed, and one woman at a junction just stopped and stared as I turned in… then said “wow” in the window as I passed. Two old biddies on their way home from church asked what it is. It’s so cool, it even breaks the ice!

On the way back home, I drop in at Dave’s. Even Alison likes it! I take Dave out for a wee run, and we see a Pontiac Trans-Am coming in the other direction - he flashes and waves, I realise that 50’s Chevrolets don’t have a “flasher” so I wave as well… all very friendly!

I drop Dave off just as the rain starts, and set off for home.

Just around the corner, the right-hand wiper stops, and flops down against the scuttle. I go the rest of the way home with occasional flicks of the remaining wiper, not wanting to keep them on in case something is broken and sawing through something else.

When I get home, I find that the wipers are connected to the motor with a wire pulley contraption that basically winds the spindle one way then the other - if I had put my fingers up there to see what was moving, I would have cut them off! There’s an amazing amount of space up behind the dash, and I can see that the spindle is moving but the wiper isn’t. Closer inspection outside shows that the shaft is slightly further out than the other side - I stop the wiper, line it up to the “park” position and thump it with my hand - and it clicks back into place and works perfectly!

Then I get back on this 10-disc CD player thing. First thing I discover when I look at it in daylight, and with specs on, is that you have to put the CDs in upside-down - i.e. shiny side up. Bleeding Americans can’t get anything right… With that done, and a quick swatch at an on-line manual for a similar radio model (I can’t find the exact one) I get it to work! Yay!

I also discover how to turn the interior light on (you turn the light switch clockwise till it clicks).

Even my “too kool for school, disnae give a fuck” daughter likes it - she sits in it then starts it, then says “If a guy turned up for a date with me in a car like this, he would be right in there”, which isn’t necessarily what a dad wants to hear from his baby girl…

What a car…

So, it’s back into the house to make compilation CDs of every 50’s tune I can find…

:: Tuesday, October 25, 2016 ::

I’m sitting working away, as you do - lots to do, how am I going to get through this etc etc. Phone rings. It’s Dave. He has walked (well, hobbled) out of the Doctor’s this morning and there’s a blue 57 Chevy sitting across the road that says “For Sale”. So he goes over, turns out it’s an MOT garage who looks after a few American cars, including the 11 (yes, eleven) that he owns himself. I decide that this is a man worth knowing, so I resolve to visit him one of these days

5 minutes later I’m starting up the Chevy to go up there. There’s a couple of deliveries going on in my street, so I have to crawl past them after I leave the drive, then I think “this feels funny…” A wee lean out the door confirms that I have a flat back tyre. There are another couple of houses getting building work done, so the next bit of the street is full of vans, so I can’t get turned around to go back. I trundle down the hill and pull into the first side road and into a lay by.

I’ve got a scissor jack. I’ve got a spare wheel. How long does it take?

Fucking ages, as it turns out. Thanks to a brilliant piece of design, the jack doesn’t fit under the chassis if the tyre is flat (I don’t think it’s the original jack, to be fair). I manage to wedge it under a mounting, get two turns on it, then it locks up so that you need muscles like Schwarzenegger to turn it any more…

I also discover that the brand new spare has no air in it, so is fucking useless anyway…

“Fuck this” methinks, as I chuck the jack, the handle, and everything else in the boot. I walk back home, and throw an electric air compressor, a trolley jack, a selection of sockets, a breaker bar and an axle stand - oh and a couple of screwdrivers for getting the wheel trim off - in the boot of the Range Rover and drive back down.

The air compressor doesn’t work because the tyre bead has come off the rim. So it’s tyre-change time!

Now we’re talking! The trim comes after a bit of gentle persuasion, the breaker bar makes short work of the nuts, jack it up, put the axle stand under and take the wheel off. let the jack down so that the car is sitting on the axle stand, throw the two tyres in the Range Rover, everything else in the boot of the Chevy, and drive back home to the big boy compressor, that makes short work of getting the tyre back on the bead.

It’s leaking around the bead now though - it looks as if the whole tyre has rotated about 2 inches on the wheel, and the balance weight has scraped the bead, and there’s wee bits of rubber trapped between the tyre and the rime.

Let the tyre down, and push it back from the rim, and clean out the space with soapy water and a cloth, then pump it up again. Seems to be sealed!

Throw everything in the back of the RR, back down to the Chevy, put the wheel back on, refit the hubcap, throw everything back in the boot of the RR and drive home, then walk back down and start the Chevy…

Now where were we 45 minutes ago? Oh yes - heading to see this American car man - so I set off again, and at the first roundabout, the hubcap comes off and flies into the adjacent bushes. Fuck, they are stainless steel and expensive, and not available in the UK unless you are very lucky… So I stop and go back, there’s absolutely no sign of it… bugger bugger…

So, no choice, I go on to see the Chevy man. He obviously knows his stuff, he tells me that my engine isn’t original (I knew that) but that it was originally a straight-six engine, not a V8 like the seller said. He says it’s in pretty good nick though, and that the price was about right - he’s selling one the same for much the same money.

Still pissed off at losing that wheel cover though…

Later at night, I happen to be passing again in the Range Rover, and have a brainwave. I stop on the verge and get out with a flashlight, shine it into the bushes and it reflects back like a new shilling in a coal cellar. Found it!

I decide that it would still be worth having a spare, so I decide to order 2, along with a few other bits such as spare keys, a clock etc that I had in mind anyway.

I also put the hubcap back on, and make sure it’s on properly this time!

:: Sunday, October 30, 2016 ::

I know, this has sod all to do with TVRs again, but it’s a nice day and I decide to go for a wee run in the Chevy.

So I set off into Edinburgh - not exactly “The Strip” but it’s the best I’ve got. I get the 50’s music on, and as I go in the A8, I see a crowd assembled at the far side of the road. “What’s going on there?” I wonder to myself. As I get closer, I remember that I read that one of the big dealerships is opening their new Roll-Royce franchise today, and right enough, as I get closer, I see a number of nice shiny Rollers and 2 or 3 Lamborghinis parked on the forecourt, surrounded by what I presume are carefully-selected thick-walleted launch-day guests. The only problem is that more than half of these guests have turned their backs on the new cars, and are photographing and videoing the 60-year old Chevy that’s passing on the other side of the street. How I laugh…

On the way home, I decide to drop by at the Forth Bridge for a wee bag of chips, and park up. The place is heaving though, so after the chips, I decide to have a pee, and then leave. Just as I get back to the car, though, three local hot-rods turn up, they all give me a wave and invite me to roll along the road a bit and park with them. So I do!

The yellow one is a 1934 (I think) Ford, with the same Chevy 350 engine as mine. The blue and white one is a Ford Popular, but I didn’t ask what engine it has. The Chevy pickup has a huge straight-six engine in it. They are all absolutely beautiful. The owners, not so much.

We stand and have a chat for an hour or so, about places to get bits, or advice etc. It turns out they also know a fair number of the bikers who congregate along there on a Sunday as well. Meanwhile, all 4 cars are closely inspected by the passing populace, as they do.

Then the cops turn up, we’re all parked on yellow lines, and not exactly out of the way of people who are parked properly. “Here we go” we think - but they have a look at the cars, give us a wave, and then stroll off to get a tea from the chip stall, and admire the bikes. I’m a rebel without a clue, I am.

Then it’s home time - they set off in one direction, me in another, and I get home just as it’s getting dark (the clocks went back last night so that happens earlier than I expected!).