| Motoring Discussion > Your old motoring memories | Miscellaneous |
| Thread Author: legacylad | Replies: 13 |
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New Sun 20 Sep 15 08:10
Your old motoring memories - legacylad
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I saw my brother recently and he showed me a digital montage of old photos put together by a mutual friend. It was of a road trip my brother and several friend made to the south of France, circa 1975. We all used to play 5 a side together twice a week, but for some reason I could not join them ( work commitments probably). We were in our late teens, and the three car convoy consisted of an old mini, Fiat 127 Sport & a Spitfire. Lots of photos showing the journey South, campsites, along the Med coast, Monaco etc. Dubious fashion, slightly flared trousers, 28'' waistlines or less, long hair and not a spare ounce of fat anywhere. 40 years on they are all still alive, married, grown up kids, a few health issues and a bit more flesh around the middle. Blimey, those cars looked small compared to the modern stuff. Made my day looking at those pics. |
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New Sun 20 Sep 15 09:29
Your old motoring memories - Old Navy
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| Some folk here poke fun at my Yaris. I is an improvement on some of the cars I owned as a youngster, it even has a heater and radio! |
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New Sun 20 Sep 15 09:45
Your old motoring memories - Aretas
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| A friend and I bought a Wolseley 6/80. Cost us £9 each. Had to hammer 4x4 into the sills through the rusty holes. However, as part of our technical college education we designed and fitted it with transistorised ignition. (1964). I didn't do anything for the performance or fuel consumption but it meant cleaning and adjusting the points was a thing of the past. |
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New Sun 20 Sep 15 10:10
Your old motoring memories - legacylad
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further to ONs Yaris Are any other cars named after countries with the letters jumbled around ? Thread drift. Sorry. |
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New Sun 20 Sep 15 10:25
Your old motoring memories - Zero
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>> further to ONs Yaris >> Are any other cars named after countries with the letters jumbled around ? >> Thread drift. Sorry. If there were, not sure I would chose Syria! there are loads named after places without being jumbled around. |
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New Sun 20 Sep 15 10:44
Your old motoring memories - WillDeBeest
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| FB's Levorg (is that real? I've not looked it up) is 'grovel' spelt backwards. |
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New Sun 20 Sep 15 21:37
Your old motoring memories - Roger.
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| Putting my A35 on its roof in front of the left hand lion of the two decorating the steps to Nottingham's Council House. |
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New Sun 20 Sep 15 23:34
Your old motoring memories - bathtub tom
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Rolling my Hunslett Scootacar : farm1.static.flickr.com/22/32004333_42f590f0bb_m.jpg onto its LH side (the only door was that side). Fortunately the front and rear screens popped out, letting me crawl out. I'd just topped up the fuel tank, which lay horizontally across the rear, meaning half the fuel was pouring out due to an ill-fitting fuel cap. The front screen was triplex and undamaged, the rear was perspex and had minimal scratches. Cost me around a fiver to have them re-fitted. Sorry to any subsequent owners of 192 HTM, but that may explain the scratches down the LH side. |
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New Mon 21 Sep 15 08:14
Your old motoring memories - Dog
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Spending the night in our mrk 2 Cortina in a lay by somewhere in the South of the Isle of Wight, probably near Ventnor. We'd hit the island too late to find a B&B so wifey slept on the back seat and I somehow slept in the front. Pitch, pitch black outside, couldn't see a damn thing. In the middle of the night we could hear these really strange noises outside - we were too frightened to open our eyes even. When the noises passed by the car, I put the headlights on - it was a herd of horses :) That's what comes from watching too many Hammer Horror films!! |
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New Mon 21 Sep 15 10:04
Your old motoring memories - Crankcase
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>> That's what comes from watching too many Hammer Horror films!! Can't say as any Hammer film has ever induced even the faintest frisson for me, Dog, although some are good fun. As to motoring memories... Car breakdown years ago - first car. Morris Minor. Night, on my own, motorway, hear odd noise from engine. Pull over. Lift bonnet. Nothing to see here. It's dark. Decide to check oil. Take out dipstick. Can't see level, as dark. Get oil on hands. Can't now find dipstick receptacle, as dark. Poke grumpily. Burn hand. Glasses fall off into engine bay. Now starts to rain. Can't find them, as, er, well, dark. Recover glasses, which now sit permanently askew on nose. Lenses covered with oil. Clean them on shirt tail. Glasses no cleaner, shirt now a write off. Get in car. Very wet. Very oily. Start car. Seems ok. Drive a few feet, another odd noise from underneath. Decide exhaust has dropped off. Stop car again. Get out. Dark. No torch. Lie inadvertently in oily puddle by car in hard shoulder, scanning small segments underneath as other cars light it up for pico seconds at a time. Now pouring. Finally discover it's the passenger seat belt dangling out of the door. Get back in. Muttering now at intensity level ten. Drive off. Passenger door flies open. In towering rage now refuse to stop again, reach over when driving to slam it. Passenger door handle comes off in hand. Weave tapestry of invective. Reach destination and explain to girlfriend for some hours why so late. Disbelieved. Learn lesson about torches, oil, waterproof coats, and basic common sense. Forget all lessons instantly. Wait for car to breakdown again. It does so within a week. Stuck at red light with steam pouring out. Fire engine appears behind with blues on. Firemen dither uncertainly then roar past. No water. Go to corner newsagent and buy only suitable liquid. Top up radiator with lemonade. Fill up on way home. Put in half gallon of diesel by mistake. Car goes like the clappers for a month, but leaves trail of blue pollution that hangs over the West Country to this day. Visit girlfriend again. Can't afford overnight accommodation, so sleep in car on Dartmoor. Passenger seat out and turned sideways, feet in glovebox, only mild agony. Asleep. Pitch dark. Hear car. Half awake. Hear footsteps. Fully awake. See torch coming my way. Car shaking in time with terror. Knock on glass. Inarticulate squeaking. Urine about to squirt. Voice says "Oh, sorry Sir. Thought you were dead". Police drive away. Sleep remains elusive. Next month. Loud bang. Cracked engine block. "Fix it" with Polyfilla. Runs for another six months, still going strong when sold, as long as watered every few miles. MBM 559G may still be out there for all I know. Ah, happy times. Last edited by: Crankcase on Mon 21 Sep 15 at 10:06
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New Mon 21 Sep 15 10:12
Your old motoring memories - Roger.
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| Helping (in a modest hand-painting & coffee making way) to build Sir Frank Williams first competition car: an A40 Farina with a Formula Junior engine. |
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New Mon 21 Sep 15 20:24
Your old motoring memories - Cliff Pope
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An Austin A30 costing £5 shared between six of us at Cambridge in 1970. It jumped out of 2nd gear so required holding with one's left hand, and on left-hand corners the driver's door catch didn't work so the door had to be held shut with the right hand. The leather door stay was broken so the door would swing right round and bang against the front wing. Sometimes it would rebound and slam shut again. We sold it for £40 after a year and bought a much better one for £30. |
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New Sat 26 Sep 15 13:31
Your old motoring memories - hawkeye
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It's 1976 and I am the proud owner of a pale green Fiat 128 Rallye, GNW 118N. It's got sports seats, driving lights at the front and a factory-fitted oil pressure gauge. After a succession of ancient bangers, this is the newest car I've owned. I've a 10 min drive across Leeds to pick up a girl I met a few days ago. Feeling smug because I've got a 'proper' car and a hot date, I settle in the Recaro-copy seat and turn the key. There's a feeble tick from the starter, the dash lights go out and immediately thick smoke billows up at me from under the steering wheel. There's a faint crackling sound from near my feet and the stench of electric insulation chokes me. I switch off and tug the bonnet release, bail out and wrench off a battery terminal. There's no smoke under the bonnet but I can't see anything of the interior through the windscreen. This is a bad start. I force my handkerchief into the windscreen washer spout, retrieve it, crouch down and open the car door looking for flames to damp down. There are none so I pocket the soggy handkerchief. Later, it will look to my date as though I've wet myself. Patting my Levis for change, I leg it down the street to the phone box. My job is with an Italian typewriter and office machine company whose engineers run signwritten white Morris Minor and Mini vans. One engineer owes me a favour so I call him and plead with him to lend me his Minor van. Not a problem, he's in all evening. Could he pick me up? To the accompaniment of female giggling, he claims he's too busy. Now I understand what he meant by 'in all evening'. I sprint to the bus stop and take the 15 min ride to his house. He drops the van keys into my hands from an upstairs window. I'm now 45 mins late and there isn't a phone at my date's house. It's not going well. The van starts at once and I boot it up the street; the rear axle clatters up and down and the skinny rear tyres chirrup. I am a complete hooligan, but at least I'm mobile. Four junctions later, still driving like a loon, I decide I can make a gap in the traffic but the engine coughs and the van lurches forward in front of a rep's Cortina. An irate horn rips the air as tyres squeal to a halt. The engine is shuddering now so I key the starter to help the van onto the pavement out of the way. Ignoring the passing V-sign from the Cortina, and with engine now completely dead, I can hear the chatter of the SU fuel pump sucking vapour. It's a futile gesture but I tap the glass of the speedo over the fuel gauge. The needle points to "E". I'm over an hour late, halfway between rage and hysteria, and I'm guessing the evening will be a write-off. I know there's a garage not far away so I set off at a run. More pleading and I'm allowed to borrow an empty gallon oil can so I trot back to fill the van up. I deftly splash a pint of petrol onto my jeans and soak one of my socks. My aftershave is now overwhelmed by smoke, petrol and sweat with undertones of washer fluid, and it's getting on for 2 hours since I should have been saying hello to - the future Mrs H. Last edited by: hawkeye on Sat 26 Sep 15 at 13:32
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New Thu 22 Oct 15 18:27
Your old motoring memories - Armel Coussine
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Sorry if you've seen this before. When I had my super-slow 425cc Citroen Bijou I once raced Tom Jones through Mayfair. On my left at some lights was a new silver RR S type thing. When the lights changed it squatted on its haunches and went into a warp launch in a cloud of petrol vapour, then braked hardish for the next red light. As I puttered up beside it I glanced to the left, and upward, to see who the heavy-footed one was. It was Tom Jones, then at the height of his early glory. The lights changed and we did the same thing again, and again a couple of times before our paths diverged at Park Lane. One couldn't help admiring the sheer Toad-like waste of it, but it was crass driving all the same. Every 300-yard dash another tenner's worth of petrol, oil, metal and rubber. Seventies I think, but it was ages ago. Reminded by a thing on the box that mentioned Jones a day or so back. |
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