Act1

1971

I lived in a slumlord apartment whose occupancy varied from 4 to 59 depending on the night, but which featured a large gravel carpark. It had featured a lawn and rose garden, but we discovered that gravel needed less mowing. This provided a large and useful - if somewhat alfresco - working space for the vehicles which resided. Rather fortunate considering how frequently they broke down, but budding mechanics don't always get it right. The carpark assumed the visual aura of a wreckers yard, as we all wired, hammered and spannered our way into meaningful skills - or gave up in the process.

Having thrashed the old 'Ashcan' into submission one early morning on the way back from Kaikoura, we towed it back to the flat and there it languished while I mustered enough bravado to start pulling many of its bits off. The engine was stripped revealing a holed piston, but there were other misdemeanours which meant serious expense was to be necessary. I actually purchased a brand new cylinder head for it, and via some tenuous friendships, managed to get the head 'ported' and 'polished', quite an elaborate process in those days - especially considering the choice of vehicle. Other friends knew people who knew people, and when the finances could finally support it, the motor was rebored and new pistons fitted. It used to take an entire day to organise the borrowing of such a tool as a 'ring compressor' in order to get the pistons into those shiny bores - but it was all a learning process.

My vehicle of the period, was an Austin A40 Devon, made in England by stout but retarded individuals, and exported to New Zealand in the heady days of 1952. My first car had been a 1955 MkI Zephyr, which basically finished its life with me in a rather deep gutter in Christchurch one forgettable night in 1970. The Austin was all I could afford as a replacement, and although it was pretty straight, I felt somewhat reduced in stature as I gallantly fought the column change whilst prodding the pedals vigorously in order to elicit some signs of life from the fearsome 1200cc's of English majesty. What price the Empire eh?

A large part of the fun generated by this procedure, was to do with the fact that no sane person would ever bother undergoing such an exercise. It was the adversity itself which fuelled my interest.

Much of the work was undertaken in the bedroom, being the only part of the flat to which one had exclusive rights.

During late night boozing sessions flatmates would try each others projects out for size.

The machine finally ran without much trouble, and in retrospect, performed satisfactorily. We were seldom off the road providing we had money for fuel, and 800 mile weekends were quite normal. I fitted a rev counter, and imposed a limit of 6000rpm for safeties sake, having read that dreadful things might happen to the crankshaft if I exceeded this figure. Often we made trips involving 2 or 3 cars, but invariably the idea was to put as many miles between yourself and home/work as was possible in the time allowed.

About this time I met Chris. He was a motor reconditioner of some repute, and as such was held in great esteem. Added to this was his choice of wheels - a modified 6/80 Wolseley! This was about as ridiculous as an A40, so we became friends.

I set about finding some 'Fat Feet' for it. Scored some 7" wide 14" rims at a truck spares place, and had them welded to my original centres, which despite being from 16" wheels, were a perfect fit. The only tyres I could find, let alone afford, were Dunlop SP radials, of a profile so great that they had the appearance of having fallen off a DC3. A friend who posessed some panelbeating skills was enlisted to reshape the mudguards and add a slight flare to cover the tyres. This was done by tacking a piece of steel around the arch, and filling the outer side with lead. The result was enormously strong, despite its thin edge - as my Father discovered once when he backed into it, pushing it sideways across the drive with the loss of some primer from the Austin, and serious damage to his Singer Vogue.

One night as we were screaming down Memorial Ave, I shouted "you watch how the power drops off at 6000" as we howled along in third gear, eyes glued to the rev counter. The magic figure arrived, and with it a tremendous bang, followed by a dreadful clattering as I killed the engine and coasted to a stop. Screeching with laughter we raised the bonnet to see what horrendous sight might be revealed. In the dark, we could see nothing at all, so Chris legged it to get the Wolseley and tow me home.

I absolutely couldn't wait to see what had happened inside the motor, and was frantically hauling bits off at first light. The crankshaft had broken between the rear main bearing and no4 big end, causing the no4 piston to suddenly develop a stroke of a length the block couldn't accomodate, whacking bits left right and centre. We threw a lot of stuff away, and Chris machined some used bits from local wreckers and we were in business again. Haha.