THOM WESTCOTT

Rov in g Repor ter

“My mechanic seems so attuned to cars, he is almost part-car”

MY LIGHTWEIGHT has become a reflection of the vagaries of the English weather – either freezing cold or dramatically hot. It has always run pretty warm and I’ve become accustomed to topping up the ever-thirsty radiator before every drive, but it’s getting worse. I know this is probably indicative of some kind of serious mechanical difficulty but, as I am still waiting for my new petrol tank to be fitted, I am loath to task my clearly overworked mechanic Tim with anything else.

Before heading over to Totnes to collect my friend Claudia from the train station, I dutifully top up the radiator. Within a few miles, the needle is at the top-end of the red on the temperature gauge. When this happens on a long trip, I usually pull over, grab a coffee and read my book for 20 minutes and we’re both good to go. But it’s unusual on a short run and I’m already running late, so I must press on.

When Claudia, sitting in a miserable heap of rucksacks outside the station, sees the Lightweight, a smile spreads across her face. She has heard a lot about this vehicle over the years but has never seen it. “Oh, I feel better already,” she says, heaving the rucksacks into the back.

A short stop in Totnes does nothing to curb the overheating, and the dial is straight back up into the red, pushing all thoughts of refuelling from my mind, a grievous oversight since I’m now reliant on the tricky spare tank with the dodgy fuel gauge.

“It’s very warm in here,” Claudia shouts above the engine, trying to open the window. We’re driving up an incredibly steep hill in a narrow country lane and, as I start to explain there’s a bit of a problem, the engine sputters, chokes and cuts out. “Oh dear, is it broken?” she asks. “No, I think we’ve run out of petrol,” I say. “Apart from being embarrassing, it’s fine.”

I hop out to tell the driver behind that I’ve run out of petrol, so we’ll both have to reverse until we reach a wider stretch where he can get past me. He kindly pulls alongside and offers me a lift to a petrol station, but you only run out of petrol once before realising that having a full jerry can on board at all times is essential.

I top up the fuel, dig out enough dried-out old moss from the passenger window with a screwdriver to start a botanical experiment, which at least provides Claudia with a supply of fresh air, and we’re off again.

As a non- driver, Claudia is not best-placed to give mechanical critique and, as a hardened traveller, she is used to enduring endless problems and is a tolerant and faintly oblivious passenger. But, when I take my friend Tony to a tractor yard out in the sticks to buy a new starter motor and alternator for his boat engine a few days later, he is a little more vociferous. “It’s hot in here,” he says, some seven minutes into our journey. “Blimey, you could cook an egg on this,” is his next gambit, as his large fisherman hand lightly touches the heater. “Bloody hell, I’ve burned my foot,” he declares a bit later, trying to press his enormous self into the door, as far as possible from all the black metal encasing the gearbox and heater, which is now practically red-hot.

The final insult of a long journey in an overheating sunattracting black Land Rover on a very hot English summer’s day, is those design classic (flawed) vinyl seats, which induce a terrible sweat. When we finally arrive, Tony reels out of the Lightweight declaring he needs a shower and has sustained an elbow injury. I tartly ask him if he wants to walk home carrying his new starter motor.

The amazing tractor place is a real Devon special. A large workshop, a small office and an incredibly well-organised parts department nestles in a tractor graveyard, where hundreds of pieces of ex-tractors are piled up in a very organised fashion. I wander around and, under my breath, warn the Lightweight to take a good look around and buck its act up if it doesn’t want to end up in a similar situation.

On the journey back, Tony speculates that the thermostat is seized and advises me to remove it. Despite sounding like an essential engine component, apparently its main role is the heater and helping the engine run nice and hot, something that’s clearly unnecessary right now. Fearing I might seriously damage the engine if I take any more trips with it running at this temperature, after dropping Tony and his new engine parts back at the boat, I phone Tim my overworked Mechanic and beg for help. He agrees to take a look, practically climbing into the engine to troubleshoot, reminding me why I’m so fond of him as a mechanic as he seems so attuned to cars, he is himself almost part-car. He says everything’s in place and running pretty much as it should. “What about taking out the thermostat?” I ask, expecting the notion to be rubbished, but he agrees that it’s a sensible short-term measure.

Now thermostat-less, the Lightweight has gone from having a temperature gauge with the needle permanently stuck at the top of the red zone to one where it can barely climb more than a few millimetres into the white zone. And it overheats no more.

Thom Westcott is a British freelance journalist who has written for the Times and Guardian, and now mostly spends her time reporting from Libya.