Tatra T2-603
… and the start of a very long Saturday for Ian
How’s this for a bit of drama, then? Our Tatra lost a wheel recently, without any warning, along with the brake drum and hub flange. But, believe it or not, I still felt very lucky indeed, for a number of reasons, even before realising quite what had just happened, or why. Less than half a mile from our house, I hadn’t even been moving at the time, I wasn’t completely blocking the road, the rest of the car was undamaged, and nobody was hurt. Mainly, though, because it hadn’t happened the previous weekend when, after a brisk motorway run, we’d been in Ironbridge for our annual Tatra rally, and taking in the steep narrow roads across the Long Mynd. I still shudder to think how things could have turned out.
From bad to worse
It was Saturday morning, and our 51-year-old T603 had passed its voluntary MOT just two days before, with no advisories. We’d decided to take the Tatra over to the shipping container we rent on a nearby farm, and my wife Kirsten was in the lead in her Signum daily driver. Approaching the bend out of our village, I’d fumbled for second on the springy column-shift but, when I found it,
I had no drive at all. It was as if the clutch had suddenly and completely failed. By the time Kirsten had missed me in her mirrors and come back, I’d already confirmed a full fluid reservoir, not that a leak would have had this effect, and was thoroughly stumped, particularly when we found that the car wouldn’t budge when we tried to push it to a safer position over the road.
Rather than hitch my trailer for a five-hundred metre repatriation, I elected to tow the old Tatra backwards and went and got our P38 Rangie and some straps. Once attached, we agreed a signal protocol. I’d hoot to say I was ready; Kirsten would hoot to say that she was, too, and if she wasn’t happy, she’d hoot again. Hoot, hoot, and I took up the slack. Immediately there was a loud clunk, and some resistance. We hadn’t actually moved. Kirsten sounded her horn, and thought I’d pulled her bumper off before realising the Rangie was still immediately behind her. A quick walkaround revealed the right-hand rear wheel up in the arch still attached to the brake drum and hub, and Tattie was resting at a jaunty angle on her brake back-plate. Excellent!
So, it was 10.45 and the car was quite immovable without a skate to support the swingaxle. Despite my best efforts, I evidently hadn’t conveyed the extent of our problem to an RAC switchboard already confused with a marque that wasn’t on their database, as the first call I got back was from a van patrol who was able to understand the need for immediate escalation of
‘It was to be just a quick trip over to the container, or so we thought…’
the response and the pointlessness of attending. Hours passed. Dozens of people paused to check I was OK – a local farmer with tractor, an elegantly-scarfed lady in a large Mercedes-benz, the police, a few people from our local pub, and I was able to introduce myself to a number of locals who I’d never met in our two decades in the village. A recovery contractor from Bicester, nineteen miles away, rang to confirm the details before concluding that his remaining two hours of tacho time weren’t going to be enough.
And the hours pass…
What he didn’t tell me was that the colleague to whom he’d be delegating our rescue wouldn’t be on shift until 6pm and, when Will arrived on the scene with his impressive new Volvo tilt-n-slide, and mercifully equipped with the skate I’d specified, it was getting dark. As it turned out, there was still some way to go because he decided he needed some back-up. I must confess that my patience at that point was wearing thin. Having done plenty of articulated transporter driving myself, I was frustrated that the pair of us couldn’t just get on with it, particularly when we learnt that the colleague allocated had been sent on a job in Leamington first, but I’ll be the first to concede that it was a professional call.
After another two hours, but within minutes of Ed’s van back-up arriving, there were cones and flashing beacons everywhere. The road was closed either side of our car and loading expertly accomplished with the skate saved the car from any damage.
Another 45 minutes later, we were finally unloading ten miles away at chum Tim Bishop’s place, ‘Mr Tatra’ who, many moons, ago was briefly a Practical Classics contributor of some repute himself. No point taking it home, after all, when my saviour was only just over the county boundary.
Kirsten came over to get me, and we eventually left Tim’s at 9.45pm, eleven hours since our ‘incident’ took place. Now, you may ask how this misfortune had actually come about? We certainly did on the drive home, but you’re going to have to wait until next time to find out all about it. practicalclassics@bauermedia.co.uk