Theodore J. Gillam
‘Cars: science or simple wizardry’
Are they mechanical maladies or magic pixies? Theo ponders.
Do your classic cars run on cold, hard science or the coordinated mobilization of a sometimes-belligerent pixie army? Do you talk to your car? Have you given the dashboard a congratulatory pat after making it to the top of a steep hill? Do your cars have names? Are they he, she or it? Perhaps these questions aren’t as weird in 2020 as they would have been fifty years ago, as manufacturers of consumerdurables nowadays seem to be actively trying to get us to bond meaningfully with our washing machines, bump our gums with our smart speakers, and find companionship with robopets and sexbots. Personally, I draw the line at anything beyond angrily berating poorly-designed white goods and swearing comprehensively at the sat-nav as it tells me I’ve arrived at my destination when I can clearly see it on the opposite side of the dual-carriageway. I’ve not yet succumbed to any animal urge to get naked and mount the toaster, anyway.
It probably does us good to ascribe some of our cars’ functions to wizardry. Cars are pretty complex things and rely on many processes all playing nicely with each other, so when it comes to things like electrical systems, and particularly the electronics in modern classics, the science can become mind-bending. A car might like one and half presses of the accelerator with the key inserted into the barrel upside-down, while you hold the gear lever hard over to the left. He/she/it might not start, bless him/her/it, if you don’t go through this strict routine. Of course, there may just be a poor engine earth-strap connection, so pushing the gear lever hard over to the left might complete the starter circuit. But it’s more likely to be the pixies playing up again. Little bastards.
It’s easier to fill in the gaps in our knowledge with a bit of magic – thankfully, the practice of sacrificing goats in order to have a favourable outcome when attempting to start one’s Morris Minor on a frosty morning has been shunned in favour of well gapped points. And Chitty Chitty
Bang Bang wouldn’t have been so much a fine four-fendered friend as a vehicle so in need of mechanical intervention, large quantities of unburnt fuel were spontaneously igniting in the exhaust system. Sorry, I’ll stop being that nasty man spoiling things with science.
Wind-tunnel efficiency or Cindy Crawford curves?
Styling-, sales- and marketing-departments would certainly like us to anthropomorphise their new automotive products. It’s claimed by some that Ford knew exactly what the Edsel’s grille looked like, purposely contriving it to subliminally attract the then almost exclusively male buyer. Sex sells, as they say, so wanging some genitals on the bonnet is clearly the most obvious thing to do. Conversely, cars that have been cynically targeted at female buyers bizarrely shun the frankly-irresistible phallus/scrotum-inspired styling cues in favour of the warmed-over retro look, pastel hues and a dashmounted vase. Today cars have all the character of a microwave, so thank goodness for those selfadhesive eyelashes for fixing above headlamps.
Any car that elicits the descripton ‘cute’ has worked at an anthropomorphic level, I’d suggest.
I’m not very clever but I suspect technology has more to do with the functional niceties of the classic car than unicorn secretions. Yet, one sidelight bulb blowing is inevitable; two shows the car’s mocking me; and three randomly blowing during the MOT is pure malevolence. And the condenser on my forklift’s Nissan Cedric engine has inexplicably gone rogue, yet again, despite only minimal use. I’m not sure whether to start some meter-based diagnosis or call a priest and have the thing exorcised.
‘It's easier to fill the gaps in our knowledge with a little bit of magic’