TESTING THE REALITY
1937 AUSTIN MKII RUBY
When an aunt and uncle first invited me for days and weekends out of a British boarding school, I little realized it would end on the other side of the world, at the roadside, peering under the bonnet of an old Austin that had temporarily lost the urge to go. Would foresight have changed the course of my life? I doubt it.
That uncle and aunt provided a haven of sanity during my teenage years, a stress-free oasis — albeit one laden with eccentric and aged motor vehicles. Tony had started with traction engines, moved to old cars when the engines wouldn’t fit in his garage, segued to bikes only when two cars weren’t enough, and at times had over 30 vintage and veteran motorcycles, plus two or more veteran or classic cars and a number of Victorian bicycles. Yvonne was nearly as bad — after finding chains soaking in oil in her egg pan once too often, she decided if she couldn’t beat them, she’d best join them. Her favourite vehicle was a 1927 BSA wedge-tank motorcycle with an acetylene headlight, and her daily-driver car — at least in the 1970s — was a 1937 Austin 7 Opal, a two-seater cabrio in which she sometimes returned me to school.
Tony was determined that I wouldn’t grow up la-di-da, so whenever I stayed — which wasn’t half as often as I wanted to — I’d barely get in the door before an oily rag would be thrust into my hands, and I’d soon be cleaning this or wiping that.
Acting as the lowliest of garage gophers — or, better still, perching behind my aunt, uncle, or cousins on the back of one of an assortment of elderly motorcycles or inside a creaking car — was the highlight of my life. Rides seemed a rarity compared with the times spent standing around in dim sheds, breathing the odour of oily overalls amid boxes of bits, but I soon realized it was all part of the rich tapestry of the old-car hobby.
Change of circumstances
Scroll forward a few years, and I’d landed in New Zealand, acquired a motorcycle — influenced by my aunt’s two-wheeled proclivities — and was soon writing about my exploits in a Kiwi bike mag. That subsidized my hobby and eventually led to a job.
It didn’t take long to realize that being hired on the strength of one’s passion, rather than the size of one’s pay packet, could lead to long hours and seven-day weeks, and, in the course of time, I moved on to a car magazine, where at least I didn’t freeze my wotsits off in winter. And finally, I went freelance.
Over the years, I’ve covered bikes and cars, campers and vans, jetsprint boats, and even ice golf. I knew I’d never be rich — or bored; after all, how many folk have driven a Bentley to the Great Wall of China? That the job also involved eco driving and humble Corollas was the price one had to pay.
That, and the occasional risk. Thus it was that, one day, a bike-testing injury resulted in a change of circumstances.
The BMW touring bike was sold, and, instead of pining, I decided it was time to test the reality of owning my own Austin 7 and seeing if I could keep it going.
Not one to acquire a PHD in the subject before taking the plunge, I finagled an introduction to a few Vintage Austin Register ( VAR) members and — citing feature-story requirements — a couple of 7 drives and, despite no mechanical knowledge whatsoever, found myself the proud owner of a 1937 MKII Ruby.
Of paramount importance, the engine seemed tidy and came with a wad of recent receipts: I hoped to learn a bit about the car and get hooked on driving it, before it inevitably broke down — whereupon I’d also have to learn some mechanics. In theory, by then, I’d also have the right tools — obviously none of my metric spanners was going to fit …
Flatbed delivery
I should have been suspicious when the seller forked out for a flatbed truck delivery rather than personal pickup, but, fortunately (as it turned out), it arrived just before a VAR AGM in Oratia, and, after about 26km of practising non-synchro gear changes and underpowered driving, I left at the crack of dawn for the Saturday’s events.
The headlights were laughably dim, but I arrived OK, despite problems with first gear. My fledgling mechanical sensibilities didn’t permit me to follow advice to live without it, and, fortunately, I fell on Ian’s generous offer to come and fix the glitch.
No doubt he now regrets it, as, inevitably, fixing that (by replacing a simple ball and spring) meant removing the gearbox, thus revealing that the clutch hadn’t been assembled correctly. Removing that revealed a crank that moved to and fro …
And, in short order, I had two Austin mechanical geniuses in my garage, lifting the engine out — for those engine receipts recorded payments to someone who knew less about Austins than they should have. Standard bearings had been fitted in place of tapered (as used in my 1937 three-bearingcrank MKII); those incorrect bearings had broken a retaining flange; everything had begun slapping around; and, well, I’m sure you get the picture.
Ian took the engine home and dismantled it, diagnosed whatever needed diagnosing, and so began a rapid learning curve.
He handed me the aluminium crankcase and told me where to get the flange fixed. That led to a meeting with an elderly troglodyte in a metalworker’s shed, who did an epic job and returned the case along with bags of home-grown feijoas. Then it was off to Taylor Automotive for a crank crack test — after first learning to describe what I needed. Then calls round the country in search of another crankshaft, to avoid a three-grand bill for a ‘new’ one from the UK. A Wellington VAR member stripped a spare motor; couriered a crank up; and, when that proved to be sound, refused payment.
Then I needed white metal bearings to
different sizes for the freshly machined crank, which led to long chats with quirky folk in the UK and Tauranga, and the arrival of interesting parcels …
Useful detritus
By now, I owned two sets of overalls that fit; three crankcases; two gearboxes; and, long story short, my garage was filling with potentially useful detritus. Oh, and I’d got good at grovelling to Ian, and to his wife, Diana, over the amount of time he was wasting on my car.
Ian has worked on Austins most of his life, for the joy of it, and has the increasingly rare ability to recognize what’s what and fix it. Better still, he was happy to let me watch and learn — I even reset the valves myself and ground them under his gimlet eye — so that, in future, I’d be better able to maintain my car.
Moreover, his occasional sidekick, Joss, is a sheet-metal genius who’s equally pedantic about automotive details, and as happy to help a fellow enthusiast get back on — and stay on — the road, and he, too, turned up to help when needed, including for the memorable refitting of the engine and diagnosing further problems.
My mister, more used to being in the thick of things, was our gopher that day — loading us with sandwiches and spending some time hovering over the gas hob, using flame and tin foil to melt solder from parts that should never have been soldered.
Likewise, we’d discovered that the bonnet spine was back to front, the horn was back to front, the radiator leaked, and, and, and …
It took the Austin-rescue task force a good five or six months of its spare time to get my garage ornament running again, at which point I had also learned how often to check and change the oil, how often to check the water, how to grease the grease nipples (once the three or four different types and sizes had been standardized), and a few more bits and bobs.
As a result, when the car died mere metres from home during my first post-fix drive, I was able to remove, clean, check, and replace the spark plugs on my own.
When it coughed to a halt on a blind, uphill corner not far from home some days later, I could trace the mechanism from throttle to carb and free up what was sticking, and later do the same to find a missing split pin, which was replaced with, of all things, a hair grip …
I was even, thanks to some phone tuition from Ian — who fortunately was at home at the time — able to remove the float bowl, empty it, free up fuel flow, and replace it after the car died in a West Auckland shopping centre thanks to dirt in the petrol: the car has no fuel (or oil) filter. Talk about a boost to the confidence.
I still need a few more imperial tools and other bits, though the car is now well set up with spare split pins; spare spark plugs; small oil and water containers; and, of course, electrical tape, a torch, and an assortment of screwdrivers, pliers, and multitools.
And, thanks to those VAR members, it’s also about as reliable as any 81-year-old car can be, to the point that it’s made one run already from Auckland to the Bay of Islands and back.
Now to learn how to fix the speedo and to adjust the mechanical cable brakes …