Thom Westcott

Rov in g Repor ter

“‘How many gallons to a litre?’ I ask a little spider swinging on his thread. He is as ignorant as me”

Iremember now the main reason why I stopped using the driver’s side fuel tank on the Lightweight. It is almost impossible to know how full or, more worryingly, empty it is. For years, I became accustomed to happily relying on checking the main passenger side tank by merely undoing the fuel cap and peering inside. But, since that tank sprang a leak of spectacular proportions, I haven’t been around in England long enough to get it fixed, leaving me solely reliant on the spare tank.

Cruising up the A38 to visit my friend Ron in the mid-devon countryside, the fuel gauge is hovering just above the halfway mark. But, with gauges as unreliable as mine, this is really no guarantee. Some time back, my mechanic poured in 20 litres from a jerrycan but I am struggling to remember if I’ve really used the Lightweight much since then, and I also have no idea if there was any historic fuel still rolling around in the tank.

Maths has never been my strong point and I start doing pathetic calculations in my head as the countryside rolls by. The Lightweight User Manual offers the depressing assertion that fuel consumption is 14-16 mpg but I know my Land Rover used to fare a little better, coming in at around 18 mpg. But it was ten years ago that a patient ex who loved to establish facts through mathematical equations, worked that out.

And these days, it is fair to say my beloved vehicle is not running at optimum performance, so I think let’s call it 15 mpg.

“But, how many gallons to a litre?” I ask a little spider that has dropped down from the roof and is suspended, swinging around on his little thread just above the steering wheel. He is as ignorant as me, so I revert to working it out by price, which is the sort of inaccurate calculation process that is likely to bring any sentient man out in a nervous rash. I decide it can’t possibly cost more than £20 to drive 40 miles and reassure myself that I have enough fuel on board to make it without stopping at a petrol station. By the time I reach Ron’s, the gauge is just below halfway.

The next day, I have to drive Ron to collect his car, grounded the night before with two flat tyres, courtesy of a nasty rain-filled pot-hole that the local council had neglected to fill, apparently despite numerous complaints from residents.

The pressure is always on a bit with Ron as a passenger because he has been a driving instructor for over 20 years. Luckily, recalling an embarrassing seven-point turn I had to execute last time I left their place, I have parked down a little slope, from where I can drive straight out without any tricky manoeuvres. We climb in and I silently remind myself to avoid my usually rather excessive use of the choke. It starts second time but the engine sputters out and refuses to catch again. A fail. I try a few more times but the engine sounds quite hopeless. “Have I flooded the engine?” I ask conversationally. “Probably,” says Ron. “Leave it for a few minutes.” But the minutes do nothing to help and the engine still sounds as though it will never start again. Ron suggests deploying Quickstart.

The engine almost catches on the first application, ignores the second and third spray and by the fourth emits a disgruntled and slightly terrifying bang. It’s a suitable warning that the Quickstart is not appreciated.

I suddenly remember the fuel. If there wasn’t all that much petrol left, perhaps parking on a slope was a very bad idea, sending all that was left to one end of the tank. “Hang on, maybe it’s the fuel,” I shout to Ron, pulling off the seat and give the tank a knock. It sounds resoundingly empty. From his position by the open bonnet, Ron confirms that the little plastic fuel filter is empty. There’s nothing wrong with the Lightweight. As usual, it’s a simple case of user error.

I hadn’t bothered to refill my large jerrycan but at least the emergency threelitre jerrycan is full. Pouring it in, I conversationally tell Ron the gauge had showed yesterday that the tank was half full. He gives me a look as if to say, “Did you really just say that?” As owners of historic vehicles, we both know how useless dials and gauges are, and the exchange of looks starts us both laughing. I can actually hardly believe those words came out of my mouth. How many times have I warned others who have borrowed the Lightweight how wholly unreliable the fuel gauge is?

The Lightweight bursts into life and we head straight to the garage. I gently encourage another 20 litres in, through the ridiculously sharp-angled filling system, which constantly tries to spit the fuel back out at whoever dares to try and use it for its only purpose. A queue of cars forms behind me, each driver gradually giving up and opting for another pump. Then we fill the jerrycans as though heading off for some desert adventure.

The gauge sits at just above halfway, then dramatically rises to full, and within ten minutes is back down to halfway. With the Lightweight’s current predisposition to overheating, I’m spending almost as much time watching these useless dials as I am looking at the road. It is definitely a priority to get the other defunct tank replaced.

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