Roadside shenanigans
THE Lightweight’s gears feel odd this morning when I start the engine, and slightly tricky to engage. At the first set of traffic lights, they are tough but manageable. At the second set, when I try to change down to second for the corner, it will not be engaged. I deploy the hazards and repeatedly try to work through the gears.
Reverse is the only one seemingly accessible but that’s no good to me here. Irate drivers try to get round me, with one whisking past the central bollards on the wrong side of the road, which is both dangerous and, I believe, an offence carrying a three-point penalty.
Then suddenly they work again. I pull over at a nearby petrol station to grab a coffee but, back behind the wheel, it’s again a herculean task to engage any gear other than reverse. When I do eventually manage, I decide to proceed to the allotment – just one set of lights, one pedestrian crossing and three corners away.
With relief, I park up in a safe off-road spot, giving the gears a few more hopeless tries. Ominously, the clutch is also now feeling spongy.
It takes ages to get through to the RAC, but when I do, it’s to the nicest man with a reassuring northern accent who owns a trike. I’ve always loved trikes. He is ex-army, correctly identifies my vehicle as an air portable, and we have a nice initial chat about military Land Rovers. When we get around to the mechanical issue at hand, he speculates it could be fixable – outlining a recent similar experience of his which was not the dreaded clutch itself but merely a malfunctioning cable – and puts me down for roadside assistance.
The RAC is very active with text messages, its first stating: ‘We should be with you within 180 minutes’. (I guess this sounds better than three hours.) After 60 minutes, another text informs me that, ‘due to the high temperatures in your area, more people are breaking down. Rest assured, we’re working to get to you and will update you in 30 mins’. These days, businesses will jump on any excuse – Covid-19, the weather, whatever – to justify poor service.
At least there’s always plenty to do on an allotment so I can pass the time usefully, but another hour later, I am still awaiting that promised update.
Roadside assistance arrives on the dot of three hours from my original phone call. The mechanic is a youth who fails to inspire confidence by not even knowing how to open the driver’s door (which isn’t locked). He presses the clutch pedal and then peers under the bonnet with a torch. “Oh, it’s a hydraulic system,” he says, sounding surprised. Assuming ignorance on my part, he offers the brief (unrequested) explainer: “That’s a system with a master cylinder and a slave cylinder, where the master drives the slave.”
He says the best-case scenario is replacing the master cylinder, before adding gloomily: “But it’s a can of worms once you start working on these and there could be something wrong with the clutch, too. The main problem will be replacement parts for something this old.” He’s clearly not a fan of older vehicles. “Anyway, it will have to go in,” he announces. “I’ll order you a recovery.”
Another 180 minutes drag past and I’m feeling as though I have sustained dual foot and shoulder injuries from trying to engage unwilling gears under pressure.
“Hello!” shouts the recovery guy cheerfully. “Now, according to my notes, you were directed to us from the RAC, which probably means you have been waiting around three days.” It certainly feels like it.
He decides to reverse the Lightweight back onto the road and line it up for the recovery; a good option as reverse is the only gear still remotely accessible.
Nonetheless, I’m grateful this unenviable task now falls to him rather than me.
The Lightweight doesn’t always take kindly to new drivers and won’t start. I suggest a bit of choke and he pulls it on full, which I know will lead to a stall but, conscious of seeming overbearing, I say nothing until it does, then suggest a little less choke.
It’s rather fun to watch the manoeuvring. As I’m usually in the driving seat, I rarely get to see the Lightweight being driven, and it really is a comely vehicle.
Despite its attractive qualities, the busy Hemel Hempstead garage will hardly be delighted to see it back within a fortnight of its departure after an already protracted sojourn on their forecourt. I’ve phoned ahead so don’t need to accompany it in, but as the nascent foot pain is now a throbbing ache, I blag a lift back to the Fella’s with the nice recovery driver.
I give him a giant courgette – despite eating mandatory courgette with every meal, it’s proving impossible to keep up with the sheer numbers being produced in the allotment – climb aboard and ask why the RAC waits are so long.
“The AA are much faster. People think the RAC and the AA are similar sized companies [I was one of them] but it’s not true at all. The RAC is tiny by comparison,” he says. I explain I defected from the AA after they sent me a rude letter suggesting I changed my vehicle after one unfortunate year when I had to call them out five times, before doubling my annual premium for using the maximum allotted call-outs. “Well,” he says. “On their TV adverts, the AA claim to offer unlimited call-outs, so maybe it’s time to change.”
Limping towards the Fella’s house, I turn to watch the now-elevated Lightweight’s departure on the truck. Hopefully, it’ll just need a new master or slave cylinder. As for me, I need an ice-pack.
“I give him a giant courgette, climb aboard and ask why the RAC waits are so long”