Some you win, some you lose...

It's been a few days of contrast in the world of aluminium car ownership.

After the success of the Caterham's MOT a few weeks ago, the Land Rover faired less well and although entrusted to the care of Keith Gott Land Rover for the week, it needed more than a little attention to see it through the annual examination. This was doubly disappointing. Normally, Gotts are very good, especially their service manager Trev, in agreeing what needs doing, what can be left, and then what's a simple enough job for me to tackle, and what might need their specialist tools and facilities. For the MOT there was nothing that would've been beyond fixing at home, simple bolt-off, bolt-on repairs, but with Trev on holiday it was all done by the book without exception. Can't complain really, the total bill came to a few quid short of £700 which for a light commercial vehicle (and let's face it that's what a Land Rover is) isn't too bad. With a bit of luck it should be pretty solid for the next couple of years. One worrying discovery was a hole in the intercooler. How long it's been there I really can't say, but it's compromising performance, economy and cleanliness as pressurised oily boost air is simply blowing overboard.

In light of the unexpectedly high cost of the MOT, I've left the intercooler for now. The car isn't being used day to day, so it can afford to sit until I can source a suitably priced replacement item.

The Caterham on the other hand has seen plenty of use. On Friday I blatted down to Soberton for the second Solent Sevens meeting. Great little drive out, but no trip to Brighton this time.

Then on Saturday I dashed across to Penn for the appropriately named Penn Sevens meet. Again a great day out, the only problem being the good weather drew the rest of the English-speaking world on to the UK's roads.

Then this morning, I took a cross-country blat to the other side of Petersfield to collect some heavy duty axle stands from Felix, a fellow Blat Chatter.

Friday and Saturday were good drives, today was just brilliant. I used a satnav and, on the way home, created my own rural blat by deliberately ignoring the satnav commands and turning left when it said to go right, and right when it said to go left. The result was a thoroughly involving drive down some interesting lanes around Petersfield, East & West Meon and Alresford, complete with horse poo land mines, the waft of freshly harvested hay and that rich silage aroma in places.

Going over Butser Hill afforded some great views. Alas I didn't have a camera but trust me, it was great, and if ever somewhere deserved to be a location for a Carry-On film based on name alone, I think Butser Hill is it.

Some of the lanes were empty and almost straight, certainly straight enough to give it some beans and see if the clutch still slips at higher revs - which it doesn't (more of that later). Elsewhere, even tiny country lanes were choked with Rover 25s and Volvos whose owners, having completed the Mail On Sunday crossword, were taking their tartan travel rugs out for its yearly road trip. This gave rise to plenty of reminders as to just how pokey the Seven can be when it comes to overtaking. Mind you, what never ceases to amaze me is how drivers of Sunday-afternoon taxis meander along some fantastic unrestricted roads, doggedly sticking to 42mph, and preventing any overtaking by running their off-side wheel along the cats' eyes, reducing onward visibility for any following cars, and narrowing any potential overtaking lane, and in doing so kid themselves they're safe drivers and doing society a moral service. Of course, passing through small villages and towns with 30mph limits, still doing 42mph is neither here nor there.

Then there are drivers of German cars, who barge on through towards oncoming traffic whilst occupying at least two thirds of the available road width assuming they have superiority based simply on their German roots and with an attitude that says "Yes it is an Audi, so by default I do own the road, and if it weren't for some boisterous nineteen-year-olds in Spitfires you'd all be driving them by now". Some things never change. I noticed nearly all German cars are silver too, about as individual and inspired as their drivers.

But, without doubt, the best entertainment of the whole weekend, nay the entire month, was the biker I encountered on the A272. This is a favourite haunt of bikers, more so with good weather, so rather than try to out gun them, I let them pass and wave them through. Seeing what I though was a fairly high spec sports tourer fill the rear view mirror, on a straighter stretch I gave a quick left-indication, and sure enough the bike streamed past. Imagine the mixture of surprise and near-embarrassment when it turned out to be not a monster Ducati or rapid Suzuki, but one of those silly two-stroke look-a-like racers with the ubiquitous bee-in-a-biscuit-tin exhaust note. Oh the shame. Still, with a bhp/ton ratio lodged barely in double figures the bike made an entertaining target to follow, the enjoyment added to by the rider's ambition/talent ratio which was lodged firmly in single figures, probably less than one in fact. Mind you, at least he was trying to make progress, and that more than made up for all the dreary grey people in dreary grey German saloons.

But overall another great day out, and the clutch no longer seems to slip. This first came to light on the way back from Reims when, if the throttle was opened up fully from mid-range revs, the clutch would let go slightly and the revs climb away with no affect on the car's speed.

I adjusted the cable length, looked for obvious signs of contamination but all to no avail. Whilst the pedal box was opened up, I did notice a spring attached to the clutch pedal that appeared to work against the clutch, and exerted a pressure as though the clutch pedal was being ridden. Sure enough, when the mystery spring was disconnected, the pedal and clutch cable relaxed a little, so for today's trip I removed it completely and sure enough, problem apparently solved.

I've probably removed something like "The Chapman Springette", that essential part, that critical component that lurks in every car and appears to serve no purpose other than to render the car un-driveable should it be removed and I'll no doubt get an e-mail from someone explaining at length why it needs to be there. Until then, it'll remain disconnected under the heading of "If its removal improves things, and its refitting makes no discernible difference, don't refit it".

In other news, I put up some more shelves in the garage. A man can never have enough shelves.

Relentless Rain Runs Rings Round Reims Revival.

It was always going to be ambitious.
Getting to Reims isn't that big an ask, despite previous attempts being thwarted, but getting there after a normal working day on Friday, then getting back in time for a normal working day on Monday AND taking in the 2nd Automobile Excellence Weekend long the way is quite a bit to pack in. More so when the Channel Tunnel catches fire 24 hours before one is due to depart.
In the company of Steve and Rob a small formation from Crossflow Squadron headed for Dover in mixed showery weather fully expecting to get delayed for hours due to all the Tunnel traffic being diverted to Dover and it's iconic White Cliffs. Sailing across to the equally iconic Dunkerque with Norfolk Lines was surprisingly pleasant experience and we used the time on board to eat and catch up with some vital blokey talk about Crossflows.
By the time Dunkerque hove in to view it was around midnight, but this then led to an awesome night drive down to St Omer, across flat, misty fields. We did have a quick stop for fuel, and this was a bit weird. A totally deserted filling station, with just us, and a couple in a Mercedes who showed a more than passing interest in the Caterhams. A distinctly continental approach ensued, with the first question not being the quintessentially chavtastic "'Ow fast does it go mate?", but a more technically astute "How much does it weigh?".
Despite some spirited driving and empty roads we arrived at our night stop around 3am and maybe just a little too soon we were sat in breakfast. Some of the accents in the dining room suggested some Bosch spies were in the area, so we slipped away unnoticed and continued to Reims. At first the weather was epic, clear blue skies and bright sunshine, ideal for blatting, but as the morning turned in to afternoon the heavens gradually opened until we had little choice but to stop and add roofs to the Sevens.
At first, we hoped this would be a temporary measure but as we got closer to Reims the rain got heavier and it slowly became apparent that the rain was in for the day.
Arriving at the circuit the first hint of the driving we'd come to see was a series of random diversions around the route of the old circuit. The Gendarmes stood around as only Gendarmes can, sending us in completely the wrong direction but with such nonchalance as to appear convincing.
After a little scouting round we found ourselves on short finals to the muddy field that doubled as a carpark for the weekend, but on seeing a tractor already struggling to return cars to the tarmac we made the reluctant but ultimately wise decision to abort for the day and simply head for our hotel. This was a great little bolt-hole, offering individual garages for the Sevens, and after emptying the cars, giving them a quick clean and drying out our kit from the day, we forgot the idea of seeing any circuit driving for the day and debriefed the day's excursion over beers and, obviously, Champagne. Reims city centre was drizzley and grey, but enhanced by the presence of an amateur jazz band who had apparently got lost on their way to a football match.
Next morning, although the rain was gone it left behind a muddy quagmire in the fields around the Circuit de Gueux. So we stopped short and parked up the kites on a nearby access road and walked the short distance to the centre of activity. Despite reservations about the effect of the previous day's weather, the effort in getting to the circuit was rewarded with some up close and personal motoring action. Unlike similar events in the UK, the Automobile Excellence weekend allowed us to really mix with some classic machinery - to touch it, smell it and feel the heat dissipating from the engine after a few sprightly laps round the old circuit. It was all very informal and relaxed, typically French with none of the Health and Safety nannying so common elsewhere.

At some points, we could get to within ten feet of the track edge, and although the cars were being driven with a degree of restraint, the dust kicked up by the tyres mingled with the smell of hot oil every time a classic went by. Although only a small event in its very earliest stages, the Automobile Excellence weekend oozed atmosphere, with the Bugattis and Bentleys looking all the more authentic for the addition of some mud in their tyres and the signs of general weathering.

All too soon it was time to head for home, the return journey being far easier due entirely to much more favourable weather. That said, we successfully missed our pre-booked ferry causing a two-hour delay. Bloody French.
But it had been worth it. And we'll be going back next year.