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.

Brighton Early.

At last. Monsoon Season would appear to be drawing to a close.

This evening, an initially cloudy sky gradually cleared enough to make it possible to take the Caterham to the inaugural meeting of the Solent Sevens, a monthly meet for Seven owners around the Solent funnily enough.

All in all an uneventulful journey, and one hampered by a higher than expected amount of traffic on the A272 an A32, our route to the pub. I blatted out with Rob in his Crossflow and by pure coincidence met up with Steve in his, which was handy as we're all heading to France (again!) in a couple of weeks. It's always good to travel in the company of fellow Crossflow drivers. They're not bogged down by fading ECUs, trick carbon fibre bits or cooling issues. They're only interested in one thing - proximity of the nearest petrol station, and nothing else matters.

Whilst owners of other variants of Seven will stand around and talk about all manner of techno-mumbo-jumbo, Crossflowers only ever discuss whose car stinks the most of oil. When run along these lines car club meets become a very simple pleasure.

On the way to the meet, I'd happened to notice a startled bunny cowering in the road with traffic passing overhead. An unusually kind streak in me came to the fore so whilst Rob and Steve pressed on for the pub, I stopped the car and went to the aid of Floppsy. But it was a tragic scene. The rabbit, although fully conscious and clearly eager to scamper away had suffered a bit of a thwack to it's rear end and as such couldn't hop anywhere. It wasn't bleeding, it wasn't squashed, it simply had two badly mangled legs. I guess the kindest thing to do would've been to thwack it's front end with similar vigour and put the poor thing out of it's misery, but then again, I felt it would be a tragedy too far to survive being hit by a car, only to then be thumped off the nearest fence post in a twisted act of mercy, so I helped Floppsy out of the road and under the hedge where hopefully he/she/it will have fallen asleep peacefully and is, right now, digging up the carrots in God's allotment.

But on to car things...

As with any Caterham meet, there were a few old faces and as many new ones, and the pub in question, "The Chairmakers" at World's End, offered some excellent beer and fine wines with some full-bodied fruitiness on offer at the bar. Steve, Rob and I did form something of a clique but this was mostly because we were discussing our forthcoming Reims trip. The conversation evolved in to talk about general blatting and how the British "summer" has all but killed off the sport this year.

It was at this point that I suggested we all blat down to the all-night cafe in Circus Street, Brighton at some stage. This is a simple, traditional market cafe which stays open all night and thus makes a good point to aim for when night-blatting in the summer. What I hadn't quite anticipated was Steve's suggestion that "at some stage" with regard to going to Brighton actually meant "tonight".

Without a decent excuse not to, as the Solent meet drew to a close, little did we know our blat was only just beginning.

With only minor wheel spin we left the pub and aimed for the coast before heading East towards Brighton, a mere 30ish miles away. Not the most inspiring blat but a blat none the less and soon enough we were parked up outside the Market Diner on Circus Street, not far from the seafront, and not far from midnight. Circus Street itself, being a market, looks like the kind of place where episodes of "The Sweeney" could've been filmed. Roller-shuttered premises line the uneven pavements whilst at one end overflowing wheelie bins erm.....overflow. There's also a nightclub at the end of Circus Street so there's always a perceived danger of damage to the cars but the revellers are mostly well behaved and besides, when we were there it was still early in the grand scheme of things. That said, whilst we partook in tea and bacon-related fare, a young lady strutted past looking like a cross between Catwoman and Fred Astaire for she wore top hat, tails and thigh length PVC boots. Which was nice. It transpired she was a Burlesque entertainer headed for the club at the end of the street although she obliged in enhancing the appearance of the cars briefly for a photo and informed us of numerous Burlesque clubs and venues in London. But London was too far for that night considering our lengthy blat to the coast in the first place.

As the nightlife started to arrive, this was our cue to leave but Rob's car decided to throw a hissy fit in a way only Caterhams can, and not start. After a bit of non-descript and inconclusive waggling of leads, flexing of hoses and general prodding and pondering the thing started and we headed sort of home.

Blasting up over Ditchling Beacon in the dark I experienced something of a first and actually caught up with an emergency services vehicle on a call, although it was a fire engine so hardly the most rapid of rapid repsonse vehicles. They stopped to attend a burning car, we contined to see to burning rubber and fossil fuels.

As Rob commented at one point way past midnight, as we clawed our way back across all of West Sussex and a large chunk of Hampshire, "This seemed like such a good idea three hours ago when we started"

And it was still a good idea.

I'd been knighted with an enormous sense of good for having helped an injured rabbit find a nicer spot to die than between a few cat's eyes, then talked car-related bollocks for a bit before blatting to Brighton where we indulged in real tea in proper china mugs before randomly but successfully tinkering with Rob's car whilst a girl dressed as a ringmaster with big but nicely proportioned PVC-clad boobs told us where she would next be swinging her semi-naked tassles in public.

All worth staying up for.

Something of a trend.

Just lately, every time I take the Caterham out of the garage, it rains with a ferocity last seen by Biblical characters best known for their wood-working skills, zoological interests and ad-hoc sea-faring.
As such there is little more to say right now.

Well oiled.

Thought it was about time the Caterham had some new oil thrown in it. My intention was to try an oil change every 6000 miles, so at nearly ten it was time.

Purchasing the oil was easy enough as I regard it as genuinely consumable so tend to go for the cheapest that Halfords has to offer, and that's saying something.

Whilst there I did consider buying a little something from their mainstream retail lines for the serious motorist, like a Sponge Bob Square Pants air freshener perhaps.

Now, despite their "I need some red paint for a 1969 Mini" advert on Dave TV, the tool pixie at Halfords (who'd previously impressed me with her knowledge of rivnut tools and her even more impressive knowledge of Halfords stock levels of these, ie none......ever) admitted they didn't even have a stock number for a sump plug and washer for a Crossflow.

So I tried the local independant motor factor who supplied me with what they assured me was the correct item. It wasn't, and I feel all the more let down due to the fact that they tried to take the upper hand. At least Halfords had the decency to admit defeat.

With the front of the Seven up on axle stands, I undid the sump plug and out glugged the old oil, thick, black and looking like the stuff when it comes spurting out of the ground in Texas.

I drained the oil in to a handy drip tray cum jerry can that I'd borrowed from fellow crossflower Rob. It's better than a normal open drip tray in so much as it's takes the form of a container with a huge hole in one side with a massive screw cap, about the size of a 7" single, to go over it once full of oil. This means the container can be instantly manhandled and moved around without spillage, and without the delay of waiting for the oil to drain in to a sealable container. Simple but effective like all things befitting an aluminium car.

When it came to refilling the engine with oil, I discovered the kitchen measuring jug was already lurking in the garage. This suggests I pay attention to precise liquid quantities more in car care than I do in cuisine.

Three litres of oil plus what was in the filter. Done.

Bring me sunshine. (Please!)

It's August. The news should be full of stories of roads melting, ice cream sales breaking all records and topless sunbathers in Hyde Park.
But it is not full of stories like this. August is now known as "Monsoon Season".
Both times I've taken the Caterham out lately it's acted as some kind of offering to the Gods of Precipitation who have responded by dumping a month's rain on parts of Hampshire in half an hour.
On Sunday morning I cast my eyes skyward for ages before taking the bull by the proverbial horns and blatting over to Goodwood for their monthly breakfast club. A good showing of classics despite the iffy weather. And a good turn out of Sevens too, along with a few faces I'd not seen in a while.
But on the return journey, not ten miles from home, a torrential microburst of rain turned the road in to a river. I was faced with something of a dilemma at this stage. To keep going and increase speed in order to increase the slipstream and thus stay a bit dry, but risk aqua-planing in to a hedge, or slow down for safety's sake and get soaked.
I opted to stop, hoist that essential motoring accessory the golfing umbrella, and let the rain subside. And I must say once cocooned under the brolly things didn't seem so bad. OK, the rain continued, and in places it still dripped in, but somehow it evoked an "It could be worse" atmosphere. All that was missing was a nice cup of tea to really see things off. Note to self, must carry flask next time rain is imminent.
The second drenching was tonight when Rob and I set off for a pub meet near Abingdon. Again we were swamped by a Biblical deluge. This was worse than Sunday and, having foolishly placed all our weather-protection eggs in the Met Office basket of "overcast but dry", neither of us had full doors fitted (forgot the flask too).
Eventually we aborted the trip and dashed (at a whopping 40mph) for home.
Still, it wasn't a wasted journey as I learnt by accident that a half hood and half doors aren't really compatible as the doors need to be in place before climbing in the car, and to climb in requires the roof not to be fitted, which it was at the time.
Still, at least it wasn't dark.

Moving. Pictures.

A short montage of photos from Normandy.
Enjoy. Reflect. Remember.