The first completely dry run of the year. It was a privately organised
run in mid-Wales for classics and sports cars, and as well as the usual
clutch of LBCs there were some not-so-common as a Renault Alpine, two
Buicks and a Hudson. One of the Buicks didn't want to start at the off
even with much cranking. (Frankly, I couldn't wait to get going as
there was a strong smell of petrol and some geezer smoking a cigar had
his head under the bonnet.) As it was probably the biggest thing to hit
this tiny border village for some time the local Vicar spotted us in the
pub car park and wandered over to have a look at what was going on.
My wife joked about asking him to say one for the Buick, he stuck his
head under the bonnet as well and, I kid you not, the next time they
cranked it it instantly roared into life.
Had a superb run over some spectacular Welsh mountains then 150 miles
later back to the pub for a buffet meal. Day only marred by some prat
of a non-entrant reversing into my car in a carpark despite umpteen
people shouting him to stop. He did so just as he made contact with the
rubber facing on the overider which nudged it along the bumper a little,
marking the chrome slightly despite the plastic strip. Said prat then
drove off, but not before someone got his number.
None of the Yank-tanks had made it back by the time we left for home,
neither did the support Transit (drivers motto "I only carries a lump
hammer and a tow-rope"). Maybe they couldn't find another vicar.
PaulH.
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