In article <FE00D5C74363AA4E9C0D729F801A464A0F39EA@EULON-
MSMBX01V.corp.enron.com>, Dashwood, Dean <dean.dashwood@enron.com>
writes
>All in all, an enjoyable weekend - and proof that your Spitfire can be
>relied on for long-distance journeys as long as it's looked after.
>
Dear Dean,
Very glad to hear that you had a great weekend. Here's the summary of
mine...
Set off for Richmond in North Yorkshire around 10.00 a.m. on Friday. I
was a little nervous about the ticking noise I had mentioned here last
week, but all seemed to go well. Carly drove perfectly smoothly and
quietly up to Leicester Forest East services, where I stopped to take
the hood down (the sun was threatening to come out...) As I was doing
so, I heard the roar of an engine behind me, and saw a peculiar-looking
black Spitfire pulling into a parking space a few yards away. I waited
for the driver to get out and come and say hullo, but she didn't, so I
walked over and greeted her, and we started to chat about her car -
which I suppose should be called a Spit Sprint, since it had a two-litre
Dolomite Sprint engine installed! The bonnet was from a GT6, and had
an extra "power bulge" for the oil filler cap. Nice car, nice girl.
I hope the windscreen repairers arrived very soon (a rock from a lorry
had pulverised the passenger side of the 'screen).
My next stop was Sheffield, where John and Saskia had kindly offered to
meet me, and take me to the Spitfire Graveyard. As you will have seen
from John's website, Saskia is in wonderful condition, and John's
craving for chrome has made her look far more of a classic than Triumph
intended in the late seventies! The Graveyard is an extraordinary
place - two inches deep in water, with more dripping from the arched
ceiling every second. Dimly lit, dank and strewn with unexpected lumps
of unidentifiable parts it was more like a pot-holing expedition than a
visit to a parts supplier, but I came away with several original parts
which had hitherto eluded me (including the correct steering wheel, and
the seat-belt retaining clips), for very little cost. Many thanks,
John, and I hope your boss did not complain too much about your two-and-
a-half hour lunch-break!
Next stop Richmond, where I stayed until Sunday morning. I had driven
up with the speedo needle around 72 mph, the temperature gauge had never
gone higher than the middle, and when I filled up on Sunday morning, I
discovered that I had achieved 39.4 mpg.
Given that Carly had behaved so well on the journey up, I forgot all my
qualms about the ticking noise (which had disappeared), and the
fragility of old cars, and bombed back down the A1 and M1 with little
regard for my speed. After the first hour of driving, I discovered
that my speedo must be reading a little low. I had been keeping the
needle under 80 (apart for one short blast to see how fast she would go
with the top down - answer, 95mph), but averaged 82mph... One hour
later I noticed that the temperature gauge was creeping up, and then,
whoosh! - there was a wet explosion from under the bonnet, and I was
pulling in to the hard shoulder. I soon discovered that the overflow
tank for the radiator had, um, overflowed...
I waited for her to cool down, topped up the radiator, checked the oil
(which also needed a top-up), and then tried to get her started again.
She was *not* happy, but eventually she went. Clouds of white smoke
poured out of the exhaust, and I was fairly sure I'd blown a head
gasket. I nursed her along the motorway until I reached the next
services (Watford Gap), called the RAC, who turned up within ten
minutes, confirmed my diagnosis, and relayed us back to Bedford.
Carly will be back on the road by Friday (with a bit of luck), with a
brand-new head gasket, and I feel sure will be happy to do 200 miles at
speeds in excess of 80 mph for the foreseeable future.
ATB
--
Mike
Michael Hargreave Mawson, author of "Eyewitness in the Crimea"
http://www.greenhillbooks.com/booksheets/eyewitness_in_the_crimea.html
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