My dangerous relationship with a Fiat 127
When I first passed my driving test I was not in a financial position to afford a reliable car. Most of the cars I had were cheap and offered no guarantee of starting.
On those occasions when I was lucky enough to get the engine going, I still couldn't be sure I'd reach my destination with all the original bits intact.
One of my favourites was an old Fiat 127. I bought it from a local bloke who gave me the keys and instructions to collect it from a pub car park where it had clearly sat for some time quietly gathering pigeon shit. It was covered in the stuff. I remember thinking this was merely a cosmetic issue and was lulled into a false sense of security that all would be well once I'd given it a quick wash.
I was quite taken with its peculiar Italian styling and drove it home with my head full of thoughts of new beginnings. The relationship between my Fiat 127 and I was to go downhill quickly.
The car's MOT certificate was due to expire in less than a month so I set about a full inspection. My Dad's garage benefited from an inspection pit, a hole in the ground in which it was impossible to stand fully upright. A minor point you may think, but after a couple of hours stooping, craning your neck upwards, you would emerge crippled.
I spent just such a couple of hours under my Fiat, wire brushing, cleaning and under-sealing. Emerging, walking like I'd aged sixty years, covered in dirt and oil, I was proud of my efforts and confident that the car 'wasn't in bad shape'.
Later that week it failed the MOT on multiple counts and an era of essential repairs and crippling back pain had begun.
Rather than spend good money on a new exhaust I would effect repairs by strapping a tin can around the pipe in those areas where the rust had taken its toll. I did this so often that, at its worst, almost the entire pipe was in fact made out of tin cans, crudely fastened together by what was left of the original pipe, now a rusting and pointless skeleton.
Each time I heard a slight 'blowing' I would confidently slap another can around the hole and smear the join with sealing paste.
One evening I was driving home from work as usual. My route took me past the bus stop where many of my colleagues would be waiting for the bus home. As I drew opposite I waved, revved my 1050cc engine excessively, and sadly, the entire exhaust system snapped and fell off.
Not just a section of it, the entire pipe, front to back. The car instantly roared like a dragster, my smile fell away as I ran over the remnants of the doomed pipe, entangling it round my wheels with a sickening crunch.
Tins cans flew out of the wreckage dangerously as the remains of my makeshift pipe were dragged along, clattering wildly under the car, before finally meeting the rear wheels in a spectacular display. The car rose and fell slightly as it ran over the twisted metal.
The noise of this and my now, completely un-silenced engine, was deafening and I saw panic and disbelief on my colleagues' faces. For a local village centre bus stop this was a major incident and several passers by froze, staring and stunned by the shock and absurdity of what they witnessed.
With parts of my exhaust pipe rammed into the wheel arches the steering was crippled so I had little choice but to pull over, alongside the queue of colleagues. I got out and, perhaps out of embarrassment or possibly in an attempt to appear unflustered, I picked up the crumpled remains and hurled them to the side of the road. I then got back in and drove off at speed.
The smoke and noise were shocking and I could still be heard, like distant thunder, long after I'd disappeared up the road. It was one of the most ridiculous and embarrassing moments of my life so far and yet one that I still find strangely hilarious.
Funniest of all, the entire incident lasted no more then around a minute and I often think of how this might have looked from a bus stop spectators' point of view. The quiet calm of a village evening disrupted briefly by a reckless lunatic in a Fiat 127.
On those occasions when I was lucky enough to get the engine going, I still couldn't be sure I'd reach my destination with all the original bits intact.
One of my favourites was an old Fiat 127. I bought it from a local bloke who gave me the keys and instructions to collect it from a pub car park where it had clearly sat for some time quietly gathering pigeon shit. It was covered in the stuff. I remember thinking this was merely a cosmetic issue and was lulled into a false sense of security that all would be well once I'd given it a quick wash.
I was quite taken with its peculiar Italian styling and drove it home with my head full of thoughts of new beginnings. The relationship between my Fiat 127 and I was to go downhill quickly.
The car's MOT certificate was due to expire in less than a month so I set about a full inspection. My Dad's garage benefited from an inspection pit, a hole in the ground in which it was impossible to stand fully upright. A minor point you may think, but after a couple of hours stooping, craning your neck upwards, you would emerge crippled.
I spent just such a couple of hours under my Fiat, wire brushing, cleaning and under-sealing. Emerging, walking like I'd aged sixty years, covered in dirt and oil, I was proud of my efforts and confident that the car 'wasn't in bad shape'.
Later that week it failed the MOT on multiple counts and an era of essential repairs and crippling back pain had begun.
Rather than spend good money on a new exhaust I would effect repairs by strapping a tin can around the pipe in those areas where the rust had taken its toll. I did this so often that, at its worst, almost the entire pipe was in fact made out of tin cans, crudely fastened together by what was left of the original pipe, now a rusting and pointless skeleton.
Each time I heard a slight 'blowing' I would confidently slap another can around the hole and smear the join with sealing paste.
One evening I was driving home from work as usual. My route took me past the bus stop where many of my colleagues would be waiting for the bus home. As I drew opposite I waved, revved my 1050cc engine excessively, and sadly, the entire exhaust system snapped and fell off.
Not just a section of it, the entire pipe, front to back. The car instantly roared like a dragster, my smile fell away as I ran over the remnants of the doomed pipe, entangling it round my wheels with a sickening crunch.
Tins cans flew out of the wreckage dangerously as the remains of my makeshift pipe were dragged along, clattering wildly under the car, before finally meeting the rear wheels in a spectacular display. The car rose and fell slightly as it ran over the twisted metal.
The noise of this and my now, completely un-silenced engine, was deafening and I saw panic and disbelief on my colleagues' faces. For a local village centre bus stop this was a major incident and several passers by froze, staring and stunned by the shock and absurdity of what they witnessed.
With parts of my exhaust pipe rammed into the wheel arches the steering was crippled so I had little choice but to pull over, alongside the queue of colleagues. I got out and, perhaps out of embarrassment or possibly in an attempt to appear unflustered, I picked up the crumpled remains and hurled them to the side of the road. I then got back in and drove off at speed.
The smoke and noise were shocking and I could still be heard, like distant thunder, long after I'd disappeared up the road. It was one of the most ridiculous and embarrassing moments of my life so far and yet one that I still find strangely hilarious.
Funniest of all, the entire incident lasted no more then around a minute and I often think of how this might have looked from a bus stop spectators' point of view. The quiet calm of a village evening disrupted briefly by a reckless lunatic in a Fiat 127.
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