The End of an Era

I don't usually post anything too personal but today is a bit different. It marks the end of 3 years of travelling by car to work.

Please take a moment of your time today to reflect upon the fact that it is the last official day Muppet parks the Spider at work. Transport for London here I come (I've not saved enough for the bike yet) be gentle with me.

Eastern [engine] Bloc

The Czech Republic. Capital city Prague.

It is home to the imaginatively named Prague Castle, the largest ancient castle in the world, its architecture famously haunted Franz Kafka and stole screen time from Tom Cruise in Mission Impossible. TV’s show a cartoon about a mole called ‘The Mole’, you can consume enough Absinthe to make you a bit do-lally and some of the best beer you’ll ever have; snaffle rabbit stew; pay respects at Kafka’s final resting place; frown at a TV tower adorned with scary babies crawling skywards and listen to some Mahler.

But it is not such delights to which tourists flock from miles around to part with their hard earned pennies that I wish to bring your attention. For it is another wretched beast from this hinterland that has captivated my imagination; sour of face and sharp of tail, later incarnations were ridiculed by the masses and belched an acrid poison in defiance.

The Skoda.

Perhaps it is somewhat ironic that the name Skoda means ‘pity’ in the Czech language, you think someone might have had some inkling as to what the future had in store?

Some of the best jokes I told at school were Skoda jokes. Here’s a selection of my favourites:

Q: “what do you call a skoda convertible?”
A: “a skip”

Q: “why do Skodas have a heated rear windscreen?”
A: “to keep your hands warm whilst you push it”

“I’ve just bought the new 16 valve Skoda ...4 in the engine, 12 in the radio!”

And my personal favourite:

Q: “What's the difference between getting out of a Skoda and getting out of a sheep?”
A: “You don't get so embarrassed if someone sees you getting out of a sheep.”

Obviously since Volkswagen became owners in 1991 Skoda’s fortunes have been on the upturn. This year Skoda celebrates it’s centenary so I decided to lavish some attention on the little cars.

Skoda started life as somewhat of a luxury car maker (no giggling at the back), producing their first car ‘Voiturette Laurin & Klement A’ in 1905, prior to that they made bicycles and then motorcycles, struggling through both World Wars when much of their production went towards the war effort; Skoda continued to succeed producing motor ploughs which helped keep the firm afloat.

Fast forward a few decades and the Skoda I know produced some oddities, the Trekka for example, looked like a Land Rover after a few too many sherberts down the Dog and Duck and the 1980s car to which all those jokes became synonymous, the Favorit, which was surprisingly perhaps, designed by an Italian; Nucio Bertone.

Skoda has been able to shake off the ghosts of their previous years, they are no longer the recipient of jokes and sniggers, and are emerging towards the top end of customer satisfaction polls; the Fabia has just recently been awarded ‘What Car?’ best supermini for the third consecutive year. And in motorsport they are hugely successful rally car manufacturers.

The new found integrity in the brand is on the upturn. It’s official we have to find a new joker in the automotive pack.

This particular Skoda however is old school, it’s a 1962 Felicia, and has captivated my imagination. With more than a nod to the ‘57 Chevy with it’s Americana style cues, it is a car I’ve never seen ‘in the flesh’. In recent years Skoda have revisited the Felicia name but the two cars could not be further apart, sharing merely a name.

It's a Skoda...honest

I was given a photograph, taken specifically for me by friends on a recent visit to Prague. It was the source of much amusement to play ‘guess what it is’ with me for about ½ hour until the tables turned and I started asking questions about the upholstery and what the engine sounded like.

crocodile?...nope still a Skoda

check out those fins...where's this crocodile?

This little Felicia probably sounds terrible it has a 1089cc engine with a top speed of approx 128 km/h, they were first produced in 1959 and ceased in 1964 and also came in coupe variant. A sum total of 14863 were manufactured which would explain why I’ve never set my peepers on one before.

But now I want to go and see it, in the same way I want to see lions and tigers in the zoo; to look at; smell; listen to and maybe even get close enough to touch - but you wouldn’t actually want to own one and have it sat outside your house.

So now I’m looking for a valid excuse to go to Prague for the sole purpose of partaking in the questionably named ‘Crocodile Dundee’ tour, which the Felicia is the means of transport around the sights of the city. I really need to see for myself what the Skoda can do, and to get to the bottom of the tour title.

I can’t sleep just thinking about it.

Blue lights & dust carts

I have some friends who work in the medical profession, they're quite a raucous bunch who even with all their idiosyncrasies and particularly those with a strange habit of falling asleep on nights out; are right up there at the top of my list of truly outstanding human beings. Their sheer dedication, focus and ability to face whatever is put before them is truly awe inspiring.

And to think should my life have taken a slightly differing path - I could've been one of them.

However, it was my Dad who helped me out on that one. I was showing an interest in becoming a nurse, I even had a uniform complete with flat shoes and opaque tights which I seldom took off...pity I don't still have it really. One weekend Dad took me to Frenchay hospital as they had an exhibition of 'real-life' staged displays of hospital life which would help me grasp what I could face should I take this career path. I was brimming with excitement at the prospect of absorbing the atmosphere, seeing dramas unfold before me and mingling with like minded souls in sensible shoes. But it was not to be. One look at the mock up of an operation and I turned on my heel and high-tailed it out of the place with a distinct feeling of nausea, tears pricking at my eyes. But then I was only 7 years old.

Twenty years on, I can appreciate that I was able to have the experience and take solace in the fact I discovered early that I would make a truly rubbish nurse. However, just recently my thoughts have been turned in that direction once again.

My friend Brian is a paramedic and has been for a good many years. He's a highly trained professional and is sometimes first to attend emergency calls in his rapid response car. And he gets to drive an ambulance, with lights... and a siren and everything...um did I mention the lights?

I want to drive an ambulance.

It actually doesn't stop there, the ambulance was just the beginning, I've seemingly opened a Pandora's box of vehicles which up until now a desire for which has been hidden away in the back of my mind. Fire engines are high on the list, but not police cars, this confused the issue as I wasn't entirely sure if it was a speed-related longing or if I had a deep seated desire for a blue flashing light and wailing siren. So I delved deeper and pondered on it some more.

It got much, much worse. I have since come up with a definitive list of vehicles that make me react like a 6 year old boy:

Fire engine - lights & siren obligatory;
Ambulance - see above;
Tower crane transporter down the M6 - in rush hour;
One of those lorries which appear to have an entire house as their payload;
A lorry towing a train/part of a plane;
Dumper truck - complete with debris to dump over the side of a preferably huge cavernous ravine;
A tank - with a gun turret that I can turn and I wouldn't say no to some practice shots;
Dust cart - with rubbish to chuck in the back so I could press the button to send it through to the holding area like spoon feeding a mechanical giant.

I know that this longing is for the sheer unadulterated, juvenile, 'look at me I'm a complete girl driving this!' kick of it. Imagine the thrill of driving at 25mph up the M6 with a train in your rearview mirror! The satisfaction of moving huge masses of earth or rubble and disposing of it into a huge pit! Absolutely fantastic.

And I think I know where this seed was first planted, a couple of months ago my local village had a fete at which the local fire station brought along one of their engines; they let me sit in it with all the other kids but it was me who turned on the siren, oddly they weren't as willing when I asked to see their hose, mustn't have had enough water. Around the same time I was looking for a sensible car, mostly on eBay and as usual I turned to one of my favourite hobbies and looked at some entirely innappropriate cars too. It was whilst looking at Land Rovers I came across an old converted Defender which was a mobile field hospital. It was fantastic had stretchers too - the full military spec and if the money was right, I actually think I might have bought it.

So now, I'm ignoring the advice of others about 'never meeting your heroes' and 'keep your dreams just that' and am actively seeking to live out these fantasies - well to be honest I'd be happy with just one!

Amanda aged 27 1/2

Bashful road signs

There’s something odd taking place on one of my regular commutes to work. Just recently some new signs have been erected but they do seem to be a little bashful. They're hiding under bags.

From their size and shape they show signs (ahem) of being new speed limit indicators. But for the life of me I can’t imagine why they’re hiding under black plastic bags.

Surely the Highways Agency haven't begun fly tipping disused roadsigns? Or have these signs got something to be ashamed of? What shameful exploits could have possibly occurred to cause such boring signs to hide in disgrace? Have they had the road sign equivalent of botox gone wrong? Have they been involved in a sordid tryst with the M25 electronic gantries? Or are they merely playing hide and seek with some traffic cones? I’m surprised that they’re not drooping slightly as they hang their heads in shame at the almost inevitable truth that these signs are in fact about to impose an unnecessary evil upon the unknowing commuting public – a reduction in speed limit.

If you travel the London bound stretch of the A40 past Polish War Memorial on a weekday morning you’d be very lucky to get into 3rd never mind 5th gear. I thank my lucky stars on the rare occassion this happens, it's usually followed by an extraordinarily cheerful day. But the reality is usually that the sheer number of cars prevents speeds little over 30mph, so is a reduction entirely necessary?

I’ve also discovered that this particular stretch of road, unlike it's parrallel sister the M4, is below the national average when it comes to accidents and has very little pedestrian activity. All in all a pretty safe, reliable bit of black top, albeit at a rather sedentary pace.

There has been very little in the way of publicity to indicate the limit is about to be changed. I really would be unsurprised if shortly after the signs are unveiled and enforceable that they are accompanied by that shiny unequivocally upstanding pillar of society; Mr Speed Camera esq. Rising up over all it purveys, flashing to catch the early morning bleary eyed sign-ignorant motorist. Or a hand held gun, little difference both would have the same consequence.

This scenario happened on a short local road near me a couple of years ago. The speed was changed literally overnight from 40mph to 30mph with no forewarning. Now I didn’t have a problem with this as the road separated a housing estate with a large local park, so was used by many children, joggers, dog walkers and such. The reduction was a genuine safety concern. In the first four weeks following the reduction there was an almost hysterical amount of speeding tickets issued as a result of the new speed camera installation and regular police patrols.

But surely it would be the motorists’ fault for exceeding the speed limit they deserve to be punished? Fines are a consequence of speeding not of cameras - aren't they? I’m actually not so sure. Can you honestly admit to paying 100% attention whilst driving every single journey you take? You could be travelling in the ligitimate belief that you are adhering to the speed limit. Interesting thought.

The cynicism in me would lead me to believe it’s an easy way to earn revenue, or a motoring ‘stealth tax’. The Association of British Drivers www.abd.org.uk would probably suggest this use of cameras and restriction is to enforce a congestion reduction scheme and I have to say I think there’s a traffic enforcer somewhere nudging me in the back of my mind winking knowingly in answer to that theory.

If you’re brutally honest, if you travel along the same road every single day – do you pay attention to the signs or have they just become part of your peripheral vision? For the most part with me, I think this could be true. Everyday signs are something you know are there but are a constant, mostly static and unchanging so you don’t really bother giving much attention to them. It’s almost certainly because I’m so curious that I noted the new incognito signs, therefore when they’re in force, will regular users actually notice the speed limit has changed?

I have been told that the A40 was part of the West London speed camera demonstration project, which analysed changes in rate of accidents and casualties over a 36 month period and was a catalyst for the increase in camera erections. From my interpretation of the statistics it does actually appear that there was roughly an 8% reduction in accidents due to the presence of the camera. Which is of course a good thing and I would actively encourage ongoing studies of traffic flow and external influences, even if the findings do make for excellent bedtime reading. But my argument is; that where there is little opportunity to actually speed due to high levels of congestion, is it really necessary to reduce the limit and enforce it with a camera?

There has been some argument for variable speed limits throughout the 24-hour period on the main London commuter routes to reflect the levels of congestion, with higher speeds allowable when there’s very little traffic, as seen on an M25 near you. I think this would be an interesting and beneficial addition, but high costs keep this a mere pipedream.

I await the unveiling of my bashful road signs and maybe I’ll be proved wrong and they won’t be reducing the speed but messages of cheer for the commuter weary traveller. But I fear my journey time is just about to be increased.

Thundersprinting-tastic

Take one Motor Muppet; a car park; some straw bales and several hundred men in leather. Toss together liberally with equal parts of Northern hospitality and bikes, lots and lots of throaty growling gorgeous vintage motorbikes and you come up with the biggest free motorcycle sporting event in the country.

Once a year the Thundersprint turns the humble Cheshire town of Northwich into a motorcycle enthusiast’s idea of heaven. The Thundersprint is a classic motorcycle sprinting competition. Motorcycle sprinting involves competitors racing against the clock to record the quickest time. The Thundersprint organiser Frank Melling explains further “Courses vary in length from 220 yards to over a mile. Classic sprints are different from modern sprints and drag racing because they are often far from straight. More traditional sprints are run by the National Sprint Association and the "Straightliners" organization. Their events are run in straight lines with the emphasis being purely on acceleration. By contrast, in many of the classic sprints the fastest, or most powerful, machine will not necessarily win. To succeed in a classic sprint, the bike needs to stop and handle too…This means that you don't have to spend a fortune on a super-duper replica Grand Prix racer”

The Thundersprint start line - begging for action

If you should happen upon a meeting with a regular Thundersprinter they will always talk about the atmosphere, which is actually quite difficult to describe. I think everyone has their own take on it but all are influenced in a very similar way, it’s quite bewitching. I’ve been for the past two events and both have been very different but the atmosphere and the enthusiasm of the crowd is unequalled by any other motorsport event I’ve attended.

preparations in the paddock

I popped my Thundersprint cherry last year. Being a lass who grew up a couple of miles down the road I’d heard many a story amidst the biking fraternity, curiosity got the better of me and I decided to try it out for myself - I did and was in motorcycle overload. Vintage Ducati’s, Norton’s a-plenty, hundreds of Hondas, Royal Enfields, Velocette’s, BSA’s, MV Augusta’s and Triumphs, something for everyone really. Admittedly I developed a fascination with seats or ‘saddles’ on the shiny metal horses, they ranged from big and comfy bum huggers to something not that dissimilar to the boneshaker I saw in Brooklands museum! And yes for reference I am firmly in the bum hugger camp.

Another aspect of the Thundersprint I really like is the fact the vast majority of competitors wear clothes akin to the era of their bikes, a bit like punters at the Goodwood Revival. Now that is a sight to behold, I am partial to a male bottom in leathers and well vintage leathers just seem to fit that bit better.

classic bikes and leathers in the cavalcade

is this a bike? well it has a bike engine - answers on a postcard

Motorcycle people are a very friendly welcoming bunch. At Northwich you’ll find no VIP enclosure, no laminate passes, no miles of barriers blocking your view, no pushy promoters - it’s open to all and all are part of the in your face action. You can very easily get to meet your biking idols from veteran biker Jim Redman, Top Gear’s James May to Olympic Gold medal winning rower James Cracknell.

Mr May & Muppet. James entered his 1979 Moto Guzzi California, not the quickest entrant but certainly very popular

I went alone last year and luckily I did meet a work colleague who was kind enough to decipher a little of what was going on, answer my constant questions and put up with my imposition - which was fantastic and I vowed I would come back again this year.

And so armed with a much better knowledge and despite sadly not having the company of my favourite erudite guide this year, being whipped by the wind, rain and chills I made the pilgrimage back to Northwich this weekend. I wasn’t disappointed. From the classic car led cavalcade around the streets of Northwich which, with that many bikes in one place produces the sweetest most awe inspiring heart racing sound, the beautiful Spitfire display at lunchtime to the sprinting itself. It was satisfaction guaranteed what with a handful of vintage cars, all those bikes and a spitfire; this event was almost tailor made for Muppet. Compared to last year there were a lot more competitors so there was just one run of three sprints per rider but enough action to fill the afternoon.

My only grumble however was that there was not one lady competitor this year. That’s such a shame and all too evident in many motorsport events, I am sorely tempted to get myself a basket case classic motorcycle and prime it for competition next year. Jokingly someone did suggest that to me last year. Us ladies should be represented and I think I could cut a fine figure in a nice vintage race suit and some goggles.

So should you happen to be in Northwich in May 2006, which frankly you really should be for this fantastic event keep an eye open for a bumbling young lady on nice comfy seated Vincent…well maybe.

that comfy seated Vincent...looks simple enough...doesn't it?

http://www.thundersprint.co.uk

Let there be [brake] light!

I’m a simple sort of a girl who likes the simple things in life, such as getting my hands dirty. I enjoy fiddling with oily bits, I like grappling with spanners and screwdrivers and ratchets. I need to see how cars and bikes work.

Four out of five of my cars are pre 1990s and have very little in the way of electrickery or gadgets. I much prefer a purer car that doesn’t have too much to say for itself. This probably explains why I sold my Peugeot 307 last year and swapped it for a Series 3 Alfa Romeo Spider. My Pug was always having far too much to say for itself and making decisions without my express permission. Je n'ai pas été impressionné.

Don’t misinterpret me however; I am passionate about a vast array of new cars. The Aston Martin DB9 and new Vantage are absolutely beautiful; I’m even growing to like the look of the new Fiat Panda. The advances in design and automotive technologies never fail to intrigue me, I’m like a sponge, I want to know about everything, in an easy to read, diagrammatic glossy pamphlet sort of a way. But in terms of ownership, I’m a tinkerer. I’m not claiming to be a mechanical expert, far from that, but if I can have a go then a go is what I will have.

But with the Spider I’ve really had no cause to tinker. Following rectification by my genius mechanic of a seemingly terminal problem involving my little Italian being true to her Latin roots by getting very hot very regularly, then giving up entirely to sit seductively by the roadside and simply be gazed upon, she has been impeccably behaved.

When I told my friends I intended on driving an Alfa on my regular commute I was dismissed as an obvious lunatic and advised a level of AA cover that would jump start the Planet should it slip out of orbit. But 7 months on and I have proven my detractors wrong. Through fabulous smile inducing spirited drives around the leafy Buckinghamshire lanes to a treacherous snails’ pace 3 hour 30 mile M4 schlep to work, the Alfa has taken it in her stride. But somewhat disappointingly - still no cause for me to get my hands on her innards.

It is the snails’ pace motorway schleps I undertake daily that I blame for the fact a very red faced man made a decision to threaten a bewildered Muppet with extraction from her little Italian via means other than the door, wildly gesticulating with language mostly involving chickens from what I could gather (well every other word was ‘cluck’) all a few inches from my delicate posteriore di Milano. All for no apparent reason. Was it national keep your top up day? Had I missed a local byelaw pertaining to woman being revoked their driving licence?

I figured something must be awry. There was. Both my brake lights were refusing to perform. Oh dear, kind of fundamental to the stopping of the car and notifying those around you ploy. I was like a metallic pathologist, ‘I must perform investigative surgery – Nurse, quick! The screens!’.

Surgery reported that bulbs & fuses were fine and I had a broken brake switch. The fate of which I believe blame lies with the London traffic. I had killed my brake switch through flogging it mercilessly morning and night; it had expired admirably during service with not even a grumble.

kaput brake lights

I had tested this of course with a nifty trick of disconnecting the wires from the switch and briefly touching them together to complete the circuit therefore lighting up the back end of the car satisfactorily and giving little regard to whether the current had given me a new hairstyle.

any excuse

Do I look like I know what I'm doing?

On consultation with my pristine workshop manual I made my advance. After doing a canny impression of a contortionist, lying underneath the dashboard, legs skywards grappling with the old nylon plastic switch and nut – it does help if you find the right size spanner, and not try to get the thing to budge with your teeth - oh and ignore some of the instructions to slide where you obviously have to screw, I had the old kaput switch liberated. I popped the new metal switch back in connected her up and stamped my size 7 on the brake pedal. A vision of scarlet luminosity against my garage door heralded success and a craving suppressed.

Until next time…and there will be a next time.

Let there be light!