Small Things: Small Mind: An Amused Muppet and the Perils of Italian Car Ownership

I can happily report that this week marks the occasion of my owning an Alfa Romeo for an entire year. During this period I have not gotten fed up, frustrated nor bored with the cantankerous little Italian car, which given my previous vehicle history is pretty much a record, with most vehicles being very lucky to see out the end of a year or so (my VW is a special case as it has been in my possession since I was 15).

In the past I’ve always been itching to try something new, I’d lose interest in the regular day to day routine and lust after other vehicles. Upon first sight the Spider for me was like being with the object of an unrequited crush up close for the first time…and being able to touch.

I think I can credit Jeremy Clarkson with the quote that you’re never a true car enthusiast until you’ve owned an Alfa Romeo. This mainly bestows in the passion and tragedy brought about by owning such a beast. An Alfa is a Siren in car form and can shape your future automotive tastes against your will.

Jeremy was right.

From day one my Spider caused me heartbreak; an overheating problem that upon given too much effort she would refuse to proceed and sit seething on the roadside looking sultry. There were bizarre knocking noises from the engine bay; add to that refusal to start and a penchant for sliding her rear end on corners. All were tantamount to vast garage bills. But it didn't preclude my passion.

Two months of ownership under my belt and the future seemed rosy. I scoffed at my detractors who woefully sent me on my way to work each day expectant of the telephone call heralding my distress. But it never came. My Spider ferried me thrill-some mile after mile without not so much as a puncture. But there was further misfortune stirring.

A pre-Christmas drink in a Hammersmith pub and some late night shopping later I returned to my Spider with my spoils under cover of darkness. She was parked on a quiet garden square and it was a regular occurrence for me to leave her there; it felt safe and was relatively close to several friends’ abodes.

My festive cheer was shattered like a cheap bauble when I noticed a note on the windshield upon which the guilty party had professed regret and apologised for what they had done. My pretty proper Italian sports car was sullied and my fragile emotions in tatters. A careless driver had hit the driver's door leaving a deep dent and extensive paintwork damage. To my disgust the perpetrator had left falsified information which leads me to believe the sorry event was witnessed but the culprit was selfish and not forthcoming of their insurance details for fear of escalating bills.

I will always be first to readily admit I project far too much attachment to the inanimate objects known as my cars and this particular incident left me distraught. A loss of my (almost full entitlement) no claims discount and a £400 bill later and the Spider was looking pretty again. But alas the new door was ill fitting and several trips to the bodyshop and complaints to the insurance company later; I gave the Spider to my own specialist who put back the door correctly without so much as a penny from my pocket.

A couple of month’s back I was subjected to yet more horror as the MOT man said 'No'. The whole sorry event I recounted

here. I couldn't find the locking nut for my alloy wheels so had to pay for some ruffians to drill the bolts off, they couldn't and the rogue locking nut reappeared some weeks later in the most random part of my house. Would there be no end to my torture?

Then came the mystery of the disappearing brake lights. Not once but twice now I have had nil illumination upon my size 7s pirouetting on the middle pedal. The latest instance occurring just this week.

But I was ready for it. My seasoned Alfa ownership instincts kicked in, I neither fussed nor panicked and used my fog lights as a temporary solution to get me home. With no supervision I ran through the necessary checks and upon discovery it was yet again my brake switch I swung into action that would put Wonder Woman herself to shame. I whipped out the defective switch, stuck in the new one (again following some contortionist impressions as discussed at length

here) I replaced the under dash trim again feeling satisfied and accomplished. My rear end was lit up once more like a baboon in the mood for romance. I hopped into the driver's seat to go to Tesco for a celebratory grocery shop confident in the knowledge my fellow road users would be well aware of my intentions to cease travelling in a forward motion.

The bloody car wouldn't start.

Much expletives and gesticulation followed as I returned to the spaghetti like wires below my dashboard. There was a sole wire with a small metal loop hanging, lonely and looking mightily out of place. I guessed it must be my ancient immobiliser and searched for somewhere to stick it. Given the nature of my immobiliser requiring a completed circuit I calculated that there must be something metallic where this little wire and its attachment could live. I was right. Upon finding a home for the wire and re-tightening the screw which had come loose upon my initial under dash removal the immobiliser worked correctly and Tescos deli counter got my money that night.

It's all worth it though, for those roof off moments of blissfully balmy days, driving through wooded lanes sunlight dappling across my tousled blonde locks, coming home and fighting with the hairbrush. Scooting down crisp autumnal roads, the smell of bonfires, coal and peaty earth, cheeks flushed with the cold but head toasty in winter hat and superb heating. Or even just the commute to work. The mellifluous purr from my 105 twin cam engine never fails to bring cheer on my saddest of days it lifts me somewhat.

Of course I still have a distinct urge to try other things my high octane lust lingers just beneath the surface and needs little stimulation to rise; and occasionally I will indulge it with great fervour, my motorcycle is a prime example of this. I've even bought and sold cars in the time I've had the Spider, but I find I always return to my Milanese drop top with pride in my heart, doe eyed, utterly besotted and ever dutiful.

Until the next part falls off.

The object of my affection

CBT: Compulsory Basic Torture?

And so two Saturdays ago I took the CBT plunge and validated my motorcycle L plate status and began to terrorise the local road-users on two wheels. It was bloody hot and being overtly safety conscious, or more certain of the likelihood I’d probably fall off; I'd decided to wear my leather jacket and already I was feeling like a Bernard Matthew's special come Christmas day.

I have mentioned before that I think it completely unbelievable that following just a single days' training and demonstration of competence that the learner motorcyclist or scooter rider can be unleashed upon the waiting world of lorries, queue jumping BMW's and buses. Now that I have completed my CBT I feel even more strongly about this.

I'm actually gravely concerned some of the young lads completing their scooter training won't make it to their 18th birthday.

CBT training is (usually) one day of intensive theory and practical motorcycle/scooter training. The vast majority takes place in the safe confines of the test centre facilities and upon the instructor feeling confident of your ability, at the end of the day you will be taken onto the public highway to demonstrate your skills in the real world. If you're not a complete liability then you will receive your CBT certification, which validates your learner status for a period of 2 years.

As with most tests I was more than a little trepidated when I arrived at my local motorcycle training centre. So much so the receptionist commented upon the fact I was shaking when I handed over my card to pay, although this could've been something more associated with the fact I'd downed two double espressos en route to the training centre.

My nerves were only exacerbated when I was introduced to my fellow students; my worst fears were realised; all were male and half were 16 wearing tracksuits, hoody tops and resembled Oxy advertisements 'before' photographs, they all had the same vacant expression which upon me entering the room fixated like a homing device to my bosom region and communicated in a series of grunts, it's been a long time since I'd been around teenage boys, thankfully it's a rarity. They were the scooter trainees, and a fine bunch of stereotype of scooter rider that I despise, a mere gene pool error away from Neanderthal. Thankfully the other half were a more normal but a mixed bunch; a builder who looked like a teenager on a toddlers pre school bike - he was far too big for the Honda CG125, it was more than comical, there was a research scientist and a fairly normal bloke who'd already bought his bike.

Following brief introductions, my first mug of tea and grunts from the 16 year olds; I found myself in a 1970s time warp as we watched a DSA video about the fact that drivers rarely see motorcyclists so visibility is tantamount to successful riding. It was coupled with an irritatingly catchy soundtrack, which stuck in my head for days afterwards, I'm guessing this technique of musical brainwashing and wooden acting was intentional.

I found that repetitive clutch control using your hands is pretty tiring, and so to my annoyance I kept stalling my little learner Suzuki that I found incredibly frustrating but after a while I was doing figure of eights like a dressage pony. Although an Achilles heel I bore as initially it really didn't help me that one of the instructors reminded me both in looks and voice far too much of someone who makes my own little engine rev a little faster and upon his instructions to "look at me" only made me loose concentration and wobble about a fair bit.

After lunch when I took the opportunity to take my jacket off as the vest I was wearing was literally soaked and once the 16 year olds came back from the loos we had a brief discussion about the highway code and defensive riding. Once it was established the scooter boys didn’t know you could buy books let alone one about the rules of the road, they were sent off for further training.

The instructors paced between the motorcyclists remaining to pick who were ready enough to go on the open road. One of the group had to leave early so naturally he was to go first, the instructor turned, my heart quickened (nerves, obviously and nothing to do with his pretty eyes and leather trousers), and motioned for me to prepare to go out into the real world. I collected my helmet intercom system and off I went.

Cars have not appeared this big to me since I was a toddler, I was overtaken by a Land Rover and felt like one of the Borrowers. A Ford Fiesta diminutive in size resembled a bungalow on wheels in my tiny rear-view mirrors. Bernard, my fellow student took the lead but I was quick on his tail as he was struggling with speeding up, so I took over and had the open road before me, with my instructors kindly voice in my ear; onwards I toiled, remembering to increase my speed (30mph feels so much much quicker on a bike) and not stand around head bobbing like a spectator at Wimbledon at junctions.

To my absolute joy I even managed a nice slight lean of the little Suzuki around a huge roundabout near White Waltham, girl and motorcycle working together as one taking sweeping bends and curving around the best of what Maidenhead's roundabouts had to offer; that was until I felt queasy because the centre of balance shifted and on the way round as the bike righted itself I decided it was wise to put my foot down at 40 mph coming off said roundabout. Not the best decision I made that day, but commonsense took over and I scooped up my right foot back onto the peg.

A long stretch back to the test centre and it was all over and done, my instructor signed my certificate and made me promise to take my ‘big bike’ test soon.

Ok, so my romanticised image of myself like some Marianne Faithfull clone bike-a-like in Girl on a Motorcycle (that is before she crashes and goes through the window of a car) was and still is very far away.

Marianne as Rebecca, she looked rather splendid

And Suzi Perry in my leathers I may not be, but at long last I'm on my way and quite frankly sweating so much I hope to have a slimmer honed figure in no time.

Lovely Suzi, every girl should look like this in leathers

Who needs yoga when you can have a motorcycle? I'm rather smitten.

Just have to get further than the end of my road now.

ok so not a photo of me, but my cat Busby looks so much cuter on the bike,
and probably has more sense than the scooter-boys

Ok, so there is no easy solution...

Ok so if you did try and order some petrol from the internet, it won't arrive. Of course the site is a joke site. Interesting concept though and I wouldn't put it past someone to attempt to do it.

I would love to know how many hits that site has had in the past week or so.

Speaking of alternative forms of transport...

Recumbent bicycles to Sydney: Nic and Sedef - the intrepid duo have finally reached Italia!

To keep track of their diary detailing their progress to Sydney on recumbent bicycles or to sponsor them on their epic journey check out their website

Details of my alternative transport in the form of my motorcycle to follow soon.

Stop Queuing Already!

I got up to go out late last night for cold remedy. I have a virulent horrid cold that is causing me to sweat like a menopausal woman. I decided it easier and closer to go to my village petrol station. It was like a scene from War of the Worlds, I queued for half an hour; confused and sniffling, yet couldn't be bothered to get out of the car to go and investigate so awaited my turn.

Upon finally reaching the shop to pay for my fuel which I decided to get whilst I was there and get cold remedy along with the chocolate, bag of wine gums and copy of Auto Trader that had mysteriously appeared in my clutches I pumped my local petrol attendant (a 60 year old semi retired chap) for information. He thought I must have been in a coma for the past 24 hours (I almost was - it was duvet induced) and filled me in on the proposed oil refinery blockades this coming Wednesday.

It's the good ole British public panic buying, next we'll have no bread on the supermarket shelves or milk in our fridges.

It was bound to happen with prices per litre creeping over the £1 mark for high octane brands.

So Gordon Brown says it's a supply problem and not taxes that's driving petrol prices up. They're even blaming Hurricane Katrina, but that happened long after prices per litre began to creep up and the wholesale price for petrol is now back down after a peak because of supply problems with the Katrina aftermath.

Would the Government cut fuel tax? Not bloody likely, it's currently 47p per litre, where else would they get the money from so easily. Suppliers are making huge profits and they're not willing to budge.

The motorist is an easy target.

I remember the petrol crisis last time round, I was working in construction at the time and went through 3 pool cars as along with colleagues we car shared until there was little else to do but stay at home (which sadly came far later than we had envisioned). The longest I queued for petrol was 3 hours.

I even know people who are resorting to companies like this http://www.petroldirect.com
who are selling petrol over the internet at 60 p per litre. An acquaintence of mine got 60 litres of super unleaded in plastic return to be reused bottles for the grand sum of £45.67 delivered to his door.

My LPG running friends are happy, but it's an expensive thing to convert your car to run on it, and guess what? There's no longer a Government subsidy incentive to do it. What happened to encouraging alternative fuels and forms of transport?

So, is this what we're going to be reduced to? Moonshine petrol from the interweb? I surely hope not, for one I don't have anywhere to store the stuff. Something's got to give and I really hope it's not us, the humble motorist.

Farewell

Leonard John Kensell Setright

Driving gloves, hats, a Gandalf like professorial appearance, an overwhelming knowledge of all things automotive. Some of the things that spring to my mind of LJK Setright,one of the world's foremost and most distinguished motoring journalists who passed away this week on 7th September aged 74.

Regrettably I never met Mr Setright, as it is primarily through reading his writings over the years, ever since picking up an issue of 'Car' in the 1990's whilst studying Linguistics at College the seed was planted to record my motoring enthusiasm via written word.

He was far more than a motoring journalist, an erudite scholar, lawyer and musician; he had a style of writing that is so rare in motoring journalism and there was little, if anything to which he was not a learned authority.

I am certain he will be greatly missed.

Interview with LJK Setright: Helen Gordon

Obiturary taken from the Car Connection "He came to prominence in the field of cars with the mold-breaking British magazine Car in the 1960's. His articles appeared under the by-line of L.J.K. Setright, and it was only later in his life that Leonard John Kensell Setright dropped the initials in favor of his given name.

Setright's erudite and sometimes wordy style fitted in well with the style of Car, which at the time was unique in automobile journalism. His columns, road tests, and technical articles were a major element in the magazine's success. Car influenced automobile magazines across the world, and as the recognition of Car spread so did Setright's reputation.

Although he had not trained as an engineer, he was able to discuss technology with engineers at the highest levels in the industry, and his knowledge of tyre design made tyre industry executives hold him in awe.

In addition to his contributions to newspapers and magazines, Setright was the author of many books, including those on his preferred brand, the British Bristol. In conversation he was as informed, self-assured, and eloquent as he was on the page, but he was better behind the pen than behind the wheel, where he always showed a tendency to examine the outer limits of a car's performance with little respect for his passengers' peace of mind.

A strange combination of aloofness and good company, he will be missed by those who knew him and by the many more who knew him only through his writing. "

-Ian Norris

Born to be Mild?

And so I've made my first foray and dipped my leather-shod toes into the motorcycling world proper. My little battle-scarred Yamaha was delivered to me under cover of darkness by a decidedly official and somewhat stereotypical heavily Essex accented, moustached, tattoo bedecked, bald, colossally tall but enthusiastically friendly biker delivery chap called Richard.

No-one could fit me in for a CBT over the Bank Holiday weekend, and the Girls Angel school is booked up days in advance, so I have spent the majority of the past week sat on the bike in my back garden starting it up and making the little single pot engine brum and sing for me before reluctantly switching it off and rather unceremoniously practising heaving it on and off the centre stand.

To make up for my lack of learner entitlement certificate I fulfilled my two-wheeled lust by going to purchase the rest of my gear. I began with a helmet, or 'lid' as my biker friends keeping telling me is the correct nomenclature. After getting over my initial sniggering upon the proclamation 'Sir, I need a shiny helmet!' upon entering the bike gear emporium, the seemingly erudite and rather good looking Kiwi sales chap spouted forth about the baffling array of multi-coloured headgear.

I have always been told to spend as much as you can possibly afford on a crash helmet, so decided against the £50 selection. I think this was a wise decision; as the sales chap gave me a quick practical lesson in cheaper plastic helmets. Although they meet the same basic safety requirements as the more expensive choices, they use far more materials to do so.

On the sales chaps' recommendation, I tried the plastic based helmet and felt as though my swan-like neck would shear clean off my shoulders with the merest hint of movement, there was so much weight. As there's not too much substance in this head of mine to begin with, the extra poundage felt extreme, this weight would certainly take a lot of time to get used to by which point I'd end up with a neck like an F1 driver, nay too fetching on a nubile young lady.

I swapped for the more expensive fibreglass composed model and noted the significant difference immediately, there was less pressure on my neck and the weight was a lot more bearable for my noggin. After too-ing and fro-ing between the various fibreglass models I opted for the aggressively named Suomy Gunfighter in a sparkly silver combo, as my choice of Belisha Beacon yellow was not available, I had been hankering for the luminous orange of the Roof Diversion helmet but this was ever so slightly too pricey for my rapidly emptying bank account, particularly as I had boots and gloves to procure.

It was then onto my local Hein Gerike store where I was intercepted by yet another erudite friendly Kiwi sales chap, who steered me to some reasonably comfy waterproof boots that fitted the bill nicely. Again I was dumbfounded by the vast selection to choose from and in the end came away with some Bulson Peak boots which boasts a reinforced steel shaft (again more sniggering ensued) which prevents your foot from bending the wrong way in the event of an impact, my boots also have protection at the ankle bone and shin, the latter was tested at length with my old hockey stick in my garden later that evening. I selected some suitably luscious smelling gloves with a reinforced palm, since if I do come off I'm most likely to put my hands out to break my fall, something both Kiwi sales chaps brought to my attention.

So now I’m kitted out. There is so much for me to learn and master. The common assumption is ‘well I can drive a car’, but how wrong I was to even ponder that fact. My impatience got the better of me and after drilling my number plate and affixing L plates - something I haven't sported on a vehicle for over 10 years; I took the bike to a small quiet private road this evening to practice slow starts, stopping and clutch control and promptly planted the both of us into an understanding neighbours’ fence. An important lesson I think.

I'm astounded that, and forgive me as I'm not that old just yet, but the youngsters or hood-rats as I tend to call them, on their whining scooters and baby race replicas just expecting to hop on and away they go, don't see what's coming, I’m surprised they manage to make it much past CBT day.

Up until now I've been preoccupied with getting my CBT done in the day, which is pretty reasonable, but if I have the slightest hesitation or falter I will not think twice about going back for more practice under the watchful eye of an expert.

T minus 1 day to go.

The washing line and laundry isn't deemed essential

to a successful motorcycling career