My son Sean has just recently completed a year training as a mechanic, of sorts. It would appear that the course does not include a maths element. Thinking about it, are there any blonde mechanics ? It's a poor choice of complexion for a job like that. Anyway, I digress.
My day had started early. 4am to be precise. I guess I had a few things on my mind. The 20 items on my 'to do' list for a start. The dishwasher was knackered too, adding to the stress of the day.
With so much to do and a mechanically trained son, it made sense to leave him in charge of the mechanical issues, like the oil change, whilst I cracked on with printing stuff, logistical issues and other high powered stuff. Surely a simple oil change would be no problem at all for a mechanical engineer like Sean.
Anyway, having removed 4 litres of oil from the sump and replacing it with 7 litres of fresh oil he reported back that Jezebel had taken on board all the oil we had bought.
Alarm bells should have rung. I can only think that I was frantically busy with other issues. The car had broken down as well. I had added the purchase of a new dishwasher to the things to do list. Surely a simple oil change....
Time rushed by, as it does when you are in headless chicken mode. The list was fast disappearing, we were well ahead of schedule.
5-30 arrived and we set off for the start line at the Bob Lucas Stadium. Everything was under control, running smoothly. Friday 13th ? Well, apart from the dishwasher going wrong and the car breaking down, nothing else had gone wrong.
200 metres down the road, Jezebel spluttered, then coughed, then slowed down, backfired and sounded like she was gasping for air. I put my foot on the clutch and the engine died. This wasn't good. We were due to set off on an epic trip of several thousand miles, we had Echo reporters and all sorts of people due to see us off and Jezebel had broken down on her way to the start line. Underneath there was oil leaking out of the sump. Oh bloody hell !
Many thoughts flashed through my head. None of them good. Some brief snatches of conversation stuck though. "I've put all of it in and she's still not full...." Ah. That will be the problem then. She's drowning.
The boot was full. I still think it's a design fault, having the engine hidden under your bed and the luggage storage area in the back. This was going to get messy. The Weymourh shirt was thrown meaningfully to one side and the luggage scattered across the pavement as I fought to locate the engine. Oil was oozing from the carburettor. Baby wipes were demanded and Sean got his first distainful glare of the day.
Spark plugs were removed and cleaned. Swear words were muttered. The watch was glanced at frequently. Panic mode engaged. Finally, after the removal of a litre of dirty oil in to a bowl, the poor abused girl burst in to life again with a puff of oily smoke.
We limped in to the car park with most of the teams already there. So much for the organised, early arrival. Interviews, group photos, people asking me questions as I jumped from job to job. Time passing too quickly, we all had ferries to catch.
I dished out the first of the daily information sheets, telling the teams that we were meeting in Munster, then waved them all off to much cheering, waving and photos. I leapt on to Jezebel as she passed at the back of the line.
After stopping for fuel and air, I took over the driving as Jezebel was not running particularly well for Eileen. I found that as we were leaving Weymouth, her top speed was 28 mph and even this speed encouraged people to wave frantically at us to point out the cloud of oily white smoke following us.
We got to Upwey. 3 miles from home. In a layby, poor Jezebel wheezed and died again. As I scalded myself on the hot black oil from the sump, I cursed my dear son. As I wiped the excessive oil from inside the carburettor, I gritted my teeth. As I twisted a red hot, oily spark plug from its home in the engine block, I plotted the next orifice I would be inserting it in to.
The hours delay showed me the true Windy spirit in two former Wjndy participants. Ralph stopped and came back to check on us. Mark shot past in an ambulance, waving cheerfully. Emergency service ? What about my bloody emergency ?
Sean was fairly quiet once we finally got going again. Not sure if he was plotting another act of van related terrorism or just admiring his gormless act of destruction.
Parents of 17 year olds. Do not let your children close to your vehicle. Driving it or maintaining it, it is not worth the stress. Trust me, I know.
Oh dear! You trusted a teen! I don't know who's the biggest fool
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