The Drive Home

So I spent the night working out how I was going to get the car home. There was talk of trailering the car here, because for a car of this age it would be a long drive added to the fact that it was unfamiliar to me. This seemed like the best and most sensible idea too.

My mechanic friend pointed out that we could just drive the car home, no guts no glory, trial by fire, get to know the car and have a bit of fun driving it home, make a story. This sounded by far the stupidest idea, so I went for this one, obviously.

A quick call to the current owner to make sure that he would be in for me to collect the car, friend collected because the mechanic was busy and RAC card in hand and we were on our way.

I turned up, had a short discussion with the owner, giving me a few pointers about how to drive the car, because it has a cork clutch, only synchromesh on 2nd and 3rd gear and the location of the nearest petrol station. I paid him the remaining balance for the car and I was on my merry way.

So a few crunchy gear moments away and realising the brakes were horrifically poor and steering was less than responsive I had arrived at the petrol station to fill up. A fresh tank of unleaded and answering the obvious questions from the person working in the station shop and I was ready for the drive home.

To put into context how far this was in the unknown car, of unknown condition and quality I had just left that petrol station with 65 miles to get home and Google maps suggesting that it was going to take about an hour and a half. I set off.

With my friend following close by in her car, just incase I should need rescue she managed to get a couple of clips of the start of the drive home.

Needless to say she isn’t that familiar with the idea of how wonky, or how fast cars of this kind of vintage go as she followed along in her relatively new car with toys and gadgets. On the other hand I was holding on with all my might.

Of the 60+ mile journey home, the majority of that would be on the M6, now you might think that it doesn’t sound too bad, but let’s be honest, travelling between 40 and 50 miles an hour depending on the hills and the wind is a frightening prospect in your tiny little car. Lorries thundering past you that wouldn’t even notice if you slipped under the rear wheels really brings home how much cars have come on over the years.

It quickly became apparent, that something was very wrong with the steering as it would snap left and right as you went through the tramlines that were left by lorries in lane one. It would clearly need attending to at some point in the future.

Clinging on inside the mighty Morris, I managed to get quite comfortable considering it was just one constant brown trousers moment. The little 1.3 side valve engine whirring away turning the three speed gearbox and we were making good progress, albeit a bit slower than everyone else, but what is the rush?

I suppose you were expecting to read about how something exploded or stopped working, but actually the car got me all the way home without developing any new faults. I was exhausted from fighting the steering all the way home and the journey took a little over two hours, but I was here, home, parked up on the driveway waiting for my good lady wife to come from work and quiz me on what exactly I had bought this car for and why.