Emissions: overheating the DuchessIt had to happen eventually. The Duchess and I have shared a long dark night of the soul. For those of you who don't know, the Duchess is a 1975 BMW 2002. She is my vehicular pride and joy. And now, torment.
Earlier this month, I left Dublin late on a Friday, headed for a surf contest in Clare the next morning.
All well until the outskirts of Limerick. Heard a sound like a Victorian cotton mill emanating from under the bonnet. I stopped at a bleak garage on the city's outskirts. Deduced that the alternator had worked itself loose and stretched the fanbelt. The Duchess was overheating like a polar bear in a sauna.
Soon found the "service station" was cruelly misnomered. No fanbelts. No water. No air hose to blow cooling gusts on the engine. No chance of the frazzled looking attendant letting me past the steel shutters to use a tap. Nothing for it. Pulled out the wallet and purchased four litres of finest Alpine spring water to fill her steaming radiator. Only the best for the Duchess.
Turned the key. Silence. Battery had gone into hibernation.
Car pulled in. A knackered Polo carrying two youths. Unable to work out if they were friend or foe, I spent three long minutes eyeing them up while they bought their necessaries. Would I risk it and ask them for a jumpstart? No offence to the good people of Limerick. It's the bad ones I was worrying about.
They clambered back in. I had to act. I had no choice. Knocked on the driver's window. He jolted like a jumpstarted hamster, nearly ruining his upholstery. I knew then I was safe.
Car restarted, off I went. My situation deteriorated rapidly. Duchess soon sounding like a battleship with a torpedoed engine.
Every two miles, temp gauge needle rocketed up like a cat dropped on a stovetop. I'd long run out of Evian by the time the car rolled, hacking and coughing, into an Ennis garage.
Had a stroke of genius. Filled up the plastic wetsuit crate I had in the boot with water. This'll get me there.
Same story. Every 10 minutes, up with the bonnet and in with the water. I couldn't deal with this any longer. I'd have to sell her. I can't go on. No, I told the voice in my head. You knew when you bought her she'd leave you stranded on a dark, wet roadside some day. That was part of the deal. You knew that. Caveat emptor. It's your own fault. I'll go on.
Made it. Seven hours to do 160 miles.
Next morning, new fanbelt procured. Problem solved. Off to contest. Nobody there when I arrived. Rang organiser. "Whoops," said he. "I knew I forgot to tell someone." Cancelled.
My long night of horror was for nothing. Bit my tongue and turned the Duchess around. Kissed steering wheel and begged her to get me home. She got two miles before cutting out in an Ennistymon traffic jam. Hopped out and started to push, ignoring the cacophony of horns. Felt a tiny surge from behind. Looked around to see a lad, no more than 14, pushing. Bless him.
But the car was hardly moving. I turned again, ready to tell him to pull the finger out when I realised that this hapless child - the only person willing to help me, a man on the edge - had one arm in a sling. Didn't know whether to laugh or cry. My tearducts made the decision for me. What in the name of all that is good had I done to deserve this?
Got her started again. No sweet nothings this time. Ordered her to get me home or I'd polish her paintwork with a hatchet.
She purred home like she'd just come off a Bavarian assembly line. She knows who's boss. Me, I'm not so sure.
