EMISSIONS:My love for the Duchess borders on religious zeal, and I will not let her die, writes KILIAN DOYLE
THE DUCHESS is unwell. She’d been coughing and spluttering with the gusto of an asbestos miner for weeks. I’d tried to ignore it, terrified of the cost entailed if my suspicions were confirmed. But there’s only so long you can pretend the ghastly hacking is an aural mirage. Eventually, I had to steel myself and shove my head under the old dame to check.
I emerged ashen-faced. Not only did the exhaust boast more holes than John O’Donoghue’s Dáil explanation, but the underside was rustier than a herring’s fillings.
Much as the corrosion needs attention, it’ll have to wait. For I uncovered a far more pressing issue, namely the gush of oil spurting from her internal organs.
My love for the Duchess has, over the years, assumed a devotion that borders on religious zeal. Were I a superstitious man, I may be excused for believing her weeping sores – resembling stigmata, as they do – are a sign from some higher power that my rabid atheism isn’t going down well.
But I’m not fooled by such sorcery. Being a hard-wired materialist, I sent it to my local Beemer-tinkerer for his opinion. With unexpected empathy, he gravely informed me the engine and gearbox were leakier than the Titanic.
Reparation of these faults will require major reconstructive surgery. The Duchess needs her bits removed, resealed and regasketed. What’s more, the clutch has the gripping power of an arthritic nonagenarian and the clutch-release bearing whistles like a drunken postman. They’ll need replacing too.
Don’t tell Mrs Emissions, but I fear it’s going to cost me as much as the Duchess is worth to put her right. But I have no real choice. It’s that or stand back and watch her lifeblood drip away ignominiously onto the driveway. That would be an unforgivable betrayal.
It occurred to me, while poring over a catalogue of spare parts with which to arm myself for the battle ahead, that the Duchess is barely recognisable from that foxy 1.6-litre Bavarian minx that was rolled off the BMW production line in 1975.
The Duchess spent most of her former life ambling around England, until she was acquired by an eager Scotsman, who stuck in a grunty two-litre engine and mated it to a five-speed gearbox from a 1980 3 Series.
Once I got my hands on her, I fancied a bit more oomph, and fitted an Italian carburettor ripped out of a much-abused Ford Capri. Try as I might to get it to work, it emitted as much power as a shrew and was thirstier than a Bugatti Veyron. So I bought a brand new carb from California. I then sourced shock absorbers from Florida, a steering wheel from a San Diego pawnshop, anti-roll bars from a Kerry junker, a rear-view mirror from a French 5 Series and brakes from a box I found in a Kildare shed.
All things considered, you’d be forgiven for imagining the Duchess is a hideous Chimera-like aberration. She’s not. She is, to me, unconditionally beautiful. Unless you were a complete classic car geek, you wouldn’t have a clue she was actually bits of about eight different cannibalised cars cobbled together into one glorious whole.
Thinking about this, I was reminded of a metaphysical conundrum from my years as a philosophy student. The question is this: if you have an axe for 20 years and replace the head four times and the handle seven, is it still the same axe?
The answer is that it is. Your trusty old axe, despite the material changes, has retained its essential function. Thus it is with the Duchess.
And what, you may ask, is her function? I’m wondering that too. I used to think it was to make me happy. Now I’m beginning to suspect it’s to break my heart.