Classic Car Weekly - Our Classics
One of the regular aspects of Classic Car Weekly is the Our Classics spread where the writers and regular contributors write about their classics and the adventures they’ve been on, fixes they’ve undertaken and the usual array of issues older cars love to throw up.
When I started on the title, I didn’t have my own classic, so I would write about driving my grandfather’s 1929 Riley Gamecock. At the start of 2023 ended up buying a 1979 MG Midget at auction and it’s been a great companion since. Until I drove it into a river and needed to replace the engine. We’ll get to that. At the same time, my trusty Suzuki Jimny has aged into the realm of proto-classic and would begin to star in articles of its own too. The adventures of my cars have seen me crest the steepest road in the UK, cannonball across much of France and get a celebrity to help with a brake rebuild at a show. It’s been busy and the adventures go on!
That’s Not Gone Well
In my usual lack of awareness, I again forgot to get the Jimny MOT’d until it was too late, again forcing the MG into daily service and a run down to my girlfriend’s in South-East London. After an Easter visit much enjoyed, I set off back for Bedfordshire aiming to take in a cross-country route and the good weather. Weaving across the southern boroughs of the Capital, towards Slough and then northwards, past Pinewood Studios and up through Buckinghamshire. With the roof stowed, rasping through the city in the rare March sun, it was lush. A friendly wave from other classic owners in the city cheered me along and after a stop for a coffee in Richmond Park, I was soon on my way once more.
I cut past the iconic film studios and into the treelined B-roads behind, remembering to slow for the ford ahead. I knew it was there. I’d driven through it earlier that month in the Jimny and the waters had claimed the front number plate (more on that in another missive). I stopped at the water’s edge, it hadn’t rained for a good few days, so I was hoping the level would be low enough to carefully wade through. I stared out at the depth gauge at the side, it read just below ‘1’ on the board. Now this is where I really should have put some more thought into the matter. One what? Foot? Meter? Fathom? Any off-roader worth their salt will tell you when fording unfamiliar waters to walk it out first, checking the depth as you go. Meanwhile, if you’re cerebrally deprived like I clearly am, the solution is to just go for it.
Water quickly rose up through the floor pan and over the doorsills. I shut the engine off and contemplated the stupid predicament I’d just driven into. There was no time to waste getting my shoes off, so I hopped out of the car and quickly realised just how idiotic I’d been. I’m a tad under six-foot-one with most of my height in my legs. So when the water came up to just below my knees, I quickly realised just how foolish this had all been.
Sputtering and holding on to life, the 1500 Triumph engine somehow still running despite its dunking. It's not running well, but it's running.
It took a huge effort to push the car out of the river, my waterlogged Converse struggling to grip the slimy road surface, but eventually, the yellow sports car was free and dripping dry. Had I bought tools with me, I would have pulled the plugs and turned it over. With no real option on that front, and a sign for a recovery service practically laughing at me, I sat and thought. It seemed that the water had only just kissed the bottom of the air filters in the housing, had I been lucky? The starter motor spun and engaged on the flywheel but with no result. I pulled the distributor cap off and wiped it out for good measure. A bump start from two bemused locals kicked the car into life once more. “It’s white exhaust that is a sign of water isn’t it?” I thought to myself hopefully. Eventually, the engine settled to a lumpy high idle on the choke, and with no choice in the matter, I set off for home. Still some 50-odd miles away across the Chiltern Hills. I phoned my Dad and asked him to meet me with a tow rope at Ashridge Park, glossing over my stupidity in favour of suggesting the car was suffering a prolonged breakdown, he agreed to dig out some tackle and hopped in the truck.
I reached Ashridge Park first, by now the sun had pretty much set and it was getting dark. Dad arrived in the pickup truck with a tow strap. We lashed the sickly MG behind
the Nissan and set off into the night, the Triumph 1500 mill desperately chugging to produce enough electricity to give me lights. The recovery was going well, if a little jerky: right up until we came to cross the A5. A gap appeared, Dad gunned it and set off with nothing but the front tow-eye attached to the line. I think it was at this point I invented a new series of curse words in the English language and set off after him, hollering down the phone to stop. He pulled over and I attached the bungee strap instead. We should have used this from the off, another failure in my thought process. However, in chasing after Dad, the little engine that could, could no longer. It sputtered to a halt at the roadside in a cloud of steam. If I could, I’d give David Eley, the Triumph-Standard engineer behind the SC engine, a commendation for excellent engineering in the face of overwhelming stupidity. Well done indeed Sir.
Finally, we pushed the MG onto the drive and into the garage and I tried to put the whole sorry affair out of my mind and swore to not be as thick next time. I sent a message to the Midget and Sprite Club Young Members group chat jokingly asking if anyone had a spare engine kicking around. Sure enough, someone did and could get it bundled up on a pallet and shipped down to Bedfordshire, a promising idea. Once again, all praise classic clubs! In the meantime, I still needed to strip down and remove the dead engine.
Dad and I set to work, whipping off the bonnet, and stripping the defunct unit down. Again, running into the headaches caused by a previous restorer’s slapdash attitude. Rounded bolts, stripped screw heads and mismatched fittings peppered the car. We ended up grinding out a screw that was trapping the radiator cowl, so badly was it mangled. Further into the engine bay, I gave up fighting the fuel line clips leading to the pump, opting instead to just snip the lines: worryingly cracks were forming on the outer face of the rubber sections, a failure waiting to happen. After a solid weekend’s work and a can’s worth of penetrating fluid to ease out the worst of the bolts, we had the engine loose on its mounts. With the engine crane in place, we hooked it on swung the engine free. I pulled off the carbs, intake and exhaust manifolds with the engine free and added them to the growing melee of cardboard boxes of parts.
Next step, a massive online order of pipes, lines, nuts, bolts, washers, oil, filters, a clutch and an alignment tool. I shan’t say how much I spent, but let’s say that the MG Owners Club spares department won’t be short of Old Speckled Hen for a good while!
In the spirit of eternal optimism, I needed to pull the engine out any way to do the thrust washers, so this whole debacle was going to happen one way or another, just now with the added expense of a new engine. When it arrives! I’ll keep you posted dear reader.
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