Maiden Voyage

by Ned Serleth

I inspected my machine from grille to tailpipe. This was going to be my car’s first ever road adventure since its completion. All fluids met approval; the radiator, oil pan, and master cylinder passed inspection. My insurance agent had picked my pocket once again, and a new license plate adorned the rear. I was legal and raring to go.

I slid into the black leather seat with red piping like an otter into a river, and the accessory shoulder harness fit snugly across my chest and waist in anticipation of our maiden voyage. Then I realized I had forgotten to get the key out of its hiding spot on the other side of the barn.

Dang! I unfastened the seat belt, pulled the door’s ripcord, yoga stretched my way out of the cockpit, retrieved the key, and eased myself back into the seat again, closing the door with a “clunk.”

With the ignition on and the choke pulled out far enough to sufficiently strangle the SUs, I gave the starter a tug, another tug, and yet another. Old Man Time had taken a long nap since the last occasion when I had coaxed the car to life. After a moment, I gave another tug and “vrooooom” the four cylinders roared to life like a raging chihuahua. Now it was: adjust choke, knock shifter against knee, grind into reverse, and attempt to overcome friction at the wheel. Note to self: extend the steering wheel past thighs.

Like a grinning Cheshire Cat, I rolled out of the barn and onto the gravel drive. Then, with an enthusiastic wave goodbye to my nervous wife, I exited the safety of our home turf and entered Bowman Loop for the first test drive of the season.

What joy, what rapture to peel around Dead Man’s Curve, open the throttle, range through the gears, feel the wind in my graying hair, and head out on the open country road. Everything was going my way, everything that is except the original Jaeger fuel gauge indicated empty and the speedometer needle wasn’t budging. Thankfully, oil, water, and tach gauges seemed up to snuff. Note to self: check speedometer and its cable and get fuel gauge rebuilt.

After happily motoring a couple miles, I decided to turn onto Ryan Loop and circle around at the local Baptist church. Turn signal on, I reached the corner, applied the brakes, and suddenly wondered how far the pedal would depress before the car could safely negotiate the turn. The brake pedal, now nearly to the floor, finally slowed black beauty and me to a safer speed, and we were able to turn right onto Ryan Road. Note to self: adjust and bleed the brakes, again.

I powered down, momentarily finding reverse before second, then circumnavigated the Baptist church parking lot before heading back to Bowman with a newfound sense of caution. Sitting at the stop sign, a truck passed with the driver’s thumbs up, which I proudly acknowledged, then I turned back onto Bowman Loop. As I maneuvered through the gears, caution joined the wind in my hair till reaching Dead Man’s Curve where I enthusiastically pumped the brakes so as not to end up in someone’s front yard.

Although another quarter mile brought the two of us safely back to the stable, my excitement, like a waning crescent moon, left a scowl across my face. Much work needed to be done before the next outing.

Now, you might wish that would be the end of my tale, but no. This narrative, like a barking dog that won’t stop, has at least another thousand words to go.

… So, I pulled in, parked above the plastic sheet with the oil absorbent cat litter, and turned the key to off. The motor dieseled a few fitful coughs then followed the ignition’s suggestion.

Note to self: research cause for dieseling.

After unstrapping, uncoiling, and making a pit stop of my own, I returned to the barn, coffee in hand, only to find a large puddle of antifreeze spreading across the stall’s floor. “Oh, great,” I thought, “the radiator or core plugs have failed me.” I mopped up the mess with an old t-shirt, lifted the bonnet, and gave the cooling system a Doctor Dread check-up. Diagnosis: I had over-filled the radiator when topping it off to safeguard against old man winter’s freezing temps. At least now I knew the overflow pipe wasn’t clogged with mud daubers.

After the antifreeze cleanup, it was time to bleed and adjust the brakes, again. I enlisted Ted and the use of a pressure bleeder. Try as we might, although the pressure bleeder didn’t bleed too well, two tires went flat. Once again, the old school method with Ted at the controls came into play. Alas, the pedal still continued on its earlier journey to that famous little city in Mali.

Hat in hand, I ran to the MG Experience forum for some much needed advice. Barney Gaylord was the first to respond, and I quote: “Occasionally a 3/4″ bore master cylinder may find its way into an MGA. If so, then it takes nearly the full pedal stroke to make it work, like bury the pedal in the carpet for a fast stop. It is actually less pedal force required, just a much longer pedal stroke.” Unlike so many times before, I decided to heed the Guru’s advice this time and simply accept the brakes’ idiosyncrasies. Someday, maybe I’ll pull the master cylinder and check my initial rebuild. I’ve been known to mess things up a time or two.

With the brakes bled, again, the next step was to order a new speedometer cable, (Moss part # 331-110), since the other had broken off at the gearbox. Apparently, the gears or whatever’s inside the housing were frozen, so I removed the kph speedometer and drowned it in WD-40. After testing it with the DeWalt and coming away satisfied, I replaced the original 59,000 kilometer Jaeger and removed its little brother, the fuel gauge, leaving a one-eyed dash. Anyway, with the gauge removed, I instituted my plan.

I sent an e-mail to West Valley Instruments in Reseda, California, and asked if they might consider trading work on my Jaeger fuel gauge for all the extra gauges and parts my late friend Bill had handed down to me after he had stripped down his ’58 MGA. The shop in Reseda was willing to knock off a few bucks on the rebuild in exchange, so I sent the whole kit-n-caboodle.

The new speedo cable soon arrived, and I was able to crawl under the car again to replace it. Let me tell you, spelunking in Blue Spring Cave has nothing on working under an MGA while attempting to screw one end of a speedo cable to the gearbox. Although thumb and forefinger cramped in the process, and I was able to lotion my back with 30-weight like I had done so many times before, my military training came in handy once again. I accomplished the mission.

Finally, I adjusted the banjo steering wheel then Googled the following question: Why does my MGA diesel? Wouldn’t you know it, back to the MG Experience I went where a fellow aficionado suggested the following: “I wouldn’t worry about it. Stick it in third when you shut it off and let the clutch out with your foot on the brake to stop the engine. These things always suffered from run-on.”

Well, there you go. The brakes would stop me with some persuasion. The speedometer, complete with a new cable, continued to drip WD-40 onto the new carpet. The radiator had found its optimum fluid level. The steering wheel was extended. And although the dash still resembled a one-eyed tomcat, I fed the tank my last five gallons of lawn mower gas. Yes, sir, I was ready to sally forth once again. This time I’d venture even further afield, turn off Bowman Loop and head out onto Potato Farm Road. What I couldn’t understand was why my lovely wife wouldn’t join me. I mean it’s an MG. “Safety First,” you know.