Driveway disasters

by Neil Hack

Up until this particular point in my life, I have had numerous attempts at finding motoring perfection that worked in conjunction with my budget of peanuts and air.

It all started with a 1971 Mini, blue with beige interior. Of course the first thing I wanted to do with it was to drive it like a race car, so I took it to Castle Combe for a track day. 

This led to the arrival of a 1984 Mini Mayfair that was on its way to the tip. Gradually, this was converted into a monster with a 1400 fast road engine. (Yes, I said 1400 and not 1380.) It went like a NASA rocket and was nothing but hilarious fun to drive, and track days were amazing. But deep down I needed two things – more power and rear wheel drive. 

I started this journey with a gorgeous little Porsche 944 S2. It was a wonderful car, it drove great, handled great and looked great. It just had a couple if issues that did not suit me. 

The cost of keeping it running and getting that Porsche service book stamped was way over my head, and it was also too good. Everything worked all the time and driving it was not enough of a challenge. I mean you turned the wheel and it just turned. Huh?

I was lucky to do a track day at Silverstone and I realised that I was not driving as hard as I could, as I was scared of breaking it and not being able to foot the bill for parts or repairs. That with a £4000 annual service bill which made me cry, I put her up for sale. 

Next up was a 1971 MGB GT. A gorgeous little car that looked wonderful. Sitting in it made me feel great too. The smell of the leather, the neat little dashboard. It was really lovely indeed. But when you turned the key, the problems started. 

You would trundle down the road and I kid you not, trundle was all you could do. Overtaking things like a slow moving tractor required hours of forward planning, a steep down-hill section and a tail wind. It was so frustrating. This was meant to be a traditional British sports car and I could cycle faster than this. I’m sure they are not all this bad but someone in the 80s must have conducted an engine rebuild and rather than tuning it up, they must have tuned it down. Disappointing was a vast understatement.

At this stage, my hair was falling out and my belly was in a race to get to the finish line before I did so it was time to man up. The bank were bending over backwards to lend me money so I took every penny they would let me have, secured it against my London flat and got myself a 1965 Mustang Coupe. Bright red with snarling half pipes and a thundering V8. It thought I had made it. 

Again, it was not long before sheer joy turned to raised eyebrows and that niggling sensation of ‘not going fast enough’. Soon I was driving everywhere with my right foot welded to the floor and I realised that all I was doing was burning tanker loads of gas and making loads of noise. The car (for all the bullet Bravado) was not actually that fast, and guess what, it didn’t handle well either. That said, this car was built like a tank. It barely ever played up or went wrong. It was a BIG red thundering workhorse. 

So then, what next? Welcome the arrival of the 1969 Chevrolet Camaro SS. Sleeker and more advanced than the Mustang, this car was an unwieldy beast and with an unsilenced (factory standard) exhaust, it even sounded nasty. The 5.7 litre engine well fettled, I finally had a car with serious legs. Dare I say it, at first it was a little terrifying. 

The Camaro was a whole plot of land bigger than the comparatively small Mustang. English country lanes were not a pleasant place to be in this monster, especially when confronted with some buffoon coming in the opposite direction straddling over the white line. A plentiful supply of spare pants was to be carried at all times just in case. 

But really, all this was of little concern, as I began to find out the real personality of this car. Merely leaving the driveway was to become a feat of endurance and a heart in mouth prayer to the gods moment. Having spent the first 6 months or so of ownership on ramps having failed an MOT due to steering issues, the car then decided to start protesting at almost every attempt to go out. I think she must have been shy and very unsociable.

It started with an issue with the steering (again). New tyres were fitted (as the old ones were bald to the canvas) I had the geometry set up. Less than 10 miles later the wheels started screeching wildly on the A41. I pulled in to find the wheels had moved and were pointing inwards. The poor garage humbly assumed they had made a mistake and sent out a truck to pick me up and fix the issue that same day. After this, the angle of the wheels again moved and I found myself driving along with an awful screeching noise once again. Eventually diagnosed as failed suspension bushes, which was to lead to a front end suspension rebuild, and finally all was OK. Also at this time I fitted a new rear suspension as that was looking past its best too. Finally the car was starting to handle almost OK.

Phew, finally let’s go for a drive.

Nope hold on, the Camaro was not done yet. Next up the aftermarket EFI started to play games which was leading to awful running. I had the AA check it, an American car specialist check it, and even ended up on long calls to Holley in the States. All of which concluded, “No idea mate, you should just replace it.” The decision was made to bin off this complex nightmare and fit a good old fashioned carb. This was neither a simple, quick or cheap fix but finally …

Phew, let’s go for a drive.

No, we are still not done playing games. The rear axle was now due a re-build. Someone had fitted rear disk brakes as an upgrade but due to excessive wear in the diff, setting the brakes up was near impossible. So I whipped the axle out and had it rebuilt by a reputable drag racing specialist. This was at enormous cost and whilst they did a great job, I was disappointed to collect it and find they had neither cleaned nor painted it.

Phew, let’s go for a drive.

Refusing to be beaten, the Camaro then had another idea how to ruin a sunny day. This time it was the gearbox. Reversing out of the garage, I was in high hopes of a glorious day out at Silverstone. Nope, I got on the driveway, went to pop the car into neutral so I could close the garage door, and the gear lever moved, the gearbox was stuck in reverse. I had to get a neighbour to push the car back into the garage whilst I held the clutch down. 

An inspection revealed that the reverse selector unit had not been properly fitted in the past, and had been working its way loose inside the box. It eventually fell off, meaning the box was permanently stuck in reverse. 

A wonderful chap helped pick the car up and transport it to my Dad’s house where he has a car lift, and a gearbox extraction was undertaken. American cars are fairly simple in this regard but still, it is not a job I would wish upon anyone really. 

Gearbox rebuilt and reinstalled, truth be told, I had had enough of this wretched car by this point and I just wanted rid of it. Getting in and turning the key was becoming a nervous moment. Will she start, if she starts how long will she run for, did I pack spare pants. Nah, mentally I was done and dusted.  

About this time (as I started advertising the now well sorted car at enormous time and expense), that chap 'Poo Tin' or whatever his name is, decided to invade Ukraine and start a needless war. American car prices plummeted like the Titanic and no one was interested. Months passed and eventually the value/price of the car had bombed so low that a 26-year-old kid came and bought it at a bargain price. 

Peace at last. Never before have I been so happy to let go of a car. Thankfully I had done so much work to this car and lavished so much expense on it that she has been living a good life with her new owner for the past few years. (He has been in touch to gloat about his wonderful Camaro life.)

And finally after this trauma, I got the right car that suited my heart and my soul. An 1959 Austin Healey 3000, more basic, more rustic, more me. But crucially it has a large thumping 3 litre engine that has enough grunt to keep me entertained, and handling is OK but not amazing, so you have to work with it to make it do what you want it to do. 

“Why have I not seen this car?” I hear you ask.

Well since buying it. The car caught fire which took me months to fix. The gearbox was knackered which needed rebuilding, and that took months. I restored the interior as the ancient leather seats were cracking, and the carpet, well, it was not looking too healthy. And well, that took months. Also, a constant knocking at the rear end lead to a complete strip down and re-build. 

Phew, finally let’s go for a drive.

Well, I did go for that drive. I drove everywhere and anywhere in it, clocking up as many missed miles as I possibly could. I even went to Spain in her for the holiday of a lifetime. Until one day last year. Yep, you guessed it. I hit Bambi’s evil twin who was hell bent on seeing my joy crushed once more. 

Since then she has been in a specialist workshop having the vast amount of damage put right. 2026 will be my year of motoring joy. I am due motoring good fortune, surely? 

See you soon all, and I hope you enjoyed my ramblings. I will get this car to a Haddenham Classics meeting, I promise.