Remember those old cartoons about Charlie Brown, Lucy and the football? She’d set him up for the kick-off, then yank the ball at the last second.
Poor old Charlie would fall on his back, yell “Aaugh!” and get mad. Despite this, he never learned his lesson.
That’s how I am with old cars. Against my better judgment, I buy them. They break down. Then I buy another one.
So far, there have been a 1969 MG Midget, a 1973 MGB-GT and a 1988 Alfa Romeo Spider. I still have the Spider. Now I have a 1966 Jaguar S-Type, a sedan somewhat similar to Inspector Morse’s car.
Six weeks ago, I saw an ad for the Jaguar and decided to take a look. Owning one has been my ambition ever since watching the film Withnail and I, a cult comedy about boozy young actors in London cavorting in a battered Jaguar MK II.
I said to my wife: “I’m going to look at an old Jaguar. But don’t worry —I’m just looking.”
“Do not, under any circumstances, buy that car,” said my wife.
“What, do you think I’m crazy? You know what they say about Jags. Buy two, so you have a backup when the first one breaks down. Heh heh.”
“Don’t buy that car,” my wife said.
The ancient Jaguar was owned by an elderly retired doctor. When I asked for a test drive, he gave me a suspicious look, then allowed me to drive it up and down his driveway. This seemed odd. But the car was fantastic. It had a cigar lighter and smelled like old leather. And mothballs.
“I bought the car,” I told my wife when I got home.
“I knew it,” she said.
Well. It didn’t cost a lot. About the same as a used Mazda 2.
On Saturday, I drove the Jaguar to my brother’s house to show him. I took Ollie, our maniacal pug dog. Because it was a hot day, all the windows were rolled down.
The car stopped running somewhere on McKenzie Avenue, near Quadra. I pushed the black starter button over and over. Nothing happened. So I got out to push. Ollie promptly leapt out the open window and made a break for freedom. Perhaps he intended to seek help.
Ollie has a history of fleeing broken-down cars, by the way. He did so last year when my Spider broke down on Blanshard Street during the rush hour.
I abandoned the Jaguar, seized Ollie by the collar and tossed him in the back seat. The traffic was heavy. Motorists scowled; one favoured me with an unambiguous finger gesture.
This Jaguar was incredibly hard to push. For starters, it was an uphill incline. As well, these cars tip the scales at 3,500-plus pounds, the same weight as a typical giraffe.
“Sweet Jesus,” I muttered to myself, perspiring like a madman. Trying to push a giraffe-heavy car was hard. Ollie made crazed, unhelpful noises from the back seat. My will to live ebbed.
Then I noticed a young guy on the sidewalk, gesticulating. He was miming pushing a car. Yes.
We manhandled the giant English paperweight into the driveway of an apartment block. I thanked my new best friend.
“It’s a sweet-looking car,” he said.
“Want to buy it?” I said. He said no and went on his merry way.
I had no cellphone to phone the BCAA. So I asked a middle-aged woman carrying her groceries into the apartment building if I could use hers. She peered at my sweaty face and Ollie, whose tongue lolled crazily. I assured her neither of us was as demented as we looked. The BCAA kept me on hold for five minutes — a long time to wait beside a woman clutching two bags of groceries.
As a veteran old-car owner, I’ve met plenty of tow-truck drivers. They’re invariably cheerful and helpful. This one was no exception. As he cabled the Jaguar onto his flatbed, he encouraged me to buy an extended BCAA package, so I could get tows while visiting Nanaimo, Vancouver and other out-of-town locales.
Happily my wife — out on errands — was nowhere in sight as he uncabled the Jaguar onto our driveway. However, just as the tow-truck guy was about to leave, my wife suddenly materialized.
She had been parked across the road the entire time, bearing mute witness to the whole thing. To her credit, she never said the words: “I told you so.”
Turns out the problem was a faulty ignition coil. Five hundred dollars.
And so it begins.
Next week: The pros and cons of taking a second job.