It was twenty past eight in the evening that I got the call. I was in the living room, my laptop sitting on top of my lap, frantically concluding this Carchive post to hit a schedule deadline approaching in ten minutes time. So deeply involved was I in typing and rescaling images (somehow making them blurry in the process) that I didn’t notice the phone ringing for several seconds. With a start, I launched the laptop across the sofa and lifted the receiver.
My other, better, infinitely prettier half had fallen prey to mechanical malady in her beloved Peugeot. She was about half an hour away from home and her dashboard had exploded with that big red Peugeot warning light that simply announces “STOP”. There had been much eruption of steam from up front, too, so she had obeyed the Panic Light without dispute. And that was that.
Being the “car person” elect in our household, it was up to me to be heroic. This is how it went down.
Of course, the first thing I did was finish the Carchive post, lest I incur the wrath of my overlords. That’s how devoted I am to this website, dear readers; I would happily let my nearest and dearest sit alone in the deepest, darkest Essex wilderness with no clue as to how or if she would ever get home, in priority over showing you yet another old car brochure of dubious merit. Actually, I was following her direct order. She INSTRUCTED me to finish my writing first.
With the description being of steam and brimstone, the actual medical prognosis still had to be established. Not being in a financial situation where much heavyweight engineering work would be particularly welcome to keep either of our cars viable, I naturally wanted the verdict to be something relatively trifling. A dislodged hose, perhaps. I didn’t want to see all guts and gore hanging out of the side of the engine. Much as I like the innards of a 1.4 litre Peugeot mill, late on a rainy, weekday evening was not the ideal time for con-rods and crankshafts to be displaying themselves.
I collected a handful of basic tools from the garage. I paused and thought to myself ;what might be particularly handy in a coolant-loss type situation? Well, coolant for a start, and a large container of water was brimmed and loaded into the car. And cable-ties would be just the ticket for re-attaching a loose hose. Inevitably, those are one entity I’ve been meaning to stock up on for some time. Note to self: Be less useless.
The rain increased in ferocity as I made my way towards Witham, and my low-fuel light came on, just for fun. After a thirty-five minute drive spent more-or-less constantly being sprayed by the up-chuckings of continental articulated lorries fresh from one of the ferries that disgorges in nearby Harwich of an evening, I arrived to see a forlorn looking Peugeot with a forlorn looking Nicola sitting in it. With barely a word (for none was necessary; her eye-contact communicated a mixture of delight at my arrival and incomparable contempt of the situation she was in the middle of) she allowed me to prod away at the inactive organs under the bonnet.
The total lack of plastic coverings over this engine eases the task of peering into every possible orifice, and none of the worst signs of mechanical apocolypse were present; there was oil staining everywhere but none of it was fresh, it was all the preserved evidence of very ham-fisted maintenance from myself and many other incompetents before me, and there were no bony mechanical fingers sticking through the side of the crank case. All appeared alright. There also appeared to be no hoses missing either. Yet a glance into the coolant reservoir on the side of the radiator revealed there to be zero fluid of any description in there.
I glopped a few litres into the rad, visually checked everything again and then gingerly asked Nicola to start the engine. It responded immediately and made no noises any less pleasant than we are used to, and the coolant I had just added disappeared obediently into the system. I then topped it up again, repeated the process, but this time it jut sat there at a level. No steam, no nothing.
What’s going on?
Then, all of a sudden; I saw it. I heard it at first, a delicate plip-plop, then more constant. Then nothing, then more constant. I could see where it was building up into a determined little puddle, but not where it had come from. Right up until it sprayed me in the face. Yummy.
At least I had found it; a rusty cascade which was issuing from the hose which runs from the thermostat housing and disappears somewhere into the block. Whenever there was pressure in the coolant system, the hose was flexing and jetting out where it had developed a weakness. So, I had diagnosed the problem the thing now was whether I could effect a repair by the roadside and have my other half on her way again.
I remember back to the things I wish I had at my disposal. Cable ties were a given. I could do with some self-amalgamating tape, too, to bind over the hose until such a time as a replacement can be sourced. But I had nothing like that. What we did have, though, is a first aid kit. Elastoplast is A BIT like self-amalgomating tape, isn’t it? And bandaids are waterproof, right?
So I set to action choosing the right kind of dressings and applying them systematically to the wound. The elastic nature of the plasters were such that they could be stretched tight before sticking them down, which promised decent ability to deal with the pressure. After I had covered the area effectively with sticking plasters, it was just a case of finding a way of making sure the protective bandage I had created would stay in place.
Naturally, Nicola was delighted that I should take the time to document all this photographically. That the falling rain had now become sleet was inconsequential. Recording this wonderful evening in the most intimate detail was paramount.
Handily, the first aid kit also contained a spool of micro-fibre tape. That’ll do; I said, and set to binding the plasters into place. Several winds later, my repair was fixed in place firmly and looking good. I proudly looked on, lowered the bonnet and nodded to my grateful rescue-ee that she could drive on. And drive on she did.
….For about three quarters of a mile, then “STOP” came up again and the temperature gauge had gone off the scale.
It hadn’t worked. It was never going to, really, in hindsight. But at least I had a go, and it made me feel better.
Feel free to share your (mis)adventures with the rest of the class in the comments section.
[Photos of obscure underbonnet bits of Peugeot Copyright 2014 Hooniverse/Chris Haining ]
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