CYCLE-CARISTS

CYCLE-CARISTS

[An account which indicates how enthusiasm prevails in spite of the war and one which may convey a warning to those who turn to well-worn cycle-cars as a counter to increased petrol-ration cuts.—Ed.]

IT was still pouring with rain and we were both pretty wet, having just completed 70 miles on the writer’s solo Ariel, when we left Kidderminster in a quite unprotected “super sports” Morgan of 1931 vintage. Well, off we rattled down the road, changing from bottom to top gear with abandon, albeit the engine (a 1928 1,000-c.c. w.c. sidevalve effort from Tottenham) was missing a little on account of the large quantity of oil that had been hopefully added to the ” puddle ” to avenge the death of the oil pump. Having covered half-a-mile or so it seemed that the clutch pedal had ceased to remain on speaking terms with the clutch. We stopped and, lying in the road with utter disregard of the miniature rivers and lakes that abounded, a reconciliation was effected, tools stowed away, but labelled “Wanted on Voyage,” and we were again under way. Ten miles were covered moderately rapidly, tail waltzing in an interesting sort of way on the wet road, the driver and passenger indulging in a little mutual admiration the while. Remarks to the effect that these Morgans were “wizard fun” passed frequently ; on a hill top suddenly and unaccountably became neutral. A quick drop to bottom gear and on we climbed merrily if a little noisily. At the ‘summit it was discovered that the top gear dog clutch had mysteriously vanished. With military thoroughness a search party was immediately organised,

equipped and sent out, but neither of us found a trace of the missing dog clutch, although every cunning artifice of concealment and camouflage known to the Home Guard was conscientiously employed. Nothing daunted, a spare dog was fitted with the aid of much profanity, the tail clamped down, and off we clanked once again. By this time blackout hour was approaching, whereupon a halt was called at a garage on the outskirts of Redditch, where a most obliging and courteous gentleman supplied us with three bicycle lamps, these being fastened to front and rear with the ubiquitous string, the doubtless efficient lighting arrangements designed by Mr. Morgan being a relic of the past. Lights having been lit, the power plant having been started (see De Bello Gallico—Caesar), yet again we were travelling in the direction of Northampton. By this time the much-worn spare dog clutch had rather lost interest in the whole business and it was found that the horses reached the rear wheel more frequently if bottom gear only was used. And so we progressed through Warwick to Leamington. At Leamington the main interest was more “Pool,” but Home Guard tactics proving once more unsuccessful (War Office, please note), we sallied forth from Leamington in the direction of Daventry and Southam. However, “Old Man Trouble ” reared his ugly head once again in the shape of an oiled plug, caused by slow poking around Leamington in search of fuel ; the plug spanner being no more than a wishful thought, we chugged hopefully onwards, the remaining pot firing lustily, until a hill (quite 1 in 12) proved too much for a mere 500 c.c. of engine. By various brutal methods, not unknown, we believe, to the Gestapo, both plugs were removed and vigorously cleaned,

but would she fire ? Certainly not. However, a long push to the village at the top of the hill, and, lo ! a petrol pump. This time our Pl. Sgt. was vindicated, as the somewhat irritable female pumper of petrol was soon located and induced to tank up the thirsty Morgan. Yet more oil in the petrol, radiator topped up, ten minutes swinging, and once again both cylinders were delivering a fairly presentable supply of horses and on we clattered. After this, apart from sundry stops to cool off an overheated cooling system, tighten up a loose number plate, add more string to the lights, and beg a spare bulb from a gloriously drunken farm labourer, we proceeded without further ado, admittedly at little more than convoy speed, to Northampton, where a hot and muddy tricycle was finally put to bed at 21.45 hours ; and so to large tankards of ale, a hot meal and bed. Thus even in wartime the khaki-clad enthusiast — proverbially impecunious— still manages to amuse himself in the old tradition