[KPS]

Love your narration Raghu! Wish we are part of this journey.

Chugging along in a small car at 30 mph for 700+ miles round trip, feels surreal! Open to the elements, the engine heat, pollution and many more.

Hats off to Aditi and you.

Cheers

KPS

[KartikeyaL]

Your story telling is out of the world, and the enthusiasm is inspiring for the younger generations.

Originally Posted by tonrag

Swami Sallies Forth Again

But then again, for the benefit of humanity, one must put down what goes into a vintage car before one chugs away from home. Here is what I can remember.

Jack, wheel spanner and jack handle
Spanners; from 8mm, to 19 mm, and one adjustable spanner too.
A pair of pliers, scissors, vice grips and a multitool, with both flat and Phillips screw driver heads.
Cotton waste, plenty of old cloth
A plastic pipe, Jerry can for petrol, A plastic funnel, bottles of water under the seat for the radiator,
Battery trickle charger,
Electric wire strands, insulation tape, Teflon tape, a blade,
A ball of strong twine,
Hose clamps,
Spare points, spare coil, spare headlamp and taillamp bulbs, emery sheet,
Face dust masks,
Some neoprene sheet,
Two cans of 20-50 multigrade oil

The above quoted list will definitely help many more brave hearts who take such journeys.

Looking forward to more stories and pictures.

[Thad E Ginathom]

Swami is on the road, and the thread just goes on getting better and better!

Thank you for your beautiful storytelling and pictures. I'm happy that the journey has barely begun, and that plenty more is to come

[tonrag]

16 January, afternoon.

The first stutter was just after we passed Turuvekere. The car began to cough, and the engine cut off, after a few sputters. As the car rolled to a stop, silent, I was not unduly worried. It was the fuel pump acting up once again.

The Austin Seven engine was simplicity itself. Earlier Chummies till 1932 had a tiny scuttle mounted petrol tank that fed petrol to the carburetor through gravity. This was certainly a potential fire hazard, but it did away with the necessity of a fuel pump. In 1933, both in the interests of safety and increasing the range of the car, a rear mounted tank with a 20 litre capacity was added, and a mechanical fuel pump bolted on to the near side of the engine. This pump was powered by a lever that rocked on a cam on the camshaft. Because the pump could not be separated by an insulating block from the engine’s side, and it was uncomfortably close to the exhaust manifold, it tended to heat. When it did, the valves tended to seize, leading to fuel starvation. The solution was a simple one – I had tried it several times before. One merely wrapped a wet cloth around the pump and waited patiently. Inwardly reproaching myself for not doing that earlier, I attended to that simple remedy and we were on our way soon. However, within five kilometers, the engine cut off again. It’s the heat, I said to Aditi. More water was poured on the cloth poultice for the pump.

All to no avail. Within minutes, we had to stop once more and cool the pump, now quite hot to the touch. That’s unusual, I thought, because the engine did not seem to be unduly hot. Could there be another problem? Is there not enough air coming into the tank, thus resulting in petrol not flowing out from it? I removed the petrol tank cap and sealed the filler tube with a face mask. That did not help.

My friend, Manjunath, following in his Mercedes had caught up with us by then. Escorted by him, we limped to Tiptur, and then to Arasikere, and beyond, to Banavara, where we finally ground to a halt. Compared to the brisk progress that we had made in the forenoon, we had done only about 60 kms in four hours. By 3 PM, we were still a hundred kilometers from Shimoga. The sun was high and a curious crowd thronged us as we stopped for the twentieth time, to cool the fuel pump and prime the carburetor.

And then, in the heat, the starter refused to engage. Was it a locked Bendix gear? It did not seem like that. As Aditi looked on with concern, I opened up the starter switch, which is a simple cable operated contact switch, and discovered carbon deposits on the contact points. I cleaned them up and we were once again on our way.

A few hundred meters away, we once again limped into a petrol bunk, with our pump overheating once more. Another interminable wait for the engine to cool down, and we started once more. Hardly a kilometer away, we stopped once again.

[tonrag]

I sent an SOS to my pal Manjunath, and he rushed back; he had left us and gone ahead in his Merc. Clearly the pump was malfunctioning and needed to be attended to at leisure. The best option for us was to head for Shimoga, where our friends were waiting. So we resorted to the oldest remedy for a malfunctioning pump; bypassing it altogether.

Our petrol can came in handy now. With a pipe, we connected it up to the carburetor and disconnected the fuel line from the tank to the fuel pump. Aditi held up the can on the window, high enough for the petrol to flow into the carburetor.

We began again, and drove silently, attempting to make as much ground as we could before sundown. After another stop at Tarikere to top up the can, we plodded on to Shimoga. By then, the starter motor had packed up once more, and every time the car stopped one had to crank start it.

The road gets steadily worse from Tarikere to Shimoga. It was dark when we got to the Bhadravati bypass, and the steady stream of traffic – not one vehicle deigned to dim its headlights – nearly drove us off the road on occasions.

I have a theory; that the worse a road is, the more rumble strips there are on it. Of all the insane measures that sadist engineers have devised to slow down vehicles, the rumble strip is the worst. Those on the Bhadravati-Shimoga road are particularly diabolical. They do not have any reflectors, and they have potholes cunningly concealed between each strip on the rumble. As we bumped over them, Aditi clung grimly to the petrol can and delivered a steady stream of curses against Executive Engineers, their ancestors, and various branches of their families. I kept my mouth shut, lest my teeth vibrate and fall out into my lap.

By the time we rolled into Shimoga, it was dinner time. We wordlessly parked Swami and devoured our dinner; which was our reheated lunch so lovingly prepared by our friends and retired for the night, exhausted.

It was a bipolar day, the pleasures of the forenoon had been laid to rest by the horrors of the afternoon. What was worse, I was unsure whether we could drive onward to Goa from here on. Could we fix the car in Shimoga? Don't worry about that tonight, said Aditi, as we drifted into an exhausted slumber.

[tonrag]

17 January; Shimoga Redeems Itself.

We woke up in a better frame of mind on 17 January. Our friends are old Shimoga hands; Devaprasad preferred to return here after retirement and occupies himself with a well maintained Jeep, farming five acres of land close by.

I got busy, talking to Sai Krishna in Bangalore, who had restored Swami. Various classic car Whatsapp groups of which I am a member, provided a steady stream of advice on what to do. I went onto the net and discovered a rich vein of Austin related lore and fixes from a most unlikely place; the Cornwall Austin Seven Club. Why anyone in chilly Cornwall would drive around unprotected from the elements in an Austin Seven, beats me; but the Brits are delightful eccentrics and I was grateful for that.

Well, the experience all around was that Austin fuel pumps were a weak point of the car and they frequently failed. The best solution was to fit an electric pump in series with the mechanical fuel pump and use it to boost fuel supply whenever the mechanical pump faltered. The Cornwall Austin Seven Club has some very useful technical articles for that.

I waited impatiently for the morning to progress; we needed to fix the car and move on to Goa. My benefactor of the previous day, Manjunath, would leisurely drive down to Goa later in the day in his Merc, he had said. So, my drive would be without expectation of any support from friends.

Don’t worry at all, we have Shankaranna, said Mrs. Devaprasad. He is a whiz with all types of vehicles. Shankaranna was a childhood friend of Mrs. Devaprasad, who ran a garage in Shimoga.

Would he be able to handle an Austin Seven? I wondered to myself. But then, what exactly did we need? Just a place to park up, thoroughly check the fuel line and fit an electronic pump. Indeed, the only constraint could be that we might not find a fuel pump in Shimoga.

That turned out to be the least of my worries.

Shimoga redeemed its reputation that day, and how!

From an automotive restorer’s perspective, Shimoga is uniquely convenient. The Karnataka Industrial Areas Development Board, has established an industrial estate exclusively for those in the automotive industry. The Auto complex, as it is known, comprises of wide tree lined roads and orderly shops and garages side by side, laid out in a grid pattern. More than a hundred shops, ranging from those that sell automotive components to electricians, engine overhaulers, mechanics and service stations live cheek by jowl. It is a well organized compact place where everything you need is at hand.

Shankaranna, a jolly, reassuring man, breezily assured me that the Austin would be ready in no time. He took me on a conducted tour of the Auto Complex, and I discovered that Shimoga had its share of classics as well. An old Hindusthan 14 waited in a vacant lot, as also a chop top Jeep Station Wagon. Lurking in alcoves hidden away, were classic Fiats and low bonnet jeeps too.

We hit pay dirt in the first shop to which Shankaranna took me. An electronic pump, which would have fitted onto a Hindustan Contessa of the nineties, was produced.

Now who would fit it? We shall go to Narasimhachaari, said Shankaranna.

We did not have to wait too long to meet Narasimhachaari, or Achaari as he was known. I’ll open my shop and do my puja, he said. Please bring your car over.

We drove Swami, can in hand, to Achaari’s shop and he busily got underneath to fix the electronic fuel pump. So far, the morning had gone well.

[tonrag]

Achaari quickly positioned the electronic fuel pump just below the rear seat floor, high above the differential where it would be protected from bumps and flying debris. We replaced the fuel filter and strapped the electric wire along with the one from the petrol gauge sender unit. On the scuttle, a connection was taken from the coil. And finally, he fabricated a bracket for a two way switch, concealed behind the dashboard, fitted to one of the bolts that held the central console in place.

The electronic pump ticked over nicely, pulling fuel into the mechanical pump. Yet, all was not well. The higher pressure was flooding the carburetor, and there were annoying drips from the unions connecting the fuel line to the mechanical pump and leading away from it. A check of the ferrules on the unions showed that they were scored. Achaari got them faced at a nearby lathe shop – thank goodness to the Shimoga Auto Complex where everything was close by – and we fitted the unions back with some Teflon tape.

There were no leakages, and I heaved a sigh of relief.

Can I take some photos for myself? Asked Achaari. Throughout the day, Shankaranna had called all his friends over to see Swami, and we had been deluged with visitors and selfie seekers. Of course, I said. Please sit in the driving seat. Shankaranna and Achaari posed for photos with Swami and there was laughter and relief all around.

[tonrag]

We had solved the fuel line problem; now to attend to the Starter Motor, which, during the course of the day, was working only intermittently, and emitting some decidedly rough noises.

Achaari dismantled the starter motor and revealed a bit of a horror story. The brushes were worn to the bone, and on one, the bracket holding the brush had begun to touch the commutator. The latter was not in good shape either, it had worn down completely. Can you fix this? I asked Achaari. His twinkling face clouded a bit. You’ll have to use the same commutator, he said, but I can fix you a new set of brushes.

Then began Achaari’s master class. He began with a set of modern Mico bushes, carefully removing the soldered wire connections. Then he drilled through the copper bushes and connected them to the brackets. By night fall, we fitted the starter back onto the car. It sprang to life and in half a crank, Swami was idling nicely. There were no leaks and fuel flowed smoothly. I had cleaned up the dirt from the carburetor float bowl and that meant that the rough idling of the previous day was also a thing of the past.

It had been a long day, but it ended well. Swami’s problems seemed to be behind him. We would leave for Goa early the next day.

[superbad]

God bless the 60 yr old lady who balanced a petrol can in a mostly open car in the heat of the day.
That, more than anything, touched a chord with me & is a testament to the trust & faith you have in each other in what is the epitome of a loving relationship. Wish you many more miles of happiness & joy as you embark on newer adventures in Swami.

[lalgudi]

"This is a car in which you are inside the scenery, and not just passing by it." reminded me of Pirsig's classic "Zen and the .... ". A well-written travelogue and lovely shots.Thanks for sharing.

[tonrag]

18 January, 2020 – The beauty of the Malnad.

A narrow strip of rolling hills dotted with forests and not more than thirty or forty kilometers wide, just to the east of the western ghats, must rank as one of the prettiest places in India. Known in prosaic agro climatic terms as the Western Ghats Transition Zone, this strip of magic land stretches from the lowlands of Coorg, all the way to the west of Belgaum.

We left Shimoga at 3.45 AM, our earliest start yet. Our dear friends, Devaprasad and Indira, insisted that we carry well buttered sandwiches. We would not say no; there is nothing like an impromptu picnic, when driving an old car. The early morning start from Shimoga towards Harnahalli and Talaguppa, towards Sagar is a delightful stretch of stress free driving, even in the dark. There is hardly any traffic and the car’s beat echoes off the tunnel of trees through which we pass. Our first stop attracted a group of pilgrims from Bangalore, who chased us down in their mini van; friendly people whose sleep we dispelled, for the usual selfies. At Harnahalli, I breathed easy. Swami’s starter motor war working energetically whenever needed, there was none of the roughness of the previous day. And the fuel pump was ticking along fine. No leaks, heat, or the necessity to switch on the electronic booster pump.

The scenery gets better and better as one proceeds in the north westerly direction. The patches of dense forests are broken by lines of disciplined areca. At Sagar, we refueled and checked the tyre pressures. The latter was low; it was just as well we stopped. As a precaution, we follow a practice of topping up the tank every sixty kilometers or so. It helps us keep track of the mileage. Besides, Swami’s speedometer, a nifty gizmo with no needle but a window that shows the speed, does not work. I need to get the cog that fits inside the gearbox.

We stopped at a still, lotus pond one just beyond Talaguppa and took down the hood. Aditi sleepily complained that it was still chilly. As we watched the Jacanas step daintily on the wide lotus pads, it was a moment frozen in time. From Talaguppa, it is but a short distance to Jog. The plateau drops away, and the road begins to snake downward. There are not too many hair pin bends, but plenty of zig zags. I approach the hills in the Austin, with both trepidation and relish. The journey can be stressful, if one does not respect ones car and adopt the right driving techniques. The Austin gear box is long winded, there is a considerable ratio difference between top gear and third, and similarly between third and second. Though the gearbox has synchro mesh on all gears but the first – early Austins did not have synchromesh - they tend to grind if they are not engaged gently. I like the challenge of double declutching and engaging gears smoothly. We fell silent; Aditi sat back, a smile on her face, wrapped up in a warm shawl. And I smiled with satisfaction, as I moved up and down on the gearbox, engaging third as we came down the slope. The cadence of the engine rose and fell, as I shifted down. It became a steady pattern; sep on the clutch, move the gear to neutral, a tap on the accelerator to get the revs up, declutch again, snick, engage third without a crunch. It was delightful, I hardly used the brakes.

We went past Jog; the last thing I wished was to dice with tourist buses on a weekend there. The road had been freshly laid, which meant we made steady progress. The dawn uphill traffic was low. We approached the hairpins cautiously, beeping chirpily on Swami’s road-runner like horn. When the road leveled out as we went past the Sharavati river, one could hear the birdsong above the hum of the engine.

It was the squawks of the hornbills that drew us to a stop. I switched off the engine. Aditi stretched. The last of the sandwiches were eaten. There was nothing to say. A woodpecker drummed on a nearby tree. And unseen hornbills squabbled with each other.

This is what vintage motoring is all about. Different things move people to high emotion. For us, a small car, a forest, a few birds and buttered sandwiches was the world. Nothing else mattered.

[tonrag]

[quote=superbad;4742518]God bless the 60 yr old lady who balanced a petrol can in a mostly open car in the heat of the day.

Aditi is super upset that you referred to her as an old lady. She is not a day older than 35.

[tonrag]

18 January 2020, a Muggy Afternoon.

Where Art Thou, Goa?

As the sun rose higher, we left the verdant forests of the ghats behind and descended to Honavar. There is no need for the coast to be any less green than the hills, but our road engineers don’t wish it that way. Trees are cut to make way for vast, wide highways and they plant cute little bushes instead. We aspire for American roads, but in tropical climates. To most people, who are insulated from the elements in their air conditioned tiffin boxes on wheels, it does not matter. But if you are in an open tourer, the heat gets to you, and how!

Swami began to stutter again, when we were just ten kilometers from Honavar. Fuel starvation, once more. Now what? said Aditi. I felt sorry for her. Clearly, her holiday was not going according to plan. We stopped in the hot sunshine and cooled down the fuel pump for the first time that day. Swami doesn’t like the heat, I said, as if that could goad him to move. On cue, he started once again, but the stutter set in once more within a stone’s throw of Honavar. What was worse, the electronic pump was now helping out too. It was chattering vigorously, but no fuel was coming through.

Maybe it was a low fuel level, I thought. The Austin’s fuel gauge is less than accurate. However, in Honavar, we filled just six litres of petrol, to top up the tank. The car seemed grateful for the respite from the drive downhill, where I had cruised mostly in third gear. We made some speed for a short while, but just past Honavar, in the hot shimmering sun we stalled again.

You can miss Veda Auto Service, if you don’t watch out for it. Nestled in a cul de sac off the highway, it is run by the taciturn Ashok Shastri. As we rolled in, I worked out mentally what to do. On the plus side, we did not have any other problem besides fuel starvation. The fact that the powerful electronic pump was also not pumping fuel, meant that there was a block somewhere else. What we needed to do was to systematically clean the entire system from the tank to the carb.

The Veda mechanics, four of them, got to work. We drained the petrol tank as a first step, and that was a revelation. Dirt accumulated in the bucket, filling with petrol. Crawling under the car and sucking at the tank’s outlet, clinched the matter. There was hardly any petrol flowing out of the tank. The outlet was totally clogged.

In a matter of minutes, we disconnected the fuel gauge sender unit and removed the tank from the car. Peering inside, I was shocked at the dirt that had accumulated. A wire inserted through the metal petrol outlet pipe unseated vast quantities of dirt; including what looked like debris of old paint. We swished out the tank with petrol repeatedly, till no dirt accumulated in our tray. A new petrol filter was fitted and a direct connection made with the mechanical fuel pump. One up and down tickle of the hand priming lever below the pump, and petrol spurted out from the outlet leading to the carburetor.

Do we connect up the electronic pump? Asked the mechanics. I thought for a while and decided against it. The mechanical pump seemed to be working well; fitting the electronic pump might actually increase the resistance of fuel flow and lead to the mechanical pump overheating, I surmised. Yes, it was a risk to disconnect the electronic fuel pump, but something told me that Swami was fine now.

I looked at my watch. We were just past lunch time, but there was not a moment to lose. We would make a dash for Goa, before sundown.

There was a new life to Swami now. As we sped along the treeless highway, my heart was in my mouth. One more breakdown now, and we would not know what steps to take. One had done everything one needed to do. The fuel line was airtight, there was no dirt in the tank or the line and the pump seemed to be working fine. In silence, we loped along. We gathered speed on the wide open empty roads and downward slopes, and tried as best as we could, to keep the momentum going on the gentle slopes up. We were hungry, but did not want to stop. If Swami was running well, we reckoned, we would run him as far as he would go.

At Ankola, we could not bear the hunger any longer. We stopped at an Udipi restaurant that advertised fish meals; an unusual combination. There, I had the best fried pomfret that I had eaten in a long time. Aditi, a vegetarian, was also satiated with a mountain of rice and wholesome vegetable curry. As we washed down our hearty meals and watched the little crowd that had gathered around Swami, I realized that we had probably made the fastest time in the past couple of hours, since we started.

The late afternoon sun had begun to wane a little when we reached Karwar. We paused over the Kali river bridge; we were within striking distance of Goa now.

We gave each other high fives when we crossed the border. The transition from Karnataka to Goa is an abrupt one. The road narrows down to a two lane one, and the trees are back to shield you. Besides, petrol is seven rupees cheaper, which meant that we could slake Swami’s thirst once again.

I messaged my Goan friends that we had crossed the border. Our journey was at an end, I thought. Little did I know that I had to run another gauntlet; negotiate insane traffic to reach my final distination.

North Goa is as different from the South, as chalk from cheese. It took us nearly four hours to negotiate the remaining ninety kilometers from the border, to Calangute, where we were to stay. It was a harrowing drive, particularly from Madgaon, to Panaji. The road is being widened, and the endless stream of traffic bearing down on us, with their headlights blazing, kept us on the edge of our seats.

As for Swami, there was not the least trouble from him. Of the three of us, he was the calmest. The clean petrol lines had galvanized him; we cooled the pump down only as a precaution, but it was hardly warm. A friend messaged us that once fuel flow is not hampered, the fuel itself keeps the pump cool. It made complete sense. We stopped at Madgaon, only to slow down the idling speed a bit. Swami did not mind at all, and ticked over sedately.

We rolled into our AirBNB at 9PM, exactly 4 hours after we had crossed the Goa border. Santosh, our AirBNB host, had generously cleared a protected parking spot for us.

An hour later, refreshed and restored, we drove into Ryan Braganza’s place at Anjuna beach. Ryan and Dheep had organized the get together of enthusiasts at Goa. Though we sadly missed the day’s drive that they had organized, we had made it, finally. Better late than never.

I hugged Aditi and kissed her. She gave Swami a pat on his bonnet. Except for that blip at mid afternoon, he had behaved impeccably throughout the day. When we were exhausted, he had negotiated the crowds of Goa with elan.

He rocked.

[akshay_ritz]

Thank you so much for sharing your experiences sir. Most people here are car lovers but I just love passion. Passion about any field or any thing. You have epitomised that in your post. I wish as we all age we have the dignity, the passion, and the resilience that you demonstrated in your post. Thank you for being yourself and making the world a better place.

[Thad E Ginathom]

A wonderful journey! Thank you

Swami has four forward gears? He is older than I am, but I seem to remember the cars of my early-fifties-UK childhood having only three. My memory is dim, but I see a mental picture of a Ford Consul, with steering-column gear change, and third as top. And that's a generation (two or more, more like) of motor history younger than Swami.