stewartwillsher
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- May 15, 2017
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- Western Spain and Costa de la Luz
MORE WAFFLE - Following on from Any Old Iron (my E93A).
[thanks Cuore Sportivo for liking that; feedback is useful and encouraging]
Something I forgot to mention about the E93A was the strength of the bodywork.
Bizarrely, for you would not dream of doing it today, we used the roof of the car as a viewing platform when going to circuits where parking was close to the bank at trackside.
We would walk to the roof via running board and wing and stand on the top to get a better view of the action.
It caused amusement, and envy, amongst spectators close by, who where possibly six foot lower and not able to see as much as we could.
And interestingly, when I owned it in 1962, it was twenty five years old and not a smidgen of rust anywhere, honest.
When I had to remove components, like the rad to repair, the bolts just needed a squirt of Plus-Gas and they undid, no probs.
The top of the spare wheel cover at the back had been polished through to the red oxide undercoat.
Back to the next set of wheels for this WAFFLE.
The motor I bought to replace the 1938 banger was an Anglia 100E 1955 with a few customisations.
Most noticeable was the dashboard, which the chap I bought it off (a car club member) had designed and fabricated from ali and covered neatly with black vinyl.
It had more instruments and warning lights, so compared with a standard 100E was like a flight deck.
Under the bonnet were a few tweaks but performance was not increased considerably.
I will confess to being a little disappointed that not much had changed with the engine compared to the pre-war lump.
Suspension was made a bit stiffer with spring assisters and shocks nobbled with thicker oil.
It looked a bit more sporty with spot lights and wider tyres, and that was about it.
A couple of accessories I added for improving visibility, were - a Tudor screenwash kit which was a sort of plunger in the dash and a bag for liquid under the bonnet, tubing and nozzles; a stick-on heated rear window element; a reservoir for the vacuum wipers, so they worked most of the time.
What luxuries, and not common on all vehicles at the time.
There was a trick to provide extra de-icing of the windscreen; as the bonnet opened forward, so just releasing the catch made a gap of a couple of inches at the rear edge for warm air from the engine to pass over the screen.
Of course, twelve volt made a huge difference from the E93A, with greater availability of accessories and many other of the previous frustrations disappearing; the lighting being truly amazing after the six volt candles.
I threw it about mercilessly, having not had a care with the previous banger, but learned a few car control tricks, none of which were for competition, but for this motor I was focussed on having a go at some rallying and autocross.
With the benefit of experiencing many different motors over the last fifty five years, I am surprised at how highly I rate the driveability of the 100E.
Maybe it had a good weight distribution and low centre of gravity, but for a rear wheel drive it handled very well.
My best mate, and partner in crime at this time, had an ex-Met police Wolseley 6/80, which was a tank.
We entered both cars for Eastern Area Championship rallies and were acknowledged for being the youngest crew, oldest car and least appropriate and largest (in the case of the 6/80).
We gave up with the Wolseley when even after changing the clutch housing oil seal (in the street) it still leaked oil onto the clutch going up hill so then slipped back down the hill.
On one occasion, during a rally, at the base of the hill was a ford (water over road, not the Ford car) so we got part way up then kept sliding back into the water.
Very embarrassing and had to get a tow to level ground to dry out, both water and oil.
The 100E was a much better prospect, but unfortunately the strain of autocross (predecessor of rallycross, but only in a field with straw bales) did irreparable harm to the gearbox. Irreparable because I could not afford to do what really needed to be done, but bodged the repair each time.
It was the main tail shaft that had chips out of the front splines where it mated with the drive shaft from the clutch.
So eventually, like after a couple of rallies or autocrosses, the circlip positioning the shaft and holding the synchro cluster in place, flipped off and only reverse and first were selectable.
I digress (don't I always) to describe an event causing great amusement to all, except me at the time.
The gear box repair, each time, involved removing box from car, stripping it and filing or grinding the shaft a bit, then reassembling with new circlips and seals, and putting back in car.
So, another mate of mine was a car fanatic and did all his own maintenance.
His parents had agreed to him building a garage at the bottom of his garden accessible by a track along the back of the houses.
He ordered a double garage kit in reinforced concrete panels and roof and doors.
I had agreed to help with the work as payment for subsequent use when need be,
Essential was a decent pit so work could be done on cars from below.
Unfortunately, my mate was about six foot four, so the digging out of the pit for his dimensions was hard work.
It also meant that most of us using the facility had to stand on boxes or whatever to reach up into our vehicles, which was a little precarious.
So you have the picture with 100E above, me below poised on boxes.
I had drained the gearbox oil but not replaced the drain plug (significant mistake!).
Undid all the bell housing bolts and wriggled the box back.
It came away, as always, with a bit of a jerk, so managed to retain balance and supported main chamber of gearbox on top of my head.
The box was now lower at the front than rear as it had freed the bell housing.
It felt as if something was crawling down my forehead, but with all balanced I could do nothing about it but soon realised it was inanimate, and just the last residues of gearbox oil from the rear of the box.
A little goes a long way, as they say, and what must have been a few spoonfulls, set off downwards.
I screwed my face up and winced as it managed to skirt my eyes and followed the side of my nose.
Lips pursed it made it to my chin and headed inland for my neck.
It would have been preferred if it had decided to drip, but no, it was determined to follow flesh.
Now, not to be too amateur, I had obtained, and always wore, on these occasions, ex-RAF technicians overalls so I looked the biz, and an all-in-one was very practical.
I guess they were a little large for me (I was a slim lad those days) so the gap at the neck did not impede the flow of the oil.
Downward and ever onward the trickle progressed.
The waistband offered no resistance and where and how it negotiated my private parts, I cannot remember, but it was not exciting.
One or other, or both, legs provided a clear run to sock and thence into one or both shoes.
Having thus escaped, the small excess in the gearbox had now reached its destination and my shoes filled to whatever level satisfied the volume.
During this time, several minutes, although it seemed much longer, none of my usually present mates turned up, so still alone, I managed to tip the gearbox and support it on the side of the pit whilst I climbed down off the boxes.
I could then push it out one end, in order to get it on the bench for work on its innards.
I had had enough for the day so tidied up, locked up then trudged, well squelched actually, the half mile back home, feeling a bit tacky in several places.
Now came the regular encounter with mother.
We lived on the second floor of a block of council flats, so from the kitchen window, my mother could espy me some distance up the road, so could prepare her welcome.
She could see on this occasion that although I was not carrying a nasty dirty piece of car that would be refused entry, but that me, I myself, looked suspiciously dodgy.
On arriving at doorstep, and learning of my predicament, I was instructed to strip off until what was going past her would be acceptable.
Unfortunately, even reduced to underpants, I did not conform, so was issued with a bowl of hot soapy water to cleans myself on the balcony outside.
Fair do's, she was sympathetic, but rules was rules and nothing oily or greasy went past her to indoors; and on this occasion it was me.
I acknowledge the passing neighbours as normal, but I think they chose to scornfully ignore the sight of me abluting al fresco.
All the togs went into a bowl to soak and my dear mum laundered them without a moan.
The 100E was good fun, and apart from the gearbox issue, reliable.
The rallies and autocross experience was wonderful, having previously been restricted to being a worker.
But my ambitions were for much higher things, and in my way stood the dreaded insurance companies.
Kids and sports cars equalled refusals, premiums out of my reach or dubious application details.
A friend of my father was looked up to by him because he was a member of the Institute of Advanced Motorists, and my brief research showed that insurance could be obtained by members on an individual basis, irrespective of age.
My father, more able at sarcasm than open humour, was, when told I was applying for the IAM test, visibly amused and put me down dreadfully.
He looked down on me as a lunatic, so spurred on by these elements, I was determined (that's me!) to get the IAM certificate and get a real sports car.
Slight problem was that the 100E did not give me the right vehicle to take the test; I was convinced that its image would handicap me from the start.
Next up in my sights was something a bit classy but not loads of dosh.
And that, as they say, is another story.
To be continued ...
[thanks Cuore Sportivo for liking that; feedback is useful and encouraging]
Something I forgot to mention about the E93A was the strength of the bodywork.
Bizarrely, for you would not dream of doing it today, we used the roof of the car as a viewing platform when going to circuits where parking was close to the bank at trackside.
We would walk to the roof via running board and wing and stand on the top to get a better view of the action.
It caused amusement, and envy, amongst spectators close by, who where possibly six foot lower and not able to see as much as we could.
And interestingly, when I owned it in 1962, it was twenty five years old and not a smidgen of rust anywhere, honest.
When I had to remove components, like the rad to repair, the bolts just needed a squirt of Plus-Gas and they undid, no probs.
The top of the spare wheel cover at the back had been polished through to the red oxide undercoat.
Back to the next set of wheels for this WAFFLE.
The motor I bought to replace the 1938 banger was an Anglia 100E 1955 with a few customisations.
Most noticeable was the dashboard, which the chap I bought it off (a car club member) had designed and fabricated from ali and covered neatly with black vinyl.
It had more instruments and warning lights, so compared with a standard 100E was like a flight deck.
Under the bonnet were a few tweaks but performance was not increased considerably.
I will confess to being a little disappointed that not much had changed with the engine compared to the pre-war lump.
Suspension was made a bit stiffer with spring assisters and shocks nobbled with thicker oil.
It looked a bit more sporty with spot lights and wider tyres, and that was about it.
A couple of accessories I added for improving visibility, were - a Tudor screenwash kit which was a sort of plunger in the dash and a bag for liquid under the bonnet, tubing and nozzles; a stick-on heated rear window element; a reservoir for the vacuum wipers, so they worked most of the time.
What luxuries, and not common on all vehicles at the time.
There was a trick to provide extra de-icing of the windscreen; as the bonnet opened forward, so just releasing the catch made a gap of a couple of inches at the rear edge for warm air from the engine to pass over the screen.
Of course, twelve volt made a huge difference from the E93A, with greater availability of accessories and many other of the previous frustrations disappearing; the lighting being truly amazing after the six volt candles.
I threw it about mercilessly, having not had a care with the previous banger, but learned a few car control tricks, none of which were for competition, but for this motor I was focussed on having a go at some rallying and autocross.
With the benefit of experiencing many different motors over the last fifty five years, I am surprised at how highly I rate the driveability of the 100E.
Maybe it had a good weight distribution and low centre of gravity, but for a rear wheel drive it handled very well.
My best mate, and partner in crime at this time, had an ex-Met police Wolseley 6/80, which was a tank.
We entered both cars for Eastern Area Championship rallies and were acknowledged for being the youngest crew, oldest car and least appropriate and largest (in the case of the 6/80).
We gave up with the Wolseley when even after changing the clutch housing oil seal (in the street) it still leaked oil onto the clutch going up hill so then slipped back down the hill.
On one occasion, during a rally, at the base of the hill was a ford (water over road, not the Ford car) so we got part way up then kept sliding back into the water.
Very embarrassing and had to get a tow to level ground to dry out, both water and oil.
The 100E was a much better prospect, but unfortunately the strain of autocross (predecessor of rallycross, but only in a field with straw bales) did irreparable harm to the gearbox. Irreparable because I could not afford to do what really needed to be done, but bodged the repair each time.
It was the main tail shaft that had chips out of the front splines where it mated with the drive shaft from the clutch.
So eventually, like after a couple of rallies or autocrosses, the circlip positioning the shaft and holding the synchro cluster in place, flipped off and only reverse and first were selectable.
I digress (don't I always) to describe an event causing great amusement to all, except me at the time.
The gear box repair, each time, involved removing box from car, stripping it and filing or grinding the shaft a bit, then reassembling with new circlips and seals, and putting back in car.
So, another mate of mine was a car fanatic and did all his own maintenance.
His parents had agreed to him building a garage at the bottom of his garden accessible by a track along the back of the houses.
He ordered a double garage kit in reinforced concrete panels and roof and doors.
I had agreed to help with the work as payment for subsequent use when need be,
Essential was a decent pit so work could be done on cars from below.
Unfortunately, my mate was about six foot four, so the digging out of the pit for his dimensions was hard work.
It also meant that most of us using the facility had to stand on boxes or whatever to reach up into our vehicles, which was a little precarious.
So you have the picture with 100E above, me below poised on boxes.
I had drained the gearbox oil but not replaced the drain plug (significant mistake!).
Undid all the bell housing bolts and wriggled the box back.
It came away, as always, with a bit of a jerk, so managed to retain balance and supported main chamber of gearbox on top of my head.
The box was now lower at the front than rear as it had freed the bell housing.
It felt as if something was crawling down my forehead, but with all balanced I could do nothing about it but soon realised it was inanimate, and just the last residues of gearbox oil from the rear of the box.
A little goes a long way, as they say, and what must have been a few spoonfulls, set off downwards.
I screwed my face up and winced as it managed to skirt my eyes and followed the side of my nose.
Lips pursed it made it to my chin and headed inland for my neck.
It would have been preferred if it had decided to drip, but no, it was determined to follow flesh.
Now, not to be too amateur, I had obtained, and always wore, on these occasions, ex-RAF technicians overalls so I looked the biz, and an all-in-one was very practical.
I guess they were a little large for me (I was a slim lad those days) so the gap at the neck did not impede the flow of the oil.
Downward and ever onward the trickle progressed.
The waistband offered no resistance and where and how it negotiated my private parts, I cannot remember, but it was not exciting.
One or other, or both, legs provided a clear run to sock and thence into one or both shoes.
Having thus escaped, the small excess in the gearbox had now reached its destination and my shoes filled to whatever level satisfied the volume.
During this time, several minutes, although it seemed much longer, none of my usually present mates turned up, so still alone, I managed to tip the gearbox and support it on the side of the pit whilst I climbed down off the boxes.
I could then push it out one end, in order to get it on the bench for work on its innards.
I had had enough for the day so tidied up, locked up then trudged, well squelched actually, the half mile back home, feeling a bit tacky in several places.
Now came the regular encounter with mother.
We lived on the second floor of a block of council flats, so from the kitchen window, my mother could espy me some distance up the road, so could prepare her welcome.
She could see on this occasion that although I was not carrying a nasty dirty piece of car that would be refused entry, but that me, I myself, looked suspiciously dodgy.
On arriving at doorstep, and learning of my predicament, I was instructed to strip off until what was going past her would be acceptable.
Unfortunately, even reduced to underpants, I did not conform, so was issued with a bowl of hot soapy water to cleans myself on the balcony outside.
Fair do's, she was sympathetic, but rules was rules and nothing oily or greasy went past her to indoors; and on this occasion it was me.
I acknowledge the passing neighbours as normal, but I think they chose to scornfully ignore the sight of me abluting al fresco.
All the togs went into a bowl to soak and my dear mum laundered them without a moan.
The 100E was good fun, and apart from the gearbox issue, reliable.
The rallies and autocross experience was wonderful, having previously been restricted to being a worker.
But my ambitions were for much higher things, and in my way stood the dreaded insurance companies.
Kids and sports cars equalled refusals, premiums out of my reach or dubious application details.
A friend of my father was looked up to by him because he was a member of the Institute of Advanced Motorists, and my brief research showed that insurance could be obtained by members on an individual basis, irrespective of age.
My father, more able at sarcasm than open humour, was, when told I was applying for the IAM test, visibly amused and put me down dreadfully.
He looked down on me as a lunatic, so spurred on by these elements, I was determined (that's me!) to get the IAM certificate and get a real sports car.
Slight problem was that the 100E did not give me the right vehicle to take the test; I was convinced that its image would handicap me from the start.
Next up in my sights was something a bit classy but not loads of dosh.
And that, as they say, is another story.
To be continued ...
Attachments
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100E.jpg
