A pearost from the long long ago.
God's own economy run.
In the year after I graduated I lived in Earls Court and worked for various hifi stores in jobs that varied between full and decidely part time. It wasn't a bad life but it was inconsistant in terms of income. In one particular period I had three incredibly good months followed by two months of one day a week at best with no bugger buying anything. By the end of month two I was flat broke and out of most of the niceties of life. I decided there was nothing for it- I would have to go and see the folks.

Herein lay a problem, I couldn't afford the train and even the last resort of the desperate- National Express- wasn't an option as the service from London to tiny provincial villages in Hampshire seemed to be off that week. I resolved I would have to use my car.

The car had been bought during the good months previously- a 1994 Nissan 200SX. The business of buying and insuring it had destroyed the three months money and a big chunk of cash I had set aside to boot. I'd then found myself without a pot to piss in and it had barely turned a wheel since. I considered selling it but the pride of a young man dictates I could only sell it for what I'd paid for it. It could under ordinary circumstances take me the 80 or so miles home in a little over an hour but there were two significant issues;
1) The fuel warning light was on
2) I had no means of refueling it.

Nevertheless, I decided there was nothing for it but to give it a go. I reckoned on there being a gallon and a bit in the tank (my continued experience of these things suggests they are hopelessly pessimistic) and if measures of extreme economy were taken I could get it home. With hindsight I have no idea what I was thinking. Anybody who has owned a 200SX will know that although it was only a 2 litre four pot, the fact that it was turbocharged and encouraged a thrashing at any oppotunity meant that 30mpg was a challenge and I was setting out with a gallon and a bit to do 80.

The drive itself was a horrifying affair. Gearchanges were made at 1500rpm to avoid any sniff of boost, the self imposed maximum speed for the trip was 56mph and any opportunity to freewheel was eagerly seized. I was overtaken by lorries, caravans and I believe at one point, an invalid carriage. I kept the windows up, the heater and fan off and (in the belief the it might do some good) the stereo too. In the long, cold silence of the trip, empires rose and fell and time slowed to glacial pace as the miles ticked slowly by and the fuel gauge fell towards the empty stop. I've since been on track days and advanced driving courses where I concentrated less than I did that day.

I'd love to say I made it but I didn't. Eight miles from home, the car conked out and coasted to the side of the road. One and a half gallons had got me 73.4 miles (indelibly burned into my mind on the tripometer) which I maintain is no mean feat in a 200SX. I was forced to phone my dad and confess that my gamble had failed. Bless him, he dutifully turned up with a jerrycan of unleaded and I nursed the car home. I was fed and watered, the car issued with a full tank and I solemnly negotiated a "bridging loan" with my parents and promised to sell the car that had failed to get me back.

Of course I went back to London to find my hours massively extended and business booming. The cash went back to the folks and the car had a few more oppotunities to cost me a bomb.

I no longer own a car.
(Leonard Hatred briefly did some work on, Fri 23 Apr 2010, 21:18, 1 reply)

A well told story, which many of us can sympathise with!
( Vambo, Fri 23 Apr 2010, 22:11, closed)