A Jag-Lover's Tale

II. Garage Sculpture

Through a laudanum-like haze I heard the words "engine kinda tired," "might need shocks", "transmission should be looked at," but none of it registered. I was alternating between a dream sequence of roaring through the Santa Cruz mountains with the windows down, listening to the note of the exhaust falling and rising as I hit the apex of every curve, and plotting the financial maneuvers required to put this machine in my garage.

To my credit, I left my checkbook at home, but it didn't really matter. I had already committed myself and my fortune (what there was of it) to this car. The financing I arranged, and managed to get past my Volvo driving wife, was this: I would take out a short-term loan to get the car home, make a couple of payments while I turned the Jag into a daily driver, and then sell my VW Jetta to cover the balance.

I took delivery the afternoon of November 4, 1993. It arrived on the back of a flat-bed car carrier, the combination looking to me like some kind of monstrous red-shelled tortoise. The truck driver had the car quickly unloaded, and we rolled it into the garage tail first so I could stare at all of that lovely chrome in the sunlight.

The next morning, I decided to chance a drive around the block. I had ordered catalogs the night before from Welsh Jaguar, XKs Unlimited, and British Auto USA, but it would be some time before I would get the parts I thought I needed. What would one short trip hurt? It wasn't long before I realized that "me" was the answer to my question. Like the day I first saw the car, the engine started on the first touch of the starter. The idle was still a bit high, and I reminded myself to adjust it when I got back from my journey. Remembering the near disaster from the last time I put the car in "Drive," I reached down and hauled back on the hand brake, and stomped firmly on the brake pedal.

What happened next is still something of a blur, but my next recollection is of my neighbor's garage door rushing toward me at what seemed like an unreal speed. Keeping my backside off the seat to maintain maximum pressure with both feet on the brake pedal, I reached over and slapped the selector into "N." Speed began to mercifully bleed off, and while it was close, I failed to penetrate the sanctity of my neighbors garage. My ride, however, was not finished. Gravity overcame friction, and I began to roll slowly into and across the street, coming finally to rest in the gutter at the base of my driveway. With my first breath in what seemed like an eternity, I thanked the gods of English Iron that I live on a cul-de-sac and not on a busy street.

Well, I'd learned my lesson. No more driving until I get the brakes fixed. I slipped the selector into "R," and gave her some gas. The normal expectation under these circumstances is that I would back the car slowly up the driveway and into the garage. This was not to be. The engine wound up, and just as the transmission kicked in, the engine quit. A touch of the starter brought it back to life, but a second attempt produced identical results.

Various combinations of rocking the car, gunning the engine, and neutral drops failed to get more than the rear wheels across the sidewalk. About this time, my wife, smirking unabashedly, came out of the house. "Need help?" My grunted reply was to the effect of, "Get in and drive, I'll push." The wise woman she is, Trish refused. She wasn't going to be blamed for driving through the back wall of the garage. So, with my wife pushing, I made another attempt at the summit.

It is said, "behind every great man is a great woman." With my greatness in doubt, I found myself staring through the windshield at great woman, not behind, but in front of me, a look of terror summing up her assessment of the situation. The engine dead, the brakes gone, she stood as the only impediment to the release of a great deal of energy, and she just wasn't up to the task. A flash of inspiration caused me to slap the selector into "P," and the parking pawl prevented the squashing and smearing of this lovely woman down the driveway.

Finally, with the help of several neighbors, the Jaguar was returned to its place in the garage. I retired to the sofa to absorb a couple of English ales and dream of the day my brake parts came in.

Next, "And Then It Got Expensive..."

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