A Jag-Lover's Tale

IX. A Visit From The Prince

I got up late again the next morning, using the pretext of missing traffic for the benefit of the car to cop a few extra "Z"s. When I finally did head out to the garage, I was in a wonderful humor. The car had performed nicely the day before and I was looking forward to the drive. I hopped in, flipped the toggle switch under the dash which substituted for an ignition switch, and hit the starter. The silence was huge. The fuel pump didn't click, the solenoid didn't click, the starter didn't turn, the fuel gauge didn't even move. Silence. As I opened the door, I noticed that even the interior lights were out.

I didn't waste time figuring out what was wrong, I had a bus to catch. My dawdling combined with the bus ride was going to make me really late for work. By the time I stepped into my office, I had worked myself into a lather. I wasn't really worried about my job (remember, I work for the Government), but I was completely baffled as to why my battery was dead, when it had been so lively the day before.

I had heard of the "Prince of Darkness" first from my father. A number of his friends had suffered greatly at the hands of Lucas. At least one among his group had lost a car to an electrical fire.

Closer to me, I had a friend who borrowed another friend's MG to take his long-time girlfriend to his high school prom. On the way home, well after midnight, the headlights went out on an isolated two-lane road. Hitting the hazards, my friend pulled to the side to investigate. Doffing his tuxedo jacket and rolling up his sleeves, he spent several minutes poking around in the engine compartment and under the dash in the dark. His first notion, that a fuse had blown, proved incorrect, and when the realization hit that he was not going to be able to fix the car, he became frustrated and punched the horn press. As the horn blared, and the hazard lights flicked on, the headlights came on, only to blink back out with the hazards. As he tells the story, he drove the rest of the way home with the horn blaring and the headlights flashing on and off. I cannot guess whether his date was impressed by this, but one shudders to think what his date's parents, and their no-longer-sleeping neighbors, must have thought as the MG rolled into the driveway.

The more I thought about it, the more depressed I became. Depression lead to inactivity and the Jag languished in the garage untouched for the next couple of months. During this period, my wife's reference to the Jag had progressed from "that car" to "that damn car."

It was a ride in Ryan's newly re-engined Mk 1 which finally dragged me from the depths. Strange how a vision of what might be can do that. With new-found enthusiasm, I pulled the under-dash panel and started testing the wires. It didn't take long to spot a possible source of the problem. A PO, finding that the ignition switch no longer worked (stuck in the open position) tied a couple of wires to the poles and ran them down to a toggle switch near the steering column. He did not bother to remove the broken switch from the circuit, however, and my son's rather violent turning of the key in the ignition managed to turn the electrics on.

I talked Ryan out of a spare ignition switch from the parts car, only to find that the failure was endemic to the design of the switch. The bakelite body of the switch had come apart on both switches in the identical pattern. The broken pieces were nearly interchangeable. Once this had been determined, the keyed switch was taken out of the circuit, but left in place for cosmetic effect. I rolled the Jag out into the driveway, ran the ugly but trusty Volvo up beside it, and ran the jumper cables across. The battery in the Jag was really dead. It took about 20 minutes to get enough juice in to get the car to turn over, but once it did, it fired almost immediately.

After disconnecting the jumper cables, I checked the ammeter, which indicated that the battery was still discharging. I blipped the throttle, which only served to worsen the situation. Dead generator, too. At this point I did what any sane individual would do. I turned the car around, pulled into the garage, shut off and then removed the engine.

The "shipwright's" explanation went like this:

So, a broken ignition switch was fixed by removing the engine and replacing the transmission. Come to think of it, I never really fixed that switch.

I had the cooling system out, the head stripped and the remaining ancillary equipment pulled in about six hours. For reasons I cannot fully explain, I lowered the engine out two weeks later. Ryan graciously allowed me to install the extra transmission from the parts car. This was accomplished in a weekend, and the engine and transmission were back in the car by Sunday night.

While it seemed that I had repaired or replaced just about every system which could fail, I have learned in this project, if nothing else, that there will always be one more thing which needs fixing at great expense. With that in mind, and with the impending arrival of our second child, Trish helped me to the realization that this car could be the instrument of our destitution. With a heavy heart, I let it be known that, for the right price, and to the right home, I would be willing to sell.

It didn't take long for an interested and qualified buyer to find me. With the carburettors still in boxes, and the radiator leaning against a garage wall we shook hands, and that was that. I had one month to re-assemble the engine compartment, and ensure that the car was roadworthy. I would also convert the electrical system to negative ground and to a modern alternator.

Next, Two Weeks of Bliss

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