Up Front: The Home Straight
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industrial-strength cool
To which my dad can attest - during his time at Auckland City Council (late 1970s/early 1980s) he accidentally ran a superior's borrowed Austin into the back of a Citroen DS. The Austin was totalled, but the Citroen's curvy rear was largely undamaged.
Citroen DS - it's the hardest material known to man.
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Is this the big-assed British motor thread?
Hmmm...most of the long trips I recall as a kid were to A & P Shows, where Dad was either judging cattle or taking part.
Earliest vehicle was a 1956 Ford Consul, which I think is more 'industrial strength un-cool' - this car is pretty much like my folks' one except (a) ours was olive green (b) it never shone like this one owing to muck, dust, and rust.
There would be long trips, often over gravel roads. There would be the occasional 'thunk!' of stones hitting the floor from underneath and dust coming up through the holes.
There was one occasion I discovered I could see the road rushing by underneath if I pulled the carpet back and made the hole a bit bigger.
It was replaced by a 1966 Vauxhall Velox
not dissimilar to this.It was awesome!
It had a car radio!
It had shiny chrome ashtray things in the door handles!!
It also had a speedo which was an arrow which crept across the dial and turned colour as the speed went up:hit 60 miles per hour (100 km/hr) and it turned red.
Visiting Mum in hospital one time dad went through a 50mph sign on the motorway and the arrow was red.
it was the first thing we told mum when we burst into the hospital room.
I've only driven over the Timaru-Chch highway a couple of times, both en route to the hills for tramping trips. It didn't seem boring.
The Foxton Straight and associated long bits of road in the Horowhenua-Rangitikei?
Definitely boring. I've driven them lots and the only thing to keep you alert is the near certainty a cop car will be waiting over the next slight bump in the road, radar at the ready.
That stretch was also notorious, back in my bumming around days, for being the worst place to hitch-hike. Cars just didn't stop.
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It had a car radio!
Haha, I remember when we got the abovementioned Civic I was stoked that we finally had a car with a radio. Even if it was only two FM presets.
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Even if it was only two FM presets.
FM??
LOOXURY!
I might add the Velox was acquired in the mid-70s when there was no FM radio: the powers-that-be having decided it was a silly frivolous thing NZers could do without.
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It was replaced by a 1966 Vauxhall Velox
not dissimilar to this.I can dimly remember, when I was really young, the family having an old 50s Vauxhall Velox saloon like this.
Its kind of like if a car were a hippopotamus.
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that 55 PA Velox is almost identical to the one i owned in 1988-1990. Except mine was battleship grey and a 53 so it had the morris minor-type mechanical indicators. no rust, 'cause it was from CHC originally. should've seen the expressions on people's faces when we overtook them on the Te Teko straight doing 80MPH. Four cylanders, three forward gears and 2300CC. It was a miniature version of a 1950 Chevy made in the UK. Pure American hubris scaled down to meet British stiff-upper-lip standards.
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Its kind of like if a car were a hippopotamus.
Except a hippopotamus probably had a smaller turning circle. One sexy refinement shared by the Velox and its close rival the Mk. 2 Zephyr was electric wipers. General Motors still fitted primitive vacuum wipers to the Holdens of that era, for which the Cobbers were pathetically grateful. Powered by suction from the car's inlet manifold, when you took your foot off the gas in heavy rain the wipers slowed to nothing.
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Oooo, Mark 2 Zephyr - first car I did a ton in (& that's 100 Mph.)
It was the car my mother bought after she sold the Snipe. Also the Zephyr was the vehicle that got me my first speeding ticket. Nah, the ton wasnt involved...it was a bizarre round-the-city rally organised by the Aranui Former Pupils' Association (which died soon afterwards.) I was a law student at the time & was discharged without conviction (I ceased to be a law student shortly afterwards but advanced to being a very good fishnchip cook.) -
oooh - I remember the speedos with the color changing line as a kid - it seemed so modern at the time, in retrospect it was a cute hack - my parents had a beige and powder blue an Austin Cambridge A65
My first car was a 1946 Austin-8 (made with the same plans they were using before the war) cost me $100 in 1973 - probably worth $20K or more to a collector these days (I bought most of a second for parts for $50).
Years later while working on my mini I realised that you could trace the history of english cars with the different families of nuts/bolts used in different parts of the cars (a mini needed at least 3 socket sets to pull apart) - deep inside the engine the mini and the old austin 8 were the same
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JLM,
The Vauxhall Velox was the first - only really - car our family ever bought in the late 50s. Saved us having to go into town on Friday night in the farm truck, and began our family tradition of camping weekends at Wairarapa beaches.
But we did the SH1 route through Canterbury mostly in a Holden Belmont. Horrible car in town, but very solid and spacious on the open road. Each late December we would drive the 10 hours from Dunedin to Buller, and turn off at Winchester to avoid the most boring stretch north of Timaru. Geraldine to Rakaia Gorge is pretty straight, but at least you have the mountains for company.
I loved the grainfields south of Timaru, green and leaning in the wind on the way up, just that bit more golden three weeks later. Some of them are still there. These days I mostly go by Intercity bus, which I recommend for a high view, and a fun detour through Waimate.
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Until I was three we had a big white Austin with red leather seats. I don't recall ever going anywhere in it but do remember playing in it. When it broke down we couldn't afford to get it fixed so my Dad converted my car seat to a bike seat and we were carless for the few years.
Sometimes we went away with a friend of my parents'. He had a big blue station wagon (holden kingswood?). I was invariably horribly, horribly carsick. I once threw up in my orange toweling sunhat and, to this day cannot see that kind of hat without smelling puke in a hot car.
Eventually we got a 1954 (I think), grey, Morris Minor. It was painfully slow but thoroughly reliable. So old it didn't need seatbelts and had the funny indicators that stick out the sides. Driving from Nelson to Christchurch was a two day trip and, in order to fit the camping gear in, I had to sit on a huge wobbly pile of bedding. I don't remember puking on that trip but I probably did. I've never loved another car like I loved that one.
When I first moved to Christchurch i though the last part of the trip, through the plains was the most boring thing in the world and tried to schedule my journeys so I did that bit in the dark. Now, though, that road is my home straight and looking across the fields to those low, starkly shadowed hills can put a lump in my throat.
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My sister and I both used to get horribly car-sick, so my parents used to stick a couple of old icecream containers in the back so we could throw up with a minimum of mess.
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I recall visiting Akaroa with the folks many years ago, and I found the roads windier than a corkscrew - with the matching motion sickness to suit. I swore the next time I visited Akaroa, I'd be taking a boat. :)
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to this day cannot see that kind of hat without smelling puke in a hot car.
Puke in a hot car is one of those smells of childhood, like squashed marmite sandwiches, half melted crayons, and wet raincoats and widdle in the new entrants' cloakroom...
I only hurled once on one of those long trips: I'd had the bright idea of taking a book to read while we made the three hour trip to Te Kuiti Show.
I can even remember the name of the book - 'Full Circle' by Johnnie Johnson - along with the hill on the edge of the Hauraki Plains where I threw up.
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My Grandpa had a Vauxhall, can't recall the model, big boxy car with a bench seat in the front and the gear shift (3 gears) on the steering column. They got that so my Aunt, who was born without a left hand, could drive it. As a teenager I asked him why he still had this old car years later when we were driving around Waikanae, he just put his foot down and I just about dislocated my neck as this land whale surged forward like it was being chased by a japanese scientist - nuff said.
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There seems to be some serious automobile nostalgia going on here. As someone who can usually find an autism angle to any subject, can I suggest the website of 'Aspergian' John Elder Robison. http://jerobison.blogspot.com. The older brother of writer Augusten Burroughs, he writes that machines were his only friends growing up and he now has a business restoring European cars in Springfield Massachusetts. But his blog frequently features his favourite cars, motorbikes, trains, tractors etc, among the fascinating information about Aspergers, his life and times (he is in demand as a writer and speaker and his autobiography is called Look me in the Eye). Currently there are photos and descriptions of a range of Indian motorbikes, and even an Indian car.
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I learnt to drive in a 59 Ford, a hugh thing you could have landed a plane on, 60 mphs in second gear, do the ton no problem
It still lives some where near here but I haven't seen it recentlyFirst car owned was a 62 Anglia, apparently a classic car
I then had quite a run of 1100s and a Maxi which put me off English cars for life, always dripping oil and blowing heads
Then a seried of Falcons/Fairmonts, fantastic for the open roads and hills of the lower South Island, probably my favouritesNow, having overcome an anti Japanesse feelings a Honda CRV, nice but just a car. Next maybe a Lexus RX 350, the best of all worlds I hope
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he just put his foot down and I just about dislocated my neck as this land whale surged forward like it was being chased by a japanese scientist
My brother and I shared an FD Vauxhall Victor called "The Beast" while at uni. With a 3.3L six under the hood, it could really get up and boogie (comparatively, back in the day.. I'm sure 90% of Jap imports would nuke it these days)
It was a good old donkey and ended its days ignominiously after being rear-ended while parked on the street overnight. The other guy must have been driving a Sherman tank 'cos "The Beast" was totaled and teh offender took off and was never caught.
My brother got no end of speeding tickets. Being the boring, sensible one, my license remains free of speeding offences to this day...
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I have absolutely no automobile nostalgia. We had cars when I was a kid. I seem to recall them having a wheel at each corner, and that was about as far as my interest went. Possibly the fact that I was very prone to motion sickness (like, I used to vomit on the 3k journey up through Wadestown to the supermarket) had something to do with my diffidence.
The only speeding ticket I've ever got was when I'd borrowed my mother-in-law's car one time. Daihatsu Move - basically a large breadbox with a 600cc engine. Two adults in the front, two kids in the back, and we hit the bottom of a hill in Titirangi at about 65 in a 50 zone. Whoops.
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I then had quite a run of 1100s and a Maxi which put me off English cars for life, always dripping oil and blowing heads
That's one of the the oldest I.T. jokes...
Q: Why didn't the British invent the personal computer?
A: Because they couldn't figure out how to make it leak oil.
Ba-doum-tish!!
The blowing heads bit I'll leave up to your imagination...
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One last bit of (vicarious) automotive nostalgia: a friend of mine learnt to drive in one of these.
No power steering, no power steering, no syncromesh and 5 tonnes. Ouch!
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Well if we're talking vehicular nostalgia, and British engineering...this was the first vehicle I ever drove:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Ferguson_TEF(1955).JPG
No power steering, no safety bar, and the brakes tended not to work in winter because they got full of mud.
The best way to stop it was to drop the hydraulics quickly and hope the tray dragging on the ground would stop you in time.
Oh, and also hope anyone riding on the tray was ready for you to do this.
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I grew up further inland in Fairlie, but used to make that hot trip up to Christchurch to see the grandparents. Turning off at Geraldine on the way home was always a sign that it was almost over - we'd soon know the names of all the farms we went passed and the kids living there. The bench seats in the Vauxhall would get hot and sticky, the four kids would scrap, dad would smoke, mum would zone out.
I just waved some friends off as they set off to Auckland - the kids are watching a movie on a laptop in the back seat. Which is cloth, and there's air con, cd, radio, ipods, etc etc. Bet they get as bored as we did. -
Emma’s post reminded me of a story my mother wrote for my young daughter several years ago, about the regular summer holiday trip her family took in the 1920s from Waimate to Christchurch to visit both sets of grandparents. She is dead now and I am grateful for these stories (another was about her first plane flight in the 1930s).
The trip took all day on unsealed roads in their Essex car with its crank starter, the spare tyre strapped to one running board and the petrol can to the other. A box was strapped on to the back for the luggage, the roof was canvas and the fresh air from the flapping side curtains (this was before glass windows or petrol stations) was still not enough to prevent car sickness.
Here are some extracts from the Timaru to Christchurch segment:
“…And on towards the Rangitata, the first of the big Canterbury braided rivers, with their wide river beds, their snow fed water. And here we had to climb a steep rise to the plain above. This was one of the danger spots, and we were waiting for it to happen, for the radiator to boil with a great gush of steam. Then we would have to stop, wait for the steam to die down before Dad could get near it, to take the top off and refill it with fresh water. With luck we would have remembered to bring a spare bottle of water with us, and we did have a spare of just about everything; otherwise it meant a walk down to the river – lucky there was some water handy – to get enough to fill it again. …At last the cooled-down radiator would be filled again, and with a few cranks of the crank handle the car would start again, and we would be off, along the straight flat road across the Canterbury plains. … And the day getting hotter and dustier.
And what about the petrol? We had to keep remembering, Dad had to keep checking, dipping a stick into the petrol tank, and making sure he didn’t let it get too low. Not a matter of looking for the next petrol station, but it was stop on the roadside, unstrap the four gallon tin from the running board, make sure you had brought the pourer, and tip in enough to fill the tank. And amid the petrol fumes, drive off again.
It was now well past mid day, and we would watch for a more pleasant place to have our lunch, like one of the river beds. And preferably somewhere where another car hadn’t just passed, enveloping us all in a cloud of yellow dust.
Our travelling speed was about 20-30 mph, so we had plenty of time to view the passing landscape. On either side of the long straight road were paddocks with crops of wheat or oats, or sheep or cows, but mainly it as the shelter belts of trees that gave us something go to watch. A dark row of trees would loom in the distance, gradually grow bigger, then we would pass through them. As they faded into the distance another row would loom in front of us.
There was one moment we watched for, the first sight of the Port Hills, faint in the distance, but there, that was where were going, we could actually see them, it wouldn’t be long now, only about another two hours. Even Dad was more cheerful, then – whoomph, wobble, creak, groan. What we always dreaded, but had escaped so far, a flat tyre; we had just passed an extra rough piece of road.
So it was all out, unstrap the spare, our one and only spare, any more punctures meant Dad had to mend it there and then, take out the tube, get out the repair set, find the hole, stick on the patch, get the tube back inside the tyre, and so on. … But this time it was the only tyre he had to change, jack up the car, unscrew the bolts, and all the rest of it, accompanied by huffing and puffing in the afternoon sun, and some muttered swear words.
So, at last on again, and still one more excitement, the Rakaia River, the biggest of all the rivers, with its one bridge for both cars and train, more than a mile long. If the train was due we would have to wait while a man with a flag came out of his hut and shut the road gate while the train huffed into view and rattled across. Then he would open the gate again, and let the line of waiting cars onto the bridge to straddle the railway lines, and wait in the bay half way across to let the cars coming the other way pass….
Then at last, the beginning of Christchurch; Riccarton, Fendalton, into the Square, the hills were just ahead of us… It was past five, the heat of the day was passing, it had been a long day, but we had made it, all on one piece, four wheels still turning, petrol still holding, only one puncture … 130 miles all in one day, more than eight hours on the road, and we were there. And two weeks later, the same trip, back again to where we started.”
From:
J Stace (1994) Driving to Christchurch – somewhere in the 1920s. -
Cheers for that, Hilary, it's lovely.
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