This time of year, every year, my father-in-law would attend a vintage car outing, bringing along as many of his Chevs as he could find friends and family to drive. Sadly, the legend that was Vic Boardman passed away two weeks ago at the age of 92. He was a lover of vintage cars and we got three of his Chevs out that had seen him off at his funeral last Friday and today were driven by his sons and grandsons. More family and friends joined in so that in all seven 1920’s Chevrolets set off for Mulgoa.
This is the car club’s picnic day with plenty of time to chat and catch up with old friends. The kids have races after lunch and there is a celebratory cake. Not many kids were there today so we might have to change that next year and bring all the grandkids.
It seems a long time since we had done any vintage motoring and pretty soon I remembered why we bought our own old car. We drew the short straw and drove the 1927 Chevy ‘farm ute’ which was the last car to be ‘restored’ and so ended up with all the dodgy parts.
It started OK, the take off was the smoothest clutch I have ever felt in an old car. It didn’t run real smoothly, but we soon found the problem, the choke was out, held on by a wooden peg. I did wonder what was the story with this accessory. A quick look under the bonnet fixed the choke and so we continued. A few miles up the road and going up a hill, it still was not running great, so we had to change back a gear. OOOOps the gear stick comes adrift!! How the hell are we supposed to change gears now. Not a problem, shove the gear stick back in the hole and keep it there. No wonder Grandpa is such a fixit guy, growing up with this stuff. Motoring along and all was fine until we realised that the road wasn’t so bumpy, the vibrations were coming from the universal joint that was going round and round but wasn’t exactly centred. That was when we began to wonder whether we would make it there and back again. I had gone against my better judgement and had not brought a book or my knitting to fill in those awkward minutes or hours where Grandpa would be fixing our car or someone elses onthe side of the road. Damn, at least we had a thermos and lunch.
We made it there and enjoyed the beautiful winters day that it was. Mulgoa is the village where my father is buried and I have not been to visit him for a few years. I thought today would be a good opportunity, so before we left, we went to St Thomas’s Anglican church to see him.
All of dad’s family are buried here and we have visited this grave since I can remember. Today it was so bright and beautiful in the afternoon sun and it was good to see that the headstone had been straightened again. Salutations to two fathers in one day. Where would we be…
So we hopped back in the car to find our way home. Well, it wasn’t running any better on the homeward trip, we stopped, we pulled out the choke, we pushed the choke back in again, we cleaned out the carby, then the other bit of the carby, checked the points, the blah, then the blah and you get the picture. I’m over it by this time. The rest of the brains trust pulls up and tries to help but by this time it’s let’s just start off and hopefully make it home.
We did and hopefully it will get fixed before someone else drives it next time. I suppose we will go again, same time, same place next year. It’s all fun!