Notes From the Hard Shoulder - James May [60]
The omnipresence of the great saint was a glaring portent that escaped me in the excitement generated by the unveiling of the car that would be our trusty companion for the next five days. Bought new (locally, of course) in 1967 and promised to Sophie when she was a small child, the Cinquecento was a monument to the sort of originality that old car collectors covet. Every last piece of paperwork ever generated by this car, even old tax discs, survives in ordered, rubber-band-bound form. It came with the optional radio, but that hadn't been unpacked from its box yet; I even came across a letter from the salesman expressing hope that the car would prove satisfactory. Last year, the same bloke sold Sophie's aunt a new Cinquecento after a protracted example of what dealers call a repeat sales prospect. In the intervening 27 years the old car had never left Rezzonico and its environs. This, and the presence of St Antony on the metal dashboard in magnetic map-holding form, should have told me something.
For the first bit of the road to Lugano we were tailed by the relatives in the new car, they being fearful that the prospect of such an epic journey would somehow affect the '67 machine. I have never understood this thinking. Cars aren't human – it didn't know it was going all the way to England. It had covered about 35,000 parochial miles without a hitch; another 1,500, even in one go, wouldn't matter.
After 10 miles or so the chase car peeled away with a cheeky, Cinquecento-sized parp and we were alone on a superbly snaking road. Sophie drove, leaving me free to marvel at how the Italians could make such sense out of a concept as essentially barmy as the 500. This was studied simplicity – one tiny instrument and a few unmarked switches, pedals like French-horn keys and a lever in the back to redirect engine bay heat to the cockpit if desired. Brilliant and infinitely repairable – it's rumoured that Italian sweet shops keep a few essential Cinquecento spares. The whole, even from outside, exuded the musty smell of antiquity that identifies old cars – which I had also noticed, ominously, in St Antony's place back in the village. Uphill the engine throbbed, downhill it spun deliriously in true Fiat tradition. We discovered that despite its mere 500cc the Fiat could be made to bowl along, provided momentum was maintained, to the extent that we caught, and became frustrated by, a BMW 5-series being driven by worried of Munich.
Within an hour we had entered Switzerland and joined the motorway. Now the air-cooled two-pot fairly roared with endeavour and 80kmh was observed on the tiny, yellowing speedo. Eventually, in high spirits, we gained on a huge truck. 'Shall I overtake?' said Sophie, barely able to contain her excitement. Yes! We crept past – I remember waving to the driver and him making a scooping gesture with his hand as if to help us along. We pulled back into the inside lane and then our whoops of delight were cut off like a snapped cassette by a loud pop accompanied by that horrible, hot smell so familiar to owners of old cars. Power tailed off dramatically: I made a quick appeal to the magnetic St Antony but no, all power was definitely lost. We drifted on to the hard shoulder in loaded silence.
No problem, though. There had been a noise, a smell and the generator light had come on. The fan belt had broken and starved the ignition circuit of current. Obvious. I'd worked this out before we even came to a halt, and of course we had brought a spare belt. I hopped out, flipped open the boot and, you may not be surprised to learn, the fan belt mocked me in its intactness. Through a pall of smoke I could see that oil was just about everywhere, except, I reasoned, in the engine. Even on the rear screen. It was at this moment that the image of my tool box, still sitting incongruously on my dining room table back in Blighty, sprang to mind.
As I walked back from the SOS telephone I suffered one