Last time, we established that my beloved pet project was to forever now be known as Igor (Beast of the Underworld). More importantly a new carburetor had been acquired and Igor had been chauffeured away to another mechanic for fitting.
Like a parent waiting for their teenage daughter to come home on her first night on the town, I had to check that Igor was in safe hands. During the weekend, I stopped off to check where my beauty was being stored. My heart was broken to notice that Igor had been left outside in the harsh winter rain.
Since in my hands, poor defenceless Igor had never been fully exposed to rain. Always had I kept him underneath one of Argos’s awful car covers (of which I must have exchanged for a new one three times before giving up). My poor little comrade has not seen such harsh conditions since back in the DDR.
Melodrama aside, it was soon time to chat to the mechanic on the phone. Mercifully, he was delighted to inform me that my Trabant’s organ transplant was a raging success. So much in fact that laps were done around his compound without the urge to commit suicide from both the car and driver. Apparently the fastest lap time was around 15 minutes, because of a 14 minute fit of laughter preventing movement.
“It’s a funny little car, isn’t it?”
Excellent, Igor is running fine and will be returning home to his rightful master. Low and behold, the grumpy man returned again with my Trabant in tow. Not only had he lost his will to live, but also one of my bumper corners! Trabant bumper corners are known to fly off at high speeds (or any speed), so must be bonded or screwed on. I however had not been afforded this opportunity yet, so this was lost forever somewhere in the cathedral city of Canterbury.
Bumper corners are in the grand scheme of things, chump’s change. As a result, my attention turned to testing the mechanic’s handy work. As I did in an earlier post, it was time to begin the routine.
Engage the battery, switch the fuel cock on, pull out the choke, wait and turn the key in the ignition. With a little dab of throttle Igor thrust into life.
Indeed he was alive! Smoke blurted out of the skinny exhaust pipe like a forest fire propelled out of an AK-47. No matter how long I left the engine idling, Igor would not give up the ghost. It truly was a miracle, a resurrection if you will. After 13 years of sleep, Igor was now officially back to life.
Where did Igor and I go from there? Check out next week.
by Mike Armstrong