I was happily thundering down to the rubbity for a counter-meal in some old oil-dripper recently, with a good mate beside me in the jump-seat. Leaving a set of lights, we watched as a crappy looking V6 VT Commodore beside us blasted off from the green, chirped into second gear and was gone.
“Typical,” my mate commented, “bloody P-platers.”
Now, on the surface, I’d be tempted to agree with him, but my memory is still good enough that I can remember when I was on my P-plates and full of the joy of being alive. Which is really all old mate in the Commodore was expressing, I’d suggest.
In any case, while it’s tempting to lump all young ’uns into the one basket, I reckon we’d be selling quite a few of them short in doing so. Which is not to say P-platers can’t be a group of fairly loose units at times, but I reckon they’re also a bit like Meat Loaf gigs: Each one needs to be taken on its own merits.
It is, of course, tempting to imagine that reckless driving and 20-year-old Holdens and Fords are the hallmarks of the P-plater. And, to a certain extent, it must surely be true, but today, I saw two very different modes of transport that suggested much greater diversity. And proved my point that a blanket description does nobody any favours.
The first was a grubby BF Falcon XR6 Turbo that had been wrapped in a bright, metallised shade of red. It kind of looked like a four-door version of the little tiny-shiny balls you hang on a Christmas tree (or some folks do, I’m told). Or, at least, it would have had it been washed since COVID.
This particular car was also sporting a loud dump valve and was being driven in a manner that meant not even the dead could escape its whoofle-swoosh antics during every gear change. There, in short, was a car and driver combo just looking for a highway patrol car with which to engage.
But within just a couple of minutes, I stumbled across another car bearing P-plates that could not have been more different in terms of its attitude, it’s desirability or what it said about its owner.
Take a look at the pics here and you’ll see what I mean. It’s an FC Special so that dates it as being built anywhere between 1958 and 1961. Which, in turn, makes it absolutely decades older than most (any?) P-platers, yet here it was parked just around the corner from the MBC, proudly bearing the green P.
The body had a few little hail-dings and such, and the paint was a bit thin in places, but it had all been preserved under a coat of satin clear. The trim all looked pretty good without being pristine, and the standard, skinny little 13-inch wheels had been replaced by bigger, dished steelies that looked the absolute business.
Inside, a lovely aftermarket steering wheel was fitted (not too big, not too small) and there were a couple of extra, period-correct gauges lurking in there, too. But critically, the bench front seat and column-shift were still in place. Fantastic.
I sincerely hope it had a warmed-up red motor on board (and probably did looking at the fatter tailpipe) but, equally, I hope the owner knows that he has already achieved perfection and has no plans to mess with it and make it something it’s not and never was.
Drive it and enjoy, young P-plater, and may the force not see you (hopefully they’re already too busy chasing red-wrapped BF Turbos anyway).
Seeing cars like this almost convinces me that maybe the human race isn’t doomed after all. And if you happen to read this, young person, feel free to drop into the MBC for a chat about cars. I’m quite certain I’d be very pleased to meet you.
The road less travelled
A handful of years ago, I decided to tackle the Old Telegraph Track in Queensland to see if me, The Speaker and my ancient, creaking old LandCruiser could make it to the very tip of Cape York.
By any measure, this is a grand pursuit, a worthy undertaking, and one that will open your eyes to what a great country we live in and how accessible a lot of this stuff still is.
Sure, we could have taken what’s called the Development Road to the cape, but, since it was built in 1986, it’s strewn with busted caravans and rented Camrys.
Nope, if you want a real adventure, the OTT is your track. (Which is not to say the Development Road isn’t a pretty trip, nor without its challenges, but it can be done in a two-wheel drive car if you’re careful.)
Built back when the overland telegraph was still the only means of communicating between the cape and the rest of Australia, the track itself was established to allow maintenance crews to follow the line of the telegraph poles (some of which are still apparent) to keep the wires joined up and the lines of communication open.
Since the internet and other wireless methods of annoying each other, the OTT has been left to its fates as far as maintenance is concerned, but has become an absolute must-do for anybody who likes camping in the jungle, swimming in waterfalls and systematically destroying their four-wheel drive.
And destroy them they do. Google ‘Gunshot Creek carnage’ and you’ll soon see what I means as punters get their ambitions and their abilities all mixed up, often with fairly terminal results.
Anyway, apart from a broken steering arm in one of the other cars I was travelling with, and Muggins here forgetting to lock the centre-diff in for the climb out of Palm Creek on day one, the old Cruiser did us proud. And along the way we had a grand time doing all that outdoorsy stuff that Aussies claim to love.
Now, by modern four-wheel drive standards, my 80 Series LandCruiser is a bit of an old banger.
I’m not sure how the economy works for some folks, but up that way you’ll see a lot of much newer Toyota and Nissan fourbies as well as a thick layer of modern dual-cab utes decked out with rooftop tents, winches and mud tyres big enough to fit one of those giant open-cut mining tip-trucks. (Hey, whatever works for you. Personally, though, I couldn’t handle the racket mud tyres make back on the bitumen. Give me an All-Terrain any day.)
Of course, being a fan of motor vehicles of a certain age, I was quite pleased that my 80 was one of the elder-statesmen of the OTT that season, but I was completely upstaged by one vehicle that I saw.
He was heading south and I was going north and we met at a campground that serves as the jumping off point for the OTT. Turn right and you’ll hit the Development Road, stay left and within a kilometre or so you’ll be on the Old Tele Track.
And this bloke’s vehicle of choice? A 55 Series LandCruiser. Built between the mid-60s all the way to 1980, the 55 Series was Toyota’s first real attempt at a recreational, family-oriented 4×4 station wagon.
It was big, boofy and tough enough to survive anything anybody could throw at it, while offering a six-seat layout and a bit more comfort than could the FJ40 Cruiser with its largely metal interior.
Of course, I spotted this bloke and his 55 from way out and, as he rumbled past my tent back to his swag, I also noticed that this old FJ didn’t sound anything like the old pushrod six-cylinder it would have been born with. Nope, this one sounded, I dunno, just different. So, after dinner, I cornered the fella at his campfire.
Turns out he was a fitter and turner or a toolmaker (I can’t remember, maybe both) by trade and he’d turfed the old straight-six into a skip and fitted up a Buick V6 from a VN Commodore.
He showed me under the lid and there was tons of room, with the V6 set back far enough to take a bit of weight off the front axle. (Which is no bad thing when you’re ploughing out of river crossings with an angry croc on your hammer. Don’t laugh.)
I expected he’d made an adaptor to mate the V6 to the Cruiser gearbox, but a look in the cabin revealed the T-bar shifter from a four-speed automatic Commodore, too.
Nice, I said. Much work to do it? “Well,” said the bloke, “I won’t be doing it again, if you know what I mean.”
Apparently the hours and head-scratching involved in making the auto fit the Cruiser’s transfer case was out of control, but jeez, it was a neat job he did. I just wish I’d taken a photo of the installation, but I’d promised myself no work for the next four weeks, so I left it at that, shared a beer with the lad and got all his tips on where the OTT was most cut up and/or slippery.
The one thing I’m quite certain of is that even though many of those newer fourbies will have been written off in Gunshot Creek or simply given up the ghost as their DPF filters clog and their fancy common-rail injection dies a horrible death, that old 55 will still be soldiering on.
Who knows, he may have even upgraded to an LS engine or something similar by now. Cars like that tend to be ever-evolving projects. More power to you fella, wherever you are.
Model T mafia
I’ve mentioned before the phenomenon of becoming associated with a particular thing and then other fanciers of the same thing magically finding you. Not only that, but they also often turn up bearing gifts of one sort or another.
Sometimes it’s a contact you needed, sometimes its actual spare parts or a special service tool that had been eluding you. Other times it’s simply a shoulder to cry on when the bastard goes boom and paints the workshop floor in 5W40.
Anyway, there I was a couple of weeks ago, minding my own business (literally) when Bondini calls me. Given that it’s rare for Bondini to even know where his phone is, this usually means one of two things: Either he’s had a stupid idea that needs to involve me or he wants to have lunch at the pub.
This time, though, he was calling to tell me about an old school buddy of his who had just bought a Model T. And would I like to pop around and see it? Would I ever.
Apparently, his school chum had bought the Model T Truck with his dad recently, but had only just put two and two together that the dill in Unique Cars with the Model T survivor was, in fact, that big bloke who’s a mate of Bondini’s. See how the universe works?
So we hustled around there and right in the middle of his workshop was a truly lovely Model T truck, complete with hand-made cabin (as many of them were back in the day) and the rest of the Gothic chassis architecture laid bare for all the world to see.
I stared at the thing, open-mouthed for about ten minutes before matey asks if I’d like to hear it start? Why’s he asking me so many dumb questions?
Being a later T, this one had the optional-then-standard electric starter motor fitted which clunked into the engaged position and then grunted and groaned at about 100 decibels until the motor had turned about twice and the old bugger burst into a chuggity-chug version of an idle. No smoke, no rattles; nothing apart from white-metal-bearing and thermo-syphon-cooling goodness.
And here’s where it gets all critical mass again: Seems Andrew (the dude who owns this T) and his (co-owner) dad had decided they better get their hands on some consumables like ignition bits and fan belts and such. Except Andrew’s dad, whose background is in earthmoving, did his usual trick of ordering ten of everything.
So now there’s a shelf in Andrew’s garage, absolutely groaning with Model T bits that I’m now welcome to dip into should I need to. I swear, it’s almost as if the universe wanted me to have this old Tin Lizzy.
Certainly that was the view of my late father-in-law who willed the old girl to me, so I’m committed to its resurrection. Whether I like it or not. Luckily I do (like it). A lot.
So now I’m just waiting to see what other T tragics I bump into as I go about my daily business. Normally, the chances of a Model T gearbox or engine expert living, say, four doors up from you would be a bit of a long shot.
But the way this is all going, I reckon it’s a fair chance to come true. Stay tuned.