Not mine but my dads...

Going to France in his blue celeste with my grandparents in a dyane. The steering lock came on on a roundabout as the ignition switch had been bypassed for some reason to a lightswitch. All was sorted but he went abit too fast round Leclerc carpark in reverse and unwound the gearbox. Went to Citroen and had a new box fitted... A few weeks later he did it again... luckily this time at home

All in all, I think my most memorable 2cv-related journey was back in the summer of 85. I say 2cv-related because it followed an incident the previous week, where my engine blew up, destroying one of the cylinders. I lived in Norwich at the time, and a 2CV mechanic guy (seem to remember his name was Robbie, and he was a communist who, whilst working on my car, always tried to educate me on things like the "spiralling dialectic" and the inevitability of a proletarian revolution). Anyway, Robbie sold me an engine for £100 and said he'd install it for another £50, if I paid up front (bloody capitalist!). However, in the meantime, I had to get back to Brum to start a holiday job, so I was going to have to leave the car with him and nip back the following week.
Anyway, come the following Saturday, I caught an afternoon coach from Digbeth... which stopped at just about every stop you can imagine between Birmingham and Peterborough, where I was to catch a connecting service to Norwich. Only problem was that the coach developed a fault, and we eventually limped into Peterborough at 8pm. I'd missed the connection.
I went in search of a b&b. However, I had no cheque book with me (the olden days, see) and when I went to get some cash from the hole in the wall, my card was swallowed. I had just £10 in cash and a ticket for the coach. Ended up nursing pints in a pub in Peterborough, watched Queen doing their set at Wembley (it was Live Aid day) on the pub TV, and ended up sleeping under a rhodedendron bush in a park in the middle of the town after getting chucked out of the train station waiting room at 2am, having witnessed a vicious punch up between a load of boozed up squaddies. Bloody freezing it was under that bush. And there were rats scurrying around.
Eventually got into Norwich at 1pm the following day, feeling totally crap and very sorry for myself.
The new engine was alright though, so all's well that ends well, I s'pose.

Other memorables include my Charlston's bonnet flipping up over the windscreen at 75mph in the outside lane on the M5, the tracking rod falling off my blue Club at 60mph, and the same car having its front offside wing and bumper demolished by an ambulance on the Bristol Road in Brum. Also, getting pulled by the cops one night for speeding, and when asked to open my window, knocking the officer's hat off. My sister (who was a bit inebriated) started crying and wimpering at that, and the policeman let me go with a ticking off!

Once had a guy with a racing bike with clipless pedals, hanging in my door at the traffic lights so he didn't have to take his shoes out of the pedals.
He didn't ask if he was allowed to do that, so I closed the window.. Fell on his fingers,
He fell with his feet still on the pedals.. Took him some time to get up again

I've always had fairly good times from A-series. Most ongoing hassle-worthy was the Dutch WM trip - we took Hetty, the Belgian '66 AK350.

First off - we only had one mobile at the time, and it died the morning we were leaving. So when Hetty spat a sparkplug and took what little remained of the thread with it, on the A12 going past Chelmsford towards Harwich for the boat, we had no way to ring the boys in dayglo. Unfortunately, it was on a stretch of dual carriageway with no shoulder. And, of course, no hazard lights. So by the time a truck driver stopped to see if we were OK, the triangle had been knocked over by at least three times by trucks... <parp> That truck driver didn't have a phone, either, so he spoke to his mate who did via CB - and got him to ring the breakdown service.

By the time they turned up, plod had arrived, informed us that there was a layby just out of sight - so off we limped to there. The RAC arrived, decided the best way to hold a plug in (against my better judgement) was to squish it oval. Well, it held. No compression, of course, as it all blew-by the flats. Still, at least it got us to the next services. Two miles away. Where we phoned the ferry and told 'em we'd be late ("No problem, we'll get you on the evening boat") and called around from the 2cvgb help booklet. Ah, there's a mobile Citroen specialist. Fantastic. Call him, and he's just got one job to do then he'll head over to us. Four hours later, and just before the RAC arrive again, he arrives. Towing a car which he "only" has to take to his workshop before he goes to rescue a Dyane stuck at Stansted airport before he starts to search for his helicoil kit. Which he hasn't used for a couple of years...

So the RAC man takes us to the ferry. Soddit. We've got Euro recovery, and we figure that we've got a good chance of getting sorted the other side of the channel. We're heading for the H-van camp a week before, then stay with some friends in Maastricht, then on to the WM. We can damn near push the van to the WM in a week.

Harwich port. RAC man sits there whilst we go to check in. No, they can't get us on that evening's boat. No, they don't care if we did speak to customer services. We've missed our boat. Tough. They might be able to sell us a ticket for tomorrow. Maybe. But it's looking full.

RAC man to the rescue again. "They've asked me to bring 'em here. As far as the RAC's concerned, that's their lot. <subtle wink to us> I'm going to unload them now, because I've got other jobs waiting."

We look pathetic.
Then we play the trump card...

"And our van doesn't lock. So, can we please have it moved in to the secure area whilst we get a taxi to town?"

We're on the evening boat. We're towed onto the evening boat. Last vehicle on. Which, of course, means last vehicle off. Towed, of course. To the Hoek van Holland port's freight security desk, where we call the ANWB and wait in the security office. Trying not to watch the security man watching porno vids on the CCTV monitors.

The ANWB man rocks up, and comes up with one of those "Why didn't we think of that 18 hours ago...?" plans. Take the washer off a new plug. Buys you another thread or two... which gets us to Zeeland, where the H-van camp is. At 4am. Zeeland is a surprisingly busy small town at 4am, with all the clubs kicking out. A small grey van gets a LOT of attention. Fortunately, it included the local plod. Unfortunately, they knew nothing of the H-van camp, and suggested we might have got confused with Zeeland the province. On the other side of NL.

Thankfully, it was them wot were wrong, not us. We'd turned off the main road into the town about 100m before the banners for the camp site...

So we drove in to a sleeping campsite, and just stopped. Lobbed everything out the van, and went to bed. We woke up to hear people walking very close to the van. My dutch isn't hot, but I'm pretty sure a lot were saying "I don't remember that being there last night..." so we stuck our heads out the door to find that we'd managed to stop RIGHT in the doorway to the beer/breakfast tent. Surprisingly well tangled in the guy ropes...

A lovely day or two at that camp, including a LOVELY bloke going back home to fetch his helicoil kit and sort the plug for us, and off for a further bimble. By the time we got to Maastricht, though, the back of the van was looking very oily, and the dipstick was roughly keeping time with the fuel gauge. Hmm. Another couple of days chilling, and on to Eendendam. Some of the exhaust fell off, but that wasn't exactly a major issue. An hour or two on the only hot day, working in a pool of oil and sweat in the spannering tent there found the problem - one of the head feed pipes (M4 engine) had previously been brazed at the banjo bolt it shared with the oil cooler, and had cracked clean through. Where on earth are you going to find an M4 head feed pipe? Oh, yes. A world meeting...

On from there, and we started to have charging problems. We were taking another week to bimble towards Dieppe for the boat back - and the charging problems continued. We ended up walking around Dieppe to buy a new battery. Gawd knows how, but the van started on the final morning - only needed to get to the port. As we indicated and braked to turn in to the port - it cut out. Bugger.

So - quick stop, grab new battery out the back, and swap over. Just in view of the customs guys. Who wondered what we were doing... and then made us empty the van before we could enter the port, since we were clearly acting suspiciously...

And back to Blighty. What could possibly go wrong now? Out of Newhaven port, and along towards the M23. Oooh! Look! 2cv van coming towards us! BLOODY HELL! AK350! <wave frantically>

ARSE! THE TRAFFIC'S STOPPED! <screech> <phew - missed 'im>

Shame one of the front brakes then stuck on so effectively that a mile later the drum was smoking hot...

Sitting behind my computer one night I spotted a nice looking van on French Fleabay; I took a sip or two of wine, and before I knew it the bottle was looking decidedly empty. My finger strayed to the Enchérir button, I always kind of wondered what that means in French?

Before long I'm the proud owner of yet another van I need like a hole in the head. I know from experience that everytime I take a trailer to France I walk away with a bill of 500 quid, minimum; there has to be a solution right? Driving it home isn't one of the options. A quick French phone call elicits the information that the owner seems to have had a major row with the local Garagiste. The van failed its control Technique on brakes, and let's face it failing a control technique is quite a feat in itself. The brakes have been fixed three times, the van has failed the Controle technique 4 times and on the last trip the engine mysteriously ran out of oil and had a crankshaft for petit déjeuner.

There is however another option, as it happens I need to visit a few customers in Austria, Italy, Spain, Portugal and home through France. The genius plan involves throwing an A frame and a light board into the back of the Volvo.

Finally after several thousand miles through Europe I arrived at the guy's house; in the dark, in the pissing rain which seemed an improvement over the snow earlier in the day. At that point I remembered I hate A frames with passion and that hatred is the reason I haven't used one in quite a while. I quickly give up trying to explain how an A frame works, count out some cash and grovel in a puddle to hook the van up. The route from the village towards Paris and the A20 involves driving staight into the mountains and several hair pin bends.......Hair pin bend, mountain, A frame, Hair pin bend, mountain, A frame. Miraculously I don't die and the van actually tows well on an A frame unlike some experiences I've had.

Eventually I do get onto the A20 towards Paris and my butt cheeks relax their grip on the Volvo's seat leather. A quick play with the sat nav directs me to a Campanile hotel, a bed and a warm meal; not necessarily in that order. I ordered a bottle of wine and silently toasted my employers for their generosity.

The next morning I got up brightv and early and find I've made a remarkably neat job of parking the Volvo and 2CV rig. A quick dip of the oil and I'm ready to go, until I notice there is no water in the expansion bottle, that isn't normal... I start the Volvo and it starts: on three cylinders. It isn't supposed to do that, it never does that. That'll explain the no water in the expansion bottle situation. I surmise it has eaten a head gasket, which isn't completely unexpected at 150K miles but I can well do without it. The wet plug soon clears itself and topped up with water I soon hit the Peage.

I'm motoring along nicely when the phone rings; it's the MD. Pete, rather than going into the office on Monday is there any chance of meeting me in Stockholm on Tuesday? We need some of the samples in your car.

Sure no bother at all Robert (oh shiiiit). I get on the phone and order a head gasket and few other bits and pieces. As soon as I get home (the Volvo drove home fine) I push the AZU into a corner and whip the head off the Volvo and find it has a crack running from a plug hole, skirting a valve seat and out of the exhaust port. That head will be heading to a Chinese beer can factory. So I go rummaging through the junk in the workshop and find a good head. By 4 in the morning the car is all back together and running beautifully.

I grab some sleep and make my way to Dover. The car is running great. I find a hotel near Hamburg and get a good night sleep, the first since that Campanile. The next day it is into Denmark, over the bridge into Sweden and onto the E4 to Stockholm. Suddenly the car falters. It isn't supposed to do that, it never does that.....

The sat nav switches itself off, the idiot lights come on and then engine dies, all in about 30 seconds. I quickly realise the battery is completely and totally flat. I pop the hood and realise the tensioning bolt for the alternator has snapped in half. The bolt for the Airco pump is the same so I can fix the problem, but no way can I start a car with a completely flat battery. I decide I might as well fix it and call the RAC. I explain the problem and tell them I need someone with a jump pack. They promise they'll have someone out to me in 35 minutes. I guess this could have been worse!

Many phone calls and 7 hours later a tow truck turns up. By now it has gone midnight and I'm less than happy. The tow truck stops on the wrong side of the motorway and the guy turns up clutching an adjustable spanner. I persuade him to get his jump pack, which turns out to be flat. he needs to drive to the next junction and turn round. Eventually he jump starts the Volvo.

I still have a 5 hour drive to Stockholm; which I cut down to 4 hours by flying low. After 2 hours sleep I got to my meeting at 8.30 sharp, with clean hands.....

That'll teach me to look at French Ebay! (And don't use RAC international breakdown, useles, useless, useless!)

I recently returned to cycling and have started trying to master clipless pedals. When you are new to them leaning on something always seems like a better idea than having to get back into them in a starting line of traffic. I guess he thought the convenient opening just at the right height was too good to ignore. Falling off in clipless pedals always happens in slow motion both for the rider and the (inevitable) on lookers, it's the getting up that feels even longer though - there really isn't a convincing 'I meant to do that' expression.