Motorway Breakdown

Press, Volume CII, Issue 30121, 3 May 1963, Page 9

Motorway Breakdown

[By

A. A. PRATT

in the “Guardian,” Manchester, Reprinted by arrangement}

TF you are going to have a breakdown, then Ml is definitely the place to have it. On other roads, if you happen to be stopped with a wheel dropped off. or a piston parted company with its cylinder, people generally speaking, could not care less; and you may be stuck for a couple of days. But, on Ml, all kinds of services leap to your aid. I had an appointment in London, and, much against the advice of my family and friends, decided to make the journey from Manchester in my very small British threewheeler In due course I got on to Ml. I was cruising at a peaceful 40 or so. and was about half down the motorway when there was a loud clang from below, and a loud scream from the engine. I drew into the hard-standing and stopped. A glance below showed no rear chain. Broken Link Walking back about a hundred yards, I found the chain lying on the slow lane. It had clearly broken at the split link. I returned to the three-wheeler, put the chain on the ground and pondered. About a hundred yards to the south was a bridge, and I sauntered down to it. Near it, I saw one of these emergency telephone

boxes which are scattered up and down Ml.

I picked up the receiver. No nonsense about ‘‘inserting four pennies in the slot” here.

An official-sounding voice answered. “Police,” it said. “What's the trouble?”—l.told him.

“OK,” said the voice. “Where, exactly are you?” —I recited the number on the phone box. "Please give me your name and address, sir.”—This was done, also the make and number of what he called “your vehicle.” and the name of the motoring organisation to which I belonged. “Now, sir,” went on the voice, “where is the vehicle, with reference to your telephone box?” “About two hundred yards north of it, on the southbound carriage-way.” “Right, sir,” he said, “If you will just return to it, I will send the motoring people out to you.” He hung up, and I returned to sit in the threewheeler. for there was a strong wind blowing. Rescue Van In about half an hour, a big van, with “Radio Rescue” in large letters down its side, drew up on the far side of the other carriageway, and a pleasant-looking young mechanic watched his chance in the traffic and came over. Like me, he diagnosed the trouble at a glance, and went back to his van, which was equipped with every conceivable spare, except a split link of this particular size. This did not worry him. “Look.” he said. “I've got to go up to the Northampton turn before I can turn round and come down your side of the motorway. I’ll just take your chain, pop into a place I know there for the link, and be back in 40 minutes.” He was. but before that a white police car drew up just ahead. “Are you in trouble, sir? Being looked after?” I explained about the radio rescue van. The policeman nodded. “You’ll be all right sir.” he said. “We met him as we came out of Northampton, so he won’t be long. Cherrio,

sir, now you're being seen to.'’ The mechanic returned in his van. He produced an enormous jack, and the little three-wheeler shot up as if it had been snatched by a helicopter. Repairs Then started the best piece of roadside servicing I have seen. Putting a chain back on a motor-bike is one thing but getting it through the chain-guards of a threewheeler is quite another. Finally, with the mechanic on his back below, and me helping from on top, a bit of wire coaxed the chain back into the dark and filthy crevices in which it spends its murky life. Then he fitted the link. We tensioned up the chain, and released the enormous jack. “Now,” said the mechanic, “if you look inside the rear door of my van, you'll find some green hand soap. Just rub it in, and I’ll get one of my dean towels, and we’ll both clean up a bit.” As I stood soaping my hands, I could hear his radio talking quietly to itself, no doubt telling about somebody else in trouble. With hands clean, I rather fearfully broached the subject of how much all this would cost. “Well.” said the mechanic, “the split link cost a bob. The rest—nothing at all. That’s what you pay your sub. for.”