“MY LOVELY”

Hauraki Plains Gazette, Volume 47, Issue 2665, 3 September 1937, Page 6

“MY LOVELY”

THE FORD MODEL T FAREWELL TO A FRIEND IDIOSYNCRASIES AND HABITS. J SEE from a catalogue that it is still possible to buy an axle for a 1909 Model T Ford, but I am not deceived, says a contributor to an exchange. The good old days ‘have faded and the end is in sight. The Model T was the miracle that God had wrought. Mechanically uncanny, it was like nothing that had ever come into the world before, and as a vehicle it was hard-working, commonplace, heroic; and seemingly transmitted these qualities to those who rode it. Its transmission was what was known as planetary—half metaphysics, half sheer friction —and although engineers accepted it in its mechanical sense I was always conscious that it . meant “wandering,” “erratic.”

In its palmy days the Model T could take off faster than anything on the road. The reason was obvious. To get under way you simply hooked the third finger of your right hand around a lever on the steering column, pulled down hard and shoved your left foot forcibly against the low-speed pedal. These were simple positive motions and the car responded by lunging forward with a roar. After a few seconds of this you took your foot off the pedal, and the car possessed of only two forward gears, catapulted directly into high. The driver of the Model T was an man enthroned, and the car with the top up stood seven feet high. The driver sat on top of the gas tank, and when he wanted fuel he alighted along with everything else in the front seat. Refuelling was more of a social function then and the driver was forced to unbend whether or not he so desired. Nobody talked of wind resistance, and the four cylinders pushed the car through the atmosphere with a simple disregard of physical law.

There was this about the old Model

T, the purchaser never regarded his purchase as a complete finished product. When you bought the bus you had a beginning, or a framework, on to which could be screwed a limitless assortment of decorative and functional hardware. A flourishing industry was built up out of correcting its deficiencies and combating its fascinating diseases. You bought a radiator compound to stop leaks, a clamp on dash light, a sun visor, and a fan-belt guide to keep the belt from slippingoff the pulley. You bought a patchingoutfit and a nutmeg grater to roughen the tube before the goo was spread on. Some people bought rubber pedal covers, whilst people of a suspicious frame of mind bought rear-view mirrors, but most Model T owners weren’t worried by what was coming behind because they knew /that it would be seen in front very shortly.

After about a year steps were taken to prevent the alarming disintegration. A set of anti-rattlers was provided, and these were hooked on to gas and spark rods, brake rod, and steering connections. One agreeable quality was that they had no bumpers, and as their fenders softened and wilted with the passing years the driver was permitted to squeeze in and out of many tight places. During my association with Model T’s self-starters were not much in evidence. Your car came equipped with a crank and the first thing you learned was how to get results. The trick was to leave the ignition switch off, proceed to the animal’s head, pull the choke (a little wire protruding through the radiator) and give the crank two or three nonchalant upward lifts. Then, whistling" as thougu thinking of something else, you "would saunter back to the driver’s cabin, turn on the ignition switch, return to the crank, and this time catching it on the down stroke give it a quick spin with plenty of Pep. The engine almost always responded, however, and often if the enter- i

gency brake hadn’t been pulled all the way back the car started to advance on you at the first explosion, and you would hold it back by leaning your weight against it. I can still feel my old dear nuzzling me at the kerb as though feeling for an apple. Quite a large mutinous clique of car owners went over to a foot accelerator which could be purchased and screwed on the floorboard, but there was a certain amount of madness about this because the Model T, as she stood, had the option of three foot pedals to push, and there were plenty of moments when both feet were fully occupied in the ordinary performance of duty, and when the only way to speed up the engine was by hand throttle. Almost everybody used the reverse pedal as much as the foot brake —it distributed the wear over the bands and wore them- all down evenly.

The lore and legend governing the Model T were boundless. Owners had their own opinions about everything and discussed mutual problems as old women discuss rheumatism. Exact knowledge was scarce and often proved less effective than superstition. Dropping a camphor ball in the gas tank was a popular expedient and seemed to have a tonic effect both on man and machine.

Having no instruments on the dashboard save an ignition key the driver flew entirely blind and was supremely unaware of such things as engine temperature, speed, or the amount of fuel or oil. He learned not through instruments but by sudden developments. The timer was one of the organs about which there was ample doctrine. Some, when it went wrong, merely clenched their teeth and gave it a smart crack with the crank. Others opened it up and blew on it, while still others baptised it with large amounts of oil.

I have had my timer to pieces many times but I never really knew what for —I was merely showing off before God. I remember once spitting in it, not in’ a spirit of anger but merely research. One reason the car’s anatomy was never reduced to. an exact science was that once having “fixed” it the owner couldn’t honestly claim to have brought about any cure. There were too many authenticated cases of T Models having fixed themselves—restored naturally to health after a short rest. Farmers soon discovered this, and it fitted nicely with their draught horse philosophy: “Let her cool off a bit and she’ll snap into it again.”

I had number one bearing constant-

ly in mind. This bearing being at the front end of the motor was the one

which always burned out because the oil didn’t reach it when the car was climbing hills (that’s what l’ was always told, anyhow). That bearing was like a weak heart —you could hear it start knocking, and that’s when you stopped to “let ’er cool off.” “Number one bearing burned out on me and I had to have hei’ replaced,” you would say wisely; and your friends always had plenty to say about how to protect and pamper number one in order to keep her alive. Springtime in the heyday of the Model T was a delirious season. Owning a small cai- was still a major excitement, and roads were beautifully bad. The days were golden and the nights were dim and strange. I can still remember those nights when you drew up at a signpost and raced the engine so that the lights would be bright enough to read destinations by. I have never been planetary since. It is time now for me to say good-bye so I repeat in closing—Farewell, my lovely.. . . ’