Modern Commer Replacement

THE LAST RUN

This year's race marked the end of an era. The Commer won't be carrying Team Zarse to Le Mans again. I've decided she needs a new home, so when her summer work is over, I'll be vetting potential "good homes" with a view to a transfer before the seasonal window closes.

It's been a wonderful journey, me and the Commer. I've covered 9000 miles in her and I reckon she's done over 4000 miles just on Le Mans duty alone. As I paid only £330 for her in 2001 I've probably just about had my moneys worth out of her, it's about thrupence ha'penny a mile.

The Zarses have all had some truely memorable times in her. I can cry laughing about some of the antics she's witnessed over the last seven year. Drunkeness, soberiety, car races, music events, girl's bottoms, girl's tops, dogs, sports events, birthday parties, weddings, music events, dead pigs, you name it, she's seen it all and taken it in her stride. Chris Z even woo'ed the future Mrs Chris Zarse in her. She's also seen her share of sad times too, but she's always been there for us, our answer to Paul Burrell, Princess Diana's gay butler and self-styled "rock".

But she's an old girl now and I think it's getting a bit much to ask her to carry 2.5 tonnes of gear down and back each year. No geriatric should have to do that. I'd love it if I could glide down empty carrying nothing weightier than a box of PG Tips and a sleeping bag. But life isn't like that, we need some modern payload capacity and performance. I saw new vans like Brad's rented Transit go hurtling past in aircon comfort, and I'd be lying if I said I wasn't seduced by these modern flighty vans. Meanwhile, I worked hard just to keep her rolling all the time, waiting for the inevitable next breakdown...

Ah yes. The breakdowns. Driving down from Lisieux to Vimoutiers we conked out in the middle of the road and drifted to a halt. Happily we were being followed by Bill (Perdu to you), 26 years an AA man, possessed with a box of imperial tools and an utterly unflappable laconic Birmingham nature. Cut a long story short, five minutes after it packed up, a man in a Dodge 50 (originally a Rootes/Commer light goods vehicle design) stopped and showed us to a nice safe layby so we could work on the van. Basically a fuel problem was diagnosed. I had a spare fuel pump with me, so Bill and myself set to and changed it. We found what looked like "snake skin" in the old pump and a blocked fuel line. After three hours of faffing around and having disconnected the fuel line from the tank it seemed there was something nasty in the tank causing the blockage. It appears to be a disintegrating plastic bag or maybe a condom. It would have to be a very large one for a blue whale or an elephant or similar given the anount of the wretched stuff we retreived. So finally, just as it was going dark, we had ignition, contact and brrrrummm... off we continued for the hundred miles to LM with Bill and Bob following gamely in Lara the MG Midget, who incidentally is now firm friends with the Commer.

Well, we got to Le Mans. But unfortunately not quite to the curcuit. A couple of miles short, we were beating up a hill in third on the southside dual carriageway. She could smell the LM campsite, the drink, fetid toilets and burnt meat. She knew she was nearly home, she'd made it back. At that moment, a bit of the nasty snakeskin got ingested into the fuel line and she began to misfire, slowly but inexorably the speed was stripped away from the Queen of the Highway as more of the skin got sucked into the line; a mere hundred yards from the brow of the hill she finally died. God, she fought though. Fought hard, like a dying person in the arms of a loved one, she did not want to let go. She coughed and spluttered and worked using every atom of fuel to get us there but it was just too much to ask. In the end she just did enough to get us to a slip road before my CPR failed and she finally flatlined. Lara gamely towed her out of harms way and arrangements were made for her to suffer the indignity of a towed arrival onto HA. Unfortunately, I could only conclude she'd failed us and was unreasonably cross and disappointed with her.

Phone calls were made, and it was suggested by persons unknown, that BobU would be delighted to come and get us in his Land Rover Discovery. Thus the Gimp decided to enter Bob's tent to waken him, where he'd been asleep for the past hour. One can only imagine the horror of such an experience on seeing that masked man in your reverie and it was a somewhat shaken and horrified Bob whom Bill and myself met outside the Stella Bar.

So we arrived on tow. Not desperately dignified I admit, but we'd got there at long last. I'd now like to pay tribute to all those who were travelling with me. Everybody contributed something to resolving matters, nobody moaned about our five hour delayed arrival on site, not even once. so cheers to Bob, Andy and Chris. Special thanks too to BobU for the tow, and to the unamed Angel of the Road who stopped to help us for two hours. Thanks to the guy (one of the SPS or Robbo's Lot?) who donated an in-line fuel filter; it works! But the biggest thanks go to Perdu. The guy's a prince amongst men. Under his guidance, experience, plain common sense and never-give-in attitude we made it there. And then he helped mend her on the thursday morning and install the "easy fix" filter soloution should- when- the blockage occur again.

So that was it really. She got us safely to Roluen on the sunday night. She conked out the next morning, again just doing enough to get us down the slip road, I think she was trying to ensure our personal safety. Fifteen minutes work had the blockage cleared and we were safely in pretty Honfleur for an extremely pleasant lunch on the harbour. Then back across the Pont du Normandie and onto the ship homeward bound. Fate dictated another breakdown at midnight on the A27 just east of Brighton and for the last time, she yet again did enough to see us safely up a country lane and out the way of the speeding HGVs. Another fifteen minutes of bare-chested work under the fuel tank, and having seen Bill drive past the end of the lance (he couldn't see us but we heard Lara), we were on our way home.

There was one last incident to go. Those who know where I live know there's loads of deer around. One such beast, a good sized young fallow buck with growing antlers, decided to go head to head with us on the bridge over the motorway. I slowed and chivvied him back into the woods, as I didn't really want to see him straying onto the main road. Initially we drove him back and he trotted along infront of the van. But then he decided he wanted to go the other way, so he leapt and headbutted the Commer right by the headlight. The noise was incredible and he bounced off dazed. I thought there must surely be a massive dent in the front panel. Inspection next day revealed a tiny scratch in the paint and nothing else!

So we got home. I pulled up at Zarse towers and we all just sat there a little dazed, breathing in those classic car smells of hot oil, warm bakelight and unburnt hydrocarbons, as the Commer sat cooling and tinking on the drive. Chris Z said "She's a beauty!" and patted her dashboard for the very last time; it's his last Le Mans for a while as he's going off to become a school teacher. We were tired and surprised that she got us home once more. What a girl! However, I can't keep asking her these tough questions. I don't want to break her, and she deserves oh so much better than I can offer her; yet another winter sat rusting in long wet grass with the local wildlife gnawing at her extremities. And I'm going to see that she gets better treatment, even if it's from another guy.

So as their slogan used to say: Commer. Built stronger to last longer. A fitting epitaph to the end of my ownership of a very fine vehicle.