Much of the journey into clutch-full driving can be summed up by the comment a nice lady called Kim from Positive Energy made when gaining access to my attic this morning.
“Wow, do you drive around in that thing?” she exclaimed on her way to the attic access in the garage, pointing at my London Taxi, which to all intents and purposes looks whole again.
And that’s just it. The idea of driving it is nice. The labor of love that is involved in getting it back into the driveable state is tinged with mild bursts of spannering anger, and is the part most people don’t see or appreciate. Unless they’re foolhardy enough to read the mindless drunken meanderings of the post-mechanicing blogger contained in these fickle pages.
So all the bits are back together, save the eight or nine bolts to secure the driveshaft into it’s thankless revolving position behind the unseen gearbox. And when I turn on the beast it makes a metal claws on blackboard type of noise and mild wisps of smoke depart the bottom of the bell housing, barely noticeable in the billowing cloud of unburnt diesel that accompanies even a successful engine start.
So it’s time to take it apart again. And the next time I attempt the North face of the Eiger, the weather conditions will be considerably worse, and I will have to eat humble pie after giving away my box fan in an attempt to save space. More sweating, cursing like a wounded pirate and late night lamentations to come.