The response to the 101 has always been either "Wicked!" or "What the hell do you want that for?" Justifying it to the former is obviously never a problem, but the latter group, well it's difficult to convince them that it has any redeeming qualities. The truck itself hasn't been helping much lately. It's had a few technical issues.
It might be paranoia, but whenever we have a breakdown, I can almost hear the naysayers crowing. Breakdowns are something the good British motoring public rarely suffer from these days and a car that needs regular attention to keep it running is a phenomenon few people can relate to. The very concept of repair is an anathema, an anachronism from an inadequate past where phone calls required phone boxes and holidays meant a British beach in the rain.
My first reaction to a mechanical malfunction is dejection, then defense. I should probably give more power to my convictions, but I hate that they may be right, that buying a thirty year old ex military vehicle with appalling fuel consumption, questionable reliability and no power steering was a folly, at best.
Yet, if I was driving anything other than a thirty year old ex-military truck with the bull-dog features of a battered squaddie that process of repair would not be so enjoyable. Forward Control 101s tease a passion out of many people: owners, enthusiasts and people on street corners who've never set eyes on the like before, but smile and point with genuine affection. That makes driving one far more fun and sociable than any modern, reliable, anonymous vehicle. It makes dealing with a broken one less painful too.
Twenty miles north of Paris the steering started to fail. The bearing at the top of the outer steering column collapsed completely. This meant the inner shaft was moving around inside the outer, only by a few millimeters but enough to make the steering wheel slop around worryingly. It wasn't immediately dangerous, but it certainly didn't inspire confidence, especially when at first it wasn't clear what was happening, and it happened at night on a foreign motorway whilst being overtaken by a thundering convoy of 18 wheeler trucks.
Calls were made, that night and in the morning. Diagnoses decided. Advice given. Action taken. The men at the end of the line know 101s and they impart their hard earned knowledge freely and with patience for my anxiety and inexperience. The next morning the steering box is tentatively opened to check for damage. A single bearing slips out with the EP90. Sinisterly split neatly in half, it reveals another problem to deal with. But even this is nothing that will stop us driving on to a haven in the Pyrenees where serious repairs can be done. Inside the cab the bearing-less race is painstakingly stuffed with grease using a syringe stolen from our med kit, a seal fashioned from several layers of electrical insulating tape. Darren and Martin's wisdom and bush-mechanics techniques get us rolling south again and while we drive, Darren packs up a parcel of parts to post to the Pyrenees.
Down in the mountains there was another pillar to lean on. Another 101 owner, Oliver had got in touch before we left the UK. Originally he said to call in and say hello. Now he said to come over to his place and he would help me work on the truck. It is a good job he offered. The drop arm refused all attempts to prise it off. Oliver wheeled out the oxyacetylene. It came off. That was the first thing that would have stumped me if I hadn't had his offer of help.
Oliver is an eloquent man with a perfect command of English honed from years working in the UK and the US. He has a significant penchant for Land Rovers, with a Range Rover, a Discovery, an ex-army Series 3 ambulance, a custom camper converted 130 and a rolling chassis for an 80 outside his rambling farmhouse, a 101 and a series 1 in his barn. There may have been others, I can't remember.
With the steering box on the bench and its watch-like internals carefully dismantled, the next impediment to progress made itself visible. We had all the parts necessary to do the job, except a bottom bearing race. The one in the box was badly chewed. We needed another. In a small village tucked deep into the Pyrenees, bottom bearing races for a 101 steering box are unlikely to be readily available. Unless you are in the workshop of Oliver Neufert. He had five boxes stacked neatly on shelves, next to a host of other rare and assorted Land Rover parts. They weren't 101 boxes but the bearings are the same, so out came the oxy again and out popped a race.
After a gorgeous home cooked lunch in the garden of their old farm house with Oliver's wife Nathalie, we put the repaired steering box and column back in.
I love working with my hands; learning about the mechanics, overcoming the fear of dismantling a complex component, literally getting my hands dirty with it and then making it work again. More than that, I love meeting people of value who are generous enough to share their time. Once again the truck had brought me friendship and education as a payment for its continual need for attention.
