We didn't buy one before we left. I had been
told to get one, told that carrying one would be a good idea because,
"even though you might hope you don't need it, you'll be glad you have it
if you do." But it was just one more thing to source, one more thing to
buy, something else to secrete somewhere in the truck when space was already a
premim. So it slipped through the priority net and we left the UK without one.
One day into Italy and it became starkly clear that not packing the pistol had
been big a mistake.
Pistola Stroboscopica were the first new
words of Italian I learnt. Together they doubled my previous sum total
vernacular of "ciao" and "grazie". Pistola Stroboscopica
were two words I used a lot over the course of a single day. Armed with such a
specific name for what we needed we started out with an expectancy of
ease. Not just me, but Jonathan
Martinelli, too, an old friend, colleague and East London born son of an
Italian immigrant from the small Tuscan village where he and we were staying in
his parents' family home. He's not word-perfect-fluent, but his Italian is
expansive and convincingly local. For my part, I knew exactly what I needed and
why. A good team? Not bad, apart from that Jonathan's Italian faltered and fell
flat when it came to nuanced technical terms, and although I knew what to ask,
I had only English words to dribble out ineffectually. So in this case, in
effect, we were both pretty speechless. That is, apart from, "Pistola
Stroboscopica".
A Pistola Stroboscopica is a strobe gun. A
strobe gun is a tool used to set the combustion timing of an engine. They
aren't used much since the advent of onboard computers and diagnostic systems,
that ensure all modern cars run perfectly. Until they don't, and then that same
complex silcone hardware and esoteric software stops anyone apart from a main
dealer getting the damn thing running again, and then only after parting with
more than a week's wages of the average Harley Street surgeon. A Pistola
Storbascopica is one of those tools that have been muscled out by the bright
heat of technology, but it is one of those bits of kit that, when the shit hits
and the shiny new bits fail, you really need to be packing.
A strobe gun is a tool about the size and
shape of a Dersert Eagle .50 semi-automatic handgun, and trying to source one
in Tuscany is more difficult than acquiring an illegal firearm.
We expected our first port of call to turn
up the goods. Jonathan's father had an old friend whose son was now a good
friend of Jonathan. Both generations have been enigmatically called
"Pipo". Pipo the younger worked in a automotive shop packed with
parts and tools: basically a porn stash for petrol heads. We pulled the truck
up to the glass fronted shop and I gave the V8 a last blast of throttle for
effect. We jumped out and strolled in, full of confidence and familiarity. Five
minutes later we were out again, flabbergasted and crest-fallen. We knew even
at this early stage that if Pipo didn't have a Pistola Stroboscopica, the chase was liable to be
long and frustrating. But he had thrown us a bone: the address of another
automotive retailer and failing that, the name and number of a bloke that might
have one in his workshop.
As we pulled off I spotted a fully-pumped-up
Paris Dakar support truck parked across the road, one of those huge 4x4 lorries
that storm off-road through the desert carrying spares and kit for the dune
racing rally drivers. The truck and the workshop belonged to a rally team
preparation specialist, way more high-tech than a 101 but surely with a
sympathetic perspective towards heavy duty four wheel drive vehicles? Worth a
punt. Sympathetic yes, but no tool: just a blank stare from the man at
reception when confronted with the words, Pistola Stroboscopica.
The theme continued. From the second parts
shop to the third, to the off-road specialist mechanic to the back street
grease money, always the same response:
"Pistola Stroboscopia? Ain't seen one
of those in years mate. It's all computers these days. You got more chance of
having pasta with the Pope than turning up one of those." In Italian of
course, but even without a grasp of local slang the facial expressions and body
language told the same soul destroying story.
Dropping in on the Land Rover dealer was a
laugh. The showroom was ludicrously clean, spotless and sterile, a bit
incongruous for a 4x4 distributor and the suited salesman looked on with
unrestrained distain when I told him the hulk parked outside his plate glass
shop was, honestly, a Land Rover. Ushered around the back to the repair
department that was also clinical, a far more friendly mechanic smiled sadly
and shook his head when I spoke the sacred words.
I was getting desperate, Jonathan was
getting bored. Neither of us were prepared to give up. Stubborn bastards. A
desperate phone call to a man in Lucca who I knew spoke English and liked Land
Rovers turned up a name and number. One last call and the man at the end of the
line spoke flawless English and said Yes, he had heard of a Pistola
Stroboscopica. Yes he owned one and No we couldn't borrow it. But,Yes he was
prepared for one of his mechanics to use it and tweak the timing for me.
After driving around a considerable swathe
of costal Tuscany the address was welcomingly, on our way home. As we got close
we realised it was the same specialist rally-prep shop we'd started in many
hours earlier. The bloke on reception looked sheepish when the boss greeted us
but his chief mechanic did the business and the engine was running like she
should.
We never got our hands on a Pistola
Stroboscopica though, he wouldn't let me hold his and I still haven't found one
to buy. Anyone know the Arabic for strobe gun?
With thanks to Jonathan Martinelli for, yet
again, being a good man in a storm.
Route, photos and more at www.thelongandwinding.co.uk
