Page 34 - July 2022
P. 34

Revenge of t he Ast on, continued from page 2
      I  bought Josh an official Aston Martin boiler suit, factory approved, to wear when he worked on the car. I
      had a vague thought that if we demonstrated  we appreciated the Aston?s "ultra luxury" heritage, it would
      treat us better and adopt a civil attitude, surrounded  as it was by a group of no-nonsense Porsches. We
      are now disabused , through experience , of that notion. The Aston can't be bought off.

                                                                                                                   t
      To be fair, it  did make it to Unionville for its mini-welcome party  on June 5th, but we all  knew it wasn?
      staying.  I drove it back to PON right after the Jubilee  lunch to finish up a list of things yet undone, while
      adding a few new things that came apart during its 10 day sabbatical-- like the window that went down
                   t
      and wouldn? go up and the bump and shake that the car now  exhibited on the left front at speeds of
      40-50 mph  that would mysteriously disappear at 55. ( The cause? 3 bent wheels-- we'd get to those later
      on.)

                        t
      The  car    couldn?  make  up  its  mind   on  the  way  back  to  the  shop   whether   it  was  going  to  run  hot,
                                                                                                    t
      lukewarm, or in the middle of the gauge. (Earlier,  it was   determined  when we couldn? get the brake
      lights to turn off, that the emergency brake was never to be engaged  no matter how big the emergency.)
      In Brentwood, Blake, my  service advisor, dutifully made notes to add to the growing sheaf ;  Josh stroked
      his beard ; the shop supervisor, Nick, looked doubtful.

      The previously discovered but unremedied  leak at the pinion seal  seemed to have stopped of its own
      accord,  but  the car, once returned,  now developed a new leak in the vicinity of the oil filter,  measured as
      only the Germans could  do, as ?one drop per every four seconds?  The initial  splotch it deposited  on the

                                                                          .
      pristine workshop floor  was  described with distaste in an email   as  ?4? in diameter, about the size of a
      sand dollar.?

      My master  plan was to get the Aston back in some shape to  display  at  the Tennessee Downs event  in
      Shelbyville on June 25th. [We have a story about that  in this issue]  Thus, I'd pick it up on the 23rd,  detail
      it, show it,  then haul  it back  to PON on the 28th (for an indefinite time)   to finish up the work. I'd pay the
      bill at some future point  and live happily ever after surrounded by Connolly leather.  The Aston, however,
      now thought of itself as a  stranger in a strange land    and determined not to be so easily conquered.

      As an aside: the  Vikings invaded England during the time of Alfred the Great.  When they sailed away, they
      must  have  left  their    three  spinners  of  fate   on  the  shores  of  the  island  where  ,  somehow,  they  were
      transported  to  Bloxham,  the  birthplace  of  my  handmade  Aston.   Even  as  the  team    thought  we  were
      making  good progress in making the i6 roadworthy and semi-dependable, the spinners were, unknown to
      us,  busily breaking the  slim golden thread of our  plan.

      I picked up the car, on schedule,  at 1 PM, started back  to the interstate at 1:30 and by 2:45 was cursing  in
      the  very  rural  parking  lot  of  the  New  Vision  Baptist  Church  of  Unionville.   With  a  savage  display  of
      disloyalty, the Aston   suffered a no- warning loss of power  just after I entered a stretch of road with no
      shoulder and no  place to park.  Flashers on ( Hallelujah-they worked!)  the DB7   managed to inch down to
      a speed of just under 9 miles an hour   and that,  when combined with a clutch that was protesting my
      efforts to keep the car running  until I could find a place to safely put it, resulted in the emission of  the
      smell of a  Saxon village after it had been fired by King Harald.  The tow truck arrived at 5:45 and by 6:50
      pm  the Aston was back safely , now  in possession of  a $550 tow bill, at what it  clearly considers its real
      home -- the workshop of Porsche of Nashville.

      There is some good news from this latest unpleasantness.
      When I called  fellow NBCC member Rick Mathis to yell, ?Help!?,  he  jumped in his truck and rescued me,
      saving me the several mile walk in the heat of the day back to my  farm .  Then, while driving  Ms. Beatty,
                                                                                                                          My Ast on Mart in in it s comfort  zone.
      he  reminded  me that the Aston had not one but two fuel pumps and gave me a list of other things that
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