“Nous tenons à vous informer que le petit-déjeuner est désormais disponible dans les points de restauration.”
Well that settles whether our phone clocks have adjusted. It’s 6:00am in France, but it’s 05:00 on screen and in our heads. We’ve left TS2 on deck 5, snoozing gently by the blue stairs. Time to clear the cabin.
Announced only through sudden absence, the deep rumble of engines I’d not even heard drops away and we begin a slow drift towards France.
TS2 awakes at 06:50 and we are off the ferry a few minutes later. Cool air and a sea breeze keep her temperature down and wake us both up. She’ll idle happily. By 07:30, we’ve cleared the port and await rendezvous with team TR6 in a LIDL car park on the edge of Ouistreham.
Seems the Crimson Haybailer’s queue karma wasn’t as high as ours. We dot-watch and take in the view whilst they clear the line, and finally connect with Rob and Mark just over an hour later.
Come 09:10, we are on our way. Evie at the wheel. I’m on maps and tolls. It’s cold in the shadows, but lovely in the sunshine. The nascent day matures into great motoring weather. Everything is simple. The peage tolls are supremely easy with TS2’s low slung doors. We pass signs for Neufchâtel and the Avenue verte. I’ve ridden pushbikes all around here before. It feels familiar, but renewed.
Our first refuel in France was a bit tricky. Esso Express refuses my card, then the entire pump refuses me. Once more around the queue, and second time through (and using Rob’s card) it works.
On to Amiens for lunch… And that’s where the wheels came off.
After a morning of “just get there routing” Evie exits the motorway in favour of a town-centre food stop, and as the pace slows we hear a tiny metallic chirruping coming from the front. That’s a brake rubbing. Wonder how long that’s been going? No way to hear it at speed with the roof off. I make a note to monitor that. We can fix it in Sedan if it doesn’t go away.
Four minutes later and it’s become a thin, insistent little cry of “scree-scree-scree”, following the ground speed with unwavering devotion. Evie brings the car to a halt in a line of traffic waiting to turn right at a stop-light, when suddenly, no. The filter light is green, but as we turn the corner, the car slows to a halt. First is always a bit tricky without a synchro, but from my side in the passenger seat, the lever looks like it’s hit home correctly. It should be going. Evie says the brake pedal feels solid, that it can’t drive. That “It feels like the brakes are stuck on”.
And she’s exactly right. Out comes the warning triangle. No movement is possible. TS2 won’t drive and cannot be pushed. In first, she can’t pull away. The clutch comes up, and the revs just drop. In neutral, she won’t roll. She doesn’t respond to rocking. We let her cool. No change. Something has seized.
Traffic begins to route around, streaming past with the impatient indifference of people who have somewhere to be. Both front wheels are too hot to touch. I tentatively dip a finger into the master cylinder and the brake fluid is merely lukewarm. The hoses feel normal enough. The rear wheels, tucked away behind their spats, are hot too. They’re part of the same hydraulic system, but we need to find out exactly what has seized.
We have a portable jack, so quickly bring the nearside front up. Clearing the tarmac by 5mm, the wheel will not turn. I haul on it, but it’s resolute.
I lower her down and we move around to the offside. Now with my back in traffic, I jack up the other side, but it’s the same story. No movement is possible. That’s both fronts, then.
We move to the back. This wheel is stiff, but not completely immovable. Eventually, we realise the other rear wheel is still on the ground, which means we’re fighting the differential. We’re not learning much except that I’m making myself look increasingly inept as a mechanic. Think it through. Both fronts are locked. What’s common? The pedal. The master cylinder. The hydraulics.
Forty minutes pass. This lady is not for moving.
Then, almost imperceptibly, the front wheels begin to give. A little movement. Then a little more. The brakes are finally relinquishing their grip. There’s no sign of fluid leaking. Is it some form of heat related hydraulic lock? Is it simply loosening off as it cools?
First things first, technically, and with enough persuasion, she now rolls. We’ve broken down on a road adjacent to a parking lot. If we can push her 20 metres, we can investigate safely. Evie steers and the three of us push on the back, but it’s hard going with the rubbing at the front. The motor still works, mind. Perhaps, we dare drive her?
I check the parking restrictions, and the breakdown app for local garages that are known friendlies. Of course, we’ve picked a perfect dead spot for rescue. Looks like we are on our own for now.
Rob pulls alongside, and we begin diagnostics in full. More eyes. More tools. More brains.
I need to take the wheel off again to get at the drum adjusters. On this car, brake tuning is done through a hole on the face of the hub. Later designs moved it to the rear, of course. No matter. There are two to adjust and they’re 180 degrees apart. The hole is just about big enough to admit a screwdriver and needs to be carefully lined up with the fore and aft snail cams. Except without the leverage of the wheel’s radius, I can’t rotate the hub. It seems I have to choose between being able to see if it’s aligned, versus working blind but able to position it. My arms are sore.
With time, the clamping force on the hub seems to weaken. I can just about tug it around. I line up hole and cam, and poke a driver onto the adjuster. It refuses to move. I can’t tell if the shoes have welded themselves to the hub, or the hydraulics are locking it shut.
Eventually, as the screwdriver handle is about to part with the shaft there’s a wrist snapping thundercrack, and the adjuster moves. Suddenly, we have seven clicks of play. This is standard behaviour for the cams, and the hub moves freely. I easily rotate the hub to adjust the aft snail cam, but neither extremity seems to bind the wheel. I count back three and centre each instead.
Evie dips the brake pedal 1/4”, and the shoe is immediately held firm to the drum. Removing her foot sees the pedal return, but brake shoe remains in contact. The hub has cooled, but it’s still locked. Perhaps it’s a time thing? Globby fluid dynamics ruining our day?
I put the wheel back on, and move around to the other side. I now seem to have been pulling wheels on and off for well over an hour. Exactly the same behaviour. It’s all locked, then with a bang it’s all impossibly free.
We are out of ideas. Rob and Mark remain on hand, but the workings of a Lockheed equipped TR2 are arcane and esoteric to a TR6 driver. Their role turns predominantly pastoral, and whilst we appreciate the moral support, it’s not worth risking their 10CR for. We convince them to leave us and head for the start. At quarter to four, we assure them that if we can, we will see them in Sedan.
Time passes. We try calling everyone we know. We put word out on the 10CR participant WhatsApp. With seized wheels, we know we are really just waiting for an unvetted local mechanic, or recovery and repatriation.
With little to lose, Evie and I elect to remove each hub to see what’s happening underneath. We don’t know what the cylinder is doing, so there’s a big risk of an event ending spontaneous rapid disassembly if it’s under pressure.
It’s not. In fact, each seems fine. The adjuster works exactly as expected on the snail cam. It hasn’t fallen off the ratchet. Going very carefully, it clearly has the expected seven clicks available fore and aft, but it still won’t bind shoe and hub. I would normally set it up by expanding the cams until they lock the wheel, then backing them off two clicks. There doesn’t seem to be any position that allows that. Evie brings the torch. It won’t be light forever.
We trace the pipe back to the master cylinder, and find no other adjusters or balancers. The only other accessible adjustment is the limit screw on the master cylinder. We wind it out three, then a full ten flats. This gives us some pedal movement. Applying any pressure on the pedal sees the brake rub return. It must be equalising somewhere in the system. It’s knackering taking each wheel off one by one. I’d kill for a proper trolley jack. I realise I should have read up on this before we left. Our TR4a works entirely differently, and experiments are high effort and fraught with danger.
Much juggling later, we resolve to set all four snail cams to their middle position. This will be far looser than desired, but perhaps it’ll stop the binding. With the wheels back on, we drive a lap around the car-park. Silence. No rubbing. I tap the brake pedal. TS2 stops sharp in first 1/2” of pedal travel. It chirrups continuously at wheel speed when you release, and all pedal travel disappears.
We speak to Chris at TR Register. He’s somewhat local, and offers to cut a night out of his holiday to drive the 2.5 hours to find us. It’ll be a six hour round trip for him, and it’s a pilgrimage I know he doesn’t want to make. I also know he’ll offer it, regardless. He finds an accomplice at his end, and sets off.
They call from the car forty-five minutes later. Google is revising the journey time upwards. I want to say “Come. Please come!” but both of us know it’s futile and unfair. With regret, Chris and I agree it’s not worth the time, and he turns for home.
The drums have eased again. In desperation, I remove, tweak and replace each of the fronts again. The four adjusters are now seven clicks from any contact. This restores full pedal travel, but the brakes only engage at the very bottom of pedal stroke, and very weakly. To add insult to injury, it still chirrups slightly after braking, but it is better.
Evie is very sensibly on the phone with Pete at Howdens Insurance. He gives her the number for a recovery truck, and with much sorrow, she places the call. It’s late on a Sunday. Holding on to false hope is just going to see us stranded. There’s an expected three hour wait ahead of us. We aren’t in a great part of town.
Evie and I sit down to talk things through. This holiday isn’t quite as billed. I feel awful. Evie takes the time to recall the spirit of a close family friend. He operates under the principles of courage, determination, unselfishness, and cheerfulness in the face of adversity. Can we find that mindset? It’s not something you can simply pack into a toolbag. Together, somehow, and with much rummaging, we manage to locate it.
There is a route onwards. We could go cross-country, avoiding the big roads. We’ve favoured engine braking anyway, and we have a handbrake if required. If we can reach Sedan, we will have access to expertise and experience we just don’t have here. A good proportion of the UK’s owner mechanics are in a single town, and with traffic dropping, it’s only a four hour drive away. Do we dare?
Ultimately, while there is still a path forward, we have to pursue it. TS2, the Trustees, and the Register have put their faith in us. The only actions that can take us out of this event are our own. We have a choice, and we need to make it together.
Evie calls and cancels the recovery truck. I think it’s the bravest thing I’ve seen her do. We are now stranded. The next town in the direction of Sedan that’s in any way big enough to have accommodation for the night is St Quentin. It’s about 80 km to the west. We commit to trying, and drive tentatively out of town. I have to avoid using the brake pedal if I want to cull that chirrup. I know it escalates to locked wheels, so it’s handbrake only for now.
The sun sets on a sea of wind turbines. In the dark they become more nefarious. Red eyes blinking in and out on the horizon, like stalking devils. With no man of La Mancha to fight our corner, we make our own way alone.
…And it works. There’s quite a lot of hand passing trying to shift down and apply the handbrake. Coming to a stop in a non synchro first without foot brakes means holding the car in place with one hand, in order to access first with the other.
We pass villages that smell alternately of onions, fish, something quite awful and not unlike a poorly maintained public convenience. All the while thinking “could that be the smell of boiling brake fluid?”
Though we give it willingly, it takes our all. We rock into Sedan entirely too late for supper, or lunch, now that I think of it.
A hotel bed beckons. We will make the start, I think. But most likely we end here.