Sam Glover
Sam thrashes a Jag, fixes a Trabant and buys a Simca
Sam has been on a therapeutic tinkering trip to the Netherlands.
It was like the start of a film in which someone ends up buried in woodland: four men retreating to a remote rural location for a week armed with beer and a barbecue. Plus, in our case, an East German transaxle. Catching fish or shooting things are the time-wasting activities that traditionally underpin such bromantic getaways. Our cause was more noble, though no more eco-friendly: to revive a long-dormant Trabant 601.
Our host was Peter Visser, long-term owner of the Trabant in question and the rustic dacha in which we’d be camping. The remainder of the party comprised Trabant owner Ed Hughes, Trabant owner Simon Redrup and myself, a Trabant owner. Touching a Trabant, we figured, would be as calming, salubrious and undemanding for us as dangling a maggot into a river is for others.
The location was the pretty village of Nieuwehorne in Friesland, northwest Netherlands. We wafted there in Simon’s 3.2-litre long-wheelbase Jaguar X308. This was a fine choice. It amply accommodated the four of us, our luggage and all the tools, parts and fluids we deemed necessary to reanimate a Trabant – and it carried us comfortably at the highest speeds the M20 and E40 allowed. These were generally not very high, sadly.
The Trabant first aid kit in the boot included the aforementioned transaxle, Peter reporting a distant memory of the car’s original making objectionable sounds on a test-drive. He also recalled that its 598cc air-cooled twostroke engine had been running on just one of its two cylinders. ‘It still went well!’ he enthused.
We formed into a vaguely functional family unit. Peter took charge of catering and barkeeping; Simon provided entertainment and started fires. Ed and I attacked the Trabant in a pincer movement. Ed fitted a complete set of new brake components while I swapped the transaxle. Both of us administered minor improvements – new driveshaft gaiters and the like – as we went.
Ed overhauled the fuel system and detoxed the carburettor. I dismembered the engine, poked at it, declared it a good ‘un and put it back together. One of the aluminium head gaskets had been fitted crookedly and had been leaking, but the bores and pistons exhibited only minor wear. The ball-bearing mains and roller-bearing big and little ends were luxuriously smooth and taut. I refitted the engine with a new clutch; Ed constructed an ignition system and aroused the electrics. Come Friday, our work was done but for some omissions from our Red Cross parcel: an exhaust, a rear wheel bearing and a pair of kingpins.
It was a healthy week of primal car-touching therapy: satisfyingly productive, genuinely relaxing and just the right sort of dirty. We sped back to the UK, vowing repeat the exercise soon and see the project through to completion.
A Dutch treat
Scanning the internet one evening in a state of woozy post-trabant languor, I happened upon a wonderful thing on the Dutch classified site marktplaats.nl – a not-at-all rusty 1967 Simca 1301. It’d covered 58,276km, it was fabulously original and its gloriously faded space-age silver exterior and contrastingly unfaded magenta interior made me feel funny. It had been liberated from long-term storage in France and hadn’t subsequently been bothered by anyone. It was 30km from Peter’s house and, thanks to a lack of paperwork that made Dutch registration near-impossible, it was offered at a paltry €1700. I’ve often wondered why I don’t own a Simca. The four of us discussed the matter over beer and concluded that I’d be a fool not to buy it.
Peter telephoned the seller the next morning and struck a deal on my behalf: €1550 including delivery on a trailer. Three hours later, I was admiring the Simca’s handsome profile, basking in the pink magnificence of its interior, lovingly stroking its immaculate underside and cooing over its unadulterated engine bay. I’m very taken with it. It’s now lounging next to the Trabant in Peter's barn. Import and recommissioning beckon.