What did you do in the Reliant Regal Daddy?

I suppose I should blame my Dad for my love of 3 wheelers. I've got to blame somebody, because I'm not daft enough to take the blame myself. He used to work for ICI at Billingham. For those with a geographical block around Watford Gap, Billingham is on Teesside, in what used to be County Durham. It also used to be one of the largest chemical complexes in Europe, with ICI Wilton over the river and a couple of other large plants. Add the various steel plants and mills, (Dorman Long, Head Wrightson etc.) and you had a heady mix of interesting smells around the place.

Bear with me please, I'm getting to the point. ICI, recognising a good thing, used to use Reliant vans as internal transport for ferrying stuff around and going to pick up the fish and chips. I suspect that they used Reliant vans because the acid rain ate everything else but fibreglass (allegedly), but this was long ago and far away, best beloved. My Dad (remember him?) bought one of these vans when ICI had decided they didn't need it any more, and used to use it for commuting. (In those days, we called it 'going to work'.) We're talking Reliant mark VI here. Jelly mould country. Years before the Sierra was a twinkle in Mr. Dutton's eye, let alone Mr Ford's peeper, Mr Reliant was making cars like jelly moulds; not for the aerodynamics, but because if you dropped them in hot water and tapped, they slid out of the mould onto the plate in one piece.

Meanwhile, back at the van, the years of interesting atmosphere had taken their toll of the chassis, and it was doing an impression of Gorgonzola. Undaunted, my Dad appeared one day with a Reliant Regal - or rather half a Reliant Regal. This relatively new vehicle had insulted another car and the bodywork had done its famous Reliant fibreglass disappearing act. All the front body had in fact disappeared onto the back seat where it was neatly stacked. This was not a problem. Daddy wanted the chassis, so proceeded to remove the rest of the body. The chassis was unscathed and in good condition, so a coat of paint and several layers of Denso-Tape followed. I do not recommend Denso-Tape to those with a delicate disposition. It is predominately a plumber's requisite and is designed to keep water and worse inside pipes where they belong. In order to remain watertight, it is sticky and brown. It is very brown and very sticky. It is as brown as it is sticky and neither quality diminishes with use. It remains brown and sticky as long as it lives. It has to be tough to fight back when your car lives in an interesting atmosphere and Denso-Tape comes with tattoos built in. In the days before Waxoyl was invented, Denso-Tape did its stuff with pride.

I seem to be digressing again. Once the chassis was prepared, the original mark VI van body was refitted. Strange, it seems to be a different shape - I'd better lower it so it fits on the chassis. Oops, I'd better cut some new rear wheel arches. Hmmm, I never did like those back doors, I'll make a new up and down tailgate out of the Regal boot lid and some spare perspex. Ah ha! Some more perspex - let's have some side windows. Now where did I put that back seat...Oh! Look! It's under all those bits of fibreglass. Now I'll need some foot wells in the back for the rear passengers. Wonderful! Here's a tin of red paint, I'll just repaint it and hide that worn out ICI blue. You are looking here at some serious rebuilding. A Reliant special! When my Dad pulled into the local Reliant dealer for a tank of petrol, they looked at it and seriously thought it was a new model they hadn't seen. Oh bliss! What an accolade! And then he went and sold it and bought a Maico Mobil instead....but that's another story!

My childhood experiences obviously had a profound effect when I bought my first car. The fact that I had a full motorcycle licence and a provisional car licence may have coloured my choice somewhat as well. My (t)rusty Lambretta had been stolen from the back yard and allegedly dumped in the river. I had my suspicions, but could prove nothing. A friend's Mum was selling the car, after her husband had died, because she couldn't drive. A Reliant Regal no less, in Reliant mud (a colour no doubt inspired by tales of Denso-Taped chassis on specials cruising round the outposts of Empire). My mate and I took it out for a test drive around the local estate. You must understand at this point that my limited experience of driving cars was restricted to those with a wheel at each corner, and four corners - no less. I was used to driving round corners in these and on my (t)rusty Lambretta. I was used to keeping as many wheels as I had firmly on the road and coming out of the other side of the bend in the same posture as I went into it. I was not used to Reliants!

We drove sedately around the estate for a few minutes, and I got up to 30 quite easily. I was approaching a cross-roads and slowing down, on the major road and in the clear, when my friend pointed out that it wasn't a cross-roads after all, but a right turn with two roads coming into it. No problem, we turn right. It was as we turned right that I became aware of the interesting properties of the Reliant Regal's topology. I turned right, he turned right, we turned right, the Reliant turned over. I remember a moment of decision, as the offside wheel bit air; should I straighten up and drive over that high kerb and into that expensive looking lapboard fence, or keep going and hope for the best. I hoped, rather forlornly, for the best and didn't get it. The car rolled over gracefully onto the passenger door and slid along on it. The friction effectively braked us until we were brought to a gentle halt by the front bumper disintegrating on the aforementioned kerb. With great presence of mind, I rolled down the window and climbed out. My friend (underneath me) decided that this was too undignified, and opened the door to climb out, like some submariner emerging from a conning tower. We stood the car back on its three wheels, threw the bits that had dropped off in the back and drove it away.

Needless to say, my friend's Mum was not impressed. We said that we had scraped a wall by mistake, as the truth would have been most unwelcome. I spent the evenings of the next couple of weeks there, gluing back what I could and yes, I did buy it. I couldn't very well turn it down could I?

I just had to buy the Haynes Manual, and armed with this, I popped round to another mate one Saturday afternoon. He was a bit of a mechanic and we were going to give it a quick little service on his drive. His eyes lit up with glee when he read the bit that said "if you are going to do several jobs on the engine, it is easier to take it out of the car". Well, the engine doesn't come up out of the Reliant. You are lucky to get the air filter up through the bonnet porthole, so the engine has to come out underneath. "Of course we'll do it in the time" he assured me and gullible fool that I was, I believed him. We jacked the front of the Regal up into the launch position, dropped the engine and pulled it out on a sheet of plywood. We got it back in, connected up and running again by 3 a.m., having worked through both sunset and dawn, but when I tried to drive it home, popping and banging in the early morning stillness, it maintained a top speed of about 7 m.p.h. This was the only occasion when, flat out, I have been overtaken by an electric milk float - and he didn't even stop to sell me a pinta. The problem, investigated at leisure after a good morning's sleep, was a bit of dirt in the carb.

It was a game little beast and we had a lot of fun. It was the only car I've ever had where you could clean the rear window without leaving the driving seat. I used to drive about 25 miles to work in it, along motorways for most of the way, at 70. There was one point where the motorways diverged which I nicknamed 'Truck Canyon'. The road was flat, but I regularly used to be overtaking an articulated lorry as another overtook me on the outside. The effects of the slipstream were quite interesting and I can recommend the experience to anyone with an old pair of trousers. The drawback of racing those distances in a little clapped out Reliant was the heat. I used to pour about a gallon of water into the radiator every morning and the same again before I left work at night. I vividly remember the day when I conked out halfway up a long sweeping bend on a long sweeping hill. As the old girl ground to a halt on the hard shoulder, I guiltily remembered that I had not topped up the radiator in my haste to leave. I twiddled my thumbs for a few minutes while it cooled down and gingerly removed the radiator cap. I was greeted with a blast of hot air and no steam. Seizing my trusty gallon of water, I gaily poured it into the radiator and was amazed to see six lanes of busy rush-hour motorway disappear under a localised fog bank. I had to get the head skimmed after that little escapade.

The head gasket regularly burst under the strain of course, so it was no great problem to whip it off. The first time I changed a head gasket, it took all weekend. You qualify for the Guild of Keyhole Surgeons changing a Regal head gasket, but I got it down to about 3 hours, single handed, at the side of the road.

Despite the troubles and traumas, I did pretty well with the Regal. When I needed to brick up an internal doorway, I drove ten miles to my local builder's merchant to collect some lightweight concrete blocks. "Where do you want them mate?", quoth he. When I pointed to my Reliant he left me to load them up myself. The boot seemed a lot smaller when placed next to several building blocks, and when it was full, I stacked them on the floor, back seat and eventually, the passenger seat. I drove home very slowly, as the suspension did not seem to have much travel. The strange thing was that the suspension seemed to get more travel as the camber increased, but only on the driver's side. At one point, it was rather like driving along the side of a roof, but I did have a low centre of gravity!

Some time after this, I noticed a slight twist on the front wheel. Taking it along to my back street Reliant specialist, I learned that the front subframe was giving way and twisting the wheel. My Dad and brother were despatched to the local scrapyard to retrieve and deliver another front subframe, which was duly fitted. It appeared that it had come from another model, but my man sorted it and overcame the difficulties.

Shortly afterwards, I needed a new back tyre. As I was on afternoons that week, I had it fitted in the morning, but as I drove to work that afternoon, there was an almighty BANG from the front. Fortunately, I was working closer to home, and my motorway excursions were a thing of the past. I was just cruising down a slip road from a dual carriageway when the bang happened - closely followed by an interesting CHUNK CHUNK CHUNK from the engine. Surprisingly, the car kept running and I stopped to phone work before nursing it along to my back street specialist. He had a look and diagnosed a broken crankshaft. Apparently, it had sheared diagonally. Half of it was still driven by the engine and, as it turned, it swept round and caught up with the other half. The sheared faces of the crankshaft met and the other half was propelled round as well. Whenever the gearbox end slowed down, the engine part came round and whacked it into motion again. He was amazed I'd driven it so far.

Now anyone with half a brain would have given up at that point, but I'd just bought a new tyre, hadn't I? Scouring the scrapyards again found me an engine for £25. "The lady drove it in guv'nor so I know it's a good 'un". True enough, it worked, but I wished I'd got the exhaust as well. The head gasket was blowing so much, the exhaust must have been like new! I drove it anyway for a couple of weeks until I could stand it no more. No problem, anyway - it only takes about 3 hours to change a head gasket. Three days later saw me with four feet of chisel ended steel bar jammed through between the head and block, levering it off the studs. The head gasket had been blowing for so long that all the studs were stuck solid with carbon and the head would not shift. While the head was being skimmed, I invested in a new set of studs and soon she was running sweet as a dream again.

It was only a couple of weeks later that I noticed my front wheel was askew again. I quickly reported back to my man who assured me that his subframe repair had only been a temporary lash-up which I should not have expected to last. I had actually not understood the implications of the different subframe, and I decided that enough was enough.

I sold the Regal for £50, and was at pains to point out all its problems to the new owner. I heaved a sigh of relief tinged with sadness as it disappeared down the road, and, having now passed my test, I went and bought a Ford Mk III Cortina Estate. I could hardly see the back window from the driver's seat, much less turn round and clean it!

There had to be a post-script. About a week later, the new owner of the Regal arrived on my doorstep, demanding retribution. He had been approaching a set of traffic lights with his family on board when the lights changed and the brakes had failed as he tried to stop. I explained that I had no idea there was anything wrong with the brakes and that I had been very straight with him regarding the other problems. All to no avail, however, and I ended up reimbursing him £10 as this seemed the only way of removing him from my doorstep without having my face readjusted in the process. Some people have no gratitude.

One of my abiding memories of the Regal will serve as a fitting epitaph. I was forced to carry out some repairs under the car - but it was Winter - and snowing, with several inches of snow lying on the ground. I have a night-time photograph of my battered Regal in a blizzard. Covered with snow, a pair of feet stick forlornly out from under the front bumper.