BUBBLING REMINISCENCES

by David Osborne (published in the Isetta Gazette March 1979)

As I survey the dismembered carcase of my Isetta, I begin to wonder when it will all be mobile again, but progress is gradually being made, and I decided at the outset to do a proper job of renovation to as near concours condition as I could manage - goodness knows what it must be like to undertake a 'large' restoration project, though.

I recall those halcyon days of my youth (not so long ago, it seems like yesterday) when I gleefully took to the road in my first motor car, and ancient Isetta 300 (Reg: 566 BSM), blissfully unaware that it was mainly held together with bits of wire, flattened beer cans, and ladies stockings which had been cunningly improvised by the previous owner, a bodger extraordinaire! Sure, the steering wandered dreadfully, and the silencer fell off regularly, but love is blind, and to me, it seemed like a chariot of the gods.

Mechanical curiosity compelled to me investigate the innermost workings of the beast, and, in due course, the various defects were rectified and, with the able assistance of my wife to be, and a supply of thick underfelt, the 'bubble' was luxuriously upholstered and sound proofed (well, not quite, but it was better). One innovation made by the previous owner proved to be of great help. He had cut an additional hole in the rear parcel shelf to facilitate access to the engine for setting tappets, etc.

As an impoverished student, the only problem was affording the petrol, but, as one could still buy petrol by the pint at the time, you could more or less stagger from one day to the next with the supply permanently stwitch to reserve, or, if all else failed, the girlfriend could always push! Speaking of girlfriends. I am assured by a friend of mine that he enjoyed much greater success with the ladies in his bubble car than in any other vehicle (perhaps they didn't know how to get out?).

In about 1964, I think it was, it was decided to do a grand tour of Ireland for a fortnight, so, with luggage piled high on the rear carrier, we set off with hopes high. All went well the first week, apart from a brief encounter with a rather perverse Irish cow which first gouged the side of the Isetta with its horns, and then emptied its ample bowels down the front door, and we enjoyed beautiful weather, scenery, etc. However, as we came through Connemara, the bubble started back firing, and got worse over the next three days despite repeated setting of the valve clearances and repair of a damaged pushrod - we managed to continue only by stopping every 10 to 20 miles to let the engine cool down.

As we were getting rather dispirited by this trouble, and as we had been stopping in guest houses and farmhouses for next to nothing, we decided to splash out and live it up in the Europa Hotel in Killarney - a breathtakingly luxurious hotel in a superb lakeside setting. Having restored the tissues somewhat, we emerged the next morning to suffer the indignity of being push started down the driveway by two hotel porters, to the amazement of the other guests whose transport seemed to comprise solely of Mercedes, Cadillacs and Rolls Royces.

The end was nigh, though, and the bubble finally expired with a final ear splitting backfire (the inlet valve had burnt out) on the top of a deserted moor some 30 miles further on. As repairs were impossible we had no choice but to make arrangements to ship the bubble home and then make our own way seperately. When we finally parted company, my Wife swears that the bubble's normally cheerful expression had drooped, and if those weren't tears dripping from the windscreen washers, what were they?

Oh well, that's enough reminiscing, you sentimental fool, let's get back to work. I have got to remove that duff camshaft with the specail extractor that's just arrived. Bother, the paraffin fire has gone out, and there's no fuel left. Never mind, I can hear the kettle boiling, and there's always tomorrow.