Starting a 1932 Ford 8 Model Y
Discussion
Starting a 1932 Ford Eight Model Y.
A short essay to apprise those younger than I, which is most people, of particular Joys of Motoring in the 1950’s. For the first time, the average working class man could have a car, just. Being poor, and everybody I knew was poor, the cars we had were worn out. I was aware of another minority world of different cars because there were many good new cars in the fifties. Austin A30 through 90. Rover 75. Vauxhall Cresta. Jag 2.4 Morris Oxford and Standard Vanguard. Etc. These phenomena were seen about but were as far from our intimate acquaintance as caviar and smoked bavarian cheese. We also knew them all from well worn editions of ‘Autocar’ and ‘Motoring’ passed on to us from somewhere better off. The road tests in these books were super un-critical. ‘This two litre car achieved it’s maximum of forty miles an hour with incredible smoothness, the only sounds you could hear were the engine, gearbox, and back axle, this formed a reassuring background to your progress, signifying that everything was working in audible harmony.’ We knew a Herald from a Mayflower and their specifications, but we only saw them, our vehicles were very different. In my motoring youth, from age seventeen to twenties I don’t think I ever rode in a post-war car.
What were our cars then? They were twenty years old or so, from about 1930 to the War. Nothing Post-War was within our purchasing power as the war had only been over five years in 1950. We had Ford Eights, Morris Eights, some Standards, the odd Hillman Minx, I recall a Vauxhall and one brave soul had a huge straight eight Packard left behind by the Americans. I remember it going along our road only twice, with a hissing noise like a flock of geese as it sucked in petrol by the gallon, and it’s front wheels pattered up and own independently like pogo sticks. It remained on the verge, where all our cars lived, for years.
In the beginning these cars belonged to our parents, not us, and lucky ones like me got to drive them when we had passed the test, and until we got our own worn out car.
My Dad’s car was perhaps typical. A Ford Eight Y type, about 1932 I think. Black, four door, brown rexine seats, one dial, a tall wobbly gear lever and a memorable curved bakelite demister stuck on the windscreen. Six volt battery. We could not afford good batteries, so starting was by the handle. We could also only afford a big can of Spitfire oil to put in the engine. There were no multigrades. This oil, when cold, was like refrigerated treacle. The starting procedure was not as it is with a modern car. It was as follows:- You got up about an hour before normal to start the car. If it is frosty, say an hour and a half. You go out and remove the small paraffin stove kept alight under the sump all night. You remove the two old coats over the engine. You fill the radiator with kettles of boiling water and start turning the starting handle. When you can jerk it reasonably over compression on an upstroke of the starting handle then you wedge out the choke five eighths of an inch, exactly, with a spring clothes peg, switch on the ignition and run out to the front to jerk up the handle some more. The handle and crankshaft dogs were pretty worn and it was possible to pull it up with no resistance sometimes and fall back and generally hurt yourself. If the dogs are in and the jerking is sufficiently smart the engine will sometimes cough encouragingly. It has not started but it has 'fired'. This is an encouraging sign. Switch off a minute to let the battery liven up, check the clothes peg and back to the handle. A few more coughs and it carries on and the engine runs. Runs is an overstatement, it coughs sufficient times to keep going round, then you dive inside, snatch off the clothes peg, pull the choke right out then nearly right in, performing a ballet with your foot on the accelerator. This starting choreography is different for all cars and has to be learnt the hard way. If we are not expert enough then the engine goes dug-aluggle-dug-dug-aluggle-stop, disaster, it is ‘flooded’. In this case you have to go indoors and wait half an hour then try the same procedure all over again. In obdurate cases the plugs have to come out and the electrodes bent nearly shut so there is a spark. We also used to scrape pencil lead over the plug points as an aid to super sparking. Dug-aluggle-dug-aluggle-pobble-obble-obble...... Success. We can go to work and you can see that all that extra time was necessary.
Now we drive it. Inside the car is bitter cold. We switch on the bakelite demister and in time, much time, a thin line of clear screen appears above it, through which we can peer. Steering in imprecise, it has to be concentrated on all the time and much depends on the camber of the road. If the road is cambered on the left then the wheel has to be turned to the right about a quarter of a turn to counteract it. If to the right, the opposite applies. If the road is flat, the wheel has to be continuously sawed from side to side to keep the wheels straight. We knew about the merits of ‘slick’ tyres long before Formula One. If minute examination revealed any trace of tread at all then the tyre was fine.
We are now in progress and by holding it in second gear, to prevent it jumping out with a 'spang', have reached top and are bowling along. Our eyes are staring a long way ahead to reserve a similar stopping distance, in the event of obstruction, as that of a fully laden freight train.
So what with being virtually unable to stop or start it, peering through the demisted slit like a tank driver, holding it in gear, and working the steering wheel like a kid on a fairground roundabout, it was a complete nightmare compared to today. Fortunately we didn't know that at the time. Regards Peter
A short essay to apprise those younger than I, which is most people, of particular Joys of Motoring in the 1950’s. For the first time, the average working class man could have a car, just. Being poor, and everybody I knew was poor, the cars we had were worn out. I was aware of another minority world of different cars because there were many good new cars in the fifties. Austin A30 through 90. Rover 75. Vauxhall Cresta. Jag 2.4 Morris Oxford and Standard Vanguard. Etc. These phenomena were seen about but were as far from our intimate acquaintance as caviar and smoked bavarian cheese. We also knew them all from well worn editions of ‘Autocar’ and ‘Motoring’ passed on to us from somewhere better off. The road tests in these books were super un-critical. ‘This two litre car achieved it’s maximum of forty miles an hour with incredible smoothness, the only sounds you could hear were the engine, gearbox, and back axle, this formed a reassuring background to your progress, signifying that everything was working in audible harmony.’ We knew a Herald from a Mayflower and their specifications, but we only saw them, our vehicles were very different. In my motoring youth, from age seventeen to twenties I don’t think I ever rode in a post-war car.
What were our cars then? They were twenty years old or so, from about 1930 to the War. Nothing Post-War was within our purchasing power as the war had only been over five years in 1950. We had Ford Eights, Morris Eights, some Standards, the odd Hillman Minx, I recall a Vauxhall and one brave soul had a huge straight eight Packard left behind by the Americans. I remember it going along our road only twice, with a hissing noise like a flock of geese as it sucked in petrol by the gallon, and it’s front wheels pattered up and own independently like pogo sticks. It remained on the verge, where all our cars lived, for years.
In the beginning these cars belonged to our parents, not us, and lucky ones like me got to drive them when we had passed the test, and until we got our own worn out car.
My Dad’s car was perhaps typical. A Ford Eight Y type, about 1932 I think. Black, four door, brown rexine seats, one dial, a tall wobbly gear lever and a memorable curved bakelite demister stuck on the windscreen. Six volt battery. We could not afford good batteries, so starting was by the handle. We could also only afford a big can of Spitfire oil to put in the engine. There were no multigrades. This oil, when cold, was like refrigerated treacle. The starting procedure was not as it is with a modern car. It was as follows:- You got up about an hour before normal to start the car. If it is frosty, say an hour and a half. You go out and remove the small paraffin stove kept alight under the sump all night. You remove the two old coats over the engine. You fill the radiator with kettles of boiling water and start turning the starting handle. When you can jerk it reasonably over compression on an upstroke of the starting handle then you wedge out the choke five eighths of an inch, exactly, with a spring clothes peg, switch on the ignition and run out to the front to jerk up the handle some more. The handle and crankshaft dogs were pretty worn and it was possible to pull it up with no resistance sometimes and fall back and generally hurt yourself. If the dogs are in and the jerking is sufficiently smart the engine will sometimes cough encouragingly. It has not started but it has 'fired'. This is an encouraging sign. Switch off a minute to let the battery liven up, check the clothes peg and back to the handle. A few more coughs and it carries on and the engine runs. Runs is an overstatement, it coughs sufficient times to keep going round, then you dive inside, snatch off the clothes peg, pull the choke right out then nearly right in, performing a ballet with your foot on the accelerator. This starting choreography is different for all cars and has to be learnt the hard way. If we are not expert enough then the engine goes dug-aluggle-dug-dug-aluggle-stop, disaster, it is ‘flooded’. In this case you have to go indoors and wait half an hour then try the same procedure all over again. In obdurate cases the plugs have to come out and the electrodes bent nearly shut so there is a spark. We also used to scrape pencil lead over the plug points as an aid to super sparking. Dug-aluggle-dug-aluggle-pobble-obble-obble...... Success. We can go to work and you can see that all that extra time was necessary.
Now we drive it. Inside the car is bitter cold. We switch on the bakelite demister and in time, much time, a thin line of clear screen appears above it, through which we can peer. Steering in imprecise, it has to be concentrated on all the time and much depends on the camber of the road. If the road is cambered on the left then the wheel has to be turned to the right about a quarter of a turn to counteract it. If to the right, the opposite applies. If the road is flat, the wheel has to be continuously sawed from side to side to keep the wheels straight. We knew about the merits of ‘slick’ tyres long before Formula One. If minute examination revealed any trace of tread at all then the tyre was fine.
We are now in progress and by holding it in second gear, to prevent it jumping out with a 'spang', have reached top and are bowling along. Our eyes are staring a long way ahead to reserve a similar stopping distance, in the event of obstruction, as that of a fully laden freight train.
So what with being virtually unable to stop or start it, peering through the demisted slit like a tank driver, holding it in gear, and working the steering wheel like a kid on a fairground roundabout, it was a complete nightmare compared to today. Fortunately we didn't know that at the time. Regards Peter
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