Meeting Dusty for the first time

It was a dark and rainy night by the time we found Maurice’s garage, the turnoff hidden from the road. A friend of my mother (Mrs H) called Alan Williamson, had put us in touch with Maurice who had kindly taken in Dusty Springs to check her over for mechanical surprises. No major repairs were needed, just a new part for the brakes, a sleeve to hold together the horribly rusted exhaust and a block of wood to hold up the passenger side window. Unfortunately we hadn’t managed to fix Dusty’s sagging suspension, lacking an essential part – a metal fuel line. Without it, the car spat out any hydraulic fluid into an undignified puddle between the back wheels. This was the one issue likely to make the trip all the more… err.. challenging. We were already anticipating the car loaded up for the desert crossing – heavy jerry cans of fuel and water, camping gear, 2 spare wheels – it would be bad enough digging ourselves out the deep sand without Dusty already hanging low enough to get buried up to her axles!

Leaving Maurice’s garage to drive up to London, Mrs H was already wringing her hands in despair – “Be Careful… Don’t go too fast. God, I can’t watch” . Dusty smelt of mildew and oil, and the steering veered slightly to the right. I felt like I was driving a tank. Once on the motorway, I hit optimum cruising speed en route to London at 65 mph, and managed to get a signal from BBC Radio 2. Quite appropriate, Dusty’s kind of pace, easy listening.

Test drive over, the Terranauts met Oren in London – our car fixer, rally veteran and Dusty’s mentor. With the addition of Reuben and Rupert, two old friends, we spent an excellent evening huddled in the car for Dusty’s baptism by beer and fish and chips, while the rain beat down on the roof.