RITES OF PASSAGE
Late Sunday evening the old Wigram Air Base is deserted; daylight is fading rapidly and the old flathead V8 hot rod I’ve taken for a “quick spin” decides to give up on me with no warning.
No tools except my lucky screwdriver on my key ring. It’s probably a fuel filter issue. I give that a try but it doesn’t make any difference. I suspect it’s the coil — damn, the only thing I didn’t replace and now it’s come to bite me in the rear; this wasn’t planned. Now I’m looking like a complete idiot standing on the footpath with no backup plan. How did I end up in this
