I had quite a busy weekend planned. Friday puppy training, Saturday morning karate, Saturday afternoon I'd offered to crew for one of the Club's juniors in a Flying Fifteen at South Cerney, Saturday night home and then straight out for a gig in Thornbury.
Sunday was back to the lake, race the Albacore with Amanda in the morning, then the Laser in the afternoon.
I got the car washed and valeted on Friday afternoon. It's not a regular thing. I like my car, it makes many things possible, but a car, for me, will only ever be a means to an end. So once every, shall we say optimistically, six months (or so) I'll pull into the local car wash. The guys, none of whom for which English is a first language, will hit us with their jet-wash and soap, polish and industrious elbow grease.
Then one of the guys will open my car door and ask "inside?" and I'll smile and say please. He then glances inside, politely tries to hide his shock, and stutters, almost as a question, as if he can't actually picture it despite it all being laid out before him, "Is very dirty?"
And we'll agree a revised price. Which I always gracefully accept and always tip them well on top of it because they all cheerfully work like Trojans, in all seasons and all weathers, and always restore my hard-used vehicle to shiny, pristine condition.
Which they did. And I enjoyed a very pleasant half hour in the sun, watching the valeting crew periodically diverting the jet washes of the washing crew to the job of de-clogging their industrial vacuums of the seemingly endless supply of dust and doghair they were mining from the dark, gloaming pit that is the interior of my car.
Saturday morning started well. The weather is still very muggy, a point about which I appear to be almost unique amongst my countrymen in finding no complaint, I love the heat, humid or otherwise; but the hour in the dojo was very warm work. Having promised to be at the Club for 1300, as soon as karate finished, it was straight into the car to head for South Cerney.
I didn't get very far. Half way up the hill towards St Barnabas roundabout, named after the church that stands next to it on the corner between Stroud and Finlay roads, a big red warning light lit up my dashboard along with the ominous message "Charging Failure: Service Urgent"
Reaching the roundabout, conscious that when my car tells me "Service Urgent" it really means RIGHT NOW I had my fears confirmed as another message popped up, "DSTC Temporarily disabled".
It's meaning was immediately clear, as the steering became very heavy underhand as the power assist failed, and the brake beneath my foot suddenly started to feel very direct and mechanical.
I pulled off the roundabout and into the small layby opposite St Barnabas Church, outside the church's community hall. Stopped the car. Tried to start it again. Battery dead.
So instead of spending a couple of hours racing a Flying Fifteen around a lake in the sunshine and thundery squalls that had been promised for the afternoon (and, I'm told, delivered in full) I spent a couple of hours sitting in the hot sun, waiting for the AA.
It wasn't all bad. Too hot to sit and wait in the car, the church hall (opposite side of the road to the church itself) had a secluded little gravelled garden nestled behind the the bus stop on the side of the road, signposted "Garden of Tranquillity, everybody welcome". So I retreated there to await the AA man.
And neither was all lost. Later that evening, we decanted the contents of the band's trailer into my brother's van and Dad's car, and Dad gave me a lift to the evening's gig. The following morning I borrowed Dad's car again to head to the lake.
En-route, Amanda messaged me to cry off; the forecast (hot and windless) was, understandably, not to her taste. So I rigged the Laser for the morning's races. Most of the club had drawn a similar conclusion to Amanda's. A couple of Fifteens launched, along with three Solos. In my fleet, only a couple of the club's juniors, Ava and Monty, crewing the club's RS200, launched to challenge me.
The north easterly that has been plaguing us for the last few weeks had shifted briefly into the north west, which was welcome but it was very light, averaging less than 4 knots. A few lively gusts teased us through the first lap of the first race, along with an accompaniment of light, warm rain, falling in thick, slow and heavy drops. After that the wind dropped, although the light showers continued intermittently.
Two races. The kids thrashed me in the first whilst there was still a little bit of wind to get their asymmetric working, beating me by more than a minute, even after our times had been adjusted by our respective handicaps. I managed to scratch back a little bit of my battered dignity in the second, beating them by a few seconds after adjustment, the absolute drift neutralising most of the advantage of their spinnaker over my single sail.
With the wind only forecast to drop further as the day progressed, I put the boat away, skipped the afternoon race and headed home to return Dad's car. As the afternoon cooled into evening, I finished off the weekend with walking the dogs, and getting supper ready for when Nik finally finished work, domestic god that I am (not!)
Turned out the car had broken the belt driving the alternator. It's in the garage now, and I await news of its restoration and the bill accompanying. It's always a pain when they break, but in fairness my old Volvo is one of the most robust and reliable vehicles I've owned, and as far as timing is concerned, annoying as it was to miss the opportunity to sail Saturday afternoon, it could've been much, much worse.
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