ONE SLICE OF KYALAMI PLEASE!
Text, photos and a Kyalami courtesy of Roger Epsztajn
 "What do I do now? Should I ring Andy, the AA or the police first?" I mused.
But first I had to understand how, unlike virginity, naivety is a state that one actually can return to. Alone, seemingly abandoned in a cul de sac within the confines of Aberdeen airport, I came to realise what I must do next.
Maybe I should begin at the beginning some 7 weeks earlier. I spotted a Kyalami for sale. One owner, hardly used since some restoration work many years earlier and a mere 23,000 miles. Better, it was even a manual and right-hand drive. Sadly the owner had passed away and there seemed little market for it in the north of Scotland. I on the other hand wanted a Maserati to play with in our house in France. I had figured that one of the more discreet Maseratis
with seating for 4, power steering and air con was required. This boiled down to a Mexico or a Kyalami or at a pinch an Indy. It would preferably have right hand drive to both dissuade joy riders and allow me to judge precisely the edges of the sinuous mountain roads around our house. And if the cautious folk of the UK tend to import cars from California, then I could take a car from Scotland down to the Mediterranean.
All the conditions were met, so I duly started my negotiations and asked for detailed photos and specification. I was told how the friend of the family, Stuart, who had been commissioned by the family to help sell the car had asked a race engineer from Huntley to both re-commission and tune the car. A short phone call to the engineer confirmed that he had no memory of any such Maserati. Undeterred I let my insurers perform an HPI check that was also unable to confirm the existence of the car. Despite the lack of evidence, I now knew that this was a genuine vehicle. Probably just a beaurocratic error in ascribing chassis numbers. My insurers were convinced that the odometer and speedometer
being calibrated in kilometres could only suggest a European provenance with some sort of right-hand drive conversion later. All very dodgy. Some success here, after consulting the oracle I discovered that all Kyalamis were calibrated in
kilometres. Thank you Andy!
And also thanks Andy for advising me to have it trailered to London (if I decided to buy it) so that it could be checked and re-commissioned in an orderly manner. When I rejoined that Stuart had assured me that it drives beautifully, indeed, exactly as an Italian super car ought, Andy was quick to remind me that "they all say that!"
 But optimism and a low price has always been the driving force behind ignoring good advice. Besides I was now hooked. Throwing caution to the wind I carefully worded an email to the effect that I would buy the car for an agreed
sum to include both a fresh MOT, 6 months road tax after removing the SORN and the proviso that the car would be in a fit condition to drive back to London. A brief acknowledgement from Stuart was all that was needed to start me organising a bank transfer to him. All this without leaving France. I also mentioned that I would contact him sometime in August and arrange a flight to Aberdeen where he could meet me at the airport and take me to the car. Only this particular Wednesday was the first day the draconian emergency cabin regulations which had forbidden all hand luggage were relaxed. I could now take a small briefcase but no fluids! I had bought a ticket for a 11:40 departure from Heathrow before the terrorist plots were declared. A relaxed time of day so I thought. But, no, BA were advising me to allow 2 or 3 hours more than usual because of the chaos at Heathrow. So I left my Chiswick address at 07:15 and taking the underground to terminal 1 I arrived at 08:05, prepared for the worst. From exiting the train to air-side of security took a scant 12 minutes. Good! I was ahead of the game. And by several hours! It helped little that the plane was delayed by 45 minutes.
A pleasant flight, punctured by BA tea, saw me in the Aberdeen arrival lounge. But no Stuart. After 15 minutes I rang him. He explained that "I am away up north today, but I've sent the lads round with the car. However the Police have just moved them on for staying too long in the set down rank. I will try to bring them back!!" Still no alarm bells!
 I went outside and saw in the distance the unmistakably discreet form of a bloody great light blue Kyalami burbling towards me. My first real view of it. My excitement mounted. The car approached, I excitedly took its first photo and, lo, it stopped, a door sprung open accompanied by a strongly accented invitation to jump in. As I entered, quickly drinking in the plush cream leather upholstery I flashed with irritation at the smell of the driver's cigarette, now hanging loosely at the end of a very oily arm. At least he was sitting on a plastic bag. No sooner had I sat down, than we drove off, only to stop moments later having turned into a cul de sac.
There Stuart's lad (no more than 45 years old) produced the V5 for me to fill in and sign with a token receipt claiming that the car was sold without warranty and as seen. But I was too clever for them. I had anticipated this and took out a copy of my email and copied down the terms of the limited warranty it implied. Goodness knows whether this would carry any legal force, but I felt in control.
In an impressive display of professionalism I now insisted on confirming that the engine and chassis numbers corresponded to the V5. Only, where the heck were they? Still the pop-riveted manufacturers plate seemed good enough. I had resolved to look for foaming oil in the power steering reservoir and other negative signs of quality. But laddo explained that he had a broken down lorry on the other side of town awaiting his attention and it was blocking a whole industrial estate. With this he jumped into an accompanying van and sped away.
Oh well, I'd better put some fuel in. What's this? No clutch pedal pressure! Well I am sure if I pump it a bit I can bring it up. Not too successful, so try both pumping and manly gear lever shoving. Whoops, I've stalled the engine. Why is it only making a clicking noise when I turn the ignition key? Could this be a flat battery, or worse.
"What do I do now? Should I ring Andy, the AA or the police first?" I mused.
Instead I rang Stuart and he ordered his men to return. Some 20 minutes later, armed with the smallest red battery I have seen in a long while, they re-surfaced. They fitted that battery and it miraculously started the car. And laddo fumbled under the car trying to bleed the clutch, insisting all the while that the car had driven beautifully all the way to the airport.
 Meanwhile I chatted with the driver of the white van and discovered that he was the son of the girlfriend of the twice divorced first and only real owner, David Gordon. Sad to see the car go he told a strange tale of how the owner had been given the car by De Tomaso following on from the successful construction of a factory in Milan using an advanced form of concrete block manufactured in Scotland by David Gordon's company. Indeed it was an early car with a 0017 chassis number. But whether this was a gift or a tax avoidance scheme may never be known. Maybe that is why only Italian documentation came with the car. Sadly David suffered an extended period of ill health before he finally expired, explaining the long period of disuse.
With at least 15 pumps of the pedal it was now close to possible to engage gear. With masterful authority I insisted that they follow me to the petrol station where they would wait until I had filled the car and confirm that I could both start it and engage gear. Mercifully they warned me that only the offside 50 litre tank was working. No sooner had I crunched it into a hard to find 2nd gear they waved goodbye, shouting that I needed to turn left at the T junction. Of course, they were turning right. No matter, my first destination was the Bow of Fife, south of Dundee and an offer of supper and accommodation with our chairman.
Only Dundee is south of Aberdeen and the airport is north. Here I was, in a totally strange car without a map and more importantly, without a clutch. No matter! Or should that be mind over matter? I negotiated the traffic of Aberdeen, finely judging the approach to every round about and traffic lights to minimise the need to change gear, which could only be done by matching revs to road speed. I apologise to the gentle folk of Aberdeen if they felt this Maserati's progress was a trifle aggressive, but needs must!
A horrifying 40 minutes later saw me on the road to Dundee. I had had my baptism of fire and a halo of confidence hung over me. As I trundled briskly, having already checked for the satisfactory operation of brakes, I caught glimpses of greatness. This is one tidy chassis I thought. The car is 40mm wider than a QPIII yet it feels barely bigger than a hatchback and the torque is both generous and cosseting. I was happy!
Thank G-d for that torque, I was going to drive to London, and establish a new record for not changing gears.
 I arrived in good time at Drummond and Vivian's and we ventured out to fill with petrol. I offered him a drive, having thoughtfully put him on the insurance cover note. Drummond agreed. But first petrol. As I started to fill up, a youth came into the petrol station, looked at the car and went "cor, what is that?" Not only did my breast swell, but so did Drummond's and he began a short dissertation on the history and specification of the Kyalami. Maybe the Kyalami is not as discreet as I had assumed.
I trotted off to pay. When I returned I found Drummond firmly planted in the passenger seat. I reminded him that a drive was on offer, and as he declined, it dawned on me that he had spotted me fighting the clutch on the way there. No matter, he can play when it has been fettled.
Then John and Susan Bennett arrived chez Bone, also for supper. Susan came in to say hello to me, as I relaxed in front of Drummond's gramophone. But not John, who similarly afflicted by a desire for quasi-rational purchases couldn't wait to clamber all over the car with Drummond as guide. It was later, and incidentally, that he greeted me to Scotland! A fabulous meal with lamb to an ancient recipe washed down with mature claret followed. I was being nourished for the morrow's adventure or should I say trial?
Skipping rush hour I picked my way past the Forth Road bridge and Edinburgh, determined to enter the M8, M74, M6, A50, M1 expressway to the south as fluidly as possible. And not change gear! A couple of splutterings, an odd stall here and there, with some clever re-starts involving selecting gear before using the starter switch found me in the thick of a traffic jam from Preston to way past Manchester. 30 mph was the most I saw for 2 hours, and frankly I was now exhausted. But with the A50 just round the corner and climate change torrential rain to amuse me, I chose to press on. I was already stopping to refuel every 20 to 25 litres worth, fearful that rubbish from the tank might drag its way past 4 hungry twin choke Webers and clog up the works. But the car was now stalling every 4 or 5 miles and engaging gear was becoming yet more problematic. Despite these tribulations the car recorded an average 18.9 mpg! There is a moral in there somewhere!
 I had had a point to prove, but now I realised that plan B might need to be enacted. And so it was that I stuttered to a halt and into a rare refuge beside the southbound M1 just near to Leicester South. Six sevenths of an 800 mile journey. Maybe some victory could be claimed in defeat. I later learnt that John Jackson had driven past me while I was waiting for assistance and at first he had thought the car was a Granada. Only after he passed had he realised that it may have been a Kyalami. Maybe the car is as discreet as I required after all.
The car now safely delivered to Andy at Bill McGrath, with a few reassuring noises that it was nothing too serious, I found my way home and slept an eternity. To dream excitedly about my new baby!
One wee postscript concerns Andy admonishing me for losing one of the petrol filler caps, telling me that finding one to fit is well nigh impossible. No problem! I meditated and found my last memory of it was at the petrol station visited with Drummond. I looked at my credit card slips, located the appropriate phone number and duly rang them up. "I am terribly sorry but I may have left my petrol filler cap at your garage a couple of days ago" "Can you describe it please, sir?" "Sure" I replied without hesitation "it is made of metal but looks as though it is made of wood!" "That is all right Sir, we have it here!" It was only now that this struck me as peculiar...
Oh, a second wee postscript. Not only had Drummond to go collect my left behind petrol cap, but found himself having to go to another garage to pick up John Bennett's left behind dipstick. Co-incidence, what?
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