Push starting the Super Minx

The Hillman Super Minx is probably the only car I’d ever consider doing up. But really, that’s never going to happen. I’m not a car guy.

 In 1994, Rik and I bought the Super Minx off Fi. It was Mark III 1964 model, white with a red stripe running the car's length. Red leather trim to match. Super stylish, with fins coming off the back above the tyres, little red cones over the brake lights, like cartoon bombs.

These were some seriously cool wheels and the car was full of quirks.

Due to some kind of alchemical-electrical magic, it only started when the tape deck was running. We’d play old school Jamaican reggae. Other times we’d fossick around in the glove box for some deeply stoned dubs. Chuck the tape in the deck, push play and wait until the song had played a couple of bars. The trick was to turn the key on the first beat of the next bar.

The strange voice of Lee Scratch Perry comes out of the speakers…

“Lucifer son of the morning, I'm gonna chase you out of earth!

I'm gonna put on a iron shirt, and chase Satan out of earth,

I'm gonna put on a iron shirt, and chase the devil out of earth,

I'm gonna send him to outa space, to find another race…”

Rik waits until the drums hit and turns the key. The car turns over with coughing and spluttering success.

“Dead easy…” Rik turned to me. “Righto James… Christchurch. I’ll drive the first leg, you roll the spliffs and keep an eye out for dibble"

“Okey dokey Skip." I reach up to my ear and pull out a pre-rolled number. Before long I’m coughing and spluttering too.

We filled up the passenger foot-well with empty ginger beer bottles. The boot was full of art materials, CDs and vinyl. The radio aerial was made from a metal coat hanger.

We'd left Golden Bay in the evening and were heading to Christchurch. This would usually be a seven-hour drive in a normal car, but the Super Minx stretched it out to nine or ten at least. We'd gotten over Lewis Pass and pulled over on the side of the road, climbed a fence and gone to sleep under the stars.

Thunder rolled and got louder. The field was awash with light like it was morning. A logging truck was barrelling down the road straight towards us, screaming like a daemon as it urgently shifted down gears, obviously out of control. I screamed and scrambled to my feet. Rik jumped from under his blankets and ran, naked, and looking like a shaved bigfoot escaping an avalanche in the mountains. At the last minute, the truck turned, taking the curve in the road with ease and accelerating away into the darkness. The driver must have been pissing himself.

That summer I spent most of my days wearing an embroidered waistcoat, no shirt, and Thai fisherman's trousers [This is an important point...]. If you're not familiar with them Thai fisherman's trousers are really wide pants, in the one-size-fits-all theme. The pants are wrapped around the waist and tied. They’re generally made from flimsy material. Perfect for a hot summer day. And it was a hot February. Spanking hot.

We were in Christchurch preparing for a music festival. Once again, we didn't have a venue, lights, sound system or money. We did have some cracking good tunes though. We'd been shopping for music at the local record shop and the sales guy was also a DJ who had a show on student radio. Being publicity hounds we offered him a set at the gig and arranged an interview on his show.

RDU's studio was on campus at Canterbury University and to get back out to Sumner we had to take a dual carriage freeway. There was a traffic jam. Bumper to bumper. It was a hot February day. Sweltering.

 “I’m gaggin’ for a ginger beer James.”

"Nope… this is mine…. all mine.”

“C’mon mate that’s well snide.”

I passed him the bottle and he downed the last swig.

“Ah, nice one. Cheers Jim.”

The Super Minx, in all its wisdom, chose this moment to stop, just as the light changed to green. 

“Out you hop James. The car’s thrown a strop.”

People started honking their horns before I could even get to the back to start pushing.

The Super Minx would stall on a regular basis and needed push starting. It’s was heavy too, literally weighing a metric tonne. It’s worth pointing out that I’m a wee fella. No more than five feet eight in jandals and skinny as a rake. Rik is closer to six feet eight. He’s a man mountain. But he was driving.

I jump out to push.

The car moves slightly. I leant into it with my shoulder down. I wedged my hip against it and tried to get some leverage. The car shifts some more. I put both hands on the boot again and lean into it again. I redoubled my effort. People behind me started standing on their horns and pulling out to drive around us. Honking as they passed their passengers were laughing and staring. Some wankers even pointed. No one got out their own cars to help push.

I pushed.

The Minx got rolling.

Rick popped it into first and let the clutch out quickly. The car burped. Ginger beer wafted over the freeway. More cars honked. More people laughed.

The engine didn't start.

Rik leaned out the window. “We need to get this wagon fettled mate”.

“Jesus Rik! You should be pushing.”

“Nah you’re doin' a sterling job, James. One more heave mate and you'll have it bang-to-rights. I'll change the tape. It'll work this time."

Desmond Dekker's mellifluous voice wends over some of the best reggae ever recorded:

"Get up in the morning, slaving for bread, sir,

So that every mouth can be fed,

Poor me Israelites…"

Rush hour Christchurch fails to be impressed.

Cars beep. People point and laugh at the hippies in their junker.

Once more into the fold. I push as hard as I can, doubled over with the effort.

Just as the car reaches speed; just as Rik pops the engine into life; just as a cool breeze wafts across the landscape, I realise that my pants have come undone and for the last five minutes I've been pushing this clapped out car down Christchurch's busiest arterial road with my bum and balls hanging in the breeze. Bent over. Straining.

Once the car had started it had to keep moving. I ran after Rik, laughing. He leant over to the passenger side and pushed the door open.

“C’mon James!” 

It's really quite difficult to run in undone Thai fireman's pants, in jandals, while laughing hysterically.

I jumped back in the passenger seat. Tears rolling down my cheeks. 

“Y'all right our kid?” 

"Yeah, bro… Sweet as a nut." 

I showed Rik the back of my pants. 

"No way!”

“Mmm-hm.”

"Nah... Nah man no way!" 

I have great admiration for the way that Rik can drive and laugh like a loon at the same time.