Breaking Down in an Old Alfa Romeo

It was still dark at four AM as I switched on the ignition and waited for the electric fuel pump to prime the twin-choke DellOrtos. Twisting the key further still, and with a crack of the throttle, the 2.0-litre Nord twin-cam snorted into life. The soft green glow from the Jaeger instruments greeted me through the darkness as I reset the trip counter and gently warmed the engine through as quietly as I could manage. Gently probing for first gear – these gearboxes can be decidedly grumpy from cold – I pointed the Alfa in the direction of Portsmouth and set off. The road trip had begun.

After covering shamefully few miles in my 1985 Alfa Romeo Spider in 2024, I decided 2025 was going to be the year of my big road trip. Ever since acquiring the car in 2022, I have dreamed of Continental adventures; roof down, wind in the hair and great roads to enjoy. So, while it’s hardly akin to cruising the length of Route 66 or traversing the Darien Gap, the four hundred-odd miles from my home in Buckinghamshire down to Le Mans seemed sufficiently ‘epic’ for a forty-year-old Alfa Romeo.

I booked the ferry tickets back in February, so I had plenty of time to get the car into shape, ready for the off in early July. I kicked off proceedings with an MOT and service, neither of which went exactly as planned. An unexpected MOT fail in April meant the Spider spent almost two months with a specialist, lightening my wallet by a four-figure sum and leaving less time than I would have liked to put it through its paces and iron out any foibles. MOT (finally) passed, and Alfa driving very well indeed, I set about sorting the last few jobs and sourcing the spares I hopefully wouldn’t need for the road trip ahead. Jobs included installing a new windscreen, new headlamps, and an additional pair of speakers behind the seats to give me a chance of hearing my stereo while cruising down the French autoroutes. I also topped up the rust-proofing, since the mere suggestion of rain compels these old Italian cars to start dissolving.

The next step was amassing the spares and tools to deal with any potential setbacks I might encounter on the journey. There are limits to what you can fix, of course. If you drop a valve, throw a rod, or blow the diff up, you’re going home on a recovery wagon. But, the beauty of classics is that most issues are simple to rectify and can often be attended to on the side of the road. Even if you did have to make your way to a garage, it helps if you’ve already got the right spares on hand. I sat down with a copy of the original parts catalogue, sourcing just about everything I could think of online from practically a whole replacement ignition system to spare wheel bolts, bulbs, fuel pump, a length of 12-volt wire, and a box of assorted crimp connectors.

When it comes to tools, I always like to supplement the rudimentary factory set with some decent essentials: A hammer, water pump, pliers, Mole grips, a few screwdrivers, spanners and a socket set will get you out of most situations, while I also carry a modern bottle jack sooner than trust the singularly sketchy-looking original. By the time I was finished, I had packed so much equipment that there was almost no remaining room in the Spider’s less than capacious boot for my luggage.

Further reassurance came from the fact I wasn’t to be travelling alone, as my parents were also making their way to France in the trusty family Volvo estate – a car I’ve had occasion to borrow several times over the years. Little did I know, this would come in very handy indeed…

Satisfied that I’d prepared everything to the best of my ability, it was with an air of quiet confidence that I embarked on my grand tour early that summer’s morning. Enjoying the unusually quiet roads, illuminated by my new headlamps, I made my way through the town of Princes Risborough when disaster struck. Exiting a roundabout, I observed my rev counter in a state of some agitation, the needle fluctuating wildly, interspersed with intermittent flashes from the battery charge light. Moments later, the rev counter gave up altogether, and the red glow of the dreaded charge light became a steadfast presence on the dash. Glancing at my other instruments, I noted the fuel, oil pressure and engine temperature gauges had all died too.

Something clearly wasn’t right, so I careered into the nearest 24-hour fuel station and set about examining my fusebox for a fault. Finding none, I examined the alternator and just about anything electrical I could think of. Nothing was obviously amiss.

The Caen Ferry was going to leave at six, whether I was on it or not, so I had to decide there and then whether to risk continuing with a car that was driving well but ostensibly wasn’t charging, or call the whole thing off and abandon the Alfa back home. Sensibly, unadventurously, I opted to throw in the towel, turning the Spider round, praying I’d make it home under my own steam, and in time to decamp to the trusty XC70 with which I was in convoy.

I knew it was ambitious, but I thought I’d make it a little further than five miles…

Breaking down is all part and parcel with classic car ownership, and the Law of Sod dictates it’ll always happen at precisely the most inconvenient times. I was fortunate enough to have a plan B in the form of another car, so I was still able to thoroughly enjoy my trip to Le Mans Classic and a few days away afterwards before returning to diagnose the issue that had left my aged roadster stranded at home.

As it transpired, the fault was a minor one. But, it was still something I’d never have managed to repair against the clock, in the dark at the side of the road. I figured out that a live wire had come off the back of the fuel gauge, earthing out on the radio and causing all kinds of havoc behind the dashboard. After working out that said wire needed isolating from the body of the gauge by means of a nylon washer, I was then able to replace the necessary fuses and restore the car to good working order. Since then, the Alfa hasn’t missed a beat. No doubt it’ll wait until I urgently need to be somewhere before it lets me down again.

Will I be trying again? Absolutely.

In the same car? We’ll see.

The moral of the story? Always have a plan B. By which I mean, everyone needs a Volvo estate.