Dana Burt's Journal

It was a race club setting in Portland Oregon. I owned a shop called Freeway Fiat. As a matter of course I got a request from a club member who had a Fiat powered sport racer. He wanted me to check out the tuning of his 1800 cc motor. I found that at 2500 rpm the advance was 5 degrees retarded. After I set it I told him that he needed to roll on the throttle from low rpm's so as not to get valve clatter. He acted accordingly and then reported that my tuning had cut a second off of his lap time. We had agreed that payment for my tuning his motor would be my getting some lap time in the car.
Even with his expressed satisfaction with my tuning he refused to meet his end of the bargain. The fellow claimed that the car was old and finicky and so he couldn't trust me to treat it right. I then gave him a bill for my work which he refused to pay. Then, I cut loose the distributor lock bolt and set it somewhere out of site. He never did so well again.

My long since ex wife used to enjoy drinking lunches with other narcissistic wanna be rich head cases. A peculiar outcome of one such soiree was proof of how fine British steel is.
As she was driving away from the fine and laudable social event she made a sudden and un-signaled lane change to the right. Alas, a poor miscreant driving a Honda appliance was there at the unfortunate and same time. Not appreciating the importance of this divine creature-my wife-not the XJ, had the temerity to continue driving forward as she converged upon his lowly vehicle. Being a 72 the Jag had the original sans rubber bumpers which present a finely honed reverse crescent trailing back around the front fender with a very sharp and apparently very hardened point.
I kid you not, the appliance on wheels got opened end from end including door pillars. What a sight. The poor owner was, as my long long long ago ex intimated (verily I doth paraphrase), near tears and at a complete loss for words.
I was just very relieved that she had managed to actually pay a few bills which, miraculously, included the insurance. I am sure that she simply exchanged info and got the hell out of there because there was no ticket nor bill for bail or other such financial inconveniences. Pretty women had that effect on hippies back in the day.
Oh, the Jag? Back at the shop, I removed the offending scimitar, put it into a press and presto, fine as new. Really. No other wear or tear visible. Not even the old " Who can tell at one hundred feet and fifty MPH". Just pristine. Like new and all that implies.