300 Miles in a Westfield XI

We pull to the shoulder between two stranded vehicles. Before we can shut down the car, two shady fellows are walking briskly toward us.

"What kind of car is that?"

It's the last question we want to answer right now, but we're expecting it as we raise the hood. They poke their heads into the engine bay. One remains quiet while the other does the talking.

"Cool. It's got a Rover motor. I haven't seen one of these in years."

Two-hundred miles into our journey and not one curious bystander had a clue as to what we were driving. I doubt there was a body attached to any of the camera phones, smiling faces, honking horns or pointing fingers that had a clue either. It must be a fluke.

"So what was she running before overheating? About 175 degrees?"

It's not a fluke. We nod our heads in affirmation and look closer at this two-man roadside pit crew. The silent partner sports a sweat-stained Mickey Mouse T-shirt and keeps to the background, clinging to a toolbox.

The front man moves fast and likes to talk. Between excessive fidgeting and mumbling  we struggle to understand what he says. We ask how he knows this car so well.

"I used to work on MG Midgets back in my day. We raced 'em. Look, no circulation."

He troubleshoots the problem by disconnecting radiator hoses. First, he removes the hose between the overflow reservoir and engine. Next, he pulls the hose connecting the radiator core and engine. Disconnecting the latter, he spills 240-degree coolant on his bare hands and forearm.

"Whoa (mumble, mumble). That's hot. See, no circulation."

He ignores the scalded skin and removes the thermostat as if nothing happened. Sure enough, it's rusted shut. A quick flick of the screwdriver and thermostat guts become a worthless collection of rust. He begins reassembly.

"This is how we used to run 'em, with the 'stat wide open."

We are in such awe of our situation that it takes some time before we ask the name of these highway saints. Mickey remains silent. Between cranking on his ratchet and tweaking on radiator hoses, the leader of this team garbles some words in our direction.

"Lord Smith. I'm Lord Smith."

We couldn't have dreamed up a better name for this ace mechanic of finicky British sports cars. Lord Smith helps button up the hood and we slip him 50 bucks for his troubles. A steaming Olds Cutlass pull in behind us, and with no more than a casual thank you, the Lord walks over to his next meal ticket.

It's amazing the ideas people come up with to make a dollar. Our chance run-in with these bizarre gentlemen on the Grapevine is a tale we won't soon forget. The Westfield covered the remaining 100 miles of our trip running better than ever.