by Ken Edgar
The membership has heard several stories of the motley fleet of British cars that I attempt to keep fed and healthy so the news that I’ve added another one should come as no shock to anyone. The Edict imposed by my wife has been rescinded, albeit at least temporarily. Well, the truth is that she feels compelled to put up a token resistance but she is actually a closet petrolhead – but you’ll never get her to admit it. She actually prefers the pink or coral-colored chrome-encrusted, lumbering behemoths of the Fifties but will deign to tolerate a Jag.
Enter the newest member of the fleet – a 1985 Jaguar XJ6. We once owned one, a silver ’85 that was my wife’s daily driver until I replaced it with a 2002 Jaguar Vanden Plas. After we’d acquired the ’02 Jag I drove the old Silver Six, as I dubbed it, over a winter. Imagine going from a ’66 Spitfire as an everyday driver to that ’85 Jag – I was spoiled in short order: the Jag was as quiet and roomy as the Spit was noisy and confined. The Spit’s heater was adequate but the Jag’s worked like it was stoked by the fires of Hell on a 20°F (or colder) morning. As the next spring rolled around I had to give the Silver Six up to our older daughter so she had something to drive to work. She took the Silver Six with her when she moved out.
I never gave up trying to find another one and my efforts bore fruit in the guise of a fellow club member who had an ’85 XJ6 he wanted out of his way. Interesting how most everything I have was someone else’s cast-off. The car had been mildly cannibalized, had some rust in the usual places, a bashed in front wing, and had spent the last decade sitting silent. Everything would probably have to be gone through and I had four projects all going on at the same time already; this was madness.
“Can I come pick it up Friday?” I asked the seller.
My brother-in-law and I arrived promptly on the appointed Friday. The three of us spent the next hour sweating and cursing as we coaxed the locked-up brakes to release and used the soon to be former owner’s Honda Del Sol as a prime mover to coax the sleeper from its re
sting place. Once out of the shed the brakes magically released as if the car realized it had been freed from its prison. Once home I gave the dusty thing a good wash and the car didn’t look too bad after the years of grime were removed. The color was Cobalt Blue, so I dubbed her Blue Six.
The Silver Six had spent nearly a year on a car lot before she went home with us and I played catch-up on keeping the car a reliable daily driver. These cars really hate to sit. Armed with my experience gained on the Silver Six I tore into Blue Six’s fuel system. It was a mess, with both fuel tanks rusty, all fuel valves shot, the fuel pump locked up, and the injectors deemed unsalvageable by an individual who knows far more about fuel injectors than I ever will. This gentleman set me up with a good set of used ones.
The fuel tanks were the worst part. The left one was beyond saving but a spare came with the car; it needed a good cleaning and little else. The right one was another can of worms. I pulled the drain plug – nothing came out but I noticed something leathery in the hole. I poked it with a screw driver and was rewarded with a shower of foul-smelling dead gasoline. Something on the order of five gallons of the stuff remained in the tank. The leathery substance I saw was varnish from the decomposed gas. It took several washings with a strong alkaline carburetor cleaner to get that tank clean. I could have purchased a new tank but where’s the fun in that?
In comparison to the fuel system the brakes were a doddle although I ended up replacing the output bearings and seals in the differential while I had the rear brakes apart.
The first time I started the car it fired right up and I walked around the engine bay, checking for leaks. I suddenly caught a strong whiff of petrol and discovered fuel spraying out of an A/C hose at the rear of the engine! That’s a new one on me. As it turns out the fuel cooler, which normally has A/C refrigerant circulating through it, apparently had a leak. Nothing had been noticed for about five minutes until the A/C hose filled up. The cooler was promptly bypassed; I’ve lost a Jag to an engine fire and will not lose another – not if I can help it.
Once the fuel issue was sorted the car proved to be well-running, with good oil pressure, a smooth-shifting gearbox, no weird noises from the driveline, and the majority of the electrics came back to life on their own with a renewed supply of electrons. A registration was obtained and I’ve now driven Blue Six to work several times as I wring out the remaining kinks. It’s the second old Jag I’ve owned that does not leak oil (yes, I checked the level).
I replaced the bashed in wing with a good one procured from a friend who, as it turns out, sells old Jag parts. The only problem is the replacement wing is Claret – and I’m not sure which color I prefer. The old girl might become Red Six before it’s over.
