Our Ssangyong Rodius Is Trying Its Best To Defeat Me But I’m Not Done Yet

If the Rodius was a dog – and I think we can all agree metaphorically and anecdotally it is a complete hound – it would be one of those dogs that absolutely refuses to behave. The type of mutt who always does exactly the opposite of what a normal and faithful best friend is supposed to do. Pooping and peeing on the carpet, chewing random objects, barking incessantly at fresh air, and getting into scrapes that result in large veterinary bills. Just a constant, massive four-legged pain in the ass that you’re stuck with. Mentally, that’s where I am with the Rodius right now.

The road to hell, they say, is paved with good intentions. I had the best of intentions to take the Rodius to the Festival of the Unexceptional at the end of July. After providing useful if not exactly sterling service for the Goodwood Festival of Speed, the Rodius decided it wasn’t going to play nice anymore. Maybe after being parked on the duke’s lawn in between a vintage Rolls and an Eagle Speedster, it suddenly got delusions of grandeur and petulantly decided FOTU was beneath it and didn’t want to go. I’m too rational to think cars are living things, but the Rodius was starting to stretch this belief, and I am slowly becoming convinced that the damn thing has it in for me. Buried deep within its gray plastic interior was a festering, malevolent presence sustained only by its evil crusade to make my life as difficult as possible. And my life is already difficult enough, thanks.

Before we get into exactly how Darth Rodius has tested me in recent weeks, I need to add in a little extra backstory for reasons that will undoubtedly prove hilarious to you, but at the time resulted in me standing in the living room screaming at the top of my lungs. You know that scene in Die Hard when the terrorist is trashing the office and McLane’s wife says something like “only John can make someone that mad”? I swear only the Rodius could make me that upset.

A Break In

What happened was, while we were away drinking the duke’s gin at Goodwood, someone had attempted to break into the lock-up garage where I keep the Ferrari. Well, they didn’t attempt; they smashed off both the stout Abus padlocks and the twisty handle in the middle of the up-and-over door. Luckily, one of the hasps survived, and my garage neighbor was able to secure the door for me in my absence with a nut and bolt. Clearly, the scumbags responsible were not after the car because they rendered the door entirely unlocked. After chatting to said neighbor, who had spoken to the police, we think they were looking for an empty garage to store a stolen car. But the net result was my garage door was buggered and the local council (from whom I rent it) would have to replace it. At the time, my NOCO booster pack was still in the trunk of the Ferrari, because as a precaution, I had taken it to Le Mans Classic with me. Remember these minor details because their relevance in this tale of woe will be important.

The thing with the Rodius is that after Goodwood, we were not sure exactly what we were going to do with it. We had thought about making me go camping in it, but the late summer is always insanely busy, so spending a few days away somewhere might not be possible. In the meantime, however was the Festival of the Unexceptional. I knew the Rodius was losing air from its right-rear tire because we had to top it up on our final day at Goodwood. Once back home, I of course did absolutely bugger all to remedy the situation, partly because I had other stuff going on but also because we wanted to spend as little money on the Rodius as possible. Needless to say, the morning of FOTU I went outside to find the tire completely flat – and with the spare not even in the same ballpark as being road legal, that plan was well and truly scuppered.

The other slightly more looming problem was the issue of roadworthiness – namely the MOT (Ministry Of Transport) Certificate. Every vehicle (with one or two exceptions) that is driven on His Majesty’s Highways requires a valid MOT certificate. It’s akin to the annual inspections some of the more civilized US states carry out. If you want a bit of a primer, I wrote about how the Ferrari fell foul (and I was a David Tracy grade idiot) a while back. My gut feeling was the Rodius would either pass with flying colors or fail spectacularly, and there was only one way to find out: book it for a test. Then, depending on the result, the Rodius Applications Committee (Matt, Jason, David, and I) could decide what we wanted to do with the execrable thing. If it passed, we could sell it on to some unsuspecting soul or push it into service as a sort of Autopian UK publicity vehicle like one of those Red Bull Minis but much, much crappier. Or offer it as a prize in an Autopian coloring competition or something. If it failed, selling it would be impossible, so we could then give it a Viking burial by setting it on fire and floating it down the river Thames or offer it to the Royal Air Force as a bombing target. The important thing is that it wouldn’t be outside my house.

Only The Rodius Could Make Me That Upset

The current MOT expires at the end of September, so we had time to maneuver, but we couldn’t make any decisions unless we knew whether or not it would pass and have a certificate for another year. Before booking a test, I wanted to get the tire repaired, so it was one sunny morning last week that I jumped in to take it to a local tire place. And of course, the battery was flat. Again. The brand new two-hundred-pound (as in money, not weight) Bosch battery that I had fitted the day before driving down to Goodwood.

 

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Over the six days we were mucking about driving between my house, Heathrow airport, the Airbnb, Goodwood, and Chichester, there had been no indication of any problems. So of course, I didn’t even consider there might be a power drain somewhere in the twenty-year-old electrical system. Slight setback, but I reasoned the new battery wouldn’t be totally shagged like the old one had been, which had necessitated my calling out the AA. My trusty NOCO booster pack should be able to handle starting duties this time. All I needed to do was go and retrieve it from the trunk of the Ferrari, which was tucked away in its garage around the corner from my house. No problem.

Except in the intervening period, the local council had come and fitted a new garage door without informing me. Consequently, I didn’t have the keys and couldn’t get in. This was the moment I let out an anguished scream in the middle of my front room. It took every ounce of restraint I possessed to not run outside and start kicking dents in the bloody silver monstrosity. I was at the end of my tether with it.

Once I calmed down, stiff and strong words were exchanged with the local council, who informed me the keys were with the contractor who had fitted the new door. Their office was in Warwick, a twenty-minute drive from my house. Plenty of time for me to get down there and grab the keys before they closed at 5 pm. So that’s exactly what I did, only to find they decided to close early that Thursday afternoon. Cue another phone call, this time to the contractor’s head office, in which another free and frank exchange of views took place. By this point in the day’s proceedings, I was absolutely on the ceiling. The language I used would have made a sailor embarrassed.

The next morning, I finally had the keys and retrieved my booster pack. Connected up to the Rodius, I trepidatiously turned the key. And the blasted thing still wouldn’t crank fast enough to start. This was a problem I didn’t have a straightforward answer for. I had two options: call the AA again, who might get a bit narky about coming out again for the same fault, or wait for my garage neighbor to come home and rope him in to help (he’s a Mercedes commercial tech with a garage full of kit). The trouble is, I was by now getting a bit impatient and wanted to get things sorted. I don’t like uncertainty, and I especially don’t like broken vehicles that I have to bloody deal with.

Then I had one of my moments of genius. Maybe leaving the NOCO connected for ten minutes or so would put enough voltage into the Rodius battery to give it enough charge to kick the damn thing into life? It had to be worth a try before hitting the booze and cursing Matt through gritted teeth for the rest of the day. And bugger me, it worked, the Rodius grudgingly roaring into life, the dulcet rattle of its inline five diesel shaking windows up and down the street. Fantastic. I left it ticking over for an hour and a half to make sure it was properly charged up, then turned it off and restarted it just to make sure it would behave. Satisfied, I turned it off and disconnected the battery. Now that I knew I could start it, I could book the MOT and tire repair.

MOT Roulette

The following Monday, I dropped the Rodius off at a place around the corner from my house that carries out MOT tests and does tires. Despite being booked for 1:30 pm, they told me it would be a couple of hours, so there was no point in hanging around. I walked home in the boiling heat and awaited the phone call of doom.

Sure enough, two hours later, the phone rang.

Garage: Hello mate. Have you had this car long?

Me: No, maybe eight weeks? We bought it for a website.

Garage: So you didn’t get the subframe repaired?

Me: Errr no. Why is it bad?

Garage: Yeah. It’s failed on a front spring and CV gaiter. The subframe has been welded quite badly in the past as well.

Me: Oh well, I only need it to last another month anyway.

Garage: No, you can’t drive it. It has no MOT now. It failed.

Me: It still has until the end of September, is that no longer valid?

Garage: Not now, no.

Me: Did you at least fix the tire?

Garage: No, because you can’t legally drive it.

Asshats. I had assumed – naively – that even if it failed, the existing MOT would remain in place, so at least the Rodius could make one final outing to Rustival at the end of August. I immediately panic-messaged Matt, David, and Jason to inform them of the bad news. This was the worst possible outcome. I was now stuck with an illegal silver paperweight, as it could not be parked on the road without a valid MOT. I have no off-street parking, and I knew it wouldn’t fit in the garage where the Ferrari is stored. In other words, I was totally beyond all doubt, utterly snookered. The Rodius, it seemed, was not about to go gently into that good night.

Back home with the MOT list, I saw the litany of failures was not as chronic as I had been led to believe. Failures fall into either the dangerous or major category. Dangerous means you absolutely cannot drive the vehicle on the road until it is repaired. To do so is illegal and will result in a fine and points on your license. However, major failures mean that although the MOT has not been passed, you can still drive if the previous MOT is still valid. The Rodius had two major failures: the left-hand front coil spring was cracked and corroded, and the front driveshaft gaiter was split. It also had two minor (meaning “repair as soon as possible”) defects: a small crack in the windshield and a defective headlight lens. After checking the official government MOT website, the previous MOT was still valid until the end of September. So the Rodius lives until then with the battery disconnected, and will make it to Rustival after all.

The tire remains a problem. Another local place wouldn’t repair it because the screw that is causing it to lose air is in the tread too close to the sidewall. I pumped it up to use the Rodius for a tip run the other day (might as well put that cavernous interior to good use while I still have it), but seeing as we know there is no chance of it being legal after the end of September, there’s no point even putting a second-hand one on. Nearer Rustival, I’ll stick a can of sealant in it. Gaydon is only about a half-hour drive from my house, so it should be fine. In the meantime, I’d better try and find a licensed dismantler to come and take the bloody thing of my hands after the event.

The Rodius might be trying its hardest to defeat me, but I swear I’m not done yet.

Top graphic images: Adrian Clarke; New Line Cinema via MovieClips