Story by: Mike Koch Photo by: Jason Weaderhorn

Last August, I sold my old Rover and bought a 1978 Series III 109” military with roughly 25,000 original miles on the clock. Our adventures began as soon as I treated it to its first drink of fresh petrol. After lifting up the driver’s seat and filling one 45-litre tank, I looked into my wallet before reaching across the interior, removed the passenger seat, and began to fill the passenger’s side tank. Some hippies in a Subaru wagon asked me: “Hey man, do you know that gas is pouring out about as fast as you’re pouring it in?” “Yes, I did. In fact, I love pouring gasoline all over the environment at $3/gallon!” As gallon after gallon of 87 octane endlessly showered the gas station cement, two employees were throwing down buckets of glorified cat litter. Thank goodness I’ve been buying my lunch at this place for years or these guys would’ve wanted to kill me.

“Dear Santa, one aux. fuel tank for my 109” military, please.”

I love my 109”. My girlfriend does not love my 109”. She thinks that having fuel tanks under the seats aren’t safe. After mentioning this to enthusiast Jon Detwiler at the British Invasion, we agreed: “if you are worried about that, you’re not living.” The 109” is slow and raucous (attempting conversation above 30mph is unrewarding), but it has character you just can’t put a price on. I explained to her that unless we appreciate the old Rovers, we wouldn’t have evolved to the newer Land Rovers that so many folks enjoy driving and depend upon every day. She agreed and said something along the lines of: my truck should be in a museum so we can show our appreciation without having to risk our lives driving it. Maybe a softer ride would make her like it more.

“Dear Santa, one set of parabolic springs and Old Man Emu shocks, please.”

She may have a vindicated point about safety. While I’m not about to switch to a 109” station wagon rear fuel tank and remove the pair under the seatbox, some fresh Land Rover Genuine seat belts would feel more reassuring than the crusty originals. Did I mention the passenger wears a static belt? No wonder she is apprehensive to ride in my 109”. “Dear Santa, one pair of Land Rover Genuine inertia reel seat belts, please(and maybe some Genuine Defender seats as well, to prevent potential whiplash in the event of an accident).” While on the topic of driving safety, as autumnal equinox approaches, these military headlamps aren’t cutting it.

“Dear Santa, one pair of Hella Vision Plus headlamps, one set of rubber Series mats and tunnel cover to quiet things down a bit in my 109” so it might not sound like a Boeing 727 at takeoff anymore. And while we’re at it, plenty of Waxoyl to get my 109” through the upcoming subarctic Vermont winter, please. Come to think of it, a new canvas top would help keep some of the cold drafts out too. Santa, even if you don’t grant me any of my special requests, I’ve been nice and will continue to cherish my 109” even though sometimes a four letter word or two slips out while turning a wrench on it. I remember when I first washed my 109” having a bit of a talk with it explaining that “I’ll take care of you if you take care of me.”

The Daily Grind
I’ve just left Rovers North rushing the thirty-minute drive into Burlington to get to an appointment without being fashionably late. “Yikes! I’m halfway down Route 128 and I forgot the parts I had to deliver to a local Land Rover shop for the morning.” Short of pulling the transmission brake handle in a Batman-like maneuver, I turn around, pick up the needed parts, continuing southbound down Route 128 and see what the 109” can do in a rush, as though I were driving to the ER with my hair on fire. I wind it up to 60mph, which was a first for me while clutching that steering wheel, eyes transfixed on the road ahead, hanging on for dear life. I should explain that Route 128 in Vermont consists of a narrow, two-lane road with lots of turns, blind hill approaches, hidden drives, and farms with wandering herds of animals. 60 mph really stretches the limit of safety.

A couple of days later, I did a tune up on my 109”. Halfway down Route 128, my 109” started to sickly stumble to a death as the engine eventually shut off. Before I knew it, both the charge lamp and oil pressure lamp where staring me down. Luckily, it was still daylight as I didn’t have a flashlight on hand [note to Mike – purchase flashlight, it’s a Series Land Rover –ed] I popped the bonnet quickly realizing that I hadn’t properly fastened the king lead to the ignition coil. Within moments, I sped down the road again.

A couple days later, I was rushing to dinner in Burlington. As I turned a corner onto a road halfway to Burlington, the 109” starts sputtering. “I can’t be late.” I drop it into third and floor it, literally, pedal to the unmatted metal floor. This did not push me back in my seat. The 109” sputtered along for over half a mile till I had to make the decision whether to run a rather amber colored traffic light knowing if she stopped, she wouldn’t start again. Memories of “The Gods Must Be Crazy” came to mind. In my panicked rush, I said a silent prayer and as I pulled up to the pump, the 109” quit. Once again, both the charge lamp and oil pressure lamp were blinding me. I fill the 109” hoping my efforts of fiddling with the timing weren’t to blame, with a few quick pulls of the trigger, I primed the fuel pump, checked the distributor leads and luckily, the 109” got me to dinner with a couple of minutes to spare. In the future, I’ll pay closer attention to my fuel gauge instead of my wristwatch. The next day, I had a number of calls saying: “Did you see me? I saw you in the 109” sputtering down the side of the road with the flashers on.” Thanks for stopping everyone! Co-workers exclaimed that I with only one functional fuel tank, I was naïve not to carry my jerrycan.

During the first week of ownership, I made a bit of a miscalculation refilling the cooling system after a repair and was on the side of the road with the temperature gauge pegged at 110 degrees C; not ideal. Needless to say, I was two hours late for work and missed my appointment at the dentist altogether. His receptionist asked if I’d be able to make it in a little later that morning. I responded that while it was still early in the morning, I didn’t know if I’d make it to work today, let alone to have my teeth drilled out. What surprised me is that no one stopped to ask if everything were alright. I presume that driving a military Land Rover, people think that I’m in some paramilitary northern border patrol. That’s the thing about driving a Series, the occasional breakdown slows down the pace of life. The pace of this world is moving faster and faster all the time, if you are interested in slowing it down a bit, sell your vehicle and drive a Series on a daily basis and rely on it as your sole means of transport. Mine will not travel at faster than 60mph. How’s that sound?

6:05am Saturday September 16th, 2006 my alarm wakes me up. I drive to Rovers North to meet both Les Parker and Rob Smith to convoy over Smuggler’s Notch (Route 108) to the British Invasion in Stowe, VT. It’s a foggy morning, cool and damp unarguably the ideal setting for the British Invasion. Les is at the head of our convoy in his Lightweight towing a Sankey trailer, I am in the middle and Rob, with the highest horsepower rating, was strategically placed at the rear of the convoy in his 1994 D90 (#287). Some droplets fell from the trees so I naturally turned the wiper knob, and unexpectedly, nothing happened. Luckily, there wasn’t any rain, well, not enough to make driving without wipers fatal. A couple days later, I head out to the 109” during my lunch break and pull the dash apart. After some probing and head scratching, I reassembled the dash and not only do the wipers still not function, but now the fuel gauge has no reading and I know I just filled it on my commute in this morning! I suppose matters could be worse.

Driving home from the British Invasion, I was driving north on Interstate 89 where the speed limit is posted as 65mph with a minimum speed of 40mph. I probably should’ve taken the back roads home to Burlington but was feeling ambitious, as my mind was set on a getting to a barbecue in Lake George, NY, a two hour drive south of my Burlington apartment. As I approached the hill between Richmond and Williston, at 55mph, my speedometer needle fell to 50mph, quickly followed by 45mph, and finally reached a low of 40mph, the posted minimum speed limit with my flashers on for safety. I felt like I was operating a piece of agricultural equipment. I remember thinking to myself, “great, all I need is to get pulled over for driving too slowly!” Just at that moment, I spy a state trooper approaching my 109” in my side view mirror. As he passed, he shot me a look and soldiered on with his duties.

I have yet to cross the Rubicon in my 109” and we have yet to accomplish anything “spectacular” together but I do rely on it everyday. It doesn’t earn its keep by hauling debris, goats, logs, manure, or mining equipment. It doesn’t plow snow or tow hay wagons either, but it starts every time I turn the key and gets me home at the end of each day. I love it and am not overwhelmed when something isn’t functioning as the factory intended, because unlike a lot of modern vehicles, I know that with a workshop manual and a set of tools, I am capable of fixing just about any one of its components. It should be mentioned that both the fuel gauge and wipers began to work as a soon as it started to rain on my way to Rovers North yesterday morning. I guess we are taking care of each other after all.

Woodstock or Bust
I just finished working the Saturday morning shift at Rovers North. Time to check the fluids on my latest acquisition, the 1978 Series III military 109.” “Let’s see, what do we have here? The rear differential is a tad too low, the transfer box is a bit too high, while the gearbox as equally low as the transfer box is high. ‘Intercase migration.’ Sounds like a sociology class I took at UVM.” The clutch pedal and underlying floor are sodden with Girling brake fluid because the clutch master cylinder has been dribbling. “As long as I religiously top it off, I bet I can get a few more months out of it. My static ignition timing feels off by at least a few degrees, my Zenith is both warped and as a result incapable of being adjusted but it’s time for a road trip, not time to repair the ‘incidentals’.”

Sunday morning I picked up my friend Jason, who recently moved to Burlington from the NYC area in search of greener pastures. He’s also an ideal road trip companion. The night before I had introduced him to Burlington’s pubs and we had remained there until closing hour. This morning, we grab some breakfast sandwiches and coffee at the Old Brick Store in Charlotte that really hit the spot. I chose a route that’s slower and more scenic than Interstate 89, which would’ve been the quickest way to Woodstock, VT, our destination but hardly enjoyable in my 109”.

We drove down Route 7, then across the very narrow Route 125 through the Green Mountain National Forest, then down scenic Route 100 and eventually brought my 109” into her slip in stunning Woodstock, VT. While driving east on Route 125, I took a sweeping left turn way too swiftly and before reaching the apex, I quickly realized that I didn’t know how to calculate the physics of this scenario in a 109” military, which seemingly has the suspension travel of a steam locomotive. What I did know was from my HO scale model trains as a boy, if you took the turn too fast, the train went flying off the rails (like the song “Wreck of Old 97”). Without hesitating, I told my passenger to brace himself. Luckily, all we experienced was a rather exhilarating adrenaline rush.

As mentioned, I knew the static timing was off but wanted to get on with this jaunt to Woodstock. What I didn’t realize was how bad the 2.25 litre was going to “ping” up the steep passes crossing the Green Mountains. Approaching the summit of many hills, I had to drop it into third and chug up at 25 mph. “I think I can, I think I can, I think I can.” When I returned to Rovers North, the warped and maladjusted Zenith got swapped for a spanking brand new Weber 34ICH and I reset the timing.

Highlights included (but were not limited to): admiring the Paul Revere bell and the historic town of Woodstock, drinking samples at the Long Trail Brewery in Bridgewater Corners, VT on the way back to Burlington, and having a bystander say “Nice truck! Now that’s a real truck.”

Between the maladjusted Zenith, creating a most intoxicatingly fumy ride and the usual gear whine associated with a Series at highway speeds, not to mention the 109” military’s factory leaf springs which are tall, proud, and unforgiving; we had to take rest breaks every hour to decompress from being shell-shocked. Perhaps I’m still a bit maladjusted to driving a Series Land Rover long distances.

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