Somewhere out in France, one summer not so long ago, a traffic jam like you'd never seen in a village. It snaked up the hill for miles, out of the village and far into the countryside. The sun was doing its thing and my fans were working overtime to keep the blood from boiling. Up to this point, Ford had done a good job on Burt. The journey had been flawless and I'd been smiling for weeks at the ease with which the adventures were flowing. But that's the thing about Ford; everything's fine until one of the corners they so cheaply cut decides to snap off entirely, leaving you without a crucial part.

Needless to say, during this exhaustingly hot day, and in the middle of this ridiculously long line of traffic, I began to notice a problem; I would push the gas pedal and the engine would ignore me like a moody teenager in the back seat. Wonderful news. Discovering I didn't have the ability to rev the engine brought with it the realization that I no longer had a way to get up that hill. I'd have to turn around.

At this point, I had no idea what the problem was. I only knew I couldn't rev. So you can imagine how much fun I had attempting a three-point-turn in a 20ft van, at a snail's pace, on a narrow village road, with 200 cars behind me.

Once I'd free-wheeled back down to the bottom of the hill, returning a range of hand gestures to their senders, we came to a stop next to some kind of boat storage yard and began thinking about the options. I looked through the manual and found precisely nothing to explain my situation. With that, I had no choice but to roll into a more long-term position so I could get the tea on while I figured it out. Note: For us Brits, tea is always the first thing to consider during difficult times.

Luckily, the hill continued down from my parking spot, rather than half-piping back up to form a sort of humiliating trap, as it provided a runway to get up some speed and cruise almost to the nearest town. Since there was no agenda, there was no stress. Everything we needed was in the van and we could stay there for days and want for nothing. Opposite the lay-by where we came to rest were only fields, and I appreciated the surroundings while I prepared to dismantle the gas pedal to figure out what was going on. Another tea before getting the tools out and one more before getting stuck in.

Two teas and half a pack of biscuits later, I checked the supply of duct tape and set about vandalizing my own van. Soon enough, I found the culprit - a cheap plastic pin that connects the pedal to the sensor had snapped. The computer had had no idea I'd been pressing the pedal this entire time. At least the computer wasn't to blame. That, I would not have been able to fix on the side of the road.

The culprit.

Being in France, I knew that my British roots would come in handy when asking for help, so I asked my foreign companion to make the call to the local Ford dealer. Naturally, her French not being absolutely perfect resulted in a calm and pleasant customer service experience. The new gas pedal was sold as a whole unit and would cost me the special price of €300, which was about €297 more than my budget at the time. When the call was cut off and I heard this hilarious information, I decided that the chap had been joking, you know, for smiles, and insisted on calling back to request a price just for the pin. On hearing her voice again, the helpful gentleman simply hung up, proving me wrong about my assumptions prior to the call.

This was not an option. I was going to have to Heath Robinson this bad-boy.

The fields across the road offered the perfect setting in which to consider design options, so we headed over to sit and think. I'm the kind of guy who needs to pace about in order to keep the mouse wheel spinning, so pace, I did. And then, quite unexpectedly, I came upon a large object wrapped in trash bags, neatly rolled into a ditch. Now, I was in a New York back alley, staring at a stiff. Excellent.

Considering the isolated location, I naturally allowed my mind to wander to all kinds of scary places before approaching the object, intent on proving myself wrong, using the age-old technique known as 'poke it with a stick', but my bottle went at the last moment, about ten feet away, as it really did start to look like a stiff. This put something of a crimp on my relaxation and didn't help much with the design process, but being a man of integrity, it was up to me to figure that someone else would find it and know what to do, and I didn't want to get in their way. My decision not only enabled me to continue with my day without a scarring experience ruining my life, but also somewhat sped up the design process - the motivation to leave had increased inexplicably.

My designs all centered around a piece of string pulling through a variety of small pulleys to move the pedal arm. With just two minor drawbacks. One, I didn't have any pulleys, and two, I didn't have any string.

There was only one thing for it.

A drive by hand into the town. Video coming soon.

After an interesting, if mildly nerve-wracking drive, Lidl came into view.
Relieved, I rolled into a spot and took another sip of tea, safe in the knowledge that Lidl would have everything I'd need to save the day.

And then I went in.
No string in Lidl.
What were the chances?

Luckily, they didn't disappoint when it came to super glue, and my next plan seemed stronger, although I still had reservations. I'd just glue the head back on the top of the pin and everything would be fine. But ten minutes passed and the head still fell off when I let go of it. The first round of glue had been a miserable failure. Apparently, some types of plastic just don't glue. It was like a joke from the universe. But not one to be beaten, I tried again, and to my surprise, it seemed to take. I let it dry for an hour before cautiously refitting the pin and ever-so-gently, I pressed the pedal. It revved. But would it take the torsion over the long term? Only time would tell.

As it happened, we were in Spain by the time it gave up the second time, and I think the heat and humidity had a lot to do with it. But knowing the problem, it was a quick fix, and it lasted another 2000 miles after that. Of course, I was still nervous any time I was alone on a mountain, but that just meant I was extra careful, and that probably helped.

Somehow, it got us all the way back to Prague and managed to do a few hundred miles around the town without problems before Burtdad arrived on his holidays, brandishing a new pedal - one that wasn't the right type and didn't fit. But the pin did, and that was golden.