Simon Heiniger: Born in 1962 and raised in Emmental, he studied medicine in Bern. Thanks to a curriculum from the FIAM Bern, he trained as a general practitioner. Since 1994, he has been a family doctor in Olten. Married to a very understanding and patient wife, with three adult children. He writes like a writer:
I would like to tell you something about my hobby. I restore. From a medical perspective, the problem of restoration is not yet fully understood. It is suspected that a relatively rare spontaneous mutation on the Y chromosome occurs (so the female readership can breathe a sigh of relief). This deviation from the original genome forces the male psyche to fight against natural aging with all its might. If a man fails to do this for himself, he turns his energies to, for example, his car.
The first symptoms appeared at an atypically young age, which I didn’t yet know how to interpret clearly at the time: I began restoring wooden furniture during my studies. I told everyone at the time that it was a mental balance, and I felt absolutely certain that I had found a survival tool and perhaps even a second source of income for future crises. After a few years, when our apartment looked like a stage set for a Gotthelf theater, my wife convinced me that it might not be very beneficial for the children to grow up in this antiquated living environment, and that, after all, something modern could also be very appealing. I recognized the seriousness of these objections and, somewhat offended, retreated to my workshop, gave away one piece after another, and patronizingly allowed modernity to slowly move into our household. I had the time and opportunity to choose a new hobby. For a brief moment, I even considered sports or reading.
As with many chronic illnesses, one tends to delude oneself into believing one’s health during symptom-free periods. However, when I saw a Triumph Spitfire shortly after opening my practice (for the more interested reader: Mk IV, Jg 72), I quickly added the price tag to the total investment expenditure, and since this didn’t result in a significant difference, I drove the Spitfire home. This spontaneity, often typical of me and equally overwhelming for those around me, didn’t meet with much approval this time either. Since then, I always discuss a car purchase with my wife beforehand, or at least mention such a project sometimes. The Spitfire was a good purchase. The engine almost always started, and only rarely did it let me down on the road. Every now and then, I curiously unscrewed something, marveled at the (still) nameless part, and screwed it back on. Apparently, it was fine; everything worked. The problem with this car was that there was nothing to restore. On a later occasion, I complained about this plight to the Triumph dealer. I think he wrestled with himself for a moment before telling me that instead of ruining the good car, he had an idea. His suggestion was a rather dilapidated Triumph GT6 (for the still-interested reader: Mk I, 1968, also known as the “poor-man’s E-Type”), parked behind the garage years ago and left to rot and rust.
My restoration heart leapt with pity, beat faster, and with much effort (I can’t go into the details, as the various violations may not have expired yet), I parked the “vehicle” in our backyard. I tried to counter my wife’s incomprehensible horror (had I really forgotten to inform her?) with arguments like “it’ll be a great car by spring” and “it looks terrible, but it’s solid.” Admittedly, spring had come several times, and the solidity wasn’t quite so great after all. To lend my determination a touch of credibility, I began the rather hectic disassembly that same day. This bold step in particular isn’t particularly suitable for imitation: even today, I still have a reproachful box of small parts for which, no matter how hard I tried to imagine, I simply couldn’t find room when putting them back together. Very quickly, an unexpected space problem arose. If the car, in drivable condition, has the dimensions of a small vehicle, the space required in a gutted state is about four times larger. I had to discreetly incorporate the now-modernized living space into the storage room, and even for this practical conversion of space, there was strangely no applause. Today I can talk about it; at that stage, I was almost desperate. Half the neighborhood was amused by the noise and chaos.
Give up? Those who restore cars don’t know that expression, and anyway, it’s part of the very nature of a family doctor to persevere, not to give up, even when no one believes in a happy ending anymore. I needed help and comfort, lots of comfort. The bookshelf was filled with specialist literature on British vehicles, rust treatment, engine construction, reports with tips and tricks from fellow sufferers. I discovered I wasn’t alone. Similar fates seem to be shared in many places, with many a self-proclaimed preserver of rusty cars suffering with brave perseverance in a small, unheated garage. The project progressed in small steps. There was a time when the various parts were spread out over a radius of many kilometers: the engine was at the cardiologist’s, the chassis at the orthopedist’s, and the body at the dermatologist’s. Our house was once again stress-free and livable. In this situation, I was once again able to benefit from my experience as a family doctor.
It took my persistent attention until my patient (still disassembled) was finally back home. Now all that was left was to reassemble it. With my now considerable experience and the painful experience of using many new tools, this should really only be the crowning achievement. The conclusion, and especially the crowning achievement, would have to wait for another spring. I became acquainted with the English understanding of precision. The majority of imported new parts rarely fit; where there should have been a recess, there wasn’t one. And the wiring harness had countless nerve endings that simply ended up somewhere without any reason (perhaps I should have paid more attention in neurology). Improvisation and courage were required.
Once all the holes and recesses on the freshly veneered dashboard were covered, I had the part x-rayed in the office. With the old bronchoscope, I was sometimes able to get a better overview of the depths of the engine or the body. And all the useful surgical instruments were briefly put to a different use (and, of course, later sterilized again).
One fall, the Triumph was finally finished, previously in “British racing green,” now in a more conciliatory “powder blue.” Everything worked, and even the motor vehicle inspection gave it its veteran’s blessing. For a short time, the symptoms disappeared, and everyone rejoiced in the miraculous healing. If only the Moto Guzzi hadn’t been at the motorcycle dealer,
or the sadly beautiful Saab on the internet, or the old Vespa in my father-in-law’s barn…
With time and experience, I’ve learned something very important. Before making any new purchase, I always talk to my wife first. She’s learned to live with my weakness and patiently stands by me (sometimes she still has a meltdown when there are so many vehicles in and around the house, so I just have to get rid of another restored object; never mind, I’ll find another one).
Dear reader, I have one final request: If you meet a man in a shiny, beautiful old car, be kind to him. He’s been through a lot.
PrimaryCare 2006;6: Nr. 51-52
Dr. med. Simon Heiniger
Ziegelfeldstrasse 25
4600 Olten
heiniger.simon@freesurf.ch