Da Vinci’s code has nothing on my Jag’s radio

Once again, I am experiencing the singular kinks and quirks that come with British car ownership.

Namely, the radio in my 1987 Jaguar is more mum than Penn’s sidekick, Teller.

Getting it going again may take the mind of an Einstein or one of those Genius Bar brainiacs from the Apple Store.

Ah, remember my Jaguar?

I bought it a couple years ago on a whim that was irresponsible even by my highly impulsive standards.

You know me. My taste in transportation usually runs to vintage Detroit-made gas gulpers.

Then this great deal on a cool Jag came along.

I blame my pal, Dave Cebert. A chronic Jagaholic, Cebert told me owning such an exotic car would turn me into a suave and sophisticated Englishman, like James Bond or Boy George.

Before you could say, “Ello, guv-nah,” my butt was planted firmly on the buttery leather driver’s seat.

A few days later the seat broke.

But that aggravation was high tea with the queen compared to this accursed radio.

The problem dates back to last winter. The battery died while the Jag was tucked away in a garage.

No problem. A trickle charger juiced it back up again.

Then last week I realized that this joke for spring weather was about as good as it was going to get.

Time to unleash the Jag.

To my delight it started right up. I backed the wire wheels out onto the street and switched on the radio.

Nada.

The word “code” appeared on the radio’s small display screen.

Now I had actually heard about this.

Apparently to thwart thievery, the carmakers of Coventry installed an electronic security system.

Translation: The radio quits working whenever the battery power is cut.

To get it going again you must push the radio’s channel changers in a prescribed secret sequence.

The Code.

Leave it to the Brits to design a safety feature so annoying that it makes the owner want to drive into a bridge abutment.

At this point, however, I wasn’t worried.

I needed an oil change, anyway. So I drove the Jag to Corsmith auto repair. I figured my mechanic, Kelly Corbin, would retrieve The Code, which I had stashed somewhere in the car, and revive the radio.

He did find The Code. At least we think it’s The Code.

The word “radio” is written on a card followed by four numbers: 5-4-3-4.

Despite Corbin’s best efforts, however, my radio is all-mime all the time.

In the following days, I’ve logged some serious online time researching the subject of Jaguar radio codes.

What I’ve learned does not console me. Basically, I’ve discovered that there is an unhappy army of Jaguar owners out there who haven’t been able to listen to their radios since the disco era.

Even more disturbing is what I’ve learned from several so-called Jaguar experts.

The radio security system, they say, only lets you make three incorrect code-punching attempts.

Then you must wait an hour (with the ignition on) until you get another three tries.

One expert claimed that if you fail a second time, the system locks up for three hours. Fail again and your wait is eight hours … .

I don’t know if this exponential stuff is true. But I punched in a lot of numbers when first trying to figure out what was going on.

For all I know I’ve put my radio out of commission for the next several decades.

I’m afraid to even touch the damn thing now.

I just hope our nuclear arsenal is protected as well as my 1987 radio and cassette player.

At Corbin’s advice, I called Lyle Pearson – Spokane, the downtown Jaguar dealership.

I talked to Terry Sauers, who was extremely friendly and helpful.

He ran the last six digits of my vehicle identification number through his computer to see if I had the right code.

Nothing at all came up.

So what do I do now?

As a matter of fact, Sauers told me that he asked his Jaguar mechanic that very thing.

Wow. And what did the mechanic say?

“If it didn’t work, shoot it.”