I'm suspecting the two aren't connected, but returning from the dreaded cardiac rehabilitation clinic, pottering along one of my favourate, quiet country lanes, ruminating on the atrocious people skills of the "skinny Barbara Woodhouse" lady who runs it, there was a sort of muffled puff and the engine stopped.
So for the delight and delectation of Discophobes and J, Jeee Jee, American car owners, ... I now have a snapped cam belt!