Confessions of A Teenage MG Driver

by Charles Cutler

I grip the large metal-spoked steering wheel of my 1975 MGB, zipping between humdrum hybrids and stale SUVs, my red British roadster releasing the smell of carbureted happiness in its wake. I’m an average 19-year-old guy, but I’ve been photographed, waved at, and propositioned—all because of this classic British car. It is the perfect vehicle for today’s teens. 

I bought my MG when I was a junior in high school under the influence of my grandpa, the proud owner of many MGs through the years, including his current pristine 1967 model. Like most teenagers, I had a minuscule budget for my first car, but I still wanted something fun. You don’t have to look long or far to find plenty of affordable British sports cars. MGBs, Midgets, XJ6s, and Spitfires can still be found in reasonable condition for an affordable price.

It didn’t take long to learn that a bright red little British car grabs attention. Strangers roll down their windows to snap a photo or yell, “Nice car!” Old guys park by me at the store so they can tell me about the one they used to own just like it. At school, I was known as the kid with the cool old car. I learned the hard way that there was no skipping class for me because everyone knew who drove the little red car. I was caught by my dad attempting such a feat. My little MG leaves its mark on people and things. One could always tell where I’d been by the three oil drips I left behind. This notoriety is an unavoidable consequence of being cool enough to drive such a tasteful automobile.

Significantly, driving an MG has broadened my social circle to include other teens who love classics and also my grandpa’s generation. At car shows, I meet the greatest folks who share memories that are surprisingly similar to the ones I am making. I feel I have gained admittance to a lifelong fraternity of people who have the same concentration of hypoid gear oil and brake fluid in their veins.

My MGB is the complete opposite of what most parents want their teens to drive. Airbags are non-existent, seat belts may or may not retract, there is no rollover protection, giant SUV drivers don’t check their mirrors and merge into you, the reliability is questionable, and most of all they will never make it anywhere on time because someone will always stop you and want to talk about their own era of British motoring history. It’s a good thing my parents don’t know about some of the poor decisions I have made as a result of my MG. I am sure they would wince at the thought of seven teenagers going down the road in and on my car—two in the cockpit, three sitting on the boot lid above the stowed top, and the last two perched on the luggage rack hanging on for dear life. I’m sure my mother would hate to hear of the times the brakes didn’t work the first few pumps, or of the gas leaks I found dripping onto the exhaust, or when wheels almost fell off. The responsible adult would probably scold me if they saw my car squeezed into a grocery store cart corral with inches of clearance on each side.

My MG harbored all sorts of new and creative ways to make poor decisions, but after all, the advert did once say, “Your mother wouldn’t like it.” I like to believe that these goofy stories are not displays of irresponsibility and idiocy, but instead testaments of how wonderful and exciting these little cars can be. They quite simply invoke the inner youth in all of us, and regardless of the occasional risk taking, my MG is simply just fun.

If you couldn’t already tell, I don’t have the most pristine example of an MG, far from it, but this made it so I wasn’t afraid to actually use my car. A dirt road never scared me, and driving in the rain was no issue except for when I forgot a towel to mitigate the steady stream of water flying at me through the old, worn-out seals. Now that I’ve moved north for college, driving in the snow and seeing the surprise on peoples’ faces when they watch a little old car go by is one of my new favorite pastimes.

Despite my reckless teenage tendencies and overall immaturity, my MG somehow molded me into a responsible adult. When driving a classic British car, you are fully driving, nothing else. While teen drivers of modern cars fiddle with Bluetooth and navigation apps, I cannot operate with those distractions. I am not even preoccupied with air conditioning or heat. Airbagless, tiny, and invisible to the distracted drivers of today makes our cars probably the most unsafe things to drive, but I believe that this danger cultivates better and safer driving skills. When driving a little British car, one has to drive defensively, anticipating the moves of others and always being on the lookout for soccer moms texting and drifting from lane to lane. Texting and driving is all but impossible when you have to change gears, monitor your gauges, adjust a drooping mirror, and repeat it all again. When I’m driving, I’m just driving.

My MG struggles have taught me troubleshooting, perseverance, determination, the importance of being prepared, and most of all, the ability to creatively solve problems. My fuel pump once bit the dust a short distance from my house. With no one to call for a tow, and the Texas heat and a daunting hill eliminating the ability to push even the smallest of cars, I had to get resourceful. I recruited my passenger, who I had thankfully taught to drive a manual, to drive while I carefully sat on the fender with the hood open and fed the carburetor with a Gatorade bottle full of gasoline. Maybe the problem was solved through creativity or maybe it was solved through stupidity, either way, the car made it home without an explosion. Each fix on my car taught me a new skill and broadened my creative horizon a little more. Instead of wasting my time playing video games or staring at my phone, I spent many late nights troubleshooting and struggling through repairs to hopefully make it to school the next morning. I learned that daily driving an MG is just about the most inconvenient thing, but the reward is unmatched. 

Perhaps our cars may be a little unpredictable, too. I learned that lesson when the hood popped open while driving, folded over the windscreen, and hit me on the head, but these inconveniences just make me more and more aware of my car and what it is telling me. A lot of teens lack this awareness and connection to their cars. When driving a classic, one can feel its movements instantaneously. Every bump, change in road condition, curve, puddle, and in my case once, a raccoon, is felt by the driver. It is the purest of driving experiences. Few feelings can rival that of downshifting when entering a corner and hearing the throaty buzz of the exhaust upon exit. I fear this connection will be lost if bare-bones sports cars like ours go extinct. 

In today’s world of lane assist, adaptive cruise control, and imminent self-driving cars, we need connections to the road. Sure, all these new gadgets are convenient, but no one with all the newest technology can drive along and suddenly put their car in neutral and stand on the seat, body above the windscreen, while holding on to the steering wheel, to frighten their girlfriend. It is impossible to replace the freedom a British roadster offers with a new car.

Back when our cars rolled off the factory line, an office computer took up a whole floor of a building, and still couldn’t do what my outdated smartphone can. Today, technology practically controls our lives, and it can be hard to get young people excited about driving an old car. But who can blame them? To many kids, old cars are seen only occasionally, on a pleasant Saturday afternoon cruising around town or only in movies. I am afraid that in coming years we will see fewer and fewer of our classics around.

I urge you readers to support a new age of British car owners and their awaiting adventures by encouraging today’s teens and young adults to join our ranks. Online sales platforms are littered with ads reading, “Solid car. Just never driven.” I say, buy it! Buy it for your grandkids, nieces, and nephews, even for yourself. Encourage the inquisitive kid at a car show to sit in your passenger seat. Take young people for rides. Show up for parades and community events. Donate that unused parts car to a high school auto shop. Being an ambassador for British cars and inspiring the next generation to continue our hobby will ensure these fine little machines live on.

Owning a British sports car is a wonderful responsibility, one that I have found enriching, humbling, frustrating, and most of all, exciting. These cars provide an unmatched level of class, elegance, sportiness, and flash. It is important to pass on the love and appreciation we have for these fine British automobiles down to the next generation. Cultivating a new, youthful spirit of British car enthusiasm is the only way to keep those crucial gaskets, bushings, and bolts in stock at Moss for decades to come.