by David Mathias
Over the decades I have owned literally dozens of British and German sports cars. I can’t say this without likening myself to a character in Aesop’s Fables about the grasshopper and the ant. The ant is wise. He works hard, saves his money and is both thrifty, conservative and probably drives a Toyota. The grasshopper spends his days dancing, eating, drinking and enjoying life. I am the grasshopper.
Over the years, my father would help me rebuild engines, grind and adjust valves, synchronize carburetors and do brake jobs on my Brit cars. When I test drove my ’66 TR4A after rebuilding the engine with my dad, he told my mother it was the biggest grin he had ever seen on my face. As this was our first rebuild project together, I believe he was right.
During my foray with British cars, I have had to crank-start a ’64 TR4 (to the amazement of onlookers), repair wiper blades on a ’72 MGB GT on the side of a highway in the middle of a rainstorm, and find a creative way of stopping another Triumph on my way home from purchasing it when the brakes gave out. As the man on TV says, but wait, there’s more. I drove an entire winter in a ’65 TR4 with a piece of plywood for a driver’s side window, had a Renault stretch an extra three inches when a farmer pulled me out of a ditch with his tractor in the middle of a winter ice storm, and to top it all off, drove my friend’s ’74 MG backwards at 55 mph off an icy road into the Rat River. I missed hitting the concrete bridge by mere inches. Thank God, the river was actually a creek—but nonetheless, scary at night when you open the door and water starts rushing in. Coincidently, 37 years later, I mentioned that story to a mechanic in the Fox Valley. Apparently, he had heard the story before, as his brother ended up buying the car years later from my friend. I guess the story stuck with the car.
There are many more white-knuckle experiences than I care to remember or am too embarrassed to share.
British sports cars have three things going against them; they aren’t safe, they aren’t reliable, and for long distances they’re not all that comfortable. So why are people still driving these cars? Take a three-hour topless drive out on County Road K between Conover, Wisconsin, and Highway 51 with a stop at Star Lake, or drive to Iron River, Michigan, under a canopy of trees with the top down in a ’53 MGTD to get a cup of coffee. Maybe a day trip to Bond Falls or the Porcupine Mountains in the Upper Peninsula is more to your liking. There’s an enjoyment of going topless in a British sports car, or any convertible for that matter, that is almost beyond description.
In another month, my wife and I will be celebrating our wedding anniversary by driving north along the east shore of Minnesota, to take in the fall colors. The excursion will be as topless as weather permits. Come October first, these temperamental little treasures will be in garages, pole barns and sheds, covered, batteries removed, with large pieces of cardboard underneath to catch the oil drips. They all leak. And I will once again drive my rusty, trustworthy Chevy Suburban. I will be the ant, or patiently pretend to be, until the following spring.
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