Let’s Hear It for the Wives

by David Mathias

I don’t think my wife, Amber, ever rode in a British sports car before she met me, and surprisingly, twenty years later, we’re still married. We live for the months in Upper Michigan where we can drive for miles and miles on the winding roads surrounded by tall pines, lakes, rivers, and the occasional deer that jumps out to see if I’m paying attention—or maybe to test my brakes.

The partner of anyone who is impassioned to own at least one British sports car has got to be a real trooper. A time I truly tested my wife’s limits was on one particular day when we set out on a drive in our ’53 MG TD. She asked if we had enough gas—as you know, there is no fuel gauge on a ’53.

With a serious measure of loftiness, I waved my hand dismissively, saying, “of course.” Less than a minute later, the car sputtered to a stop. I peered into the gas tank—dry as a bone. Fortunately, we were less than a mile from where we started, and so we began our walk back to get the gas can I keep at the storage facility. I called out to my wife, “Hey…good thing we weren’t on the other side of the lake when it happened—right?” She didn’t answer but kept walking yards and yards ahead of me at a very brisk pace. Chinese philosopher Lao Tzu said, “The journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.” Now, I always say, “The journey of a thousand miles begins with a full tank of gas.” And I keep a small can of gasoline tucked behind the seat—lesson learned.

Another time, we were driving along one of those fine roads on a beautiful but hot Michigan day when we came upon a snapping turtle in the middle of the road. The animal lover that she is, my wife has saved many a turtle from being run over, so I thought this should be my turn. I shut off the Triumph TR7, hopped out, and ran about ten yards back to see if I could convince the turtle to hurry off the road and back to the nearby marshy pond. I kept circling around the turtle, trying to grab it from behind—as I am still rather fond of my fingers. This big, old snapping turtle just kept hissing at me, mouth open, ready to teach me a lesson as it kept moving in a circle, not allowing me to pick it up. My wife watched from the car, rather amused. Who knew there was a technique to this? I finally gave up and began walking back to the car. I looked back, and the turtle hurried off the road. “You’re welcome.”

As they say, no good deed goes unpunished—the Triumph wouldn’t start. The heat of the engine melted some starter wires that were likely not routed properly by the previous owner. Lucky for us, a father and son came by—fellow car collectors. They gave us a push start, and we made it home. We have a driveway that’s on an incline, and so the next day, my wife gave me a little push, the car started, and I drove it to a local mechanic. She never seems to be annoyed by these things, par for the course for her. I decided that from that day on, my wife would handle saving the turtles while I sit in the car and keep it running—you know, just in case.

My wife has much more patience than I do when it comes to firing up the old Brits. Every time we have a little “glitch” in our plans for the day, she reminds me that it’s all part of the journey. I’ve never seen my wife crawl under a car. I’ve never even seen my wife hold a wrench, but when I’m staring at an engine that won’t start with that familiar crease in my forehead, wondering just what the heck it is this time, she’ll glance over my shoulder and say something like, “Have you checked the fuel filter? They tend to plug up with rusty scale.” And almost as if I’m one of Pavlov’s dogs, I’ll shake my head and answer, “That’s not it.” By now, you know where this is going—right? Twenty minutes later, I’m changing the fuel filter, and ten minutes after that, we’re on our way. She’ll always smile and not say a word. You might think my pride would be hurt, but no, again; years have aged me like the patina on the tan leather seats of a British car. I just smile back as we drive along with the top down, the sun beaming through the pines, and wondering to myself how she gets it right every time. Maybe she’s been reading the troubleshooting guide at the back of my shop manual or, late at night, she’s watching YouTube videos about old roadsters.

I’m sure you know what this is like— you’re scanning through online ads, you know, “just to see what’s out there,” and you run across a deal you can’t pass up—for example, an ’80 MGB for only $2,800. You read the listing, look at the pictures over and over, and convince yourself that “this car would be much happier with you than with someone so insensitive—so uncaring that they’d actually sell it.” Like a kid pleading with mom and dad for a new puppy, you think, “I can give this car a good home. I’ll care for it, change the oil—use the good stuff, clean it, polish it. We’ll go on long drives together.”

There are two old Brits in the garage, and thirty minutes away, you’re paying a couple hundred dollars a month to store three more, but this looks like such a good deal. Ever supportive, my wife never tries to talk me out of these things. Nope, she just says, “Give the guy a call. Let’s go take a look.”

I like to think there’s a toasty little corner of hell for the people who will sell an old British car—or any vehicle for that matter, without full disclosure— like, you know… “the carburetor is missing a few small pieces and is just about ready to fall apart.” In this case, we took it out for a test drive, and although it ran rough, it seemed like something I could fix when we got home…if we got home.

We stopped at a gas station to fill it up and get a little something to eat. A couple of ladies walked past us as we ate our sub sandwiches, and one must’ve noticed me looking through the window at that new purchase sitting outside. She said, “Nice little sports car.” I was beaming with pride. Then, after we left and the MG made it to the end of the entrance of the truck stop, the nice little sports car stalled and wouldn’t start. I opened the hood and immediately remembered the seller telling me he hadn’t gotten around to putting the bolt in that hood prop. My wife stood beside me as we watched a steady stream of gas spewing out of the carburetor. I said, “Here, hold the hood open and put your finger over this fitting.” Without a moment’s hesitation, she did just that—I managed to get the car started, she closed the hood and followed me on the two-and-a-half-hour journey home. There were no further problems, and I can only assume the gas leak stopped as the car did not burst into flames.

When we got home, my phone rang. It was the seller asking me if we made it and telling me he was praying for us. That really spiked the level of confidence I had that we had made a good purchase. But in the bigger scheme of things, that moment my wife held the hood open and stopped the spewing gas with her fingertip, I knew that I had married the right woman.

“Do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband—to have and to hold, for better, for worse, in sickness and in health, no matter how many old British sports cars he has?” If she hesitates in answering, you’d best move along. Everyone needs their ride-or-die.

The other day, I took our ’52 MG TD to the car wash. The high-pressure hose is great for spraying away the dead bugs from the canvas top. It’s also great for spraying water through the hood vents into places where water really shouldn’t be going. I finished up. The car looked great but wouldn’t start. I pushed it out of the self-service bay into the sunlight and gave my wife a call. After all the years we’ve been together, when she sees me drive off in one of the cars, she makes sure her phone is nearby. She was there in a matter of minutes and gave me a push start. Whatever it was that got wet, it dried out on the ride home, and when I parked it in the garage, it was fine.

Despite the mishaps, my wife never complains. She rolls with the punches, always ready to run support no matter what comes our way. I’ve arrived at the opinion that every man who owns a British sports car or two (or many more) has got to be in a wonderful marriage. So, let’s hear it for the wives! Tell her how much you appreciate her great attitude, indomitable spirit, and be sure to check the gas before you take off on that next excursion.