A Minor Miracle

By Jim Bull

When I drove my new Morris Minor Tourer off the showroom floor on April 13, 1967, it had 24 miles on the odometer. I was 18 years old at the time and today have reached the ripe old age of 50. The little Morris was a combination 18th birthday present and high school graduation present. But we have a rather unusual twist to this story…bear with me!

In 1961, when I was 12 years old, my father purchased a British Motor Corporation (BMC) dealership in Santa Cruz, California. My dad had worked as an executive in a large corporation for 25 years and was ready to operate his own business. My uncle Tony had owned a BMC dealership in Texas since 1952, and, with a few suggestions from him, Dad purchased the agency.

We lived in Sunnyvale, California, at the time, now known as Silicon Valley, and on the day Dad purchased the agency, he drove home in a brand new MGA 1600. The car was a brilliant red and the top was down. The moment I saw that MG, I was hooked on British cars and have been ever since. Mom took my picture sitting in the car with Dad—I still have the photo!

Our move to Santa Cruz brought a new and complete change to my life. We lived several miles out of town, across from a state park with giant redwood trees. Santa Cruz lies on the Monterey Bay and was beautiful. However, I wasn’t interested in surfing or beach volleyball like the other kids—I wanted to hang around the car agency! So I talked my parents into letting me work. At 12 I started with minor jobs like emptying ashtrays (they still had them back then), dusting new cars in the showroom, mopping the showroom floor, cleaning the restrooms, etc. As I grew older, more responsibilities came with age and experience. I remember learning how to use an electric car polisher, detailing used cars, working on the lube rack, and preparing new cars when they came off the car transporters.

In those days, new cars came without accessories. These were usually installed by the dealer and I always feared scratching new paint when using a drill to put holes in shiny new fenders for radio antennas, mirrors, and luggage racks. After a few dozen installations, a drill finally slipped and I scratched the fender of an MGB. It was a Lucas mirror I was installing. I wonder if I could blame Lucas for that?

When my 16th birthday came I was finally able to drive (legally at least!), and my first car was a ’58 Vauxhall Victor, a four-door sedan with a three-speed column shift. It was a true gutless wonder. The car was produced by Vauxhall in England, who were owned by General Motors. The car reminded me of a scaled-down English version of a ’55 Chevy.

After a year, my mom gave me her 1961 Austin Cambridge as she took delivery of a new MG 100 sedan. The Austin was a big four-door with a de-tuned, one carb version of an MG 1500 engine. Again, gutless, but it had four on the floor and was a proper BMC product. I didn’t mind driving a gutless sedan—after all, these cars were given to me free by my parents, and I got to drive a variety of sports cars on weekends and during the summer. My mom and dad were really generous and trusting to allow this teenage son to have the pick of the used car lot on Saturday nights for dates and just cruising around.

Back then, cruising was a popular teen sport on Saturday nights, and Beach Street was the place to go to show off your car and be seen. I recall one Saturday night when I was cruising with a friend of mine in an Iris Blue MGB with chrome wire wheels. My friend spotted a couple of guys in a Corvette Stingray convertible and remarked that if we had a car like that we could really pick up the girls. To me, his comment seemed insulting, as it implied that girls weren’t as attracted to British sports cars as much as American cars. This was a matter of honor on behalf of my MGB! So I promptly bet him $5 (which was quite a bit, since the minimum wage at the time was $1.25 an hour!) that I could pick up a girl with the MGB within three minutes. My friend said this was impossible, and the bet was on. He got out of the car and we set our watches. I had to drive past him with a girl in the car within three minutes to win the bet. I drove off and spotted a couple of girls walking along the sidewalk up the street, pulled over, explained the bet, and offered to split the bet money if one of the girls would take a ride with me around the block. Within a couple of minutes I drove past my friend with a big grin on my face and a hearty wave from my newfound companion!

My hometown was also close to the famous Laguna Seca track in Monterey. Local SCCA events in addition to world-class grand prix races were held there. I recall watching Stirling Moss, Phil Hill, Jimmy Clarke, and many other famous drivers display their skills on the track during my high school years. Watching those cars when they were new was really exciting. It’s hard to believe that vintage racing has established itself with such tremendous popularity after all these years, as we’re now watching these races too!

Back to the Morris convertible. My driving habits were the primary cause of my receiving the car as a gift from my parents instead of a sports car. By the time I turned 18, I had had two accidents in MGs, and this factor was taken into consideration when my parents decided to give me a new car in the spring of ’67. I can still remember the announcement Mom made to me when she said that she and Dad had decided to give me a new car. I was elated with joy. Then Mom announced that the new car was NOT going to be an MGB as I had hoped, but a Morris Minor.

At that point, I didn’t want to seem ungrateful for the offer of a new car—but a Morris? Weren’t these little econoboxes driven by older people? What could I do? I thought and suggested a compromise. There was a Morris convertible on the showroom floor—could I have that? Success, the compromise was struck and I had the Morris, light blue in color with a light blue interior and an off-white top. The Morris had a retail price of $1,750, the only option was the heater, which cost $50, and my folks paid a wholesale price of $1,350 for the car! Little did I realize that the Morris would be the only new British car I would ever own. Dad’s health declined and it became difficult for him to operate the business with its many demands. My parents decided to sell the dealership shortly after my graduation that year.

I drove the Minor to a local college for a couple of years, and during that time dated a pretty girl from high school. Karen and I went to lots of places in the little Morris, and after two years it took me to college at a four-year school in Santa Barbara. Karen transferred to the same school, as we were in love and planned to marry. We married in our senior year, received our diplomas, and continued to drive the Morris as our primary car.

In 1972, Mom gave us the MG 1100 sedan. Both cars were the same color and sat next to each other in the apartment carport. With the arrival of children, the MG was sold, but we drove the Morris to work every day. The Arabian gas embargoes made it the most economical mode of transport.

In 12 years of use, the Morris only broke down once. Ironically, it was during an emergency trip up the California coast in 1977. My Dad had a massive heart attack which he didn’t survive. I headed home and the Morris fuel pump quit halfway here. Dad and the Morris both had pumps which quit the same day.

Finally, in 1979, after 12 years and 128,000 miles, a decision was made to sell the Morris for a bigger family car. The car had a valve job at 122,000, and the engine was still sealed and untouched from the factory except for that. However, I thought it might blow up, and our financial situation didn’t allow for an engine overhaul.

A couple in their 50s bought the Morris. It was their third Minor, and as soon as the car drove away, I knew a mistake had been made! I tried to purchase the car back without success, and in 1979 we moved away from Santa Barbara.

Twenty years passed. Then, in June of 1999, a message was left on our answering machine. THE MORRIS WAS FOR SALE! The same couple still had it and were willing to sell it back! We now had several British cars—was there room for another? You bet! We drove to Santa Barbara to look at the car which had only been driven 6,000 miles in 21 years! Very little had been done mechanically to the Minor, but it was in remarkable condition. A deal was struck and I drove it home to discover that the only thing wrong with the car was a burned-out license plate lightbulb. It still has one of the original Lucas factory headlights and I have the mechanical maintenance records since new.

When driving the Morris, which is almost on a daily basis, we receive more questions and attention than we had ever thought possible. People seem fascinated with this quirky little British car and stop us to talk, ask questions, and make conversation wherever we go.

So, in a strange twist, the first original owner of this Morris Minor is now the third owner. What are the chances of an inexpensive little car like this surviving the ravages that 32 years of time can bring? How many cars like this have rusted away, victims of neglect and abuse, and which were sent to the wrecker service to be turned into scrap? What are the chances that a couple who loved their Morris would be considerate enough to keep my phone number for so many years, then call me when they wanted to sell the car to see if I wanted it back? All of this has to be a Minor Miracle!