A British Sports Car Apology

Sometime ago I was walking to my car, a 1962 TR3, when, for no apparent reason, I was assaulted—verbally assaulted: “Is that thing in the shop a lot?” the voice from nowhere demanded to know. Well, I must admit I was taken by surprise. I turned warily to face my attacker. He was a youngish man, perhaps in his mid-twenties, and had no visible trace of the mockingly wicked natured I was sure lay within. It was all I could do to hold my voice below a murderous scream: “No!” The fiend must then have sensed my pique, for he fumbled for his keys as he measured his steps to his badly faded red Honda Civic. But as he got in his car he got off a parting shot: “Oh, ’cause I had a friend who had one, and it was in the garage all the time.” I reeled from the blow; this ancient enemy cloaked in a young man’s body and parried by terse but brutal response with that confutation most feared by British Sports Car enthusiasts; the dreaded anecdotal evidence. I crawled behind the wheel of my Triumph (what an ironic name, I thought at the time) and considered how it was that I had been so easily dispatched. A derisive cackle sputtered and coughed from the Red Menace as it sped away. I looked up and caught a fleeting glimpse of what I thought to be a string of tiny Union Jacks carved into the rear panel. I have little doubt that the string is now one greater.

Does this sound familiar? Of course it does. If you are a member of what I like to call the British Sports Car Fraternity then only the names have been changed in this story. Substitute your name and change the marque to MG, or Austin-Healey, or Jaguar—well, you get the idea. And what about my attacker, your attacker? They take many guises, these masters of deception, these modern mongering prophets of utility and efficiency. Some take the clever masks of moms and dads as they bamboozle their children away from British Sports Cars with devilish phrases like “It’s for your own good” and “You want something more reliable, don’t you?” As wives they coyly charm, “We could use a new sola,” or “But where will the children sit?”. Irrefutable lines sure to disarm that British Sports Car seeking husband. And there are others, still more sinister, perhaps; your amiable co-workers, who, when they learn that you own a British Sports Car, will go for your cultural throat with all the zeal of a vampire bat in a room full of necks. “They’re just buckets of bolts, aren’t they?” “You really can’t get parts for them any more.” “They’re cute, but you can’t rely on them.” “What would you want one of them for?” The bite of these fiends is as varied as their form.

So what is the point of this tale, you might well be wondering by now? It is not to publicly whine. It is not to abase myself before my readers as some sort of atonement for once again failing the Fraternity. It is not to rally the Fraternity into some sort of witch-hunting frenzy against our persecutors (though if that were the result, totally unintended, of course…) The point is none of those things. It is this: To respond, once and for all, to the unwashed mass of Japanese appliance worshippers. This is, then, an apology, in the classic sense of the term, that is, a written defense of some idea or philosophy. In this case, a defense of British Sports Cars and the driving ideals they embody.

Just what is it that lures people, siren-like, to these automobiles? If I could articulate those reasons, I surmised, it would put me on the right track to my sought-after defense. Well, I thought, British Sports Cars have been around a long time; some people get off on old things, not to mention old, foreign things. Alter all, before Datsun became Nissan, before the advent of electric mirror defoggers and insanely jabbering warning devices, before Federal Regulations—no, I take that back, nothing is that old—well, before most of that, there was the British Sports Car.

Okay, so they’re old, relatively speaking, and certainly uniquely British. What else? Most had two seats, a greatly unappreciated invention for keeping unwanted family members at home where they belong. Now that’s good, isn’t it? Other British Sports Cars had what their makers called “occasional seats,” padded metal dishes the size of pie tins, no doubt for the occasional dwarf or carnival contortionist who happened to tag along. Small boots (that’s “trunks” to you non-Anglophiles) were incorporated on most British Sports cars (some sources say to aid the slumping luggage rack industry); stowing luggage was still a breeze, though, once you maneuvered around the spare tire, jack, toolkit. and battery. And if you carried your side curtains, hood frame, and tonneau in the boot — well, the dwarf could always carry a suitcase on his lap. The hood (read “top”), though never actually designed to be used, could, in a pinch, be swiftly erected by no less than three people, to raise the hood on a two-seater car—think about it. British Sports Cars with their hoods firmly in place could, if standing still, withstand even the fiercest drizzle with only a modicum of leaks. And who can forget the charming “scuttle shake,” that not-too-unpleasant vibration, which was the car’s way of telling its driver, “This is no smooth road you’ve got us on!” It is a feeling not unlike, I imagine, that of escaping earth’s gravitation on a loaded dump truck. Not even available today as an option, it was standard on most British Sports Cars.

So what have we got so far? They’re old British two-seater automobiles that shake and leak while carrying no luggage to speak of, though perhaps an occasional dwarf. So far, so good. Or Is it? Did these characterizations make you wince to the point of a grimace, shake your head in disgust, or grip your Toyota keys tightly to your bosom and recite preface to laccoca? Or did they bring an approving smile to your face, a respectful nod to your head? Therein lies the difference between the British Sports Car Fraternity and the rest of humanity: a different set of values by which the world is judged, especially automobiles. For those like the driver of the Red Menace in my story, cars are to be judged by their utility, efficiency, and comfort. Those are nice traits to have in a La-Z-Boy, says the Fraternity, but not an automobile. Utility? A good quality for a toaster or a trash compactor, but who said art had to be first and foremost useful? Efficiency? Forget it—it’s just another liberal do-gooder buzzword like seatbelt, airbag, lead-free, or, their favorite, mandatory, which, when modifying any of the above makes them exceedingly happy and proud to be protecting the rest of us. And now the big one—comfort. It’s practically an American industry in itself, to keep us warm when it’s cold, cool when it’s hot, and dry when it’s wet. What do you people want, a NASA clean room on wheels? Those of us of the Fraternity believe that a little discomfort is a healthy thing, and that a driver should be wet when it rains, cold when it’s cold, and hot when it’s hot. Anything else is just plain unnatural.

Okay, if utility, efficiency, and comfort don’t comprise the yardstick by which the Fraternity measures automobiles, what does? Ah, this is the tough part. It’s also the part that explains why we’re struck dumb when confronted by those pompous prophets of the modern auto and all their verbal assaults. Utility, efficiency, and comfort are all fairly tangible criteria; they’re easily understood, easily applied. But when a British Sports Car enthusiast is forced to defend his passion according to those criteria, he or she is tricked into playing the game by someone else’s rules. Of course we can’t defend ourselves by those terms; those aren’t the qualities we cherish. To the wind-in-the-face/rain-in-the-lap crowd, utility, efficiency, and comfort count for little when compared to quaintness, steadfastness, historical character, unique styling, aesthetic and sensual quality, innovative simplicity, driving pleasure and excitement. These are qualities understood and appreciated by the heart more than the head, by emotion rather than strictly reason. They account for the soul of British Sports Cars.

Take quaintness, for example. If the word didn’t exist it would have to be invented, for it’s perfect to describe British Sports Cars: Unusual or old-fashioned in a pleasing way. A 1951 MGTD is unquestionably quaint, but so is my 1971 TR6, which was old-fashioned the day it came off the assembly line in Canley. Like the makers of some great wines, the British sold no cars before their time (and then sold them far past their time!).

And steadfastness? You bet. Though their reputation for being a bit cantankerous is probably well deserved, British Sports Cars are, nonetheless, steadfast. Equipped with sturdy frames, engines that could go on forever (and do), and substantial sheet metal, their ability to take a beating from overly enthusiastic as well as irresponsible owners cannot be denied. Finicky on the liner points, perhaps; but steadfast and sturdy on the broader points.

British Sports Cars also possess historical character, a traceable lineage that links them with the people and places of another time, of a simpler, more glorious past. In most cases they were the product of a single man’s vision, men like Donald Healey,William Lyons and Sydney Enever (unlike today’s design by committee and public opinion). And each marque was strengthened by legendary tests with names like Le Mans, Brands Hatch, Nurburgring, Targa Florio, Alpine Rally, and Mille Miglia.

And unique styling? It has always been a British Sports Car trademark. No econo-boxes here. There are enough compound curves in a Jaguar XK-120 or an Austin-Healey 100-6 or an MGA to make even Kim Basinger jealous. Far from trying to look like every other car, British Sports Cars took pride in their individuality, their uniqueness. And this is only a part of the aesthetic and sensual quality of British Sports Cars. Finely polished wood, substantial metal, leather, wool—they used sincere materials, sensual materials to build their cars. It’s a kind of quality that goes beyond merely making sure the factory robots are hanging the doors correctly.

Innovative simplicity. On this point British Sports Cars have been as incongruous as the phrase itself suggests. Basically simple and straightforward in design and construction, British Sports Cars also advanced some of automotive history’s great innovations: disc brakes, rack and pinion steering, dual overhead cam engines.

But the quality undoubtedly closest to the hearts of British Sports Car enthusiasts is the driving pleasure and excitement these cars provide. British Sports Cars embody driving as it was meant to be, an exciting, often times chancy, seat-of-the-pants experience, with all the senses fully engaged. For when you drive a British Sports Car, you really are driving! Nothing comes easily, it takes effort, concentration. You put your whole mind and body into the task at hand. A clutch you have to stand on, gear changes not for the faint of heart, steering that is often times unforgiving and that can demand muscle and stamina. But to the driver who expends the required effort comes a manyfold reward—the thrill of powering a piece of automotive history down the open road; the feeling that you are totally engaged in the activity, not merely being led along by your nose by some computerized appliance.

And then there is the simple joy of forming that special bond with A British Sports Car. A true member of the Fraternity doesn’t merely own his or her car, nor merely drive it (you can do that with a Honda). Knowing the good points and the bad, and experiencing the high points and the low is a marriage of sorts, only better. It’s a knowledge borne of oil changes and tune-ups, carb rebuilds and lube jobs, brake jobs, and countless hours spent pouring over wiring schematics. It’s knowledge that comes from getting your hands dirty, from skinned knuckles and bruised knees.

To sum up: British Sports Cars are not simply transportation. They are a state of mind, a passion, a love, a way of life. German sports cars? Too detracted by precision to possess a soul. Italian sports cars? Better than German, but as fragile as their government. Japanese sports cars? Don’t make me laugh.

Well, I’ve said my piece, gotten it oil my chest, so to speak, and in the process I’ve come to this realization: The more buffoons that tout the merits of the modern automobile, the more Old British Sports Cars that will be around for the rest of us to enjoy. So why argue and why try to convince the modern mongerers of anything? To the people who really count, British Sports Cars need no defense. So the next time some pompous, appliance-worshipping buffoon, reeking of cheap vinyl and pine scent auto freshener, tells you with a smirk that unlike your car his technological-wonder-on-wheels possesses utility, efficiency, and comfort, you can proudly respond with a clear, forceful voice. “Big deal!”

By Michael D. Kuehn