My MGB acquisition came after four years of avoiding the draft and prior to entry into the real world. It was a 1967 colored BRG mostly, except for the rust, and had belonged to a friend of my older sister’s. I knew it was the way to go since my sister’s ’64 Midget had a tendency to burn valves. In my youthful naïveté I saw it for what it could be and not what it was.
Michigan Winter Ferrous Oxide Special Lightening Technique in action.
What it was was a pile of rust, corrosion, and that wonderfully pungent rot that grew from a leaky top into a sisal-backed interior. It came complete with real Michelin X tyres, knock-offs, and 5 wire wheels. Unfortunately, it did not come with floors.
Now at this time my sister lived on a farm and lying behind the barn was a derelict galvanized steel water trough. Armed with a saber saw and a hacksaw blade I cut out two new floor pans, bolted them into what remained of the undercarriage, and topped them with a layer of 3/8” exterior plywood. Worked like a charm and the seats finally stayed in one place.
To say the car was clapped out would have been generous. The previous owner had relocated the battery to the trunk. He also included a handmade cardboard sign that read, “A JUMP?”. As time wore on it became apparent that the clutch was shot. Remember that youthful naïveté? It kicked in again as I went to the parts store and bought a throwout bearing, friction disk, and pressure plate. The parts guys took pity on me and loaned me a busted pilot shaft to line it all up.
Back at the farm the winds of November turned gloomy. I donned every piece of winter clothing I could find and headed to the barn. In the center of the barn was the access to the hayloft over which several logs were laid. I chained a borrowed comealong to one, removed the bonnet, and set to unplugging everything and unbolting the motor.
Bear in mind that this was November in Michigan. That youthful naïveté morphed right into something closer to youthful stupidity. I read somewhere that if you really wanted to work on your own car you should take the heaviest rasp from your toolbox, drag it across your knuckles on both hands, and then stick them in a bucket of dirty motor oil, because that’s what your hands were going to look like. This is true.
But I persevered through the cold and my ignorance and trying to translate my shop manual from British into English. I can’t remember too clearly but I think it only took me two tries to get the engine/transmission assembly back into the car. Once all the fluids were topped off a miracle occurred and everything worked. Those who do not believe in a Higher Power should take note.
The ’67 roadster was my first real sports car. Fairly soon my attempts at life-support failed and I moved on to a ’69 in only slightly better condition. The thrill of sitting behind that banjo steering wheel, gazing at those beautiful Smiths gauges set in the crackle finish dashboard, and snicking through the gears set the standard for the next 40 years.
Every car I’ve ever driven since then has been measured against those two B’s. I came close with a 1st gen Rx7, the Mustang convertible got the wind in my hair once again, and I love my Corvette. But no other car has felt the same, shifted the same, or connected me to the driving experience in quite the same way. Like searching for a long-lost love I continue to peruse the internet listings, looking for some trace of what I once had. Someday maybe I’ll find another and strike up a relationship.
By Chick Everhardus
'Clapped-out Love' have 6 comments
December 3, 2013 @ 8:32 am C.
Chick,
As a 1980 graduate of the University of Michigan, Ann Arbor, Mich., your tale of doing your first clutch in NOVEMBER in Michigan is nothing short of a miracle! The cold at that time of year is simply mind numbing, and how you even held onto the tools is unfathomable. But your description of what it was like when you succeeded, and the feel of sitting behind the wheel driving your “prize” is one of the best and most accurate I’ve read. My first “iron oxide” MGB was a ’69, and I’ve had many other MG’s since. My reason for leaving a Thank You note is to encourage you to KEEP looking for another early B. I’ve driven one daily for 25 years, and my early ’65 GT still feels as good today as my first ’69 did when I was 18. You’ll never out-grow it, and never find a car as much fun to drive. Good luck in your quest…, it will be worth every minute of your search. (P.S. I wised up, and moved to sunny, dry Southern California after college. That’s your best bet to find a solid, rust free car!) C.
December 3, 2013 @ 11:27 am Jared Hoke
If the author of this piece is not just being dramatic and really DOES want a decent MG-B with which to commune with his lost youth, there are plenty of MGB’s out there to be had, are there not? I understand how he feels, as my first auto romance, at about the same time in my life, was with an Austin Healey BT-7. But I bought another in 1977 (a BJ-8) and I still have it (it was just ground-up restored), so I do NOT have to pine away about what I’ve lost. The car is still just as much fun as it ever was. Hey Chick. Get aboard, man. No reason to wait; after all, how much time have you got???
December 3, 2013 @ 12:28 pm Brian Masek
I hear ya Chick,
My 1967 MGB MkI Roadster was my first car too, and I bought it in 1983, at 17 years old, unlike you, I wasn’t avoiding any draft, but, I do remember being scared to register for the “selective service.” My yearning for a two seat sportscar started with my uncle. He had owned several MGBs, and he was the first guy I called when I came across my original owner 67 in OEW. He told me, just what you said, “well, they tend to burn valves, but, there’s a guy in Santa Monica that can fix those up, no problem, other than that, its a blast to drive, and you’ll learn a few things about cars!” Boy, was that an understatement! I STILL have that car. Its been over 30 years now, and fortunately, living in Southern California, I haven’t had to deal with the “really” destructive rust, I only replaced the battery boxes, new floors, castle rails, fenders, and anything else on the bottom of the car. NO PROBLEM! Right now, I am in the final stages of a restoration that will bring together a new Moss Superchargers (One of the first batch, so, that tells you how long I have been working in this “project”), all new 72 spoke chrome wire wheels, a 5-speed conversion, all new chrome and leather, and basically every single nut and bolt on the car will be rehabbed or replaced. Now, people ask me all the time, “why would you spend so much money on a car that is only worth half as much as you have spent?” Well, ITS THAT CONNECTION TO THE ROAD! No other car has ever provided that feeling that you described, and that I always find troublesome to put into words. Its British Fahrvergnügen, plain and simple. I was always bothered by the fact that the Germans have a word for it, yet it doesn’t exist in the English language. That got me thinking when I was taking my car apart, and knew that I wouldn’t be enjoying the wind in my hair, bugs in my teeth, and dust in my eyes for many many months to come. So, I decided that these Germans most also know a few things about driving machines, and I now have a 2000 Porsche Boxster S. Let me tell you, its pretty damned close to that feeling you get from the vintage MGBs, but, much faster! I too have had the Mustangs, the Camaros, Corvettes, and the closest to the MGB is the Boxster. Its an MGB with better handling, and more horsepower. Yet, it lacks the raw gasoline smell that emanates from those throaty carbs being just inches away from where your sitting, and being only separated by a rubber plug. So, if you are without an early MGB for any length of time, my suggestion is to go find yourself a used Boxster S model, has to be the “S” model, and let it satisfy until that B is up and running again. Surprisingly, they are similarly priced nowadays, so, maybe, just maybe spending all those tens of thousands of dollars on my MGB wasn’t that bad of a decision after all.
December 3, 2013 @ 4:15 pm Mark Keddie
I have a burgundy one not as bad as the green at the top of the page for sale. Not going to tackle it since my 52 TD is nearly done and I want to try some thing different.
December 5, 2013 @ 12:59 pm Joe
You guys with the “B’s” had more horsepower but not more fun and road feel than my Spridgets back when you could buy new ones at dealerships (or as we say now. “back in the day”). I had one of every model I think: Bugeye, Mark II, Mark III, and finally the true convertible Mark IV (the last one was an MG midget, previous ones Sprites). I had several friends with their own Sprites and we did very well at local autocrosses. Of course, the smaller Sprite usually did better than Bs in such tight parking lot courses even with its lower HP but shorter wheelbase, etc.
My first Sprite was a ’60 BRG bugeye (a friend had a ’59 bugeye) and my last was the Riviera blue Mark IV with a Dove Gray top.
I can’t wait to restore my recently acquired 64 Mk II (as recently as 15 years ago).
January 10, 2014 @ 5:21 pm Jeff Aronson
Chuck,
As the Editor of Rovers Magazine [for Land Rover enthusiasts] let me commend you on a fine essay about our communal affection for driving British cars.
In the late 1970’s I bought a ’63 MGB with so much bondo that the front directionals were puttied in place – permanently. Replacing a bulb proved to be a major undertaking! I lived and worked in Vermont, with temperatures and winter driving similar to yours, and drove my B year round as my only car. When it came time for its first inspection [sadly in December] I realized the opaque rear windows would produce an epic fail, so I removed the top and bows and left them at my apartment. I thawed out the tonneau cover, snapped it in place, and drove to a gas station where I worked part time; surely the friendly mechanic there would pass the car. He wondered about the absent top (“Cold? Of course I’m not cold. You’re supposed to drive them this way!”) but had me bring the car in to check the basics: lights, wipers and directionals. The rear lamp required a tunk with my hand to get it to work but then we got to the directionals. See, the bondoed-in unit had a flaser relay back there somewhere that wasn’t working. They would only blink if I raised and lowered the droppy wand on the left side of the steering wheel. He called out which side he wanted and I flicked the lever with my wrist, counting to “1 Mississippi, 2 Mississippi…” “They kind of slow,” he said, and I resisted the temptation to say, “Oh, I can make them go faster if you want!” Thankfully, it passed and I could put the top back up when I got home.
A buddy had a B with the famous flapping front fenders from living too long in New England. It succumbed to structural rusting and he sadly left the LBC world.
But I never could leave it and have continually had a used LBC in my life – a ’63 Spitfire, a Morris Minor, a ’72 Midget, a ’78 Spitfire, a ’78 MGB, an ’80 TR7 Spider, and soon, a ’74 Midget. Don’t let those moments leave your life.