Continue reading »]]> She asked, “Do I have to stop or can I roll through?” She’s 18 now, my daughter not the car. My Midget turned 40 this year, just a few years younger than me.

In the sweet spot

She’s only driven a stick shift four times and the Midget only once before this. Why only once? I really can’t remember looking back but I am sure every time one of us had an excuse to do other things.

She ends up getting lucky. She shifts down to 2^nd and rolls on through not having to stop and put it in 1^st. She remembers her first time all too well of begging the crash box not to grind going into 1^st. An experience she would like to avoid this trip.

The day is nice, about 74 degrees, and we are cruising along. We are in the sweet spot now. The Midget is holding a steady 50 mph and all noises have calmed to a whisper. We look at each other, laugh, and I wonder why we don’t do this more often, but then again, we all know why.

We are on a loop out of town that could easily take us 50 miles without hitting a stop sign. She’s familiar with the area but doesn’t have an intimate knowledge of it. I point her to the left at a Y in the road. She can tell I have something in mind. I tell her, “a little practice from a stop will give you more confidence.” She smiles and nods her head, ready to play along.

We are getting to the end of a long stretch of road that is lined with rolling hills of grape vines. She sees the end is near and starts to get a bit nervous. With one hand she is holding the wheel, the other she is biting her nails. I have trapped her. The road falls to the left with a reduce speed sign and a stop shortly after that. I can see she is going through the down shifting and ultimate stop in her head. She lets off the gas long before necessary to set up for the maneuvers that will involve both hands and feet, “this isn’t your Ford Focus is it?” I tell her.

Since moving gear changes are quickly mastered she deftly puts the car into 3^rd just before turning into the downhill left hander. As we approach the stop sign, clutch in now and standing on the brakes, she shifts to 2^nd. This takes me by surprise because I have coached her on just coming to a stop in 3^rd then transferring to 1^st. I had been watching her but she correctly had been watching the road. As we approached the stop sign there were no cars in any direction so she rolled through another stop sign not having to touch 1^st gear. She gave me a smile as if to say, “you thought you had me, well think again.”

I knew eventually the joke would be on her and it happened sooner than I expected. I had forgotten that the road we were on ends just a mile up the road requiring you to choose a left or right turn. As we approached you could see there was traffic from both directions. Not heavy but enough that a stop was inevitable. This time she shifted to 3^rd, and left it there, knowing she was going to have to make the dreaded stop.

As we eased up to the stop the incline was more than I recalled. This was going to add a nice little twist to things. As expected she barely gave it any gas and dropped the clutch. She might have pulled it off if we had been on flat ground, but not today, not this time. As she restarted the car I encouraged her to give it some gas. “Don’t be afraid”, I told her, “just when you think you have given it enough give it a little more than ease the clutch out.” With more resolve than I expected she brought it up to 2,500rpm then 3,500rpm as she started to release the clutch.

The launch was nothing short of perfect. “I couldn’t have done it better myself,” I told her.

As we approached the next stop a few miles ahead I wondered what her tactic was going to be. And would you believe it? She chose to actually follow traffic laws and came to a full and complete stop. With the same tempo and resolve as before she brought the car up to launching RPM and again made a flawless launch.  Yes, Dad was proud.

There was only one more stop sign on the way home and it was downhill coming off a little plateau and you already know the answer. She shoved it in 2^nd gear and rolled on through. She didn’t want to take any chances. “I wanted to end on a high note,” she said.

Not a bad Father’s day gift.

Shawn Carlberg

Continue reading »]]> Roger Hamel of the Austin Healey Club du Quebec called and asked a simple question, would I like to join them for the Canadian Grand Prix F1 Pilot’s Parade. As an F1 fan, I’ve been to a few different races, but like a bunch of potted plants being delivered, the driver introductions have typically consisted of everyone being thrown on the back of a flatbed truck and shown all at once. Not so in Canada.

For the past 13 years, the club has provided as many Big Healeys as required to give each F1 driver his own chauffeured ride around before the race. It gives the crowd a chance to see their favorite driver on his own. It also gives 20 or so club members a unique opportunity to be part of motor racing’s greatest spectacle. No offense to my fellow Americans, but what Indianapolis does once per year in the US, F1 does every other weekend around the world throughout the spring and summer.

Traveling to Canada feels a little more international than it once did. Have your passport ready. And contrary to stories we sometimes see on the web, French Canadians are universally friendly, welcoming, and speak better English than I do – although that last bit isn’t saying much. As part of the lead up to the race, Roger took us on a tour of Montreal. My assignment was to drive the second of two family cars with another of his guests on board. Having no clue as to where we were, or how to get my recalcitrant phone to download GPS maps, I stuck to Roger’s bumper like glue.

The old section of Montreal consists of cobblestone streets and cafes. Although it was relatively quiet mid afternoon, no doubt the joint gets to jumpin’ come evening. The real highlight for me though was Schwartz’s old time deli. Like a Labrador let loose in the pantry, I could have eaten smoked meat sandwiches and pickles until I exploded. It was that good and then some. About the last thing I expected to see in Montreal was a Jewish deli, so what an incredibly welcome surprise. As one might expect in a french speaking region, all the food throughout the trip was superb.

Sunday morning, race day, we headed out early, had breakfast (naturally), and organized ourselves for the drive into the track, which is to say Roger rode heard on us cats. Who got which F1 Pilot was determined by drawing lots. My pick was Daniel Ricciardo, a young Australian driver from Perth, on the Scuderia Toro Rosso team. He proved very friendly and communicative in the car, although there wasn’t time to get the full run down on how one travels from the west coast of Australia to the height of auto racing in Europe. Hard work is no doubt a very large contributor to the process.

The actual drive around was amazing. Imagine having more cameras pointed at you in a ten minute span, than in the entire rest of your life combined. For more about the adventure, and what it’s like to be part of the show, watch for my column in the next issue of Moss Motoring.

Continue reading »]]> A few years ago I sold my beloved Austin-Healey 100 in order to continue my quest to own as many interesting old British sports cars as possible. I wanted my next car to be a good all-arounder. I like to tour, autocross, and just tool around or take the wife out to dinner on a nice night, so I wanted something that could do all those things well.

Ready to tackle the quarter mile at the Flatwater Austin-Healey Club’s “Airport Speed Run.”

I settled on a TR250 for my project, partly because I always wanted one and hadn’t crossed it off my list yet. And partly because, in addition to the criteria above, I also like good looking cars, and to my eyes the Michelotti bodied TRs are pretty sharp. I owned a solid axle TR4A years ago, so I figured the same package with the silky six and independent rear suspension would solve some of the 4A’s issues. I also liked the exclusivity of the one year of production only TR250.

I ended up purchasing a TR250 project sight unseen on eBay. I probably overpaid for it; it was certainly a little worse than described (rust, some TR6 bits cobbled on), but I was going to re-do it all anyway. I put it down to a lesson learned and pressed on with the restoration and upgrades.

The Ultimate Goal

I wanted to retain the original appearance and not make any radical changes to the car. I did want to upgrade performance where I could, but without compromising drivability, reliability or comfort. I have seen quite a few cars where the owner had decided to push the performance envelope, and ended up with something that might be quick, but was not much fun to drive around town.

I started by acquiring and reading all the restoration guides and competition and performance books for the 6-cylinder TRs I could get my hands on, including the Roger Williams’ books which are a great resource, to figure out what upgrades to perform.

Engine

The best of the old and new: TR4A carbs and air filters, TR6 cooling fan.

The six cylinder in the TR250 was released with a very conservative cam specification and low compression ratio in order to meet the first year of US emissions regulations in 1968, so it has plenty of room for development. With the goal of increased power, but no loss of driveability or reliability, I went with modest upgrades to enhance performance. The car’s engine was actually in very good shape. My machinist and I agreed that we could get by with new rings and bearings, a polish to the crank and a hone to the cylinders. I had the cam reground to a spec described as “low torque,” taking advantage of the torquey, low-revving nature of the long-stroke six. The grind being similar to, but slightly more conservative than, the one used on the 150 HP fuel injected TR5 manufactured alongside the TR250 and sold in the other parts of the world that had not yet decided to regulate exhaust emissions.

I had the head skimmed to raise the compression ratio from stock 8.5/1 to a calculated 9.5/1 and upgraded the timing gears and chain from the single roller used on the early cars to the double roller used on the later models and also installed a new, upgraded oil pump. I ground away the sharp edges in the combustion chamber to help avoid pre-ignition, matched up the intake and exhaust ports to the head and ground away some of the casting ridges in the head and manifold, but did not do a full polish and port job.

I also added a Pertronix electronic ignition, had my distributor rebuilt and recurved for the engine’s performance characteristics, and fitted the 13 blade big red cooling fan from the later TR6s for greater cooling capacity.

Intake and Exhaust

Interior before…

I live in a state that has no smog testing and probably never will. When I discovered the carbs on my car were actually from a later TR6 I decided an upgrade was in order. I wanted to keep the original look of the stock Strombergs, but without the limited adjustment and all the emissions valves that make them more complicated to tune and get right. Luckily, the TR4A used an earlier version of the carb, which is much simpler and has a broader range of mixture adjustment. It is very similar to the period SUs, except that the Strombergs have a rubber diaphragm instead of machined pistons to maintain the appropriate vacuum in the carb, and the float is under the carb instead of on the side. I personally feel that much of the bad reputation the Strombergs have in British car circles comes from experiences with the later emissions Strombergs and the earlier carbs are the equal of contemporary SUs for performance and reliability.

Interior after.

I rebuilt a pair of TR4A Strombergs with new throttle shafts and a thorough cleaning and polish. The only real issue on the install involved the throttle linkage. I had to reverse the triangular bell crank on the manifold and make some trial and error adjustments to get proper range of motion, but the old carb and the new manifold all mated together with no new parts needed. I noticed the stock air filter cover was very heavy and looks rather restrictive, so I replaced it with TR4A air cleaners, which cost about the same as the paper elements in the stock filter. Later, I bought big velocity stacks, and fit those for autocrosses and shows.

For the exhaust I fit the later TR6 dual piped manifold, which I calculated to have considerably more airflow capacity, and hooked up a stainless steel dual muffler sports exhaust for better flow and a custom look.

Drivetrain

The transmission was not in great shape and had several internal bearings and bushings that were broken. The car did not come with overdrive, and because one of my goals was a relaxed tourer, I wanted to do something to keep the revs down and the MPG up on the highway. In the spirit of keeping specification and operation close to stock, and because I have had several cars with overdrive and the units have been fairly dependable—and lastly because I think it is kind of cool to flick the switch and kick it in and out of OD—I decided to fit an overdrive. I also had the flywheel lightened by about eight pounds.

Wheels, Suspension, Brakes and Sound

I fit a bolt on tube shock rear suspension kit and replaced the rear trailing arm bushes and upper inner front a-arm bushings with polyurethane for better control. The car came with two TR6 steel wheels, two TR250 steel wheels, and no hubcaps, which are rare and expensive for the TR250 and early TR6, so I decided to fit some wide alloys, going with a 15 x 7” wheel and 205/65 tires. The wheels hit the front suspension upper a-arms on full lock, but some work with a grinder on the ends of the a-arms solved that problem in short order. I also fit front and rear sway bars, which probably made the single most noticeable difference in handling. I lowered the car slightly by fiddling with how the rear suspension arm brackets are fit and by lowering the front spring pans about half an inch. The only upgrade to the bakes was a change to ceramic front pads.

I hate a car that sounds like a bucket or bolts when you go over a pothole or railroad tracks, so I attacked possible causes of those nasty noises. In addition to using proper grommets for cables and wires, making sure the exhaust didn’t vibrate against anything and making sure fuel and brake lines were properly secured, I also put in new fuzzy linings in the window channels in the doors, my old TR4A had worn out channels and the windows rattled on every bump. The new channels were a great addition in making the car feel more solid going down the road, and I think it is an item that is overlooked in many restorations.

The Results

There certainly was a lot of labor and tweaking that I don’t have space to go into here, but in the end  the car turned out as planned.  Now that it is done I sometimes think I could have gone a little more aggressive with the engine mods.  Then again as built it runs as sweet as stock, no lopey idle, good power down low, and it is pulls strongly to 5000 rpm.  I had the chance to do a timed quarter mile last year and ran a 17.28, compared to Road and Track’s 17.8 for the stock TR250.  I was hoping for closer to a second off the time, so when I ran again this Spring I put some velocity stacks on the carburators, went back to the stock (slightly smaller) yellow  fan, and richened the mixture a little bit, and ran consistent 16.7s, an appreciable gain.  Now that is more like it!  I think I had the most success with the suspension upgrades, I drove the car a little bit before I fit the sway bars, and I could tell they really transformed the handling. It has stable, well balanced behavior in corners and the ride is still good.  The car corners flat and puts the power down much better out of a tight corner than my old solid axle 4A.

Lessons Learned

Plan ahead. If you want to upgrade any of the more common British sports cars, the Triumphs, MGs, and Healeys and Jaguars, there are a lot of books available as well as great internet resources. Figure out where you get the most bang for your buck and decide what you want as the end result. Remember that if you go beyond a certain point there me be a trade-off in drivability, reliability, and comfort. If you go about it the right way you can do a lot of improvements with little or no downside for a really nice all around British sports car.

By Greg Lemon

Continue reading »]]> I have come to realize that the month of June 2013 marks the 53rd year of my personal involvement with a single particular Morris Minor—a pearl grey, red interior tourer that was purchased on an overseas delivery program by my late father, Rear Admiral Joseph F. Quilter of Portola Valley California.  The history of this car began on June 14, 1960 when it was built, and June 30th 1960 it was duly claimed by my older sister, Jane at the Morris Garages Limited, Cowley, Oxford, England.  The arrangement was my father purchased the car for my sister with the understanding she could use it for an extended European tour as a college graduation present but when the tour was complete it would be delivered to a port of departure for San Francisco and upon arrival it would become my father’s machine.  Little did he know that he would drive this car for the next 40 years until the day before his death at 93 years. So where did I, the son and current owner, fit into this Morris picture?

My father drove this Minor for 40 years—right up until the day before he passed away.

It all began back in the hot humid summer of 1954 in Charleston South Carolina where two middle aged neighbor women across the street from our home had an almond green 1953 Morris two door sedan as their only car.  As a small boy at the time I took a special liking to this “child sized” car and would spend hours sitting on the curb admiring this little machine, so different from the normal Detroit iron that populated the streets of America at the time.  When it became known to me that the family would soon relocate to California and would be needing an additional car to our trusty 1953 Dodge station wagon, my mantra to my father for six months was “Dad, you gotta buy a  Morris Minor.”

I have come to realize my attraction to this car set in motion an avocation to the English car that has been a defining factor in my entire life.  Although I am now retired from 32 years as the Western Regional Warranty Manager from the USA arm of the British Leyland Motor Corporation, Jaguar Rover Triumph, and most recently known as Jaguar Land Rover North America, almost my entire working life was involved with the administration of the British car in America.

So, upon arriving in Menlo Park, California in late 1954, my father, taking the advice of a six year old, rode the Southern Pacific commuter train some 30 miles to San Francisco and came back with a used, actually quite used, white 1953 Morris Minor convertible from Kjell Qvale’s British Motor Car Distributors.  I was in heaven, the family finally had their own Morris.  That Morris saw my father through the MBA program at Stanford University and upon landing a new job at nearby Lockheed Missiles and Space Corporation he was so pleased with his first Morris experience he splurged and traded up to a new one, a pale yellow 1957 tourer with the larger and improved 948cc engine.  In the family this car was always referred to as the butter colored Morris.  Actually my father always gave his cars names and since a Minor was just that, pretty minor among the gargantuan American cars, he nicknamed it the Pip Squeak but this was soon shorted to the “Pip”.

Then in 1960 along came my sister and her college graduation and that resulted in the 1960 Pip which remains in the family to this day.  And so I, as the originator of the Morris affiliation in the family, this car now falls to my stewardship as its principal driver and custodian.  Not that I was not its chief washer, polisher, vacuumer, and maintenance person from the day it landed on the wharf in San Francisco.  Now some two score and thirteen years hence it remains a cherished family heirloom.  Reflecting back on the fact that some 90 percent of my life has been affected by a Morris Minor it was appropriate that I  disassembled it in the spring of 2008 for a complete inside, outside, under the fenders, under the hood respray in its factory pearl grey color.  Now resplendent in its shiny new paint with its proper red pinstipe my father would be proud.  The car has well out lived him.

I got to mentally reminiscing about my life with Morris Minors and recalled my first dirt country road driving lesson from my father during our tenure with the white 1953 convertible.  That places it back when I was but 9 years old.   The pearl grey Pip was my  driving learners permit car, the car I took my California driving test in when I was one day over 16 years old, the car I took my first date in, the car I put countless country road miles in with friends who were often also Morris aficionados or owners, the car I drove to San Francisco to take my SAT tests, the car I spent many hours Sunday touring the winding hilly county roads west of Palo Alto California with my father driving me and listening to that familiar exhaust burble while kneeing on the back seat and watching the road disappear in the distance.

As my father was a very early naval aviator one of his primary rules was, don’t break the machine that is transporting you, so this was the car that my father used to successfully impart to me the finer points of how to finesse the mechanical attributes of a potentially fragile little machine. The car in which he taught me there was no need for a starter if you were parked on only a minor slope. The car a high school buddy and I took a mid winter 700 mile trip to bone chilling cold weather in southern Oregon. And not to forget the dozens of nighttime sport car rallyes that snaked around the roads of the suburban and rural mid San Francisco Peninsula. Gas was cheap, traffic was light, and driving was fun.  Time and distance and navigational courses with such names as Rebel Rebelution, June 30, 1971, Fools Gold, March 28, 1970, and Excedrin Headache, January 2, 1970 in which a second place award was earned.   And most recently, the car I drove a young neighbor couple to their wedding in.  My elegant white vintage Jaguar sedan was eschewed for this duty because the Morris was “cuter”.

Over my fifty three years with this car there is virtually not a part of it I have not cleaned, polished, taken apart, adjusted, overhauled or simply inspected for proper appearance or operation. I can mentally visualize the engine compartment and every component in it with my eyes closed.

I remember when I was a boy there were a few automotive eccentrics who still drove their Model A Fords in a world of Ford Galaxies , Dodge Chargers, and Oldsmobile Vista Cruiser station wagons.  So now, over five decades since my Morris’ manufacture and over 6 decades since its design, is this machine as irrelevant an artifact of automotive history as the Model A was in the mid sixties?   Can I continue to ignore its low 37 horsepower performance balking the progress of a sea of impatient soccer mom yuppies in their six liter SUVs or the arrogant in their M series BMWs whose headlong rush to the next stop light stands only as a manifestation of excess testosterone?  Or young tractor hatted 20 something males in their sky high four wheel drive pickups with road grader sized tires? Is there no respect for the display of automotive history in an age of SAT Nav systems, blue tooth connectivity, backup cameras, and i phones?

So whither go this Morris, now that I enter the final third of my life?   Will this little car be an irrelevant artifact of automotive history unsuitable for even periodic use in any semblance of an urban area?   This car outlived my father and I suspect it may out live me. And when I finally come to the end of the road will there be a future custodian and steward of this well preserved little machine?   Will there be spare parts to keep it in pristine condition? Will there be craftsmen with the skill, interest, and knowledge to carry out the periodic maintenance and repairs and most importantly, will there be a caring steward to drive it with finesse and gentleness in respect to its history and antiquarian status?

By John Quilter

Continue reading »]]> At the end of August 1961, John Whitmore had been racing in Denmark at the Roskilde Ring, doing battle with the work’s Saabs. He and Eoin Young then hurried down motorways to arrive in Germany at Adenau, performing a handbrake turn in the car park to celebrate a non-stop marathon. John and I were to share a Mini entered for the Nürburgring 500 km. I had arrived more leisurely driving my road Mini from England, spending a day in Bruges enjoying its architecture, paintings and relaxing on a sightseeing boat trip on the canals. What subsequently happened was a huge shock to the system.

The Nurburgring was built in the 1920s around the village and medieval castle of Nürburg in the Eifel, as a test and racing circuit. It was 22.8 km long with 172 bends (84 right and 88 left) designed with every conceivable combination of radius, camber and gradient—rising and falling almost 1,000 ft. By payment of one German mark, anyone could drive around the circuit. Way back at home the thought of racing at the ’Ring had sounded exciting, but now, actually here, the whole idea appeared daunting.

John drove first to introduce me to the circuit. By the end I felt sick. I had been jolted from side to side, g-forced around the Karussell. I welcomed a short respite up a hill only to be hurtled down twisting roads with a blind bend at the bottom. John gave a non-stop description of each bend with what to look out for, which gear to choose, what line to take, and landmarks to jolt and help the memory. I felt quite dizzy, and then it was my turn. Instructions from John went in one ear and out the other as I struggled to control the car. What looked to be a sharp turn became a long sweep, but a simple corner tightened; the track just loved to tease–and it wasn’t much fun. In fact it was all utterly hopeless. After a short pause at the finish, John said: “I think you had better go round by yourself and learn the bends—and don’t forget to change up to top gear immediately, you gain momentum on any downward section.”

With John Whitmore, 1961.

I had two days to learn the circuit. It wasn’t only the corners that presented problems, but other people in other cars, all pretending to be racing drivers, getting in the way and hampering my efforts to try and create a good line. Apparently it was not unusual for the circuit to be closed in order to clear up crashed or broken-down cars. The only hope was to get up early and start before the rush of traffic.

I soon got the knack of the Karussell. John showed me how to use a certain tree to mark the point where it was necessary to drop into the concrete banking, although once committed I prayed that nothing was stuck around the blind bend. If forced out suddenly, the flat outer ring of the surface acted as a slide, sweeping cars into the trees bordering the edge of the track.

The rising sections were extremely important. It was necessary to know how the road behaved, for taking one’s foot off the accelerator lost both revs and minutes. On the other hand one had to be sure which way the road decided to go; being set up for a fast left bend was no good if the road turned right over the brow of the hill. The downhill sections became almost impossible to learn, especially the Esses at the back of the pits. If one took the wrong line at the first corner then the sequence for the following ones were all out of joint. If there were other cars in the way, then one had to improvise, but taking the correct line cut seconds off lap times. That is what I came to love about the Nürburgring. Although line was equally important in a 10-lap race back at home, the challenge of getting it right on the German track for hours on end gave me immense satisfaction.

John checked my progress the following afternoon. I think he was relieved that some of his lesson was taking effect. I was told to make a fast lap, so I donned my helmet. I had been using John’s mini. The poor car was worn out having been driven at its limit in Denmark, south along autobahns, and finally all over the place around the twisty roads of the ’Ring. When I reached the far end of the circuit, the car ground to a halt. I had no idea what to do. There was no point even looking at the engine, not for me at least, so I flagged down a motorcycle, waved at my sad looking car and leapt up behind the astonished ‘bike-racer.’ I was scared stiff, never having ridden on such a monster before, but I knew that John and Eoin would be wondering what had happened. I arrived at the pits, frozen, but just in time to stop them coming to search for me. The men organized the retrieval of the broken down car, and it was Don Moore who mended the hole in the timing cover caused by the broken timing chain. Don had arrived from England with my Mini, CMC 77, which we were to race.

Having won her class, on the rostrum with the garland around her neck followed the playing of ‘God Save The Queen’. A proud moment! With her co-driver Christopher McLaren (no relation to Bruce). She also made the fastest lap, no doubt as a result from learning the circuit in 1961.

Friday and Saturday were official practice days. John took the Friday session and I the Saturday. Yet again something went wrong, miles away from the pits: the front wheel flapped, warning me to pull up. Desperate, and not speaking any German, I gesticulated frantically and managed to persuade a marshal to tighten the nuts for me (apparently they were on the last thread). Finally I got going again and managed to clock some respectable lap times.

I remember being given a lecture at dinner that night. 1) If I clipped a bank I must stop at the pits and have the suspension checked. 2) I was quizzed as to where the oil and temperature needles should be. Honestly! As if I didn’t have my eyes glued to them and the rev counter the whole time. But the important point was to recognise the difference between the scent of burning oil or a fire and know what to do. 3) If I had a puncture I must change the wheel, quickly. I dared not admit that I hadn’t a clue how to, never having done that job, ever—perhaps a friendly marshal would help? 4) If the car rolled over, I was to push it upright and continue (best, I thought, to appeal to spectators). 5) Finally: “Get back to the pits at any cost, preferably with the car.”

Later in her career, Christabel took on Steve McQueen and Vic Elford in perhaps the closest Mini race ever witnessed.

After that evening I felt duly sobered, appreciating full well the task ahead. On no account must I let the team down. Other evenings had been carefree and fun. On one of them I had looked out of my window on the third floor and saw Andrew Hedges and the gang driving Sprites drinking at a table just below me. They were staying at the grander hotel. Now was my chance to bring them down a peg or two. I found a jug, filled it with water and tipped it over them. Unfortunately, a puff of wind—or my bad aim—caught the stream of liquid and it drenched our landlady instead, who happened to be hovering near the rowdy group. I ducked below the window and beat a hasty retreat!

By now I was dreaming of the circuit. I knew precisely where I should make my turn into a corner, the exact spot that marked its apex and where I should be on exit. 100 metre markers, hedges, trees, spikes of rough grass all helped. I could ‘think’ my way around the 14 odd miles.

Race day dawned. John drove first. He was used to Le Mans type starts and manoeuvred into a good position. Tension mounted each time he was due to drive past the pits. Eight laps and all seemed fine. I was due to take over on the next lap, but he never appeared. A pin had come loose in the gearbox; he limped on using low gears but ran out of fuel. So that was it.

Two years and three Nürburgrings later, I was to win my class with Christopher McLaren as my co-driver. However, I know that it would not have been possible without the initial introduction and instruction gleaned from John Whitmore.

By Christabel Carlisle-Watson

Continue reading »]]> A few days into 2013, a fellow car enthusiast from work asked me if I had seen the scavenger hunt article in the latest Moss Motoring. He and I talked about the challenge and calculated we would have some easy sign photos within a short distance, so we decided to do it. I told my wife later and we thought this would be great fun so the challenge began!

The following Sunday my wife and I started to take a short ride in our TR3 that turned out to be a 100+ mile journey. The ride began with me thinking that there was a post office down the road that had a “Y” town name on it. But, like the age of my car, my mind is getting a bit older too! It turned out that the post office in my dimming memory was actually a creek. With a big chuckle we decided to keep on going down the road finding a regional county office sign that had three county names on it! We wondered if using that picture would be in keeping with the spirit of the chase, said “nah” and kept on going.

For me, this is part of the challenge—finding signs where you don’t expect them and not finding signs where you think they are—the makings of a fun afternoon. Isn’t that a part of the adventure of life in our classic cars, never knowing what you will find or where you will end up?

Finishing our day in Surfside Beach, we chanced upon a giant mural painted on a building where an old mom and pop grocery store used to stand. Thinking it was a brilliant shot, my mind wondered to several historical roadside failures and my wife’s predictable comment, “Are we having fun yet?” and my response is always “Yes, it is a part of the challenge.”

There are a couple of big British car shows coming up, and now it will be more enjoyable because I can add mapping new signs to collect on the way. I was surprised how many sign opportunities there are in a 2-5 hour drive, depending on the direction taken. Our club, the Grand Strand British Car Club, is putting it’s own spin on it too, by making a day for a sign hunt.

It’s going to be a fun year with the Challenge—another excuse to take short drives with a friend…stop for lunch…enjoy the day. And even though the net reward may be a T-shirt, it’s the ride that’s more memorable than the destination.

By Dennis & Rhonda Oldland

Continue reading »]]> When I think about the many years that MGs have been in my orbit, I found there are so many moments of pure joy that its hard to pick just one story from the many. The bottom line is: I love MGs and always will.

Photo by Patrice Michelle

Already from the age of five I was drawn to two things: ships and cars. When I turned 15 and finally got my driver’s license, my first car was a 1962 Triumph Herald that my dad bought me. It was in bad shape, but I loved it and Dad and I would work on it together most weekends. I have fond memories of passing him tools, doing a valve grind and just fiddling and listening to my dad explain how things worked.

I don’t remember seeing an MG for the first time, but I do remember the moment I wanted one. The curves, the lines—so different to anything else on the road. I joined the Australian Merchant Navy to be a Navigator, and at the same time as I was following my passion for ships and the sea, I proclaimed, “I’m getting an MG.” All through the first year at sea I saved every penny. As soon as I got back to Maritime School I bought my dream car: a 1966 MGB. I called her the Jalopy. She never behaved and yes she would break down—a lot.

The Jalopy in Australia.

There was a month-long period where I had to park her on a hill to roll-start her. And out of necessity I figured out a way to push start her by myself. I bought her in Tasmania and managed to drive her up and down the east coast of Australia a number of times all the way to Cairns. We had thousands of miles of adventures. The muffler, though, seemed determined to escape, and on one drive it tumbled off and speared itself through the tire. Cell phones weren’t around yet, it was ten at night, and I was in the middle of nowhere. I happened upon a lovely couple who took me in for the night and helped me the next day to get on my way. On another drive my generator died in the Blue Mountains the night of New Years Eve. The first car to find me in the darkness turned out to be a tow truck. The driver hooked her up and took us to a mechanic friend of his.

I loved my Jalopy, I would be at deep sea on an oil tanker for months and dream about seeing that beautiful dash. I knew she would be there waiting for me on land. Going for a long drive at sunset was the first thing I would do after a long stay at sea. We had a bond, a connection, and although she broke down there was reliability within her unreliability. I fell in love in that car a few times and have fond memories of driving over Sydney Harbor Bridge with my and my companion’s arms in the air loving life. I drove in the torrential rain with the roof off and kissed that boy at the stoplights. And nothing could top driving topless from Brisbane to Sydney and not meaning with just the roof off.

Leaving her behind

One afternoon my grandmother asked, “Where has Anita gone in such a hurry?” From behind her I said, “I’m here.” She said, “Your car just went whizzing down the drive.”

The Jalopy had decided to jump out of gear and roll down my dad’s long driveway, which was on a hill. She squeezed between two trees, turned by herself and missed a ditch by inches.

Trying to convey the depth of my love for that car is beyond the words I know, but alas, I wanted to move to America. So I left the Jalopy with my cousin and started a new life in New York. After three years people suggested I sell her, but I liked knowing that I still had her and whenever I would go back to Australia she was there. I dreamed I would one day give her to a daughter…

I owned the Jalopy for 12 years and for reasons unknown to me even now, my cousin called me one day to tell me he had sold her. I was devastated. As time wore on I often thought about that dash and that ride and just that feeling I felt when I walked up to her. I know that somehow the souls of all the previous owners were wrapped up in her. Something was missing from my life without an old classic.

Finding Audrey

I moved to Los Angeles and times seemed to get hard. I wanted an old car but neither money nor the right car were around. I was spending a lot of time at sea, too. A classic would have been hard to manage, so I just rented cars or walked a lot. Finally three years ago I started my search for an MGA. I researched but just couldn’t find the right one. I was struggling with work and wanted to plant roots on land. I went to sea for my last contract and one week into my voyage, I saw her online. She was beautiful and something about her just felt right. I contacted the owner and he said if he hadn’t sold her by the time I got off the ship then I could come and see her. Every day I hoped that she would not be sold. I printed out her picture and had her in the cockpit on the bridge as I passed through the Mediterranean. Every day I dreamed.

So, after three months at sea it was time to walk down the gangway for the last time at the port of Rome. I flew around the world and rented a car to San Diego because by some luck no one else had taken her home. Instead of driving my rental back to LA, I was getting to know a very beautiful black 1958 MGA, soon to be named Mary Gertrude Audrey. I have to say I had tears in my eyes and a big smile on my face on the drive north. It had been almost eight years since my cousin had sold my first MG and so many beautiful times and memories were rushing back. And I got to look over a beautiful MG dash again.

Now, 15 months and 13,000 miles have gone by and land is treating us well, life seems to be so much better when a classic is in it. We have had a few breakdowns along the way, but usually there is a great story to tell afterwards. I met dear Alfie, a Vietnam vet, standing over Audrey playing the harmonica. Alfie, who I call my musical mechanic, and I have taken her head off and worked on her a bit together, with musical intermissions in my garage. Some of the best parts of driving a classic are the people you meet along the way, seeing faces light up with appreciation, and the support and help from fellow MGA owners.

There have been people who proclaim that I should respect her and just drive her once in a while on weekends. I feel I am respecting her by driving her daily and keeping her parts moving through these modern city streets. I thank my lucky stars every day for being so blessed to drive my rolling work of art. She is a black beauty who loves racing through Hollywood on a Sunday morning, taking Sunset Boulevard all the way to the beach and then over to Malibu. To look over my shoulder and see the smooth curve of her fender gets me every time.

By Anita Hodson

Continue reading »]]> Many years ago, while working the gate at our British Car Festival, a woman came wandering up the driveway. She had come from the farm across the road, and although her life then revolved around horses, she related in a distinct British accent how she had once driven British sports cars. More specifically, she had raced Austin 7s in the 1930s.

During the late 1920s, and into the ’30s, Austins were no doubt raced in many guises, up to and including in the form of factory supported supercharged monoposto race cars. As with makes like MG, or ERA, the depression may have encouraged smaller bore racing, but make no mistake, it was serious stuff.

The woman telling her story clearly needed to be sat down on the spot and grilled (ahem, gently interviewed) about her experience. Sadly, cars were waiting to come in, everyone was busy doing something, and the woman drifted away. So did she drive an Austin Nippy in local club events, or did she race a single-seater in serious anger?

As a woman, she would not have been alone on the track. Another name from that era, Doreen Evans, comes immediately to mind. The Evans family raced together, boys and girl. Their shop, Bellevue Garages, turned out a series of well prepared race cars, and Doreen gave nothing to her brothers when it came to competitive spirit.

The fact is, as you’ll see inside this issue, there were plenty of women involved in European motorsport before and after WWII. Only in America, it seems, is there some crazy notion about cars and racing being for the guys. It doesn’t help when the media, short-sighted creatures they so often are, treat Danica Patrick as a sex symbol first, and successful racing driver second. And I have no doubt, even as I write this, somewhere some guys are scoffing at the idea of women as true car enthusiasts and talented drivers. Get over it guys.

A couple weeks ago, I was watching an NHRA drag race at Pomona. Ashley Force won the Funny Car division outright. In some ways, beyond the noise and thunder, the most impressive aspect of drag racing is the speed with which race teams can tear down a 6,000 horsepower race motor and completely rebuild it in an hour’s time. Each of the mechanics must be strong and fast. To paraphrase Tom Hanks, there’s no crying in a Top Fuel pit. At least one of the teams had a female mechanic working one side of the motor, while her male counterpart worked on the other.

The great thing about this tableau was the announcers saw no need to call out the presence of a female mechanic on the team. Of course, I’m taking what I consider a backwards tack in writing about it. My idea of progress is when women are sufficiently common participants in the motor sports world to where there is no need to point them out. I hope we’re getting there. And if ever our editor, David Stuursma, asks for another editorial about women in the car hobby, I hope he can convince Denise McCluggage to write it. She’s forgotten more about automobiles than I’ll ever know.

By Robert Goldman

Continue reading »]]> Three years after college I decided my life was established to the point I could afford a big boy toy again. It was the rugged sportiness of the Triumph TR6 I lusted for in the ’70s. I had to have one.

After several months of disappointing test drives, I found a mechanically sound 1974 TR6 with no rust and a fresh Carmine red paint job. A gloss so deep you could shave by your reflection in the bonnet. I lived in the city and drove it to work when it didn’t rain with occasional trips on the interstate or Blue Ridge Parkway. After three years of basic maintenance, a confidence-boosting problem fixed here and there, a Monza free-flow exhaust upgrade and a new interior, I couldn’t have been happier.

During a top down drive early on a cloudless blue sky morning, I was enjoying some spirited driving. Accelerating on the entrance ramp with the thrum of the exhaust singing in my ears, I hit the near deserted interstate, grabbed fourth gear, wound it out and was about to hit the overdrive switch when the engine died like it was out of gas. The fuel gauge read half-full, the coolant temperature was normal and the TR hadn’t missed a beat until it stopped running.

I coasted to the shoulder with the most difficult to fix problems flooding my mind. I popped the bonnet looked around and every thing seemed fine. I walked to the back of the car and pushed down on the trunk a few times and I could hear gas sloshing around in the fuel tank.

I thought for a minute or two about my next step and selected the simplest. With nothing to lose, I got in the TR, murmured a plea to the British car gods, turned the ignition key and the straight 6 engine loped into life. With a quick thank you to Lord Lucas I roared off down the interstate, but a couple of miles later the engine choked to a halt. I waited a few minutes, and she fired right up. Feeling I had used up all my favors I headed straight home.

I was fortunate to have Tom nearby. He’s a mechanic who has worked on British cars for many decades. The next morning at his shop Tom listened and nodded during my tale and said he would have the TR ready later in the day. That afternoon I watched Tom twist the ignition key and the TR started up and ran sweeter than ever. I happily paid up, drove away ready to enjoy a top down ride and I almost made it home before the engine died.

The next morning Tom again promised the TR would be ready by the afternoon and it was. It ran so well I couldn’t help but wind it out a bit, and just before the first traffic light the engine died. I was close enough to the shop that with a little push through a U-turn I could coast back to the garage. Tom stood there looking at the ground and shaking his head. As I made my silent approach Tom waved me into the garage and pulled the door closed behind me.

When I picked up the TR the next day I tried to quiz Tom about what he found. He was clearly very frustrated and replied, “Drive it.” I tried another question and got a stern response of, “Just drive it.”

I almost made it home before the engine died.

I had underestimated Tom’s frustration and on the phone he unexpectedly told me I might be limited to driving on city streets because he had no idea what to do next. I felt abandoned by my long-time TR guru and apparently if the problem would be fixed I would have to do it.

I reasoned the problem had to be located in one of two systems, fuel or electrical. Tom had concentrated on the electrical side so I picked the fuel system. I disconnected the fuel filter and it looked pretty clean but I installed a new one anyway. When I was about to attach the rubber fuel hose to the intake side of the fuel filter I noticed the hose was packed with weird tiny fibers. I disconnected the other end of the rubber hose from the metal fuel line. Both the rubber and metal lines were packed with fibers from end to end all the way to the fuel tank.

I didn’t own a compressor so I got a 10-foot length of some small diameter bailing wire and carefully pushed it through the metal fuel line until it came out the other end. Then I tied one end of the bailing wire into several knots until it was just smaller than the inside diameter of the metal fuel line. I gave the unknotted end of the bailing wire a couple of wraps around a screw driver handle and pulled the wire, knot and all through the metal fuel line. As I pulled the wire the tiny fibers were pushed out by the knot and began to make a pretty big pile as they spilled out onto the garage floor. I repeated the procedure another time or two until the fibers stopped coming out.

With every inch of the fuel line plugged, the fiber source had to be in the fuel tank. I drained the tank, removed it and carried it out into the bright sunlight. With the sun shining into the fuel filler hole I rotated the tank looking for anything that shouldn’t be there. I spotted a dark mass in one corner but couldn’t tell what it was. About that time my roommate and his girlfriend came out to see how I was doing. With a straightened out coat hanger I carefully hooked the dark glob in the corner of the tank and fished out a softball-sized mushy glob of fibers and string. From behind me my roommate’s girlfriend exclaimed, “That’s a tampon!” Sure enough, it was. My mind flashed back to a bad break-up with a girl about a year and a half earlier. She was pretty angry and the last thing she said was, “I hope your car dies.”

It took a year and a half for the gasoline to break down her parting gift into tiny fibers and fill up the fuel line and poison my TR6. After a little cleanup and a careful inspection, the fuel tank proved to be immaculately clean. After all it had been scrubbed all that time with a bloated tampon. When I told Tom the story, he admitted he had never heard anything like it and we both laughed.

I dated more wisely in the future and married the coolest girl ever who loves me and the TR. The TR and I have been together for 22 years, and I have been married to my wife for 17 years now. I can’t imagine my life without either of them.

I had the custom plate before I met Deb and she let me keep it. She said she would never be threatened by a license plate and she is proof the plate is accurate.

By Mike Hofbauer

Continue reading »]]> May 2012

Some friends dragged me to British Car Week’s National Meet. Thank God for friends. The highlight of the trip was meeting a car named Grace and her driver, John Nikas.

Grace, a 1953 Austin Healey 100-4, was traveling the United States in an effort to offer love, encouragement and hope for people affected by cancer. Grace’s gentle, lovely curves were engulfed with thousands of signatures. All week long, even as people were signing her body, men huddled around her open bonnet working on a myriad of problems she was having. Grace vibrated so badly and was in such poor shape that she would shear bolts, shred belts and wiggle her generator right off. Fortunately, this being a British car event, she was in good hands.

Seeing Grace, my mind was flooded with thoughts of my daughter, Chynna, and how I had lost her 19 years ago. I still carried such deep emotions over her loss. I wanted so badly to ask John’s permission to sign her name on Grace, but Chynna didn’t pass away from cancer; a heart defect took her from me when she was only a few weeks old. I talked with John a lot that week and eventually I told him about Chynna. He asked if she was on Grace. When he found out she was not, without hesitation John handed me a Sharpie and said, “Grace is not leaving Arkansas without Chynna. Go add her name.”

John stood quietly with his arm around me while I sobbed. When I finally signed my daughter’s name I felt at that moment an overwhelming sense of peace come over me.

I promised to keep in touch with John and Grace. I want to help Drive Away Cancer. I emailed them pictures of the sassy orange 1977 Triumph Spitfire I bought a couple years ago. Her name is Ginger.

September 2012

It was while attending the Cure Search Walk for Childhood Cancer that my eyes were opened and I watched Ginger decide her own fate. She brought smiles and laughter to children fighting cancer and a little peace to families who had lost loved ones. Ginger’s first little warrior, a three-year-old named Easton sat on her bonnet with trembling hands trying to hold a marker. At that moment I realized Ginger wanted to follow in Grace’s tire treads. There was a decal on the bonnet for kids to write on, but I told Easton’s dad to let him write anywhere he liked. Even though Easton wore a mask, I saw an ear-to-ear grin in his eyes. Emmalee, Sydney, Bit, Cody and many others followed Easton’s pen strokes and each one smiled his or her biggest smile. Heartbroken parents wrote messages to their little angels, sweet children who had earned their wings. A grandmother wrote to her granddaughter, Morgan Anderson. Another wrote, ‘Spread MO Love’ in a memorial to Morgan. In an instant my little Ginger became a priceless symbol of hope, peace and happiness. In a moment, a simple pen stroke, Ginger and Grace became sisters.

November 2012

There are no words to express the emotions we feel when we meet new people or receive updates on the cherished little hearts we have met. Nothing can describe fully why we do this. Ginger chose her mission without question. She urged me along and when at first I didn’t go her way, she dug her tires in and made me. I didn’t want to follow her lead, not because I didn’t really want to, but because I was afraid. I was afraid of old feelings cropping up. I was afraid of the return of grief I felt for nearly two decades before I met Grace. Most of all, I was afraid I would fail; afraid we would let everyone down. Now, after two months of driving Ginger I understand. I didn’t rescue Ginger from a lifetime of sitting in the weather, she rescued me from the cold.

I am so much more than thankful for the people who have helped us stay moving and helped us continue the Drive Away Cancer mission. I am filled with gratitude for our growing family. Ginger and I can’t wait to see what the future holds.

January 2013

We’ve mentioned before that Ginger loves to follow in her sister Grace’s tire tracks and she did just that yesterday. True to their form, Ginger performed great en route to Harrison, Arkansas, with one minor exception. On one uphill climb I pushed Ginger just a little bit more than usual to get around a frustrating vehicle. We made it but then I noticed Ginger was spiking a little bit of a fever. After we got over the mountain her fever came back down and we made it to Harrison without any major glitches. However, the route home was a different story. Ginger began having some problems with her choke again and the carb leaked fuel. We did make it home but we took frequent stops to check on her and let her rest a little before we continued. She will be undergoing more surgery this week to put yet another carburetor on, fix a vacuum hose and install the new choke. Thankfully though, Ginger knows how important her missions are and always gets us to our friends. This car has a heart of gold and anyone who ever said a car doesn’t have a soul has never met Grace or Ginger—they would certainly change their minds!

February 2013

Eleven years ago today I got a phone call that would change my life. My brother Sean was gone. Today I honor him and my Daddy by working on Ginger. It is the little bit of knowledge I sponged up from Sean and Daddy that keeps Ginger going. Thank you both for being patient with me and please help me as I try to sort out Ginger’s continuing carb problems. I love you both so very much and miss you terribly every day.

March 2013

I first planned to attend one event, but that soon led to another and another. Now it seems everywhere we go is an event—gas stations, restaurants, traffic lights … all over the place people flag us down while we are driving. The best times are when we take wrong turns and end up meeting some really cool people. On our trip to Wisconsin some time ago after a breakdown and rebuild in Iowa, it was late in the evening and I was on some back roads. My GPS quit and I had no cell service. I ran into sleet, snow and heavy fog. After taking some wrong turns, I ended up in Cuba City. It was there that I met Kenny. He offered to cook a meal and I gladly accepted. He was alone after losing his wife and brother. His friend was also dying of cancer. He enjoyed the company, but I think I enjoyed it more. I feel enriched for meeting such wonderful people along the way. Sometimes I don’t know where to go, but it seems Ginger always does. When I think we are off course, it always turns out that we are exactly where we needed to be at that moment.

Synnova with John Nikas and Grace in the background.

This road with Ginger is a lot of lonely hours followed by sharing a few moments of relief and happiness. Sorrow and pain are inevitably around the corner. I ask myself if those brief moments of happiness and laughter will be enough to carry grief-stricken family members through their darkest times. I may never know the answer and I’m not sure I want to know. What I do know is that signing my child’s name to Grace brought me peace after 19 years of grief, and I hope Ginger can provide similar comfort to others.

Special thanks to Candy Ferris  for her help with this story.
Follow and support Ginger at DrivingAwayCancer.org