My First 1931 MG ‘M’ Type: A Love Story

It was 1960 and I was 18.

She was about 12 years older than I, but that didn’t bother me, if anything, it made her all the more appealing. You wouldn’t describe her as elegant–cute would be more like it. And although she wasn’t all that sexy, she sure looked like a lot of fun.

I was working down the road, and for days I watched her sitting there, always in red. It was a colour that really suited her. A couple of times I plucked up the courage to approach her, but there was no response. I couldn’t understand the set- up. She was too attractive to remain neglected for long, and she’ d clearly had a lot of tender loving care lavished on her at one time. Yet now she seemed almost abandoned. Crying out for love certainly.

One day I sat astride my motorbike alongside her, just looking and dreaming. After a minute or so, I noticed a minor flurry of activity in a nearby house, and a man came running down the path towards me. I could always accelerate away if he made trouble, so I just sat there, wondering what would happen. As he got closer, I could see that he looked friendly, and I was suddenly hopeful. Could it be that I was going to get somewhere with her after all?

“Are you the bloke who’s been leaving notes around?” he asked. “I’m sorry I haven’t responded, but I’ve had to write away to a mate to ask him what to do with her.” My pulse quickened.I took off my helmet and got off the bike. “You must be the Bruce on the notes,” he said. “Well what do you think of her?” “She certainly looks OK but does she go?” I said. I heard a snort of disgust I thought it was the chap I was talking to, but later I wondered. Maybe it was her. She’ d certainty met my type before. “Does she go,” he sputtered-. “Does she go! Course she does, or at least she did a few months ago. The battery is probably flat now. Anyway, she’s for sale ‘As is-where is’ so you’ll have to take your chances.”

For a 1931 MG ‘M’ Type there were very few chances I wouldn’t take, particularly if the price was right. And she was for sale! I walked around the little car, taking it all in for the umpteenth time The skinny tall wire wheels with their narrow tires, narrower than those on my Triumph motor bike. The octagonal hubs with the big MG on them, they looked like knockoffs but weren’t, the wheels were held on with four big nuts. The lovely rows of louvres on both sides of the tall narrow bonnet, and even across the top. She looked ‘right” from every angle. Her red paint was un marked, but badly faded and oxidized from months parked in the weather. Someone had obviously gone to a lot of trouble to do her up at some stage, but why had she been left to rot? It was strange and a bit suspicious.

“What’s the story?” I asked. “How come she’s been neglected all these months?”

It transpired that she’d been restored all right but her owner had decided to try to pick up some cash working in Australia over the summer, and had only just written to his mate advising him that the pickings were so good he’d decided to stay. He’d asked him to sell the MG for what he could get. No price had been mentioned, so it was a case of “make an offer”.

I hated these situations. You never knew where to start. If you offered too much you’d kick yourself later, and too little often proved insulting. With a car as rare as this one, there was no telling how much she was worth. Still, there was one way to approach it. I had one hundred and forty in the bank, so that would have to be it. Take it or leave it!

The owner’s mate hummed and hawed. It didn’t sound like much for such a little beauty. He’d have to phone his mate in Aussie and that’d cost money. Anyone could see she was worth more than that. It had cost more before it was restored. And so on, ad infinitum.

“Look,” I said. “It’s really quite simple. A hundred and forty dollars is all the money I’ve got in the world. The car’s probably stuffed. I don’t know whether it goes or not. It’s got no Warrant of Fitness, and the registrations run out. You probably haven’t got a signed change of ownership form, and I’m taking a heck of a chance offering you anything at all. For all I know it’s not yours to sell. So I may be a fool, but a hundred and forty it is. Take it or leave it.”

“Oh what the hell,” he said. “Me mate’s left me a barrel of trouble to clean up, and he owes me four months back rent. It’s no skin off my nose. Make it ninety-five for the care and slip me a fiver and she’s yours!”

I couldn’t believe my ears. I’d almost talked myself out of buying it with my sales pitch, but the fact was, I’d  have gone to a hundred and fifty if I had to. But there it was. We went up to the house, and nutted out a sort of legalistic paper to the effect that he was authorized to sell the car on behalf of his mate, I was buying it ‘as is where is’ in good faith, the ownership papers would be forwarded in due course, and so on. It probably wouldn’t have stood up in court, but it made me feel a bit better.

I nearly got claustrophobia the first time I sat in the car. With the hood up my head touched the clammy fabric roof, there was no room for my feet, although I did have my motorbike boots on, that was true. The steering wheel was so big, and so close to my chest I didn’t see how anyone could drive her. The windscreen was only about 6″ deep, and most of the view seemed taken up by the wipers! The sidescreens were virtually opaque yellowing perspex, and the back window was too small to see out of. I could certainly understand why they called them MG Midgets, although I hadn’t realized that it helped to be one to drive one. Still she felt great. Great!

My long-suffering father towed me home, and on the way, I slipped little car into gear, hoping she might start. The first time I tried this the clutch felt funny, and there was a terrible grating noise from the gearbox, which I figured was probably something to do with the clutch being stuck. But she freed up, and the engine turned over quote smoothly, although Dad’s Zephyr was grunting a bit. But she wouldn’t fire up. Probably just of out petrol I thought.

Still wouldn’t do any harm to let her keep turning over for a while to blow out the cobwebs. Maybe the generator would put enough juice into the system to start the fuel pump ticking over. Suddenly there was a terrible rending noise immediately below my seat, followed by a loud metallic scraping as something dragged along the road. I tried desperately to get Dad’s attention, but fortunately it soon proved unnecessary as the extra drag made the towrope snap.

We coasted to a stop, and I got out, feeling numb. But it could have been worse. It was only the drive shaft dragging on the road after a flimsy-looking fabric universal joint had broken. The end of the shaft looked a bit mangled, but it was just torn bits of rubber and canvas. Nothing serious, but a timely warning that she was a bit on the fragile side.

Eventually we made it home after a few more heart-stopping moments, when it took all of the strength in my leg to get the brakes on hard enough to avoid pranging the back of Dad’s car when he went downhill. Still,she was built to go, not to stop, wasn’t she?

Days of happy work followed. Finding out why a car won’t go is a process of elimination. Start with the obvious, simple things first, and if they’re OK, progress to the trickier areas.

In this case, the obvious was a stuffed battery, which made a bit of a dent in the old exchequer, and petrol, which was to be expected. What was not so obvious were the corroded points in the fuel pump, the stuck needles in the SU carbs, the perished insulation on the plug wires, and, without wanting to get technical, a few other really tricky problems. Still, finding all of these made me feel clever, and eventually the day came when she burst into life, blowing clouds of blue smoke for a few moments before settling into a lumpy idle That was when I found out that the exhaust system was shot too, but it didn’t matter. She was an MG, she was running, and she was mine.

I’d adjusted the brakes, and made up a new universal out of the side of an old tire. To my surprise, she easily passed her warrant check, although to be truthful, the mechanic was too big to get into the car, so he had to take my word for it that the brakes were up to scratch. They were too, if you had legs like Samson.

An idyllic few days followed. My mates were a bit jealous. It didn’t bother me She was no XK20 Jag, but so what?

I did notice that she was getting harder to start, even  though I’d forked out for a new battery. It soon went completely flat and I was a bit unhappy, but guessed it must have a short somewhere. So I charged it up and kept driving for a few days more, when it went flat again. Eventually I figured out that it wasn’t getting a charge, and in due course, I discovered why.

Early MG’s had the generator mounted vertically in front of the motor, driving the overhead camshaft. I’m getting technical again, but basically, this was not a good arrangement and was in fact the Achilles Heel of these cars, and the old Morris Minors as well The problem was that oil could leak down into the generator and stop it charging. A repair was not all that difficult but did necessitate partly stripping the engine and forking out a few bucks to have a modem seal fitted.

I was under a bit of financial pressure by this time. I’d had to borrow to pay for such frivolities as insurance for the car, and registration, and although I was trying, the Triumph motorcycle would not sell as it was winter. So even a few dollars for a new oil seal was beyond me. My Uni studies were suffering a bit too, as I was burning the midnight oil in the garage instead of at my desk. I was under pressure from Mum and Dad, from the bank, and from a neighbor who coveted the car and had the money to tempt me.

And so, in a fit of depression, I caved in and sold it. For two hundred and eighty dollars.

Nearly a hundred profit! I was elated. It was fantastic! But on the other hand, I was heartbroken to see the car go. She had real character, and I had hardly gotten to know her. I’d received her ownership papers through the post a few days previously, and had added my name to the forty or so already there. These made fascinating reading. Most dated back to the early days of the war, and nearly all gave then- address as care of Wigram Air Force Base, Christchurch

I could imagine her then. She must have been in her element. Hood down, covered with laughing bods as she careered from party to party, trundled around the base, or stood parked by a Tiger Moth, looking rakish. What tales she must have been able to tell. Stories of windblown young men and girls, stories of carelessness of youth.

But one by one they’d got their wings, sold her to a mate and left for service overseas. Doubtless most of them soon sacrificed their innocence defending a country they’d never lived in against an enemy that, if truth be told, was probably much like them.

Yes, I’d made a quick buck, but I’d left a little of my own innocence in her worn little cockpit, full of those big whirring instruments and the nostalgic smell of hot oil. She was a symbol of idyllic days long gone. I’d give anything to have her, and them, back again.

Originally published in the 1985 Fall Edition of Moss Motoring under the title, “First Love: A short story contributed by Bruce Utting of Wellington, New Zealand.”