Never Again. Until Next Time

For years I’ve made my pal Len Frank’s love for old Italian cars the butt of countless jokes. I’ve done it in person, behind his back, and even in print. I’ve made no secret of my feeling that Len’s weakness for these old crocks is a fit subject for public ridicule. I am about to be punished for this, as you’ll see.

Len Frank, if the name’s unfamiliar, hosts a weekly radio show called “The Car Show”, with his partner John Retzek, he speaks well and truly of cars and things automotive. The program is syndicated in 55 markets across the country, and it’s worth searching for in your local listings. Besides his radio work, Len contributes to Popular Mechanics, does a little racing, and even pulls his own wrenches.

I always considered Len’s predilection for aged Italian iron as a major stress crack in the girderwork of his otherwise astute treatment and knowledge of cars. I missed few opportunities to exercise sarcasm at his expense. At one point, when I was working at Brand X magazine—where Len was also a contributor—I let him have it between the eyes. In print, I postulated to our readers that Len’s idea of heaven would be a 40-acre backyard filled with rotting Fiats. Such a statement, as you might imagine, triggered a flood of mail from those who suffered from the same affliction as Len. These individuals were, from all appearances, truly desperate. They made of Len an Italian-car god. They tracked him to his home and pestered him for morsels of wisdom. Could he get their Xl/9s to stop leaking oil? Is there any way a Fiat 128 can be made to run more than ten miles before needing a complete engine rebuild? Things like that.

Call it the wheel coming full circle. Call it my turn in the barrel. Whatever you call it, I’ve been recently sucker-punched by an old car. An MG. And not just one MG…all of them. Every rat-bag, leaky, rust-ridden basket-case. I was stricken on Topanga Canyon Boulevard while on my way to GM’s Advanced Concept Center. As I drew abreast of a lot filled with pristine MGs, my right foot-entirely of its own volition-mashed the brake pedal. Moments later I was talking to Lee Sabine, the British guy who is the chief wrench at Blackmore & Jones Motors, purveyors of vintage British iron. A few minutes later Dellon Blackmore joined us, he being one of the owners and also of the British persuasion. It turned out that B&J is in the business of restoring examples of Cecil Kimber’s bright idea and selling them to guys like Len Frank. And I was standing there buying into this concept as if it were a really good idea whose time had come. Like penicillin or Velcro.

The genuinely degrading thing about this is that I should know better. I’ve “owned” MGs, a term synonymous with having been stranded by MGs. Nevertheless, here I was opening hoods and staring at prewar technology and seriously thinking that maybe this time around I’d get lucky and buy “the right one”. In the real world, the right one is a Honda anything, but MGs and their ilk are not the real world. They appear to be because they short-circuit the higher brain functions and deal directly with that part of you that used to make car noises when you rode your bicycle.

As I was jumping from one MG to another. Blackmore told me how the old-British-car business is catching on these days. B&J, as an example, offers financing and warranties and all the other things you expect from a “real” sales outlet. Like Harleys, batwing Ford Fairlanes, and Fender guitars, old British cars are losing their cult status and becoming mainstream chic. B&J moves about a dozen cars a month, many to young women who have resisted such trendy fashion accessories as Samurais and VW Cabrios in favor of MG ragtops. What this means, of course, is that MG prices are about to go through the ozone layer.

Two thoughts occurred to me at this point in my visit. One, a new generation of suckers will be picked clean at the parts counter. Two, if I could trade in my ratty 1951 Escort for a reasonable figure I could slide into this white 1963 MGB convertible with red interior and white piping on the seats. My monthly payments would be almost painless.

The numbers crunching in my head made almost as much noise as the gearbox when Lee Sabine and I drove the MGB off the lot for an evaluation cruise. Undoubtedly, it was the soundest MG I’d driven in ten years, despite the graunchy gearbox. The brakes were firm. The steering was as precise as they ever made it, which means that it went pretty much where you pointed it. The seats, the steering wheel, and the pedals were as anti-ergonomic as ever. Heel-and-toe was out of the question. The engine made the usual rough noises, but it felt strong and was in an excellent state of tune. All the toggle switches and gauges worked. The top was tight. Being an LA car, the MG had never heard of rust.

The only thing that kept me from signing on the spot was the specter of Len Frank in my rear-view mirror. He was wearing evil-clown makeup and cackling. “Go ahead,” he was saying, “make my decade.” In a real sense, my decision was not whether to buy an old car. It was whether I could withstand Len’s glee.

I left Blackmore & Jones Motors and went home to think about this. For hours, a pitched battle raged between the right and left hemispheres of my brain. They fought to a draw. I found myself in the same bind as Hamlet—beset by opposing forces but unable to make a decision. Then I did what I do best. I forgot about It and watched some old videos. I watched some soldiers try to knock off Bela Lugosi’s robot In The Phantom Creeps, and then I put on Santo the Masked Wrestler, a Mexican series of high mutant quality. Santo is a wrestler who moonlights as a private eye, top-secret spy, and occasional vampire exterminator. He does this without removing his mask. The tape was cued up to the part where where Santo burns down a house full of werewolves and is thanked gratefully by a blond bombshell he’s saved from an eternity of death. Like the Lone Ranger, Santo never asks for thanks. In this case he just twirled his cape and got into—guess what—a white MG convertible with a graunchy gear box. It was a sign. Before summer comes, Santo and I will have something in common. Len Frank be damned.

By Tony Assenza