I doubt there are many folks reading this who honestly feel "it" isn't worth
it. One can offer up various examples of purchase price, resale value,
operating expenses and such for one of our beloved steeds compared to more
mainstream modes of transport, but such reckonings are in my opinion merely
meant to quiet only a portion of our analytical brains. There is a wide
range of both overt and covert reasons for doing what we do. Logic,
practicality and conformity have been at odds with beauty, joy and self
expression long before the first Little British Car ever rolled off the line.
I could sit down at my desk, pencil at the ready, and figure out how much
time and tribulation over the years I've put into sheparding those aspects of
Team.Net for which I am responsible. And then work on balancing that ledger
against what efforts I could have put into my own fleet of cars, my parts
business, one could even say my life. But what I do *is* my life, not
something I do waiting for my life to happen to me. Not wanting to get too
far off on a philosophical path I'll just say that if I had all the money
I've ever spent on cars and such, I'd spend it all on cars and such.
But the cars do not matter. Sure, we can all stand around our virtual grease
pit here, lean against the community workbench and offer up our opinions on
the merits of a solid axle Midget versus the swing spring IRS of the
Spitfire, or the latest scoop on synthetic oils or alternator conversions or
Weber jets or whatever. It is not important what we do to the cars, it is
what the cars do to us. MGs, Triumphs, Rovers, whatever, the badge on the
bonnet isn't really what creates our community. Where, on my ledger of
Team.Net accounts, would I put an entry to account for the award given to
me at the Portland, Maine VTR convention? And what significance would that
treasure have if it were not for the people behind it?
At the risk of going a bit over my allotted time here, I'll include a short
note written about a decade ago. Some of you long term listers may have
heard me tell of the Rust Rocket, a TR4 I had a while back, and the first
Triumph I started tuning for autocrossing. It came to mind because someone
on another list was looking for a TR4 rolling chassis to be used in a
possible project. I still have the remains of that car, though I did sell it
at one time, somehow managing to get it back, and it could be just what this
fellow needs. Anyway, here's a snippet about the first time I sold it.
mjb.
----
That smile gave him away, plastered across his face like a freshly painted
billboard. I couldn't help but remember the first few times I bought cars,
young and eager, full of energy. He looked at it, and liked it. A young
teacher at a nearby private school, sort of thin and lanky, reminded me of
an old high school friend. My friend and I had been over at Melvin's garage
when the head was finally back on the red TR3, the carbs were adjusted and
the battery connected. Time for a test ride, both then and now. I hop into
the Rust Rocket, fire it up and back out of the tricky section of the drive.
Matt, the teacher, beams with delight as I jump out of the driver's seat,
offering the vacated premises to him.
Around the block, timid and slow, he barely gets over about 2 grand before
shifting. Fumbling about with the stubby TR-3 lever, he is unsure of the car
and his desire. We putter back to the Fat Chance, and he gets out, again
with the tell tale smile irrevocably, it seems, wedged into his face. I
offer to show him the way that *I* drive the car, so off we go again. He is
impressed.
I wanted to tell him about the long hours of tedious, dirty work, the small
agonies of constantly bruised hands during major projects, dirty fingers,
late nights, swapping trannies in the drive in the dead of winter. I wanted
to warn him of wallowing in the mud after a roadside stall, looking for a
clue, or perhaps a lost bolt. I wanted to let him know there would be days
he would curse the name of Triumph, of all things British, and most especially
he would curse me and the clattering coughs of the worthless red hulk he
foolishly bought that summer's day.
I did not need to tell him of days like this, though, with crystalline skies
and throaty exhaust, bouncing around corners in a car crafted for such joys.
He hadn't really wanted a Triumph, he had been wanting a Jaguar, it seems, his
sights set on someday having the perfect XK 150. Too much for a man of quite
modest means. But for now, he has the Rust Rocket, and that smile on his face.
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