MGB

For some people, climbing into a car, starting it on the first try, and driving off with confidence in actually arriving somewhere is practically sacrilege. These tinkering enthusiasts regard motoring as a near-religious experience filled with arcane ritual, unfathomable mystery, and occasional cursing. To members of The Church of The British Sportscar, there are few better altars upon which to sacrifice one's time and money than the MGB.

The MGB arrived in 1962 with lightweight unibody construction propelled by literally dozens of horsepowers. It did 0-60 in roughly eleven seconds, could pull an even-now respectable 9/10ths-of-a-g on the skid pad, and would hit a top speed of 100mph “without fuss”. Its styling was simple and appealing: long hood, short deck, two seats and a drop-top; keep 'er low to the ground and add lashings of chrome. Compared to the big-finned behemoths of the time, the 'B was a frothy delight. Dad bought a used one and subsequently cheated death when a gravel truck ran a red light.

Our poor MGB spent several decades in a bramble-covered barn on a corner of a neighbour's property while several generations of rodents ate the upholstery. Marinating a car in a medley of rust, dust and decades like this is an important step in creating a classic and/or relic. Dad would periodically check in to see how things were getting on, and there was much standing around with arms folded and making grand plans with nothing ever actually happening (also an important step). It wasn't until the neighbour decided to knock down the barn that my father was forced to come and shift the wreckage.

While the MGB was hauled off to the body-shop for some chiropractic frame-straightening, Dad cleaned out the garage and tried to find all the errant components of his socket set. I was to learn that automobile restoration is not so much a project with a definite ending point as it is an ongoing process, like self-improvement, or continental drift. What other possible reason could there have been for investing several days in painting each engine component a different colour of rust-proof Tremclad?

For my own part, I seemed to be mostly involved in shining the trouble light on what was invariably the wrong bolt, and yet what an education I was receiving! Not in the inner workings of the combustion engine, nor the basics of tool use; what I learned was the language of automotive repair. Being of Irish extraction, my father was blessed with the knack for inventive cursing, and my interested young ears soaked up his best material.

As the years passed, and perhaps despite my father's best efforts, the MGB drew nearer completion, until the day there was nothing left to do except fire it up. Which couldn't be done. “Aha!” cried Dad with barely-disguised glee, “The carburettors must need adjustment.” Out came the wrenches, there was some last-minute choke-cable difficulty, and then the indignant spluttering gave way to a muffled roar. And that was just Dad. Still, when the bluish smoke had cleared, there she stood: a gleaming, candy-apple red Lazarus, purring as she would have done brand-new in 1967. Then she stalled.

Eventually we got her running rather lumpily and, after several test-circuits, my father decided to reward all my hours of grease-monkey-ism by letting me get a feel for late '60s motoring, UK-style. Grasping the yacht-sized, somewhat floppy bakelite wheel, I felt a twinge of unease. I soon discovered that the brakes favoured the Neville Chamberlain approach to forward velocity, preferring appeasement over action: planning ahead was required in order to avoid becoming a tree-ornament. Still, with the wind in your hair, careening around a blind bend with the narrow tires squealing, one couldn't help feeling alive; perhaps even going so far as to shout, “I don't want to die!”

The MGB sleeps in a shed (where else?) waiting for the sunny morning when Dad will begin the pre-flight preparations necessary for taking an autumn blast through the leaves. Wherever he parks it, it will mark its territory with scattered oil patches like an elderly and incontinent dog, and should it unexpectedly rain, he will find its convertible roof as complicated and time-consuming as the repairs to the roof of BC Place. My mother will need to have the phone nearby if/when an emergency SOS might come through. As for me, I'm off to the pub. On the bus.