I recently had the opportunity to speak at the 49th national meeting of the North American MGA Register, held locally here in Welches, OR. The convention was organized by SCM contributor Reid Trummel and hosted by the Columbia Gorge MG Club. My address to the group concerned a trip I made as a 17-year-old in a 1958 MGA. I had bought it out of a junkyard for $250 to replace the 1960 Austin-Healey “Bug Eye” Sprite I’d paid $30 for on my 16th birthday. Originally a white car, the MGA had been hand-painted silver with a brush. It had been hit lightly […]
I recently had the opportunity to speak at the 49th national meeting of the North American MGA Register, held locally here in Welches, OR. The convention was organized by SCM contributor Reid Trummel and hosted by the Columbia Gorge MG Club.
My address to the group concerned a trip I made as a 17-year-old in a 1958 MGA. I had bought it out of a junkyard for $250 to replace the 1960 Austin-Healey “Bug Eye” Sprite I’d paid $30 for on my 16th birthday.
Originally a white car, the MGA had been hand-painted silver with a brush. It had been hit lightly in the front and was missing its grille.
I recall being attracted to its burgundy leather seats and intrigued by the vacuum-operated turn-signal switch. It also had a trunk, which, compared to the Bug Eye, made it a real car. I had definitely moved up in the sports-car world.
Now that I had a real car, it was time for a real road trip. It was 1968, and my friend Jay Minkler and I decided we would drive from our hometown of San Francisco to the Democratic National Convention in Chicago, a 4,500-mile round trip.
Be sure to wear flowers in your hair
In preparation, I rebuilt the engine in the MG, guided by my trusty Chilton’s manual. I had previously rebuilt the engine in my Bug Eye, so by now I was an expert. I had virtually zero budget, so things like turning the crank or magnafluxing the rods were out of the question. I just took it apart, bought the bearings and rings and valves I could afford, and put it all back together.
My summer job that year was running a souvenir shop across from the San Francisco Zoo. As we were long-haired hippies from the City of Love, we loaded up on peace symbols and “Make Love Not War” paraphernalia from the shop. We wanted to make the right impression on the “Midwestern chicks” we were sure we would meet.
We headed east through the Sierras, and then crossed Nevada in the burning sun, top down. In those pre-speed-limit days, it was pedal to the metal. We may have touched 75 a couple of times. Or at least imagined we did.
For tunes, we had a D-cell-battery-powered record player. We set it in the footwell and played The Doors’ “Light My Fire” over and over again. Each bump would make the needle skip, but it didn’t bother us. We were a couple of kids without a care in the world.
Buzzed
I don’t recall ever looking at the water-temperature or oil-pressure gauges. After all, with a fresh engine, what could go wrong?
Just after we crossed the border into Idaho, we passed a roadside billboard featuring a bedraggled hippie and the message, “Beautify America, Get a Haircut.”
It was soon after when a very loud bang came from under the hood.
I got out of the car and saw the trail of oil that stretched back down the highway. Steam and smoke poured from under the hood. When I popped it open, I noticed a five-inch hole in the engine block. This was a new experience for me.
When I picked up a piece of connecting rod that was lying on the pavement, it burned my hand.
It didn’t seem like my toolkit, which consisted of a roll of duct tape and a can of STP, was going to solve our problem.
By now, the sun was starting to set. Jay didn’t seem bothered. He opened a can of Sterno and took out a joint he had hidden there. He smoked it while he used the light from the can to read to me from a copy of “The Lord of the Rings” he had brought along.
Somehow, we eventually got a wrecker to bring us into town, where we immediately went to a local teen club. Jay struck up a conversation with a girl, bragging about us being “real hippies from San Francisco.” (Had she seen the billboard?) Then he offered her a joint.
“My dad’s the sheriff,” she replied. “But if you won’t say anything, I won’t.”
We all must have kept our promises, as nobody wound up in jail.
Double or nothing
We found a used engine in Salt Lake City for $250, roughly doubling my investment in the car. We continued on, having more adventures, including the generator exploding near Kremmling, CO.
We never did make it to Chicago. Abandoning our original plan, we just drove in a big loop back to San Francisco. Alas, neither Jay nor I put any flowers in the rifle barrels of National Guardsmen. But the MGA’s water pump did expire in Reno, for good measure.
I’m glad I did this trip then and not now. What was a grand adventure at 17 would not play the same at 73. Driving a junkyard MGA cross-country with no cell phone, credit cards or roadside-assistance program membership would be like rowing a dinghy across the Atlantic.
Even with all the changes over the past six decades, this road trip in a British sports car has imprinted itself on the DNA of my life. It may be an air-conditioned V12 Jaguar I’m piloting today, but the underlying spirit of adventure, of racing into the unknown, is still with me every moment I’m on the road. ♦