by Chris Cowland –
The British made some small but cute little sports cars in the late 50s and early 60s. One such family, made by MG and Austin Healey, were named Midget and Sprite respectively. By adding a second carburetor to the same miniscule engine that powered (?) the Morris Minor and the Mini, performance was boosted to a top speed that could just hit 70MPH with a following wind.
The one I owned was a 1960 MG Midget Mark 1. Its standard motor was just 948ccs, but it was bright red and looked sporty when parked. I was in my second year of university when I impulsively bought it for $500 during the summer break.
The previous owner affirmed that it was in “excellent mechanical condition” and would be perfect for my planned trip to the south of France with my new girlfriend, a blonde supermodel named Viv.
The first hour heading south from Calais went well, and I stopped to fuel up and erect the convertible top as the skies were beginning to darken. Ten minutes later the heavens broke, and the tiny wipers could barely clear the windscreen. A scream from my passenger alerted me to the steady stream of water that was gushing into her lap, so I hastily stuffed a pair of socks into the quarter-inch gap between the windscreen and the convertible top. This merely diverted the flood from her lap to her knees.Then things got really bad. The engine oil pressure warning light came on and a quick check of the dipstick indicated that I had been burning oil at a rate of around 50 miles per pint. So the cost of the trip had just doubled – every time I stopped for petrol I would have to buy two or three litres of oil!
The rain had thankfully abated when we stopped at a campsite just outside Rouen. I could put my old tent together with my eyes shut, but I had bought a brand new one to impress my supermodel companion. Viv lounged impatiently against the car as I struggled with a tangled mass of guy ropes that resembled the web of a drunken spider. About an hour later we dumped our sodden bags of clothing into the back of the Picasso style tent, and I casually mentioned to Viv that the back of her cream-white dress was plastered with mud from the side of the car. “It’s okay,” I said. “It’ll wash off.”
It turns out that my casual remark is NOT what you say to someone who paid more for her clothes than I had paid for my car … .
A year later I returned to France in the same car, rebuilt engine, sans short-term girlfriend. I was teaching English in a French Lycee in Niort as part of my modern languages degree. I played rugby in those days, and was excited to hear that an English team, the Old Hamptonians, were coming out on tour the following month. They appointed me director of entertainment, so one evening we had huge amounts of beer in a downtown bar. An MG Midget is built to carry two people, but with the top down you can sit three more 250lb players in the back. So I loaded up the four lads who were incapable of walking, and drove them back to their hotel. When they crawled out, I noticed that the back of the car was totally plastered in vomit. “Don’t worry,” they said. “It’ll wash off.” In that precise moment, I gained a whole new insight and appreciation for poor Viv.
Photo courtesy www.ukesportscars.com.
