1967 MGB GT Special
I am intimidated, picking the car up, an imposter. And I’m worried that it won’t start.
Did he just hand me the keys and say “have fun”?
He did.
And the car starts.
The thoughts that kept me up last night:
1. He said check the tires and the oil. What kind of oil do I put in it? What if I don’t put in enough? What if I put in too much?
2. How old are the tires?
3. How secure is the garage, really?
I am working as an intern at the Lane Motor Museum. I do research for exhibits, and scour google images for compelling things to put on the signs. In return, I am allowed to drive the cars.
That arrangement goes as follows:
After building up the courage, I will knock tentatively on the frame of the open door leading to Rex - the Director of Education at the museum - in his office. I will tell Rex I would like to drive something and photograph it. Rex will come with me to the basement and point at cars that are in running order, with which I can also be trusted. To my delight, at the intersection of Running Road and Trust Avenue was a 1967 MGB GT Special, which Rex says is his favorite car in the museum.
No pressure.
Having picked the car, that night I went home and frantically threw things away and pushed other things up against the walls, clearing a place for it in the garage. The street is no place for this car.
That about brings you up to speed.
Now I am taking a right out of the parking lot, and I am off in a 1967 MGB GT Special, which will spend tonight in my garage.
My first stop is the gas station down the street. I have been given $20 petty cash, and told to put in Premium. I am pleased to see that the spoke wheels have Michelins on them. New-looking Defenders.
The sections of the road between me and my home are treacherous with potholes. But the MGB is mighty and narrow, so I place it within the lane and dodge the craters. The steering, the brakes, everything is heavy. And I wore a scarf today because I knew it was the right thing to do.
I headed for home or coffee, whichever came first. What came first was a minty-fresh Austin Healey at the intersection ahead of me. I ran through the gears to get up alongside, and Barry told me to meet him up the street for coffee.
My goodness. Cars and coffee.
“My friend with a classic mini will be there in a second!” said Barry.
Barry’s Austin Healey is - how you say - a beautiful example. Barry puts an excellent question into my head: what is the ‘special’ in “MGB GT Special” for?
After a minute, Barry's friend arrives in his mini and introduces himself as Lord Alex Ferguson.
Notice the license plate: “Red Dwarf”
Parked out front, we pour over the cars. Pore? Fellow car nerds flock to us, and we all revel awkwardly in the parking lot, eventually deciding to go on a drive.
It is a good feeling, driving the MGB. I feel a sense of importance, and I forget that it is false.
When the time came for them to push start me, we were on 1st avenue. I can admit now, safely alone, that I think I was just using the wrong key.
In my limited experience: old cars come with multiple keys, and it’s up to you to figure it out.
I drive the 1988 Mini briefly. The driving position is upright, close and hilarious; reminiscent of the swing on my front porch. Lord Alex Ferguson is playing riding mechanic with the choke in the passenger seat.
“Give it more revs!” says Alex.
We have all parted ways, meeting up tomorrow morning for the official cars and coffee.
I am alone with the car now, and driving.
The steering wheel is thin, inlaid and wooden. The horn sounds more assertive than I expected, but only by a little. The single fender mirror on the driver’s side is inspirational in form, and useless in function. Which makes it art.
Where do I start with the brakes?
You know when you’re trying to run away in a dream, but you’re feet won’t push off the ground properly? That is the feeling of going for the brakes when Crossfiniti McDiscbrakemobile decides it likes the look of that gap in front of you. Really more braking should come from the amount of pressure I’m putting on the pedal right now.
To be fair, the drum brakes on this MGB are the best drums I have driven on. The 1965 Pontiac GTO I drove gave me lots of feedback through the brake pedal. So much so over bumps that I thought “Hey Pontiac, that’s quite enough feedback now. Maybe less next time.” The MGB drums are more consistent, and the whole car feels more screwed together.
Naturally, I must go straight to the most public place I can think of, to be seen by as many people as possible in this retro-dopeness. Centennial Park. I park up, and take some notes in the car. Then I take a seat on the Parthenon steps and watch people watch the car.
This doesn’t go exactly as I expected, which is to say: me and the car are not getting as much attention as I want, so I leave.
You might think I’m a bit petty reading this, that I'm just out to get attention - but I’m just being honest. I am learning something about myself driving this car: I like being seen in it as least as much as I enjoy the experience of driving it. This, I think, says more about me than the driving experience of the car.
Not ready to go home yet, I go to my favorite local coffee joint. I am thankful that there is a parking spot right out front. For one, I don’t have to let the car out of my sight while I have coffee, and two, parking out front begat another opportunity for attention. The car is short, and it hides behind its neighbors in the parking spots next to it. Passersby don't notice the MGB until they are right up on it. Cars like this are not everywhere in Nashville, and I am somewhat mystified by people that seem to look right through the car and take no notice. But for many on the sidewalk, seeing the car is a moment of joy, and I share it with them anonymously as I watch the car from inside.
That evening, I break the car out again to photograph it.
It is now early the next morning, and it is cold. I am in my garage, in the midst of an argument with the MGB. The topic of the argument is that I want the car to start, and the car cannot be bothered. Lord Alex Ferguson arrives in his mini to the alley behind my house, so that we can caravan together to the cars and coffee. I am embarrassed that the car won't start, and I want to be left alone to mope and troubleshoot.
"Go on without me! Save yourself!" I shout, in my mind.
But Lord Ferguson is insistent and optimistic, so he jumps in and pops the clutch while I push the car down the narrow alley. I am happy now to have the car running, and be on my way. There is no place finer on a cold morning than driving something interesting, with a beanie on.
On the way there, I convince his Lordship to drag-race me at a stoplight. I really go for it, and manage to launch the car properly. The cold rear tires squeal and the four cylinder thrums; smoked him.
The car meet itself was just an excuse to get this car for the weekend. I am not a huge fan of these parking-lot events. The redeeming factor was my dad being there, and having him pop the clutch on the MGB while I pushed it out of the parking lot. That makes three times I push-started the MGB, over the two days I had it.
It is okay to like a car because you get attention when you're in it. The MGB is simultaneously an attention-grabber, but un-intimidating because it is small, green, and vintage. Though the car isn't particularly difficult to drive, driving it smoothly requires finesse, and sympathy. Learning how to keep the car happy, I developed a relationship with it. As a result, when I would park it and walk away from it, I felt a sense of pride. Yes, pride. Even when no one was looking.
