May - MogNW

ME AND MY MORGAN
From Canada Track & Traffic, March, 1962
Submitted to the NW-Mogazine by Chris Allen
ONE HOT STICKY afternoon here in Toronto,
I was kicking the tires on my second
hand Karman Ghia and wondering, if I took a
hacksaw to it, perhaps I could make it a convertible.
Summer does that to me. Maybe I
should wear a hat. Anyway there I was squinting
at my car . . . you see, if you squint your
eyes and cock your head like so, you can just
about imagine it's a Ferrari Berlinetta. I admit
you've really got to squint, but $14,000 is quite
an incentive. Need-less to say you can't go
through life maintaining this posture - not and
keep your friends. Besides, when you actually
step on the gas, you'd have to be a Zen Buddhist
to maintain the illusion.
In this daydreamy frame of mind (people do,
you know) up to the drugstore and bought the
latest car magazines. Once, when I had a 1949
TC. I drove to the drugstore for a magazine and
became so engrossed in it that I walked home.
Honest. Didn't remember it till after supper. But
I digress. As I stood there with the magazines
clutched in my hot little hands - it was summer
after all - how could I know that it contained the
key to transform me from a dreamer into a Man
of Action? But there it was on page 34, an article
by a discerning gentleman called Alan
Beck, about the last of the Classics. The Morgan.
It hit me like a birdcage (Maserati variety).
How could I have forgotten the Morgan? That
the nearest dealer was 250 miles away might
have had some bearing on it, of course.
Here was a car, a brand new car, that didn't
cost a fortune and didn't need to be restored,
and that looked like my late beloved T.C. without
squint-ing. Fondly I imagined those devoted
craftsmen pain-stakingly putting together the
old-fashioned ash fram-ing, perhaps even affectionately
carving their initials on the doorposts.
Possibly the fact that my maternal uncles
and grandfather were all carpenters might have
had some Mendelian bearing on my enthusiasm.
I skimmed quickly over the author's jocular
ref-erences to the need for wipers on the inside
of the windshield and to the Allard-like ride, and
concen-trated on "that settle down and purr
quality at top speeds". That really got an old cat
lover like me. Vividly imagining the exhaust
crackle as I down-shifted to third at 60 and
masterfully drifted the Morgan through a fast
righthander, I left the drug-store in a happy
daze of anticipation which lasted until my front
door. Abruptly I recalled my dear wife's delusion
that the Ghia was "good for two or three
years yet". The poor dear has no mechanical
ability whatsoever. She can't seem to understand
that a man just knows when a
car is about to fall apart and needs
replacing. She also has peculiar
ideas about open sports cars in zero
weather.
Perhaps it would be kinder to
draw a tonneau cover over the ensuing
few weeks. Married readers can
draw on their own experience and in
all fairness, it might be better not to
prejudice the single ones. When the
smoke of battle had subsided and
the forces of conservatism put to
rout, I took off on a recon-naissance
flight to Windsor. Curley and Vic,
partners in Ontario's only Morgan
dealership welcomed me cordially.
I've no idea how good they are as
salesmen, because from my first look at that
black beauty of a wire-wheeled, drophead
coupe, I was hooked, lined and sinkered. At
this point Curley separates the men from the
boys. He casually mentions the nine month wait
-ing period.
Nine months later I arrived back in Windsor
for my baby. I mean car. Curley checked me
out on the care and feeding thereof, namely,
which nuts would need tightening in how many
miles, and the proper greasing of the 50-yearold
front suspension. 50-year-old design that is.
Proudly clutching the cherry wood steering
wheel (optional extra) I drove off. I drove off
into a new career as a Morgan information
centre, P.R. man and Defender of the Faith,
and goofed the first time out. Not two miles
outside Windsor a poor misguided Sprite owner
actually waved at me with-out waiting for me to
wave first, and I returned the salute! My only
excuse is the dulling of my instinct for the correct
pecking order, by too many years of subjugation
to Der Beetle.
Still slightly shaken and more than a little
frus-trated from driving 250 miles at break-in
max. of 2500 rpm, I arrived home to be immediately
sur-rounded by hundreds of curious
neighbours. Well, 20 anyway.
“It looks like a small Rolls Royce".
I glow.
"Look at the funny car, mom".
I glower.
"How fast will she go mister?"
"Oh, about 100" (carefully casual).
"Won't the spare wheel get wet?"
Words fail me.
My new career had begun in earnest, and
from being a newcomer to the neighbourhood,
suddenly I'm on waving terms with everyone.
Even the mailman likes me. The last people
had a rather mean tempered mastiff parked in
the driveway. The ensuing months of Morganeering
taxed my P.R. abilities to the limit.
Outside Stratford, Ontario, a service station
Story by
John Garden McNicol;
Illustration by Maurice Snelgrove
NW-Mogazine Volume 33, Number 3 May & June 2013
21
attendant asked me, "What kind of motor's in
it?"
"A T.R.3," I replied.
"What year is it?"
"It's brand new."
'I mean the car, not the motor".
Oh well. At the golf course a stranger remarked
pleasantly as he passed,
'It's a fine car the M.G"
"Yes," I agreed pleasantly through white lips,
"They are".
Just last week at an intersection, a dear old
soul came over to ask, "Is that a Jaguar?"
"No, ma'am, it's a Morgan."
"A Borga?"
"No, Morgan," very patiently.
"Oh it's sweet, we used to have a Riley".
'You don't say," I started warmly, "I used to
… .“ "Now we have a BUICK."
I ground the gears getting into first.
The other day the radar boys from the local
constabulary were kind enough to point out to
me that I was exceeding the speed limit. A
broadly smiling gendarme waved me over.
"You won't believe this," he beamed, "but
you're the first Morgan I've ever caught."
For one fleeting incredulous moment I
thought he was going to overlook the ticket.
Sanity, however, prevailed.
As a conversation piece, you will have gathered,
the Morgan is worth its weight in Track &
Traffic's. To date these conversations have
made me late for three business appointments,
one golf game, and one date with my wife. It
says volumes for the Morgan's powers of seduction
that she accepted my explanation sympathetically.
Nevertheless my affection for the
Morgan is continuing to deepen, reinforced by
the appreciative remarks of many who seem to
see in it a gallant reminder that progress isn't
necessarily al-ways improvement. It's an old
cliche that "They don't build them like they used
to."
Fortunately Mr. Morgan still does.