By Ken Edgar
The title is in a way self-explanatory. Every person of a petrolhead persuasion has his or her own idea and, if you ask ten of them, you will get ten different answers. Some – like me – can’t narrow the answer down to one vehicle. My family is a marriage between two subjects of the Crown that occurred in a former colony and I’ve been around British culture and cars my whole life. There are some vehicles out there I would love to own that aren’t British but not that many. One such example is the Citroen DS mainly because it is so out there in terms of thinking out of the proverbial box as well as resembling pretty much nothing else built in recent memory. The Tatra 603 is another example of an automotive engineer’s equivalent of taking one’s own road. A Messserschmitt KR200 would be interesting but I’m not going to pay 30 grand (or more) for a three-wheeled go-cart with a top speed of about 60 mph. I like weird; anyone who knows me won’t let me deny it. My purple TR7 kind of seals that argument.
I somehow managed to blunder into one of my childhood heroes a decade ago and it followed me home. The E-type, like the Citroen, looked like nothing that had gone before but, unlike the Citroen, it was as fast as it looked. My example is a Series II coupe. Rescued from a family member with limited mechanical acumen, the poor thing suffered from a perforated radiator, dry-rotted tires, faded paint, and oliohematosis. For those unfamiliar with Edgar’s Dictionary of Arcane and Self-created Automotive Terminology, oliohematosis is the condition of a car’s drive train leaking copious amounts of oil from every seam. The engine would not idle below about 1500 rpm. I subsequently discovered this condition was caused by the valve timing being out about 10° on the intake and twice that on the exhaust! While the car had been under my brother’s stewardship a “professional” mechanic had told him the car had been fitted with racing cams. This same character left the car out in the weather for several months, necessitating the need for a paint job.
The task to correct these faults set me on a course which I’m still taking. The radiator was re-cored with a Ford truck core (same size as the Jag), the job to repair the oil leaks resulted in a complete engine overhaul which necessitated replacing a few bent valves (wonder how that happened?). A new clutch went in and the seals replaced on the gearbox. I overhauled the rear axle assembly (bad rear brakes and the usual oil leaks). The mechanicals are finished but I still need to paint the car. I have the paint but not the time at present so I’m content to drive the car in its tatty state. I’d rather have faded paint and torn upholstery but have the ability to drive anywhere any time without fear of a breakdown than have a gleaming trailer queen I have to push to my show spot because it won’t start. I actually witnessed such an incident at a car show some years ago. The car was a pristine-looking Series I E-type roadster. Too bad the mechanicals didn’t match the paintwork.
The Series II isn’t considered as desirable as the early E-types but is considered a better driver’s car. It’s far from perfect but I love it, warts and all. Behind the wheel I’m no Michael Hawthorne but the car encourages me to attempt to learn to drive it properly. In doing so, I understand the stance of some of the purists who embrace the flat floors, weaker brakes, and the old Moss gearboxes that equip some of these older machines. There is a perverse satisfaction in being able to bring primitive machinery to heel in answer to your commands and to allow the car to show its potential. Did I say “bring it to heel”? Let me rephrase that. Like a cat trains its human (cats do NOT have owners) the car trains the driver to handle the controls to its satisfaction with a mechanical version of positive and negative reinforcement. The owners of prewar Bentleys take this emotional task to a completely different level and I salute them for it. Given the financial resources I would join their ranks in an instant.
My attempt to channel my inner Mr. Toad will most likely continue until I’m no longer able to drive. As I age I find the older the car the more alluring it is to me. Prewar vehicles, particularly if over powered, command my attention if up for sale – although the asking price is almost always far beyond my reach. When I’m in my Seventies - providing alcohol and carbon monoxide fumes don’t get me before then – I don’t want a Miata. I want steering column-mounted mixture and ignition timing controls, crash gearboxes, minimal crash protection, bizarre carburetor set-ups, and skinny wheels stopped by mechanical brakes – preferably on the rear wheels only. The fellow motorists of twenty years in the future will see a septuagenarian in a leather helmet and goggles gazing over a steering wheel about two feet in diameter. I’ll be grinning like a Cheshire cat, carving a recycled dinosaur-fueled swath through the Priuses (prii?), LEVs and boring crossovers. That would be the ultimate dream to me – to roar through my autumn years in a blast of Imperial majesty as a glorious anachronism thumbing his nose at a brave new world.
Now, to find this dream car. I’m thinking the ideal one would be 90 to 100 years old and the phrase “powered by an airship engine” would be somewhere in the description.
