Tag: Motors

Wolseley 2

British cars moved on. Pun intended. The clumpy shapes of the 1960s were replaced by more racy lines in the 1970s. The demand for higher performance became part an aspirational fashion. In this century our ecofriendly instincts have taken over. Back in the mid-70s, being green was not mainstream. Fuel consumption was noted but lost in the numbers. Now, it would be untenable but then lead in petrol was normal[1].

I don’t know what came over my dad. We migrated from loyalty to the Wolseley name to something completely different. I guess the experience of the wallowing monstrosity of the Wolseley 18/85[2][3] was too much. Yes, we had one. I see that petrolheads nickname that car type the “land crab” and that’s a good summary of how it behaved. That generation of BMC cars had an innovative suspension system responsible for oceans of car sickness.

As we got to the late 1970s, something must have snapped. It could have been that the farming year had been a good one. What came next was a sporty saloon that wasn’t just a family transport.

A bright white Triumph Dolomite Sprint[4], much like the ones the police used to chase speeding motorists then became our pride and joy. It’s remarkable to think that I took my first driving test in that car. My theory is that’s why I failed my first test on the quiet streets of Yeovil. It wasn’t my driving ability as much as the reaction of my instructor. He was sane man. I imagine him thinking, no way am I going to pass this cocky 17-year-old lad in this flashy Dolomite Sprint.

Here was a car with kerb appeal. There were few at a time when British Leyland was failing badly. Britain’s car industry was sliding into oblivion. Standing out, the Dolomite Sprint was a British high-performance saloon car capable of matching its foreign rivals. Much as I liked that sporty road car it’s the story of the Wolseley 16/60 that I have in mind.

The joy of living on a farm was the open space. Green fields surrounded us. At the times of the year when the mud wasn’t knee deep that meant a readymade racetrack. Long before I took to the public roads officially, my friends and I drove a series of bangers to destruction. No such thing as health and safety. Only the occasional disapproving look.

One of our best bangers was an Austin A35 van that a couple of friends bought from a local schoolteacher. It had been used as a chicken shed but the engine was sound. Before that motor came along, we had a maroon Wolseley 16/60. Rust was the big enemy of cars in the 70s. So, picking up an MOT failure for five quid was easy enough to do. The fields were somewhere to keep it.

If I recall, correctly the Wolseley had a 3-speed gearbox with a steering column change. Not only was the car peppered with rust holes, but the gear change rods never connected properly. It could be driven in first and reverse or second and third gear but never the two together. The poor car died as a friend drove it to hell in first gear. A robust slogger the BMC “B” series engine was no racer.

Thus, two Wolseley 16/60s were part of my past. One as a child passenger and the other as a part in a Mad Max movie made in Somerset. Shall I tell you about the Wolseley 15/50? Maybe not.

[1] https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/business-40593353

[2] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/BMC_ADO17

[3] https://www.wolseleyregister.co.uk/wolseley-history/blmc/1885-six/

[4] https://www.classiccarsforsale.co.uk/reviews/classic-triumph-reviews-dolomite-sprint

Midgets

Even in the early 1980s the “rubber bumper” MG sports cars were viewed as not quite authentic. The original MG Midgets had a cute simplicity. I had two MG Midgets. Both were of the 1500cc Triumph engine “rubber bumper” variety. The bumper was a change to meet regulations for export to the US car market. To some enthusiasts this was an ugly and unnecessary adornment to a much-loved traditional British sports car.

The Midget was an affordable little sports car that was “modern” for the 1970s. It was fun and straightforward. Nothing complicated. Eminently repairable. The car was made for the twisting and turning back roads of Somerset and Dorset. Those hidden single-track roads with grass growing down the middle and shaggy green hedges that overhang.

Both with the silky yellow one and the sharp black one, I had a couple of incidents.

One was hurtling down a road with steep dirt banks on either side. Now, that’s fine when there’s plenty of visibility and the roads are dry. In this case the narrow lane, linking farms and villages was regularly plastered with mud. Cows were herded up and down the road on their way to and from milking. When applying a car’s brakes hard on a surface like that the results are likely to be not what you want. Slipping and sliding is going to happen, and it did.

My cherished yellow MG hit the bank and didn’t stop immediately. It slid along the road on its side slowly soaking up its energy and leaving me watching the sky go by through my side window. Not a nice feeling. As the car stopped, hanging on my seatbelt, my adrenaline kicked in. I was out of there like a shot. Pushing the driver’s door up into the air, I climbed out and surveyed the damage.

Both my pride and the car were wounded. Fortunately, not as much as I feared. Surprisingly, the car was relatively easy to push back onto its four wheels. It drove without a problem. What was a problem was a nasty rash of scrapes and piles of mud. Yes, I was lucky. Such an “incident” with a soft-top car could have been extremely unpleasant if the car had gone all the way over. My MG didn’t have a roll bar.

Another incident that was a real heart stopper happened on a motorway. This time it was unavoidable. Driving west on the M40, late one night, what I remember is a bright light to my left. This was the car’s headlamp beam reflected off a running deer that bounced off the car’s wing. There was an instantaneous flash and then a loud thump. At the time I had no idea what I’d hit. In shock, I slowed and stopped the car on the motorway hard shoulder. It was a cold drab wet night. Much the worst of times to be stuck on the side of a motorway. I got out and walked around the car. Despite the drama of the event the car looked relatively unscathed. A dented left wing.

By the time I’d stopped I was well ahead of the place where the impact took place. My instinct was that I needed to tell someone what had happened. Maybe there was a dead or dying animal on the embankment way back behind me. Seeing the car was drivable, I set off to find a telephone. No mobile phones then. Eventually, I got to inform the police and get the car patched up to continue my journey westward to Cheltenham.

There was a lot of enjoyable happy driving of my little sports car. However, I have to say, for all the fun a 1970s MG Midget is not a good car to have any kind of serious incident. Those were different times and I have been lucky.