The salesman at the Harley store the other day asked me if my Bonneville
“was an English Triumph?” I answered “as far as I know,” while rolling m eyes,
while a third man, stage left giggled at his question. Of course Triumphs are
English, just as Harleys are American, and Hondas are Japanese. Then he thought
for a minute, put his e-cig in his pocket, took out a generic brand cigarette,
lit it and after a few drags, said “I meant an old one.” Then tried to cover up
by engaging me in enduring all the misquoted facts he knew about English bikes
from 50 years ago. He had lost me at the first dumb question, really lost me
when lighting up, but the following me around now was bothering me. All I go
there for is to pick up the free newspapers, but I did see the new Street
500-blackest bike I ever saw. No chrome anywhere, helps keep the price down.
Normally I would have asked questions, and for a ride, but I could see where it
would have gone, and 15 minutes would have turned into 2 hours, which would have
turned into, well you know. But it got me thinking of the English, old English,
to me meaning the 60’s and 70’s, when BSA was gasping for life, Matchless,
Vincent, and other proud names were gone, and Triumph went on strike, the final
nail in its coffin. But never out of business, read the story of John Bloor and
his resurrecting it, a true success story. But I thought of Bristol Motors out
on Route 22, which sold MG and Triumph cars, not the same company as the
motorcycles, and my mind took me back 40 years.
Set in lovely North Plainfield, it was among the many obnoxious businesses
that lined both sides of the road. Unlike today where we have auto parks, this
one was stuck in among store fronts, and stuck out because of it. Lines of
shiny new MG’s, all with black convertible tops, as only a true sports car
should be, lined up. Bright blues, British racing green, and reds, an
occasional yellow, and the color of my Midget-butterscotch. Colors today not
found on any car, never saw a grey sports car have you? Small cars that you
folded yourself into, and once inside had lots of leg room, lots of shoulder
room, and lots of headroom. And all without putting the top down, which
literally opened up a whole new world of driving. And sitting low, you saw the
lower parts of cars you didn’t while in your dad’s Rambler. Your line of sight
was the belt line of any other car, and you could be missed in traffic. They
had to be small, gas was expensive in England, 77 cents a gallon, and MPG was
important to them. But more important was the fun of driving, going around
corners, hearing the exhaust singing to you, and feeling the wind everywhere.
All while giving the sensation of going much faster than you really were. Not a
bad thing, but not a car to race against any GTO, SS396, or your father’s
Oldsmobile. But it had an intrinsic quality called fun, and you didn’t have to
go fast to do it. And just as long as they stayed together, the fun was to be
had.
MG stands for Morris Garages, and their motto was “Safety
Fast.” The fast catching any young man’s attention, the safety maybe putting
him to sleep. Like the girl with a nice personality, she had to be fast or have
good looks to if a second date was in order, and the MG had both. Light weight
meant better handling, better acceleration from a smaller motor, and better
braking-not breaking. And they went around corners faster, and gave the
illusion of speed, even when doing the speed limits. And many muscle cars
learned that when being passed by one in the corners. Straight line
acceleration is fun, but it takes mucho horsepower to be fun. Here was a small
package, that all you needed was corners to have fun with. And fun they were.
But the key word to driving one was fun. Somehow you found yourself smiling
when just sitting in one. Once started, with its burbling exhaust, it sounded
cool, like a bratty kid, you could corner him, but never catch him. And even
shifting through the gears felt good, looking through the short windshield at
the three wipers it took to clear it, it was that short, but also that wide.
Fun could be had reading the owner’s manual, and guessing what the English meant
when they spoke of dropping the head, checking under the bonnet, or placing the
tyre among spares in the boot. It all added up to a fun driving experience. It
was fun, funny, and like a good friend, you were willing to look over the warts
on his nose, or his BO because he was your friend. Such was the MG experience.
Gone after 1980. RIP Morris Garages.
But back to fun. I like to ask people “what good is fun if you
don’t enjoy it?” And they think I am crazy, and in any relationship, it helps
if you are the crazy one. But do you have fun like you used to? When is the
last time you turned up the volume in a stereo store just to hear what it
sounded like? Or ran a test drive car through the gears? Or went into a corner
too fast, scaring the salesman? All things we used to do, and some we still
do. They are fun, don’t hurt anyone, but to the PC attitude we are heathens to
their culture. When really they are to ours. How many of their kids will
remember the good time in mom’s minivan? Or the time she did a burnout? Or
turned up the stereo so loud she couldn’t talk on her cell? Rebels all, just no
fun in it any more. So I ask again,”what good is fun if you don’t enjoy
it?”
And being a Christian, you should have more fun than anyone. We
are perpetual kids, we have a loving and forgiving Father, and we know how the
story ends. We win. Shouldn’t that make you happy, isn’t winning fun? Yet of
late I encounter too many Christians who all seem to belong to “Our Lady of
Perpetual Sorrows,” and live like it. They live like they are dead, and are
overwhelmed by the economy, kids, job, their spouses, and anything that comes
there way. A good night is when the Padres don’t lose, so you can see their
plight. They have given their lives to Jesus, just haven’t given their life to
Him. They read their Bible, pray, go to church, but are miserable. They aren’t
letting Jesus into their lives, and wonder what is happening, I’m doing all the
right things. All except following Him, letting Him be Lord. They are like
Jesus says, “why do you call me Lord, but don’t do what I asked?” They are
missing the trust it takes to enter a corner too fast, hoping the car is better
than their driving. They live and drive with the cruise on, and live life like
Goldilocks, not too fast, not too slow. Not too soft, not too hard. Don’t
share Jesus, I wish I had. They are their own gospel, feeling safe and secure,
but never seeing all God has to offer. When it comes time to share testimonies,
they don’t have any. For the best testimonies include when God saved you from
yourself, a situation, something you couldn’t do yourself. They miss the
miracles, but mostly they miss the fun. And knowing Jesus is fun! And it
should be. Joy unspeakable!
My friend Lance used to say “there is no thrill like driving an
English sports car.” Top down, wind in your face, hair blowing. Hearing the
engine, smelling the oil burning off the manifold. Feeling the road. Using all
your senses, heightened to the point of exhileration. Sounds like a life in
Christ to me. So start living in Him, maybe religion is for old people after
all. Get personal. I see this orange 1980 MGB for sale, less than $10k, all
reconditioned. Oh for a test drive.
Don’t live your live wishing you had taken that last drive.
Enjoy life, have fun. Jesus did and still does. Just think, why would anyone
want to be like me, and ask yourself where Jesus is in your life? What is your
witness? Do you even want to be like you? Then after asking, trust and obey.
Watch as fun enters your relationship, and others want to hear about this Jesus
in you. He did all the suffering so you could have all the joy. Come down off
your cross, and share His victory, and enjoy it. Have fun, some are just dying
to have fun, He died so you can. Safety fast. Maybe I will take a ride in that
MG, just don’t tell my wife.
love with compassion,
Mike
matthew25biker.blogspot.com