CarPort

You’re probably thinking “Edsel.” But while Ford’s “E-car” was an attempt to fill holes in FoMoCo’s product line, with models priced both above and below Mercury it was competing instead with Pontiac and Buick, a strategy that with hindsight seems incredibly foolhardy. Rather, it was Mercury itself that was Olds’s competition – the two cars had been priced opposite one another from Mercury’s birth in 1939. But Mercury had outsold Olds only one year, 1953, and then by fewer than 1,000 cars. For 1959, Ford decided to pull out all the stops and build a better Oldsmobile.

We generally think of the 1959 Mercury as an evolution of the 1957 and 1958 models. With ’57’s cove accents bulked up to rocket ship proportions, the ’59 appeared a bit bizarre. Actually, as the late Ford product planner Richard Stout explained in his book Make ‘Em Shout Hooray, the ’59 Merc was all new, “From Road to Roof” as the catalog put it. In four series, Monterey, Montclair, Park Lane, and Station Wagons, Mercury sold from $2,832 to $4,206. Wagons were all of pillarless hardtop design, both two- and four-door, a concept dating from ’57. Engines came in three sizes, 312, 383 and 430 cubic inches, and four stages of tune, 210, 280, 322 and 345 bhp.

All GM cars were new for ’59, a welcome relief from the excesses of 1958. Oldsmobile had three series, Dynamic 88, Super 88 and Ninety-Eight. Wagons, only in four-door “post” configuration, were offered in Dynamic and Super 88 trim. Prices ranged from $2,837 to $4,366. There were but two engines, 371 and 394 cid, and three stages of tune, 270, 300 and 315 bhp. The 1959 GM cars were distinctive with Panoramic windshields and wrap-around rear windows, but Mercury had its own version of these, a windshield reaching up into the roof and a rear light wrapped around to the rear doors. Interestingly, Merc gave this treatment only to sedans, while Olds reserved it for hardtops. Mercury had no counterpart to Olds’s Trans-Portable radio or Autronic Eye automatic headlight dimmer, but Merc’s parallel wipers cleared a much larger area than the Olds “clap-hands” arrangement.

Despite Oldsmobile’s X-braced “cow belly” frame, Mercury had more passenger room, larger door openings and greater luggage capacity. Ford had built a better Mercury, but the public was unconvinced that it was a better Oldsmobile. Ford outsold Chevy in 1959, but that popularity didn’t extend to the medium-price segment. When the totals were tallied, it was your father’s Oldsmobile, outselling Mercury by better than two to one.

…or so it seemed. After World War II, Britain’s motor industry faced an edict of “Export or Die!” The island nation needed hard currency, and exporting automobiles was a good way to make a buck. The Austin Motor Company got with the program, and by 1947 was the top-selling import in America. The A40 Devon and Dorset models developed a certain cachet, especially in coastal markets, and the cars were marketed to an upscale clientele (note how the Austin has been stretched in this ad to make it appear larger).

Leonard Lord, head of Austin, felt they could do better with a larger car targeted toward the Yankee crowd. He directed his designers to come up with trendy convertible appealing to American tastes. The result was the A90 Austin Atlantic, using a 2.6-liter version of their ohv four-cylinder engine, few with twin carburetors for 90 bhp. A streamlined body followed Italian cues, and a bright interior featured column shifting of the four-speed gearbox. The winged “A” was Austin’s emblem, and the Atlantic proudly displayed two of them on the front fenders. A large boot included an indoor fuel filler, probably verboten today.

In order to create some buzz in the colonies, Austin PR director Alan Hess staged a week-long campaign at Indianapolis Motor Speedway in April 1949, setting 63 endurance and speed records, albeit in categories no one had thought to contest before. However, what the Brits thought Americans would like was not what they bought. Selling at $2,995, the Atlantic was overpriced, and even a 1950 reduction of $500 merely brought it in range with the Buick Super, arguably much more car.

Sales literature was revamped for the U.S. market, putting left-hand drive cars in place of RHD home market illustrations, but some US-specific pieces showed whitewall tires, all but unknown in the UK. A “Sports Sedan,” basically the convertible with a fixed hard top, was introduced in 1951, but by that time the Atlantic’s trans-Atlantic market was all but abandoned, although the Devon’s successor A40 Somerset continued to sell in decent numbers. Of 7,981 Atlantics produced, only about 350 were sold in the intended market. The effort was not a total loss. The Atlantic’s engine soon found a home in a car the Yanks liked better: The Austin-Healey 100-4.

Although Austin Devons were commonplace in Connecticut when I was growing up, I never, ever saw an Atlantic, despite there being a dealer not 60 miles away. The car headlining this piece was sold a couple of years ago by Hyman Ltd. Classic Cars in St. Louis. They don’t currently have one in stock, but Mark Hyman, whom we thank for providing photos, is partial to unusual cars, so check their website periodically. Otherwise, you’ll have to make do with the only Atlantic most Americans saw: the Dinky Toy version.

I’m not in the habit of naming my cars, but other members of my family grew up with this tradition and have their own nicknames for my vehicles, often derogatory. Such was “Beluga,” for a Chevy that was deemed whale-like, despite the fact that Beluga is a white whale and my car was blue.

It was purchased out of necessity, after my ’69 Buick met its end while parked on the street. I needed a car in a hurry, and looked, as was my custom at the time, for one that was old enough to be unusual and new enough to be logistically supportable. I ended up with a one-owner 1970 Chevrolet Impala Sport Sedan, the four door hardtop model.

Chevy’s Impala, you’ll remember, started as a prestige model of Bel Air in 1958, then became the top line Chev in ’59. By 1966 it had faded to second string status as the new marquee car, Caprice, became a full series. In the final year of a design dating from 1965, the 1970 Impala had seating for six and a huge trunk large enough to take two adults, three kids, two cats and a sailboard on a two-week vacation. It was not lavishly equipped. While the 350 cid version of Chevy’s venerable small block V8 gave it plenty of poke, it had the aluminum 2-speed Powerglide transmission (truth to tell, it really didn’t need more than two speeds), power steering and manual brakes. No air conditioning, no cruise control, no power windows, and only an AM radio, which I promptly replaced with an AM/FM cassette unit, state of the art for the day (1986).

It had reasonably high mileage (113,000), but had been well maintained by its engineer owner. He had freshened it with a new paint job in the original two tone blue – except that the roof shade was a bit too brilliant and it stuck out like a sore thumb. It was a New England car, so I eventually had to have the rusty frame welded up (twice) and it had new engine mounts and a front transmission seal. The springs had begun to sag, so I treated it to a new set. And in four years and another 50,000 miles that was about it. At one point I replaced the valve cover gaskets, and in contrast to the Buick, which was full of sludge at 40,000 miles, the Chevy’s valve covers were so clean at 150,000 that you could have eaten off them. Trust me, high mileage cars can be way better than low mileage cream puffs.

Eventually, as the kids grew into adolescents, we traded up to a more utilitarian vehicle, and Beluga, then so faded it was best photographed in the shade, was sold to a colleague at work. I considered the whale metaphor rude – the 1972-76 Impalas were much larger, while the real whale, though a bit more compact, was the 1991-96 Caprice, which ironically revived an Impala SS model. Moreover, the name has recently been Mulallied for Chevy’s current flagship. Jill never liked my Impala, too large, too hard to handle. Before I found the Chevy, we had looked at a number of imported cars, one of which was a Peugeot diesel. Jill fell in love with it, so the next day we went back and
bought it.

If you should wander around your neighborhood today, wherever you may be, you’ll probably see some driveways full of cars and others that are empty. Some of you are hosting friends and family for a Thanksgiving feast, others are their guests. The photo atop this item is from 55 Thanksgivings ago, with my Aunt Timmie’s ’49 Ford Six at left, my cousin Ben’s first car, a ’36 Ford convertible sedan at right. Ben later sold the Ford to his brother Woody, and bought a ’37 Ford convertible sedan, whose parts car became my first automobile.

Fifteen years later, the cousins’ cars were all imported, Ben’s Volvo 544 at left, then Woody’s Alfa Spyder, and two Volkswagens belonging to Cousin Becky and her husband Bob.

Family cars convene at all seasons of the year. In 1960, we see Dad, my sister Rosemary and me about to go to church on Easter Sunday in our Peugeot 403 (Mother was behind the camera). Just ten years later, Mother accepted a ride from me in my new Rover.

We often visited my cousins in New Jersey, where in March 1954 someone snapped my cousin George with Rosemary and the dog Frolic. Uncle Tom appears to be changing a tire on his Studebaker Conestoga, while on the right is one of several Jeep station wagons they owned through the years. I seldom saw my Aunt Emmy, because she lived in Florida. It seemed like every time she came north she had a new car, a Dodge station wagon in 1955, a new Plymouth three years later.

Postscript

Our driveway was (relatively) empty this Thanksgiving, as we enjoyed a 30-year tradition of dining with long-time friends Billie and Jeff and their daughter Corie in Mansfield, Massachusetts. The table was elegantly set when we arrived, and our feast was plentious. Outside, the cars in their driveway hinted that dinner was being served. We don’t always travel with a motorcycle in tow. Our son Edward had decided that the biking season was about over, and rode his Honda RVT 1000R from Boston. Anticipating darkness after dinner and the rain showers we encountered en route home, he loaded it for the final leg of the trip.

I doubt that I’ll be surfing the web in 2057, but if this item is still out there in cyberspace, I imagine people will marvel at what we drove a half century earlier. Those among us who are now children will enjoy telling their own offspring how the world was awash with SUVs like Suburbans and Honda Pilots, and how Honda came up with this quirky little box called the Element.

…you’re a Jet all the way, from your first cigarette to your last dying day. So wrote Stephen Sondheim and you remember the words because of Leonard Bernstein’s immortal score for West Side Story. Inspired by Nash’s very successful compact Rambler, Hudson’s Jet, new for 1953, was built on a 105-inch wheelbase, 14 inches shorter than the big Hudson Wasp, and weighed less than 2,700 pounds. Powered by a 202-cid version of Hudson’s L-head six, it could be ordered with Twin H-Power, the
dual carb setup offered on big Hudsons from 1952, which made it far more peppy than Rambler’s 85 hp engine. Starting price of $1,858 put it in Ford-Chevy territory, and about $150 cheaper than Rambler.

But where Rambler had a number of specialty body styles, station wagon, convertible and hardtop, the Jet came only as a two- or four-door sedan. While the Rambler was well-equipped, with radio and heater standard and upscale interiors, the Jet was rather plain. Legend has it that Hudson’s Chicago distributor, a dealer with considerable clout, was responsible for its somewhat ungainly proportions. He felt it should look rather like the 1952 Ford, and convinced Hudson brass to raise the roofline.

In any case, the Jet proved a disappointment from the outset. Although Rambler sales had ebbed from 1951’s high of nearly 70,000 cars, the small Nash’s 1953 tally of 31,778 was nearly 50 percent ahead of Jet’s 21,143 units. The Jet scored better than Henry J’s 17,400 cars (including 797 decorated as Allstates and sold by Sears Roebuck), but all the American compacts paled by comparison to the second year of the Aero Willys, which moved more than 41,000 cars.

For 1954, Hudson turned on Jet’s afterburners. There were now three series, Jet, Super Jet and a new top-of-the-line Jet Liner. The plain Jet was nearly devoid of trim and had a basic interior. A utility sedan with removable rear seat sought to rival Rambler’s compact wagon. Super Jets had side trim and more upscale interiors, while the Jet Liner was decorated to match the senior Hudsons, themselves given a Jet-like grille. Jet Liners also featured accented interiors. All Jets had capacious trunks, a centered fuel filler above the bumper, and offered the aforementioned Twin H, Hydra-Matic transmission, tinted glass, Long-Range radio, Weather-Control heater, and a choice of axle ratios.

Few Jets smoked, but all Jets were Jets until their dying day – Hudson didn’t pull a Mulally and rename them Commodores or Pacemakers in search of better sales. Unfortunately the dying day came at the end of 1954’s sad 14,224-car season. In the end, sales really didn’t matter – as all Hudsons became Nash clones the Jet was axed as unnecessary competition to the Rambler. Ironically, the new American Motors Corporation gave Hudson dealers their own version of the Rambler, and it turned out to be the most popular Hudson of 1955, the Cross Country wagon alone nearly outselling all 1954 Jets.

For lots more Hudson Jet info, check out Sarah Young’s HudsonJet.net.

…for outdoor shows in the northeastern US at least. Usually Hershey is considered the “closer,” although some small gatherings and tours continue as long as Indian Summer lasts. Shortly before Hershey, Jill and I took in the Connecticut Antique Machinery Association’s two-day Fall Festival at their museum grounds in Kent, Connecticut.

“Antique machinery” is a broad category, more so than the focus of the Historic Construction Equipment Association, whose convention we attended in July. Not surprisingly, many of the exhibits were agricultural, with tractors prominently on exhibit, from a phalanx of Ford Fergies to obscurities like a British-built Nuffield. Most popular single tractor was the Farmall F12, present in, count ’em, 1 – 2 – 3 – 4 – 5 examples.

Somewhat unusual was the vast array of “lesser tractors,” those of the household or small farming variety, names like Economy, Tiger, Beaver, Wheel Horse, even a Bolens brigade. Lawn mowers were not neglected, the luminary being a large Coldwell with water cooling.

Trucks featured among the exhibits, some specialized like this Mack-mounted well-drilling rig, others obscure like Crosley’s Jeeplike Farm-O-Road and its successor, the Crofton Bug.A real shocker was this Studebaker doodle bug with two-cylinder Onan power.

In large part, CAMA is about engines, large, medium and small, even jumbo in the case of huge industrial steam powerplants. Railroads use engines, and CAMA has two of those, Hawaiian Railway Co.’s narrow-gauge Number 5 steam loco and a Plymouth diesel switcher (made by Plymouth Locomotive Works of Ohio, no relation to the car). CAMA’s collection also includes a bevy of steam rollers.

Many exhibitors’ engines were strutting their stuff, like grinding corn, splitting wood, planing boards or just sawing wood, both crosscut and circular. For collectors and tinkerers there was a large flea market offering hand tools on up to heavy machinery like lathes and milling machines.

It was perfect autumn weather, and we enjoyed every minute. As shadows lengthened, we drove homeward through Kent village, stopping to browse at an outdoor book sale. At the curb was a distinctive shape that turned out to be a Triumph Mayflower, a nice end to a wonderful day.

A few years ago at Beaulieu Autojumble, I bought some interesting photos. Filed in a folder labeled “Checker” and stamped on the back as Ghia publicity pix, they showed four views of a very un-Checkerlike car. There was no nameplate visible, but a small checkered emblem on the grille exhibited a small section of the characteristic checkerboard pattern seen on many of Checker’s operating cabs.

The conventional wisdom at the time was that it was a design study for a stillborn new-generation Checker cab. In fact, the car, bodied by Ghia, had been described as a Checker in several publications at the time of its 1968 appearance at the Paris Auto Salon. Most writers were uncomplimentary about its looks.

It turned up again at the 1969 New York Auto Show, this time described as the Ghia Centurion. It was exhibited by Rowan Industries (page 2) (page 3) of Oceanport, New Jersey, manufacturers of electrical equipment and, at one point, a small electric car also styled by Ghia. The Centurion’s journey to New York was a bit convoluted.

In 1967, designer Tom Tjaarda was working for Giorgetto Giugiaro at Ital Styling, forerunner to Ital Design. Tjaarda, son of Dutch-born designer John Tjaarda, whose Sterkenberg designs were the inspiration for the original Lincoln-Zephyr, had been with Pininfarina before joining Giugiaro. His first project at Ital was drawings for the aforementioned Checker. Shortly thereafter, Tjaarda was summoned to Ghia to speak with its then-owner, Alejandro de Tomaso. He ended up being offered a job, and was assigned to the prototype model for the Checker project.

It seems the order had come in through de Tomaso’s brother-in-law, an American named Amory Haskell, head of Rowan Industries. The exact nature of the original commission has never become clear. Some in the Checker enthusiast community insist it was ordered by a Middle-Eastern sheik. Others think it was Ghia’s attempt to independently enter the limousine market after cancellation of the Ghia-built Imperial limos of 1957-1965. Still others believe it was Checker who coveted the limo trade. In any case, after appearing at the ’69 New York show, the car remained unsold, and was not claimed by Checker. It was subsequently used by a Rowan official named John Corson Ellis at his home in Florida.

Ellis finally traded the car for some land in Washington State. Not long afterwards, he died in a plane crash, along with fellow passenger Haskell. The new owner registered the car, using its original manufacturer’s certificate of origin, and drove it for a short time. By the mid-1970s, it had been relegated to storage under a tarpaulin, where it was discovered by a meter reader, who recognized it as an unusual vehicle and thought it might fetch an astronomical price on the collector market.

Unfortunately, the ensuing years had not been kind to it. Three coats of paint were beginning to chip off, and the interior, ravaged by northwestern dampness creeping past deteriorated door seals, was in an advanced state of decay.

Steve Contarino of Haverhill, Massachusetts, bought the Ghia Centurion in January 2006 and commenced a total restoration, undertaken by Martel’s Classic Carriages of Fitchburg. Completed in the summer of 2007, it now sports its original color of Cobalt Blue and an interior faithfully re-created in broadcloth to the correct pattern. It rides a Checker A-12 chassis, with 327 cid small block Chevy power and a Powerglide transmission. Unusually, and this was part of the original commission, it has “suicide” rear door on the left and a conventional forward-swinging door on the right – the rationale for this remains a mystery. It has aft-facing jump seats in the rear compartment, and a liquor cabinet with fine crystal decanter. The instrument panel has metric gauges, which suggests it was not intended for use in the U.S.

Some ask “If this was really a prototype, why did it never reach production?” The naysayers cite its unattractiveness, echoing the pundits of 1968-69. Perhaps, but beauty is in the eye of the beholder. To my eye the Centurion is a good deal more attractive than Checker’s standard A-12.

There’s a new Taurus at your local Ford store. You may have noticed, however, that it’s pretty much the same as the car Formerly Known as Five Hundred. Depending on whom you believe, the new Taurus has been improved in 300 or 500 ways from the old Five Hundred, itself based on the architecture of the Volvo S80, but the most noticeable difference is a new grille derived from the 1948 F1 pickup.

Apparently Alan Mulally, Ford’s new boss, is down on alliteration (Ford Focus, Fusion, Five Hundred…), but thinks heritage names like Taurus and heritage hallmarks like the grille will improve the company’s fortunes. Indeed, Taurus was a trendsetter when introduced for 1986. With smooth styling that made competitors Chevrolet Celebrity and Plymouth Caravelle look dowdy, it sold well from the start, by 1987 outselling the comparable Celeb models (Caravelle was off the low end of the chart). A sibling Mercury Sable presented a slightly more exotic outlook with full-width light bar in front and a modest hemline at rear. Station wagons accompanied both cars’ sedan models.

For 1992, both Taurus and Sable were given a new, slightly crisper, skin. This second generation Taurus, built through 1996, was the best-selling single model in the US auto industry. An SHO performance version, with Yamaha-tuned 220-bhp V6, was introduced for 1989, available only with 5-speed transmission, which limited sales. The second-gen SHO finally made an automatic optional in 1993, and sales doubled.

Hoping to recreate the buzz that accompanied the first Taurus, Ford pushed the enveloped with the third generation, rolled out for 1996. Unfortunately, the car displayed an obsession with ovals, both front and rear, and in the wagon nearly absurd. Apparently evoking the oval corporate logo, this icon pervaded the entire line, showing up in unlikely places like Escort dashboards. Thankfully the Sable eschewed the oval backlight, and sales did hold at 1995 levels, but the hoped-for surge never arrived. A fourth-gen for 2000 brought a nose- and tail-job to both Taurus and Sable. The magic, however, was gone, and Asian manufacturers had long since run away with the market segment. Whereas in 1986 only the Honda Accord directly competed with Taurus, today every Japanese and Korean manufacturer has a contender and the rather bland Toyota Camry is the best selling passenger car in the United States.

Some blame the Five Hundred’s tall stance for disappointing sales, though its owners, and those of the matching Mercury Montego, praise the driver visibility it provides. Henry J. Kaiser is said to have quipped that his star-crossed cars would have sold like hotcakes if they’d had a Buick badge. Whether retreading old names (the Montego has been redesignated “Sable“) can resuscitate Ford’s fortunes remains to be seen. So far it’s not encouraging: September sales of the new Taurus were 30 percent behind those of last year’s Five Hundred. If names controlled sales, wouldn’t Oldsmobile still be alive and well and selling Cutlass Supremes?

We go to Hershey in search of treasures, and some of us find them. This year, Joris, popular proprietor of PreWarCar.com, the intriguing website dedicated to pre-1940 cars and their knowledge, found a treasure of his own: a 1918 Canadian-built Model T roadster. Complete and running, albeit with burlap upholstery, Joris’s new car will make him the envy of all his fellow Dutchmen.

If you didn’t fancy a Model T there were plenty of other interesting cars available: a ’58 Ford Courier sedan delivery, a Lincoln Town Car pickup, a Mercury panel truck or a Ford dodgem car (for $5,250). You could buy lenses, carburetors, a 1947 Ford truck heater or a rim for your artillery wheels. Although Thursday started wet with ominous skies, on Friday things were brighter and on Saturday positively delightful.

Saturday’s car show is one of my weekend favorites. Unusual entries this year included a 1908 Alco, Jordan Speedboy, a Thorne Gas-Electric, and a Brewster Ford without a heart-shaped grille. I had never before seen a White Jesus, but was familiar with the one-off 1935 White sedan built for an influential company stockholder. The age limit for cars keeps creeping forward, so recent models like the Lincoln Versailles, a Ford Granada with a bustle, are starting to appear. Unless you grew up in California you may never have ridden a Crown Coach school bus, with underfloor diesel engine. And of course there were ’57 Chevys as far as the eye could see. All of them came under the steely eyes of discriminating judges. I took lots and lots of pictures.

I was struck by things that appeared in pairs: South Wind heaters, ’39 Chevy station wagons, Hemmings’ Japanese twins (which were neither sporty nor exotic) and separated-at-birth 1937 LaSalle and Cadillac.

Talk of the meet was Friday’s RM auction, where an unrestored 1911 Oldsmobile Limited made Duesenberg money at $1,650,000 (including buyer’s premium) and all early cars soared beyond estimates. Actually there was at least one bargain at the sale; a ’72 Chrysler Town & Country wagon sold for just $550.

By Saturday afternoon, cars were lining up to be loaded for transport to their new owners. The sad state of the US dollar meant that many of them were headed overseas.

Many applaud the paving of Hershey for putting an end to mud. Perhaps, but as a country boy I can’t get used to trudging the miles of tarmac, or the floodlights that burn all night. It’s like camping at Wal-Mart.

The years 1963 to ’68 are what I call my “sports car period.” That interval of youth might, for reasons I’m about to impart, also be called the “Spridget years.” During the winter of 1964-65, my younger sister bought a well-used Austin-Healey Sprite. One of first to reach our shores in 1959, the Sprite had belonged to a family friend who, in the process of logging about 100,000 miles, had spun a bearing. The car ran, and we drove it home, but required a complete engine overhaul (note I don’t say “rebuild” – it wanted rebuilding, but an overhaul was the best two kids could do in a weatherbeaten barn). She paid $75 for the car, and I’ve never doubted she got her money’s worth.

The Sprite was Donald Healey’s encore to the Austin-Healey, a marque we’ll explore more fully in the future. In contrast to the “Big Healey,” the Sprite was an entry-level sports car, retailing for $1,795 in the US. A bit basic, it lacked any external access to the “boot” and was short on weather protection. Powered by a twin-carburetor 948 cc version of the venerable A-series British Motor Corporation engine, developed for the 1951 Austin A30, it was built on a monocoque chassis with independent coil front suspension and quarter elliptics at the rear. The Brits named it “frog eye” for its bulging headlights, sometimes known as “bug eye” abroad. The whole front clip served as the car’s hood or bonnet.

In 1961, BMC came out with a MkII version of the Sprite. Less endearing, having lost its frog eyes, the MkII was more practical with an opening boot, sliding plexiglass side curtains and close-ratio transmission. Coveting the fun of my sister’s Sprite, I bought a used MkII in the summer of 1966. It was my only car for about 15 months, by which time I had also acquired a boat. Since the Sprite wouldn’t tow the boat and since I was becoming paranoid from the lack of respect shown by drivers to a small black sports car, I overreacted and bought a Cadillac. With sanity restored, I replaced both the Caddy and the Sprite with a new Volvo the following spring.

BMC followed the MkII Sprite with an MG Midget version, reprising a prewar name with sporting heritage. The Midget had a full rear bumper, soon adopted for the Sprite, a unique grille and the same plastic sidecurtains. In 1968, a MkIII Sprite brought roll-up windows and was accompanied by a similar MkII Midget – thus the nickname “Spridget.” BMC had become British Leyland and their contract with Healey ended in 1969, so the last models were called simply “Austin Sprite.” The Midget continued into 1979, by which time it had rubber bumpers, headrests,a one-person top, “safety switch” dashboard and a Triumph engine.

Although its time with me was brief, my Spridget was faithful. Amazingly, even Joseph Lucas behaved himself, whether in sunshine or in the pouring rain. It was, without a doubt, the most fun of all my cars and, by my calculation, cost the least to own.