Summer Adventure in the Garage

The little orange car was done. Like all British cars of the time, it leaked oil as a way of marking its territory. I imagine the little MG lifting its leg when no one was looking and spraying a teacups worth of 10-30 weight on the driveway. Over a period of time, and with many leg lifting's, the sump was emptied of lubricant.

Once the oil was gone, the inevitable catastrophe was soon to follow. Now it's not technically the absence of the lubricating property of the oil that caused the engine failure. It was the excessive heat buildup that made the rotating and reciprocating bits grow in size until all the available space was occupied by those very same rotating or reciprocating bits. This led to scuffing in a main bearing. The scuffing led to galling. The galling led to a spun bearing. At this point, internal engine power was overtaken by internal friction. Then the engine failed.

I wasn't there when the great failure occurred. I imagine it was rather anticlimactic--no great cloud of smoke or billowing flames, just a silent engine refusing to respond as my brother turned the key in the ignition.

The car was my older brothers. He and the MG were not a good match. It was a 1964-1/2MG Midget Mark III. He was a 1959 model young man. What he was not was sensitive to the needs of machinery built by people stranded on an island and with a limited understanding of the magical and mysterious arts of fluid hydraulics, electrical conductivity and metallurgy. My brother now had to think about what type of transportation would better suit his needs.

My father had come to a different solution for his automotive efforts. He always had a Morris Minor to work on. And they always needed working on. British automotive engineering is something that great nation has much to be modest about. BMC cars from the 50s and 60s in particular are great toys for tinkerers, but not very practical for mortal humans. Dad was always a grand tinkerer, more out of need than desire, but he enjoyed it. And he passed that joy on to me, the younger son.

After the orange car was pushed into the garage and the bonnet removed, Dad and I noticed a similarity between the engine of the MG and the two used Morris Minor engines sitting under the workbench in queue awaiting their turn on the rebuild rack. They were the same underpowered, tractor-based, oil-spewing cast iron lumps we found inside the Midget.

A little research cleared the mystery. The origin of the MG name starts in the 1920s. A coach builder in Abingdon made sporting cars built on the chassis of the more sedate Morris automobiles. The name this enterprise took was 'Morris Garages', or more briefly, MG.

The relationship and shared parts bins between between Morris and MG brands continued for five decades.

After a few simple checks, my father explained the condition of the car and what would be required to repair it to my brother. I quietly stood in the shadows on the garage taking it all it. Brother had no interest in the effort or the result. He quickly sold the sad little car to Dad for a few hundred dollars, recovering most of his initial investment.

Dad's plan was to rebuild the MG and offer it back to big brother for the cost of the repairs required. It was summertime and I had time to kill, so when he asked if I wanted to help I jumped at the chance. By that time I have several hundred hours of experience working on the various Morris cars that had passed through the garage. Since recently learning of their shared lineage, I was excited to work on the exotic looking two-seater.

It was a great summer adventure in the garage. In grease-stained jeans, with the smell of gasoline fumes boiling off our poor man’s part cleaning sink, I was having the time of my life.

The MG was perfectly sized for the cramped garage workshop. Fluids were drained. Wires were disconnected. Nuts and bolts were removed. The engine-transmission assembly was hoisted from the engine bay with a simple ratcheting chain comealong attached to a 4x4 post placed cross ways over the ceiling joists.

Dad knew what every part of the car did and how it did it. As each part was removed, its purpose and method was described. My occasional questions were answered immediately and with a tone of sure confidence. The disassembly process was painstakingly methodical and immensely instructional. When he came across something that he did not recognized, which was rare, we discussed it as peers. I now suspect that was his way of allowing me to feel like I was contributing.

The bare engine block was sent to the big city for machining. To most, Merced is not really that big of a city, but to a fourteen year old kid who use a skateboard as primary transportation, it was surely that. Several days passed. The iron lump appeared soon enough and the reassembly began. New cardboard packaged gasket sets, tubes of sealants, piston rings and the rest were laid out for inspection. But first we had to clean. The gleaming parts were scrubbed once again in the gasoline filled pan. It’s a wonderful solvent if the risk of self-immolation is not a concern. Once air dried on the back patio, assembly could begin.

The parts went together much easier than they came apart. The absence of fourteen years of greasy dirt buildup was the reason.

Soon the engine-transmission assembly was back on its way to its proper home in the car. We tightened what was loose, filled with fluid those reservoirs that needed filling, trickled a few drops of clean gasoline into the twin side draft SU carbs and waited. One final check all around was required.

“Wheels chocked?”

“Securely,” I replied.

“Is the fire extinguisher ready?”

I kept my replies short and on point. “By my side.”

“Do you want to turn the key?”

“No Dad. ...in case something goes wrong.”

It started on the second try. Blue-grey smoke belched from the exhaust pipe as the oil in the combustion chambers burned off.

The little 948cc engine soon settled into a steady 850 RPM chug. It was a long final day installing the engine. The sun had set several hours before, but we were ready to give it a go.

After a quick look outside the garage to check for any unforeseen conditions, Dad continued. “It’s too dark for a long drive on the fresh rebuild. It would be safe if I only went around the block. Want to ride with me?”

I was safely belted in the right seat with the door shut before he had a chance to change his mind.

In the open air with the top down, the little sports car was magical. Even at low speed, you felt like you were doing something dangerous. Sounds were crisper. Smells from both inside and outside of the car were more aromatic. You sat low to the ground, very low. It felt like you could drive under other cars with ease.

The trip around the block was too short for me. We pulled into the garage and made a detailed check for anything that might be amiss. All appeared to be fine, so we put the tools away, washed our greasy hands and called it a night.

The next morning, while riding my skateboard on the sidewalk in front of the house, I noticed my brother and father were having a discussion in the garage. My brother returned to the house as my father walked down the driveway towards me.

“He does not want the car back,” Dad said. Brother realized it was time to move on. He had not been blessed with Dad's automotive tinkering abilities. And move on he did, to big sturdy American cars with V-8 engines and back seats.

My heart sank. I knew that the little MG would have to be sold and I’d never get to ride in it once it was gone.

With a graceful underhand toss, Dad threw the small key ring in a high arc to me. “That makes it’s yours.”