Home Is Where The Car Is

After a day-plus running around Rochester trying to catch up on things undone and preparing for our return to the camp, we finally headed back to the Adirondacks.  Mary and I are at a stage in life where we sometimes have to be where we need to be, but most of the time, we can be where we want to be. A few responsibilities tie us to Rochester, NY, but not so many that we need to spend much time in the city.

But this time is different.  My baby is going to its new home.

Interesting how family and friends provide motivation.  The MG Midget had not run for two years, and run poorly before that.  Our son David reminded me that somewhere back in the mists of time, I promised him that he could drive the car when he turned 30.  Did I really say that? And guess what birthday he celebrated in June.

Be careful!

With the helpful input of Jim, soccer, skiing and brewing buddy, Mary provided the carburettor rebuild kit that was sorely needed for the car.  And Jim also arranged for Mechanic Mark, mutual soccer pal, to work on the car. It is good to admit one’s limitations, and to be aware that most antique cars end their useful lives on blocks with owners who are sure they’re going to get to what needs to be done...someday.  John Fogerty must have an old car, because he knows, “Someday never comes.”

There goes my baby....

But Mark puts no credence in that Fogarty tune, and after a significant amount of work on the little English car, informed me that the throttle shaft was worn, providing and illicit path for air.  In that condition, the car would never run properly. He suggested that the best resolution would be to use his spanners under the bonnet to remove the carburettors and send them to Joe Curto, the Wizard of Carburation in Queens, NY so that the petrol and air marriage could be salvaged.  

“Make it so!”

Isn't it beautiful?
Can you feel the power?
(Duct tape removed for photo.)

Shortly thereafter, with new bushings in place, and with Jim’s extra hands, Mark used a homemade jig to balance the dual SUs and provide a functional automobile.  Tuesday evening, Mary dropped me at Mark’s place, and I was soon riding with the top down, all around the cop town. The engine purred, running better than it ever had.  Thanks, Mark!

The gold dot is the new bearing in the bushing.

The Inspection appointment was bright and early the next morning, leaving no room for error.  With fingers crossed, the car was delivered so that anxious moments could be spent in the waiting room.  It was the will of the Antique Auto Gods that the mechanic in charge would be someone who would tell, me after applying the sticker, “Ya know, I used to have one of these…”  Of course the car is completely proper for the roads of New York State, but it never hurts to have one of the brotherhood passing judgement.

Big relief provided by a little sticker.

Jim’s assessment of the impending journey was “Grumpy Old Men” meets “Route 66.”  The former is exactly on the mark, but the latter might more aptly be “Dumb and Dumber.”  No matter. It was a beautiful day, even if slightly warm, the MG was ready, and we were soon headed east down Rt. 104.  And by ready, it means that we had a box of wimpy tools in the boot, WD-40, duct tape, a pair of Hitchhiker’s-Guide-to-the-Galaxy towels behind the seats, driving hats, a cigar for Jim (Don’t burn the damn upholstery!), and a good-luck baby blanket that once belonged to my daughter.  Might have been a good idea to check the inflation of the spare. Oops!

Copilot at rest stop.
Old guys need a lot of rest.

There was no rain, and on and off cloudiness, so Jim’s chrome dome was to attain a lovely shade of golden brown.  A liberal coating of SPF 2000 maintained the current condition of my blotchy complexion. Passing through Webster, NY, it occured to me that the affectionate moniker assigned to me by high school buddies was never more appropriate.  I turned to Jim and announced, “Here you see a squirrel in his natural habitat. An MG!”

You know why old men grow beards?
It's to cover turkey necks.

We hoped the journey would be without too much adventure, even though the potential was high for international intrigue.  Yes, we’d be leaving from Greece, and be passing through Mexico, Rome, and even Utica* by mistake. It’s no fun to share the Thomas E. Dewey Thruway with tractor trailers and oversized loads.  In fact, a stunt driver could certainly take the MG from one side to the other of a big rig by going under the trailer. I didn’t want to attempt that. I’m only a stunted driver.

This is what Mexico looks like.

There were numerous other places on the way we’d never been to before.  One in particular piqued our interest. As we passed the sign for the town (with the name on both sides), we both exclaimed, “Coonrod!”  Certainly the winner of the most uniquely named hamlet on the trip.

You've always wondered what it looked like, haven't you?
Actually, the miles near the end are very nice curvy roads,
perfect for the MG.
And the top-down version of AC came on
when we passed through the shadows of the trees lining the road.

We stopped for a fine lunch at Buck’s Restaurant, just shy of Rome.  As is the rule when stopping at a new road house, the people on both sides of the bar were very nice.  We spoke of the uneven distribution of rainfall - “Seneca Lake got 7 inches in 4 hours, and we only got a sprinkle.” - the merits of different brews - “I’m havin’ another Blue.” - relative age - “Well I’m a year older than you two.” - and the merits of high school romance - “We’ve been together for 47 years,” which coincidentally is the age of the MG.  A good year for long term commitments.

C'mon in!

Curbside appeal provided by the neon beer signs.

The turkey club on marbled rye was quite good, even if Jim’s clam strips were not up to his standards.  

“You want the fries?  C’mon, I know you want the fries.  Our doctors all tell us the same things, but we’re not dead yet.”  Difficult to resist a philosophically determined bartender with a lock of stylishly swooped red-mauve hair.  But I stood my ground and only ate ¾ of them.

We had intended a more northern route, but Jim’s phone died.  Since he was unable to pilot a non-iPhone, it was left to the driver to consult Google Maps and pick the route while steering and shifting.  I’ll not be getting another edge-sensitive Samsung when replacement time comes. We found ourselves in Utica, and wandering the back streets while trying to get back across the Mohawk and onto familiar terrain.

Welcome to Utica!

But the MG's SGS (serendipitous guidance system) appeared to be working just fine, since we found ourselves turning down a back street that ended at the Saranac Brewery.  Pity that there was still an hour left in the journey or we would have rewarded ourselves for putting our trust in the MG.

Up into the hills roared the mighty 1275cc engine.  After climbing over 1000 feet, we pulled into the camp without any mechanical issues, and thankfully without altercations with large mammals.  We’d travelled 185 miles through the empire of the Empire State.

"A missed opportunity!"

Upon our arrival, Jim sent a text to Mark to let him know about the journey we’d just completed.

“You did WHAT?” was Mark’s reply.  Evidently we had faith in his abilities beyond his expectations.

Lookin' good!
New with the old.

There you have it.  The MG is happy in its new Adirondack home, awaiting the arrival of my son for his promised drive.

But I’d rather not have made this trip.  

The MG originally belonged to my brother, whose life ended in a different car.

Lord knows, blood is thicker than wine.

Lord knows, we’re only here a short time.

And Lord knows, it’s pointless to ask why, why, why,

But I know, nineteen is too young to die.

But rather than dwell on that which can’t be changed, it’s better to enjoy the artifact that always reminds me of him, and remember the good times we had in it, many decades ago.

Even so, one can’t help but wonder about what might have been if things had been different. Maybe I could have been the passenger on such a trip to some other destination.  And providing the rear wheel wells wouldn’t bottom out, we could fly down the road with Jim precariously perched on the folded-down top, cigar ashes flying into the wind.

There's an image to bring a smile to all.

*Utica was a Roman settlement on the north coast of Africa near where Carthage once stood in modern day Tunisia.  There was some concern about the cooling performance of the MG during Arab Summer, now that Spring has passed.