Someone has to come clean — someone has to spill the beans ¨— someone has to fall on their sword
Read on and be warned. You may well recognise some of the following symptoms in yourself and get help before it is too late. There may be some type of support group that will stop you spending all your money. The fact that you read this magazine is a dangerous sign.
Hear my story — I like old cars. There, I have said it out loud. I like old cars. I love their uniqueness, their curves, their outrageous design features, their sound, their individuality in a world of mass produced, bland, sensible, aerodynamically designed, fuel efficient, plastic blobs. Go on, sit out on a busy road in a deckchair and watch the sea of blah driving past.
They all look the same. Then suddenly something else will go past. It can be British, American, Italian, Australian or even Japanese, but it is old. It is unique and it is cool.
Share the Addiction
I don’t know where this thing about cars came from. My grandfather was a mechanic and loved old Rovers, but no one else that I knew was into cars. When I was a kid in England I remember riding in his vehicles. No one else had fold-down picnic tables and central armrests. I loved the smell, the ride, the space. It only got worse as I got older.
Our first house in New Zealand, 1972 — my bedroom looked out on the road. Each morning at about 7.30 a dark purple 1956 Chevrolet four-door sedan burbled past, its youngish owner using it as everyday transport. I could hear it coming, and my eyes followed its lines past our house every day. One day, I thought. One day. If you share my addiction you know what I mean. This is how it starts.
Student days, marriage, house, kids and mortgage meant that the next 20 years saw a run of very ordinary, even sometimes embarrassing cars, come and go. I bought car magazines and always enjoyed seeing cool cars. I remember one of the teachers at high school had an MGB, and the deputy head drove a very sporty Alfa Romeo. I could stare at them from my classroom, dreaming. Later, someone I knew owned a TR7 and let me drive it. Slowly but surely the spider was drawing me into the web. Like a possum caught in headlights the next stage of the disease was beginning to manifest itself. You know what it is — I had to own one.
Fortunately my wife was okay about it. She quite liked classic cars herself. I reasoned (quite successfully, I have to add) that we only needed one sensible car. As long as it was a daily driver, I could own a classic. We went looking. I wanted small and sporty to start with. First look was a Spitfire. More bog than steel and a pig to drive. It was red and cute, but no thanks. I may have been starry-eyed, but I’m not stupid.
Next one we saw was an MG Midget, a real early one from 1961. No door handles on the outside — no windows (removable plastic side screens) — and a chrome luggage rack. I was in love. If I was the Starship Enterprise then my defence shields were down, and the gravitational pull of classic car ownership was dragging me in. I was powerless to resist. The disease had reached its next stage. It drove well. It looked good. Not much rust. Old English White and a reluctant seller who cried when we drove it away. Tears are always a good sign, although I once cried with relief when I finally sold my dog of a Hillman Hunter — you would have too if you owned it.
Fuelling the Passion
I drove the MG home in the middle of winter with the roof off. Blasting over Auckland’s harbour bridge, hands and ears numbed to the point of frostbite but who cares? We loved it.
Friends and family are interesting though, aren’t they? Responses vary from “I’ve always wanted to buy something like this,” to “why bother” clearly reflected in their eyes, even if they are saying the right things. Who cares? The ‘chrome’ doesn’t peel off my badges in the sun. It’s real.
We had fun. I drove the Midget to work every day. I loved the pull start, the sound of the exhaust, the dash switch for indicators, the black interior and its looks. I bought books about them. I need to repeat that sentence — I bought books about them. Do not do this! Please save yourselves. It brings on the next stage of the disease. Books show pictures of totally original examples of your car. These are very dangerous pictures and should be banned.
You start to notice that the car you love has some alarming differences from those in the book. At first you can ignore it, determined to continue just enjoying your car. But it eats you inside. You can’t help yourself. You contact local parts suppliers and — even more dangerous — you go online shopping. You sometimes buy the wrong thing then wreck it trying to fit it. No refund possible. You see it as a challenge. A rare part drives you crazy. You have to have it.
I’ll tell you one story. On this MG one of my biggest challenges was the missing original dash-mounted window washer unit. This was pre-online shopping too. It was unique to this model (later Midgets had something different). I drove and phoned everywhere. I nearly gave up. Lying awake at night trying to figure out where I could get one. Could I carve one from wood? Finally, literally 10 minutes from home I found a local old Austin wrecker who had one. Apparently Austin A40s had the same unit.
Oh, the elation. You understand my joy but no one else cares. You can see their eyes glazing over as you tell them, they’re losing the will to live while you are talking.
The Quest for Originality
As the disease reaches the next stage you find yourself withdrawing from the world, hunting down parts, cleaning and restoring them, lovingly putting them on your car. The garage becomes your home. You start growling at people who disturb you. It’s addictive, each problem you solve, each part you find, there’s always something. You so want to tell someone. Like the time I found a set of the original air filters and could not close the bonnet once they were fitted. Then I realized the inlet manifold was the wrong one so I¦ — see I’m boring you again.
This stage is extremely addictive. You look at an area of the car that is wrong and it has to be fixed. I even cleaned up and resprayed the upper footwell area because it was covered in carpet glue from some previous idiot’s non-original workmanship. No one could even see it unless they hung upside down from the ceiling or lay on the ground with the doors open, looking up. But I knew it was there.
Why do we care? I know I am not alone. I know what you’re like. You decide to just clean up that little bit of rust, and end up with a complete nut-and-bolt concours restoration as your obsession takes hold. You can run but you can’t hide, I know that you’re out there. You’re just like me.
I have a DVD that could stop the disease right here. It’s called How to Make a Farm Ute out of a 1969 Mustang, it’s also available on selective other classics too (Censor’s note: these contain extremely disturbing images and graphic violence). I haven’t watched it. I can’t be cured. I digress. Back to the quest for originality.
This stage has another problem, too. It is expensive. You know it is. You already pay far more in car repairs anyway, because so much is worn out on your car. Doesn’t matter. ¨You stop buying clothes. You stop eating. You start to sell your own body parts. You sell your children. Priorities must be in order. Your car must be original. SAVE YOURSELF NOW, before you get hooked. This might help. It is a mathematical formula that I have designed.
RC = EC x 4. Or in words; Restored Cost = Estimated Cost multiplied by four.
You know it’s true. It’s at least four times more. I usually ignore my own formulae. It’s part of the disease. You ask a panel-beater to fix up that ‘minor’ rust you noticed. When he starts, you find that the entire front of your car is made up of bog, chicken wire, fibreglass, string, newspaper, window putty, rust and masking tape. It has also had a major frontal impact at some time. Then while it’s all apart you buy new gaskets for the headlights and, well, that chrome strip is a bit tired isn’t it?
Sound familiar? I always hope for that simple tidy-up. The non-pitted, non-rusted, bits-not-missing, not-as-serious-as-it-looks kind of repair. Sadly, sigh, RC=EC x 4.
The Partner Problem
It is this stage that brings another problem. You have to break the news of what you are doing to your partner. This is difficult and not without considerable danger. Pulling it off requires a lot of skill. It shows how far the disease has spread. I have some suggestions for you.
Quote prices without GST. Technically not a lie, and it gives you temporary spending advantages. You will be found out, but tomorrow is another day.
Always round down. Thus, $198 becomes $100 and $2998 becomes $2000. The rule here is that only the first number is significant. The bigger the numbers, the more you save in this way.
Quote the cost of parts only. This is often easy for us, as we source our own parts. No-one needs to know that it will take a team of mechanics working 24 hours a day a whole week to fit the part.
Alternatively, quote labour price only. The trick here is to buy the part a long time before fitting. By then, the bank will have sold off your furniture and the original purchase price is forgotten. You really are just paying for the labour. See, even I believe myself.
Describe the job as a safety issue. Acting lessons may be required. It can be particularly difficult to pull this one off if it is having the ashtray re-chromed or carpet replaced, but it can be done. A few technical terms thrown in will really help, but you must be convincing.
Talk about the investment potential of the car. Other cars depreciate. Yours does not. In fact it is going up in value. See how convincing this sounds? There is even some truth in this one if you pick the right car. Do not overuse. A demand to sell your car may be fired at you. We both know that you will never actually sell it, so the stand-off will be horrible.
The pay-back rule. Let your partner spend excessively on something. Then you can’t be denied. This is an excellent cloaking device but is very expensive, as you have to pay for both indulgences.
Don’t say anything. This is risky and should only be used if the job can be completed in a day. When does this ever happen on a classic car? Remember you will be noticed walking to work each day if the car isn’t working. The bank account will also show a trail that can be easily followed, and you will break down under interrogation. Use only in emergencies.
Lie. Not advisable. Death will be a welcome relief once you are found out.
See what this stage does?
Advanced Stages
Do not buy a classic car. Never read classic car magazines, don’t buy books. Don’t go to shows. It is your only hope.
There is only one stage to go now. One more phase of the disease. It’s spreading now. This phase is like a repeat cycle. You have finished your car. It looks great. You see another different type of car that you like. You keep thinking about it. You start to justify why you need to own one. You buy it. At this stage many sufferers hold on to the car they have. They end up with whole fleets of classic cars. They buy aerodrome hangars to house them in. It’s contagious. Fortunately, I do not have the cash or garage space for this, so I have managed to avoid such an advanced stage.
But I did catch the repeat phase. I sold the MG. Next was a Triumph Stag. I always liked them, and besides, we could fit all the kids in this one, not just one passenger. See how I justified that? Then I started all over again. I call it the three ‘R’s’ of classic car ownership; Rust, Repairs and Originality. So the last one starts with ‘O’, say it quickly and it sounds like an ‘R’. You know what I mean.
I did it all again. Made it original, all problems sorted, etc. Then it blew its head gaskets. Painfully expensive. Sold it, scared of a total motor overhaul. See how easy it is to justify again?
I did get a good price for it though (just like the MG). Now, what to buy next?
There is no cure. A Toyota Corolla just does not float my boat. This time I crossed to another continent. A 1970 Mustang coupe. I love it. It turns heads, people wave, people comment. Once more, it is now nearly original (apart from the alloy wheels). I love driving it and, yes, it is still an everyday car.
There is a pattern to my symptoms that I have recognised, and this is what scares me now. I have owned each car for approximately five years. The Mustang has been with us for nearly five years. I keep saying this one is a keeper — and I mean it. I really do. I may have actually beaten that part of the infection.
But only that part. In fact, I know I have reached the final stage of the disease — I no longer seek a cure. I am now actually a ‘carrier’, happily trying to infect others.
I have loved every minute of owning these vehicles. Join me. There are some cool cars for sale at the back of this magazine. That’s a good place to start. I might even just have a quick look myself!
Words: Mark Sizer Photos: Adam Croy
