1973 MG B. White with the cool chrome wire knock-off wheels. Two batteries behind the seats wired positive earth. If the batteries fail on a hot summer day when out for ice cream, you can fill them with water using the little paper cone cups and water cooler water from Baskin Robbins. 

And the twin SU carbs are frustrating to synchronize, especially when you father is sitting on a lawn chair, drinking scotch and “supervising.” (The whole father drinking in a lawn chair watching you bust knuckles elbows deep in a British engine generated some real trauma that I still deal with.) 

Aftermarket 8-track player. When my sister was the B’s primary pilot she would shove her Steve Miller, Bad Company, and Jethro Tull 8 tracks as far back under the seat as she could. She had promised dad that she wouldn’t listen to music in the car since she got busted by law enforcement for clowning with her friends and not coming to a complete stop a block from the high school. Many years later, when I was joyously swooping the MGB out of Twinkling Star parking lot in Paducah, Kentucky my passenger decided it was a good time to start clowning, attracting the unwanted attention of McCracken County’s finest. The car wasn’t fast, or handle particularly well, but it did encourage clowning, the type of clowning . 

It was my prom car (other options: the Jeep Commando or the Chevy Citation X-11). I’ll only say I am very sorry. I was a dork, and stupid. Although I couldn’t help the catastrophic thunderstorm, I could have not driven the wrong way down a one-way downtown. And the sing-along with Verdi’s Requiem set the tone for the evening (Was it the cassette of the 1964 recording with Guilini conducting Schwartzkopf, Ludwig & Gedda? At some point the 8-track got the 8-track replaced with a casette player. Probably.)

My brother rolled the MB into a ditch. It had a new tape player now, and the cassingle of David Bowie’s “Cat People (Putting Out Fire)” stuck on auto repeat. Put him off Giorgio Moroder, but not Bowie. Insurance had it put back together (I remember visiting the body shop doing the repairs, and spotting a freshly painted but dusty late 68 Wimbledon white/blue stripe GT350 lurking in the corner. The car’s owner hadn’t paid the body shop, so there it sat.) The MGB followed my brother to Illinois, Kentucky, and then back to Illinois with new owners. 

I enjoyed driving the 1971 MGB GT more than the roadster. Although it was also white, it was lower to the ground, faster, a real guilt-free gas to drive. And it did not have the eleventy-dozen snaps for the top and tonneau cover. Primary memories were driving it to and from work when I worked for a riverboat towing company in Paducah, Kentucky. A small bit of joy, my butt skimming the wavy paved roads home from the dock, bilge on my boots and dressed in diesel. I can’t remember what became of that car. It had a good soul.