Parts is Parts

A modern Toyota has about 30,000 parts according to Wikipedia. An MG manufactured in the early 1950's has far fewer. For example, it has no windows. Although MG did introduce roll-up side glass as standard equipment in 1962, prior to that year you made do with "side curtains." These canvas and plastic screens, mounted to  flimsy metal frames, were usually to be found in the garage or under the bed when needed out on the road. To be fair, the chaps at British Motor Corporation, successors to the MG Car Co., Ltd.,  intended these fitments be stowed in a virtually inaccessible box behind the car's "boot," which is just aft of the seat and over the rear axel. The boot-- also standard equipment on the MG-- is  sized to hold a valise for two, three American shopping bags full of groceries, a well-behaved dog no larger than a beagle, or a 3-year old youngster sitting sideways. The child will thoroughly enjoy this specially-sized perch, but will eventually get an earache and begin to complain.

The boot is a handy accessory but virtually inaccessible when the "hood" is "erected." The hood is a kind of truncated canvas top, resembling what we see on convertibles. But where the convertible is a car with a sort of fitted tent to protect the occupants, the hood on a British roadster is more akin to an umbrella. Consequently, were you to encounter the occassional English drizzle, you'd be expected to don a "mac," or a slicker, or perhaps an oiled cotton "Barbour jacket." Were it to get cold, you'd need a warm coat, a scarf, a fedora or some other woolen head covering, and gloves. Another piece of standard equipment on an early MG was a commodious glove box. It's where you keep your gloves when it's not cold, unless you leave them at home with the side curtains.

British foul weather gear was not meant to create some sort of climate-controlled transportation lounge. You are, after all, motoring-- not lounging. Persons wanting to lounge book railway passage, sit in the back of their Daimler Vanden Plas saloon, or simply have another cigar at the club while waiting for the weather to change. A sports car, on the other hand, is about motoring. And therein lies its charm.

Fewer parts should make a rebuild a simpler process but it's still a lot of work and always takes more time than I initially budget.  What's disconcerting is when parts don't work right, don't fit right, or-- the most distressing possibility-- are unexplainably left over. These sneak into your field of vision just when you think you have completed an assembly. Fortunately, these are usually sundry washers, cotter pins, bolts and such that were hopefully replaced with newer hardware.  Occasionally, they prove to be some essential gear, fastener, or doohickey that confronts those of us who aspire to be "mechanically adept"  with our own humble limitations. This can be a somewhat unpleasant private event marked by pejorative expletives directed at oneself, but spoken by that cruel inner room mate who's always ready with a negative comment concerning one's competence, parentage, or native intelligence.

I'm not really sure what this stuff is, but it was apparently not that important
when we put the motor back in the car on Mothers' Day weekend

And then there are the  more public displays of inexperience, absent mindedness or stupidity. Like the time I drove my race car onto the grid at GingerMan Raceway only to discover a flaccid brake pedal under foot. In my mirror, I could see my crew chief, Rick Fisk, running after me waving in the air what looked for all the world to be a set of brake shoes.  I believe he was shouting "Stop that car!" which was not going to be easy since I had omitted replacing the rear brakes after changing out a broken axel shaft. A visored helmet and racing gear do a good job of hiding a very red face.

What goes must stop. Rebuilding the entire braking
system is good insurance when mountain passes are anticipated.

"Authentic reproduction" British parts--
as only the Chinese could label them.

If you follow this simple drawing and you remember your colors
from primary school, automotive electrics are a walk in the park!

So, you replace an old yellow wire with a new yellow wire...

Wait a minute! This doesn't look like the pretty drawing.
Most of these wires are red!

If someone were to turn you upside down and then cruelly
stuff you into the footwell of an old MG, this is what you would see.
It's much prettier in the wiring diagram.

Some parts get added to the project,
 like this coolant expansion tank from a 1968 MG

Others parts get made from scratch.
This just might be a trailer hitch.

Day 20: Heart Transplant

If you're not a mechanic, few things are as distressing as seeing your car with the engine removed. Where once nestled the beating heart of a running vehicle, now you have a gaping hole, wires and cables hanging, residuals dribbling, and goo in all the recesses otherwise obscured. The veins and arteries that carried necessary fluids and gasses in and out of this organ remain in situ, tied off with bits of rope, bungee cords and zip ties.  I've seen too much of this sort of carnage in my years as a vintage sports car racer and amateur engine builder. But never in "Morris," that steady family member who has lived in our garage for the past 30 years.

Illustration: Peter Aschwanden (c)

This past Sunday, this sorry state of affairs took a major turn for the better. The MG was winched up on my trailer and hauled out to Manley Ford's shop in Milford, MI. There we spent the afternoon