A Right Little Triumph

Liverpool – Barbury, via Marbury and Birmingham, England

Growing up, we never had very fancy cars. They usually got the job done – but they were pretty old and boxy. Ford Fairmonts were big with us.

There was the green station wagon we had for many years. That was the car we took on our big Chevy Chase style family vacation. My Dad had some kind of conference in San Diego and decided it would be “fun” for the whole family to drive out there together.

Except for two little incidents . . .

The day before we left my brother was playing with fireworks with the neighbor kids. There were firecrackers, and bottlerockets, and M80s. But there was also one called a jumping jack, or something like that; it spun around on the ground and maybe jumped up in the air a little – changing colors as it went.

Pretty cool.

The problem was that my brother was wearing his high top shoes at the time. He wore them untied because, I think, that’s what all the cool kids did.

Jeff lights the jumping jack, and throws it down. It spins and hops around for a second – but then it decides to jump into Jeff’s open shoe – because not only were the shoes untied, the tongue was also sticking out, so they’re wide open . . .

No more hopping, or, at least, the jumping jack wasn’t hopping anymore. Jeff was. Because the jumping jack spends the remainder of its short life – 20 seconds or so – spinning and burning in Jeff’s shoe.

I’m not sure what degree burn Jeff had on his ankle – but it was not pretty. I would say it was third degree for sure – only I know Dr. Liu would laugh, and tell me that Jeff would be dead or something if it was third degree. But it was at least two-and-a-half. Because I remember we stopped at two emergency rooms on the way to California – one in Nebraska, and one in Las Vegas.

The other incident that colored the trip? Well, there were three of us kids, and my Dad figured that if we were all in the back seat we’d kill each other – so he built a little shelf for my sister to lie on. (Not exactly up to modern safety standards – no car seat, no safety straps – no nothing – just my sister lying on a piece of wood . . .) The shelf went between the side-windows in the back of the station wagon. “Built” is probably the wrong word. I think he just took a piece of a 2×12 and placed it between the windows.

That worked pretty well.

For half the trip.

At the time it didn’t seem very important, but I remember I was reading Shogun at the time, and as we headed north from San Diego through Los Angeles I got bored looking out the window and climbed into the back to grab the book.

Afterwards, we’re driving along, I’m reading about the way of the samurai, and busy Los Angeles highways are flying by the window. (It’s probably the same freeway that OJ made famous a decade or so later . . .)

And then, out of nowhere – BOOM! Like a bomb went off in the car. My sister’s crying, we’re all confused, and there’s glass all over the place.

I think we all thought that someone had shot the window out. After all, it was kind of a tough neighborhood.

But I think what actually happened was that when I went back there I leaned my hand against one side of the 2 x 12 – which resulted in the board being kind of wedged between the windows. It took a minute, but eventually the pressure was too much – and the passenger side window just burst.

We spent the rest of the trip visiting my Mom’s relatives in California. The old green Ford Fairmont with plastic duct taped to the window. Must have been brutal for my Mom – because she hadn’t seen these people in years. (She’s from Fresno originally.) Pretty sure she wanted to impress them with the good life she had built in Minnesota. Instead, we drive up looking like the Beverly Hillbillies . . . I think my poor Mom was about as mortified as she could possibly be.

But the station wagon wasn’t the only car we had growing up. New cars would appear in the driveway on occasion. Well, they weren’t exactly new. They were, in fact, very used. My Dad loved going to police auctions – and would frequently come back with some new-fangled vehicle. Always a “great deal.”

I remember one that had been hot-wired, so there was no real ignition. You just started the car by pushing a button on the dashboard. They all seemed to have some issue like that . . .

So it was kind of a big surprise when my Dad rolled up one afternoon with a little red convertible. I remember being out on the street with the neighborhood gang. They were all impressed.

My Mom? Not so impressed. I wasn’t privy to all the family financials, but I’m pretty sure there was not a lot of extra cash sitting around. A used convertible? With seating for two – the driver and one passenger. For a family of five?

I think we had the car for about a week. As I recall it stopped running after about an hour – and it was going to cost a fortune to repair.

But I guess everyone is entitled to their mid-life crisis.

I mention all this because there must be a lot of mid-life crises going on in England. Riding through the countryside on the weekends it seems like every other vehicle is a 1957 Triumph convertible – in mint condition.

Which maybe explains all the car movies I associate with Great Britain. Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. Or the James Bond movies – he always seems to be driving around in a classic Aston Martin or Jaguar or something. Or, really, every movie that takes place in England has a requisite driving-through-the-country-in-a-classic-old-car scene.

Anyway, seeing all these old cars brought back memories of that one week of glory – when we were the envy of the neighborhood because we had a red Triumph convertible.

The other thing I’ve been thinking about with these old cars is just how British everything is around here. I mean, of course, we’re in England – things are going to be British. But at some level, I guess you just kind of assume that these are stereotypes created by Hollywood.

Nope.

People really do talk like that.

“Oh, bollocks!”

Or, “Jolly good, then.”

Or, “I’m all knackered out . . .”

And English gentlemen really do drive around in their little MGs on quaint country roads.

The funny thing is, though, the gentlemen are not always driving around in cars on roads. They’re also cruising around in well-heeled houseboats on the myriad canals in this area. We talked to one such person who told us that the boats are just 6’10” wide – in order to fit through the narrow, hand-operated locks and dams.

I guess the canal system is a vestige of Britain’s pioneer status in the Industrial Revolution – because they needed to move materials like coal around the country before there was much in the way of trains. That’s why Birmingham – kind of the center of British industry – has an extensive canal system. Little known fact – Birmingham has a much bigger canal system than Venice. And the good news is that all the canals had towpaths for the horses that pulled the barges around; those towpaths make for great bike and walking trails today.

Not quite as nice to bike on when they’re not paved – but still pretty.

We were pretty impressed with Birmingham. Riding along the canals we magically appeared in the middle of the city.

Put together the water, the pubs, restaurants, and the walking and biking paths – and Birmingham has created a sense of place that defies its reputation as a working class town.

Almost as if J.R.R. Tolkien, one of Birmingham’s most famous sons, dreamed the whole place up.

The other thing that we’ve noticed is just how diverse England is. We stopped at a street market in the little town of Warwick (pronounced Warrick) today. There were Turkish vendors, Moroccan vendors, Indian vendors, and Syrian vendors. Wasn’t expecting to have some of the best baklava we’ve had on the whole trip in the midlands of England – but there you are . . .

I know there’s rebellion against immigrants in many places, but for our part, I think it’s fair to say that we really enjoy the places where there are immigrants around. The restaurants have a little variety, and the immigrants always seem to be the easiest people to talk to.

Time to wrap up . . .

A few quick comments . . .

We also enjoyed Liverpool and even took a quick picture with the Beatles.

The British Isles do not disappoint on the rain front. It’s been raining every day – with no sign of abating. Admittedly, we’ve had a triumph out two with a little sunshine the last few days as well – but there’s no getting around it: biking in the rain is kind of exhausting.