My experience with Morgans has been rather scanty, to be frank. A ride in Walker Edmistonąs F Type, being passed by Leo Caton's +4 during sports car racing in the early Fifties, and a few hot laps around streaming wet Goodwood in one of Chris Lawrence's confections, seems to me. The driving position and I didnąt agree, the windscreen with its tichy wipers seemed an inch tall, water leaked up from underneath, suspension was nonexistent, and after a very short time I was convinced that the whole chassis was made of wood, not just the body frame and floorboards. Still, Morgans are an acquired taste like jalapeno jelly but when the dreaded Dinkel assigned me to cover a Morgan owner's club rally my response was, like Job, "Why me?" Actually it was quite painless, in spite of my deep distrust of one-make meetings built up over years of being around sports car people. There are always instant experts whose whole life is built around knowing the precise minute that every car left the factory and to whom it belonged previously, there are tiresome experts whose existence is predicated on knowing the exact pitch of the drain-plug threads, and then there are the flannel experts who spend hours telling everyone who will listen just how much struggle there was tracking down such and such bit and finally Dr Porsche (fill in your own name) dug it out from his own private ditty bag. Isn't that nice.
But, as I mentioned, the whole event was quite painless, for which I suppose much credit should go to the tireless Dr Garrett Capune who rounded up all those nice people and 99 count em 99 Morgans for the local +4 Clubąs 25th birthday party. When I arrived at the nearby Cal State Fullerton campus, Morgans of all descriptions were sprawled about (very sprawly car, especially the 4-seaters) on the lawn under shade trees with their occupants similarly sprawling or else unloading picnic gear of massive proportions.
Trees do make it nice as the interplay of light and shadow do flattering things to bodywork not to mention shielding tender young ladiesą complexions from the pitiless April sun. One young lady, about three at a guess, was radiant about being drawn about in a toy wagon and only stopped giving bewitching smiles to her audience when the offbeat plopplop of a V-twin and the gentle whirring of chains announced the arrival of a red Matchless-engine trike, which sort of set the tone, really. One happy day at a Silverstone vintage sports car club meeting there was a race featuring a whole mob of these motorized cicadas, all cornering on three wheels, and somehow they didn't seem quite as high-geared, long-stroked and relaxed as this promenading clubman.
By lunchtime there were six or seven scattered around with the owners of one earnestly discussing the weight of the world with the owners of another, which is what one-make clubs are for, really. I find motorcycle-engine cars fascinating, always excepting old F3 machines that tend to be a bore, and as British manufacturers never made much effort to make their engines oil-tight, what with exposed valve gear and the like, it was no surprise to find many of the Matchless/JAP tribe a bit grungy but only one actually dripping into a clean rag thoughtfully laid out for the purpose. In the old days a nice Cadbury's cocoa tin would be ideal for that as the dripped oil could be speedily returned to whence it came. The cleanest engine of all, on a magnificently sporty 1923 Aero, unfortunately didnąt run and we were party to one of those pleasant vignettes that make club gatherings when a handy sort of gent who had tools arrived to sort it out. Starting the engine on one of these Aeros (until Lucas was invented) involved setting all the little hand levers on the steering wheel to optimum position and then fitting a long handle off a rake into a hole in the flank, way back before the rear wheel.
