Valkyries I Have Known (and Sometimes Loved) Chapter the Second The legacy of 1952 1961. An auspicious year, for that was the year my life and fortune were invaded by two beings of the race Valkyrii, who quite promptly expropriated a sizeable portion of both... rather pleasantly, I might add. You read, I hope the first chapter of this Edda (Old Norse History/Legend/Saga), and so already know of my wonderfully idiocentric little 1937 Morgan three-wheeler. Griselda, to give her a proper name... one suitable to her Valkyrie heritage. Griselda she was, unless extraordinarily aggressive, or stubborn. Then she was Griz, along with a few other less complimentary appellations. I suppose she forgave me. I'm still alive. Less than six months after Griz took me in hand, I was surprised by an appearance by one of her relatives. A distant uncle. An elderly, venerable Valkyrus (though I didn't know that was the proper nomenclature at the time.), who, though newer in years, was undeniably her senior in power and experience. I unexpectedly encountered him in a gloomy corner of a public car park near Gatwick Airport, looking slightly menacing yet forlorn. Not stored exactly, the only cover the poor old guy wore was the layers of dry dust from long repose. When I approached, he reminded me of the great mythical sleeping giant of the Danes. Holgar Danske, a huge Viking warrior who slumbers until Denmark is in peril, then wakens to defend her. He can be found on the lower level of the catacombs under Kornborg Castle (Hamlet's Castle) doing an excellent imitation of a statue. Nearing, I could barely make out the placard taped inside the filth- covered windscreen. Sparrows had set up housekeeping in the I-beams overhead. I rubbed a small space clear. SALE. No number, price, nor address. OK then, maybe the attendant. From his kiosk, an elegant name for the relic, I was directed to "th'Guv's" hut. That worthy, without hesitation, announced "Pay th' storage and th' ol' banger's yours." I held my breath. "How much?" Trying to not look too anticipatory. He rooted about through the Everest of waste paper on his desk, finally surfacing with something that looked as if it had been saved from the Lusitania. He looked grim, and my heart thudded a little louder. God, he could surely hear it. "That would be one six three, seven and two. You're a Yank, right?" "Oh, no!" I thought, but nodded. "That's POUNDS, guv." "One twenty five" I replied. He shook his head emphatically. "One thirty." A little more hopefully. He rolled his eyes skyward, and beat upon his breast in feigned coronary infarction. "I'll knock down the three, seven and two. Take it or no. All the same to me. Doesn't eat anything lying there." "Take a cheque on Barclays'? He nodded unenthusiastically, but accepted the scrip, then laboriously pointed to each character, lips moving silently. "Barclays' Bank DCO". The thick finger punched the "O" with grand finality. "Well, then... get it away from here." He threw a fistful of dingy papers in my general direction, "Get your stamp, mind." then rumbled a bit and turned back to the BOAC Viscounts screeching off from Gatwick with their characteristic banshee wails. I was frozen by the blinding speed of the whole transaction. After about ten seconds, "Th' Guv" turned back. "Havin' second thoughts? Move it 'fore y'got another day's storage." He showed me his back again, I "moved it"! I dashed back to the site, Griselda singing happily all the way. Borrowing a friend and his dull, but thankfully available Vauxhall, we beat it back to my new clan member with fresh fluids and batteries. The radiator, sump and tank were given a fresh drink, and the tyres a pump, or three. The two new six-volt batteries, in series to make twelve, were installed under the package shelf on the trays just ahead of the rear axle. The hood (top) was removed, and stored behind the seats. Yes, Morgans are true roadsters with no permanent attachments between the body and fabric top. I was settling gingerly on the newly reinflated seat, when my friend started lifting bonnet on the driver's (right) side. "Better put a drop or two of petrol down the intake." I nodded. He did the job and stepped back shaking his head resignedly, as if expecting a second Hindenberg disaster. The starter was touched shakily. Maybe unconsciously I was expecting the worst too. After several turns and a fitful spit or two, he cleared his throat noisily, and in one great roar, introduced himself, as properly as you please. GORMMM!, he boomed throatily, a billowing rust and black cumulus issuing from his nether reaches. I laughed aloud. Well, I'll be...! A grand Norsk name, same as the first king of the Danes. Gorm den Gammle. Gorm the Old. I loved him instantly. Now if he would only take a liking to me. My experience with the order Valkyrii, not to mention Morgans, was rudimentary to say the least. But a ValkyrUS? Well, we shall see. My friend's flapping arms caught my eye. He had the expression of a seconds old father on his face. I gave him a thumbs-up, and he commenced gathering our litter, sadly shaking his head. I was obviously daft. Knep Dig! as the Danes say, I had rather commune with Gorm. He sounded pretty healthy for having sat for who knows how long. His idle was a little ragged, but a set of spark(ing) plugs and a good tune-up should do the trick. Let's see now. Oil pressure: Fifteen psi at idle. Not too shabby for an old Standard four banger. Amps, OK. Thank God for that. I would go into the vagaries of Lucas Electrical Systems, but that would take aeons. Suffice it to say that rumor has it the reason our British friends drink their brew on the warmish side, is 'cause they own Lucas refrigerators. Anyway, crude Yank humor aside, the water temp began creeping upward, and I snicked, well with a Moss gearbox, same as on the old Jags, it rarely is a "snick". OK, so I "Grrd" into first. Hey, a real 4-speed. No synchro on first. At least you couldn't break it. If it could take the torque of a 3.8 litre Jag, there wasn't much 2000cc could do to it. The clutch took up with no complaints, Good, so far. Easing forward, I touched the brakes. No grab, nor swerve. I wove the wheel from side to side. Not one to one as on the three-wheeler, but damned quick anyway. Plenty stiff, too. A couple of taps on the little dip-switch-like valve on the firewall with the accompanying slight dip in oil pressure assured that the front suspension oiling system was in good order. The steering became a little less arduous as the warm engine oil began to thaw what must have been almost glacial chassis lube on the front pillars. Exiting the carpark, we picked up a little speed. GOD! the gear changes were RIGHT NOW! The throws were measured in finger lengths and there was absolutely no play AT ALL! By the time we reached the perimeter road, we were READY, Gorm and I. He was in third, and I got my "Clog well and truly into it." as the Rockers are wont to say. Gorm let loose with a throaty baritone bawl, and we merged into the late afternoon traffic with his tail hung out in a classic four wheel drift amidst a vast cloud of carpark dust and a blizzard of sparrow droppings. The whole show totally undid one veddy proper matron who leaned mightily on the hooter (No, no, Bubba. not THAT kind of hooter) of her obligatory grey Humber saloon. (Good boy, Bubba. You're learning). No matter, her sourpuss attitude was more than made up by the unheard squeals and mad hand wavings of the two children in the rear of a Morris "Woodie". Dare one call a Morris Minor an "Estate Car"? The children's Mum seemed to be somewhat less of an enthusiast. As we swept by, she gave the graceful back-sweep of the radiator hardly a glance, and as I came abreast, she was glaring straight ahead with jaw grimly set, clutching the wheel in white- knuckled talons, her mouth a thin straight line. I guess we had managed to put a largish kink into a couple of well-orchestrated days. Valkyries have a way of doing such things with delightful regularity. I know all this sounds rather dangerous, but in a Morgan it's incredibly simple. Everything is always right where you want it to be. If you drive one of the things daily, you must watch yourself VERY carefully, else you'll find yourself coming up to the greengrocer's in a 4-wheel drift. Typical of a Valkyrie. Incredible fun, but scares the Holy Hell out of everyone within range. My advice? That's easy. You be happy when the Valkyrie is happy. Life has fewer Black and Blue periods that way. Not that they are in any way unreasonable, you understand. They will negotiate. "Come now... we can work this out like reasonable beings. Do it MY way." The appropriate (and safe) reply is a cheerful yes. We boomed along the M1, at gradually increasing velocity. I began looking for an interesting turnoff. The straight line was getting rather ho-hum. What good is an automobile that can pull 1G, if all you do is point at the same target on the horizon for minutes at a time. Then I began sighting down the louvered bonnet, past the free-standing headlamps. What a view! Collapse the windscreen, and in less time than it takes to tell you have become Dick Seaman, or any of the Bentley Boys, thundering down the Musselaine Straight, hell for leather in a Speed Six at the 192x Le Mans. Take it from me, it's a not at all difficult jump in your frame of reference. OK, so what if I AM still an adolescent when it comes to cars. Upon arriving at the site, we stopped briefly at the Motor Pool to give Gorm a desperately needed bath. Cleaning up under the bonnet, I was set back a little. There was only one carb. And even that wasn't the expected side draft (draught?) SU. It was a down-draw Zenith of modest bore topped off by an inlet cover that would not have sieved out a goodish sized sparrow. It looked odd to me, but the mildewing manual found beneath the tonneau cover on the package shelf said the whole set-up was the genuine article. The dual SUs didn't come on board till about 1955/56, with the TR-2 engine. Those didn't have aircleaners, either. Has there ever been a Morgan with a real air cleaner? In my excitement over acquiring the car, I hadn't even noticed the induction system. Some Automotive Genius I am. Why didn't I just carry a flashing red neon sign screaming "CHEAT ME"!! 'Round back, I looked over the spares. Yes, plural. They seemed to be brand new. The 550x16 Dunlop Sportscar Specials still had the little moulding "pips" in the tread. I regarded the tires with interest. The MOT paperwork said it was a '52 (Yes, I checked the windscreen badge, THIS time.) and it verified '52. That Mog must've been one of the last built with the twin vertical spares. I had thought they had disappeared pre-war, but what did I know. Along about the time Gorm came along anyway, Mr. Morgan had apparently concluded that the pneumatic tyre had proven itself sufficiently trustworthy that the redundancy could be forgone, and changed the rear body style to accommodate a single spare. Morgan's was rushing forward into the modern age. In fact, at the works, changes were taking place at fever pitch. It had been only a short time prior to the restyling of the rear body that Mr. Peter had noticed that FOUR-wheeled motorcars were coming into vogue, and weren't only a passing fancy. Morgans grudgingly acceded to the passing of an era, and ceased production of three-wheelers altogether. Which was really all right. There were no more big, thumping V-twin engines to be had from Matchless and JAP, or anyone for that matter. The last of the trikes had become emasculated, (is there such a word as eFEMulated?)... well ok then, BORING little unfortunates, having acquired an enclosed bonnet, with the engine hiding away inside as if ashamed of its ancestry. Small wonder, for it was the self-same little Ford 100E popcorn popper that (almost) powered my '47 Ford Popular. In the trike it did do a little better in a car that tipped the beam at less than fifty stone (eight hundred US pounds), but not much. The giant-killer of yore had "progressed" into a wheezing little wimp-mobile who's only salient feature was that it was missing a wheel. It DID have a THREE-speed transmission, but that's like saying a triangular wheel is better than square because it cuts out one bump. None of this grief was the fault of Morgans. Post war, there were simply no suitable engines to be had from Matchless, and JAP. (What an unfortunate name for anything after the "Big War.") Anyway the trike was gone forever. 'nuff said. Surprisingly, Gorm's paintwork came up very nicely. His livery, seeing light of day for the first time in many years, was black wings (fenders) and a dark maroon body. Unusual, but very handsome. Up front the beautiful flat radiator leaned gracefully rearward at juuuuuust the perfect angle. Two free standing head lamps and a centrally located Lucas "Flamethrower" driving lamp gave a surprised looking face to the vehicle. The Flamethrower was standard equipment, and surprisingly powerful for those pre-halogen days. Something around 200 thousand candlepower. Flicking it on in the dark of night was as if someone were pouring whitewash down the next half mile or so of the roadway. A concentrated pencil beam. A Jedi light-sabre slicing away the gloom. I know less than a million candlepower sounds a little paltry these days, but in the early fifties, it was considered nothing short of miraculous. After the chamois had done it's job I moved Gorm 'round to the housing area and parked next to the three wheeler. No, I didn't introduce them. All Valkyries know all other Valkyries. True? Backing away a few yards, and having a good look... WOW! I had always wanted a Morgan. Now I had the beginnings of a collection. Such are men's grandiose notions when their egos are tickled by their accomplishments, no matter how petty. I looked critically at the number plates. HOZ155 and PZ... something. I don't remember. I liked the HOZ on Griselda, but the PZ 4digits would have to go. If I were to have a stable, I wanted some continuity in numbers. To make a long story long, I found just what I needed with a bloke living up a sheep trail near Ripon. He had my number plate. Not just any number plate, but a plate not in use yet not declared defunct. I paid FAR too much for the mouldering heap of broken engine parts and tattered bits of cancerous sheetmetal that he proclaimed a "Classic Austin Seven". The number plate, unearthed from beneath an archaeological dig of alternating layers of unidentifiable rusty stuff and well-rotted sheep's dung was a barely readable 20th Century potsherd. The real treasure was the precious MOT form declaring me to be the sole owner of Austin 155HOZ. I was tickled to death. Even after I got the invoices from the removers, and knackers (junk yard). I still wonder what had happened to the Austin. There was not a piece of it left that wouldn't fit inside your hat. I was put in mind of the Oliver Wendell Holmes Poem The Deacon's Masterpiece (The Wonderful One Horse Shay). Next day I hopped over to the MOT, thinking of a quick morning's task. Ah! I thought everyone would enjoy that little joke. Well, I was younger and more naive then, and thought public servants were just that. I'm sure you all know the drill. After a full morning standing in brain and foot numbing succession of motionless lineups, and squandering a full four hours accomplishing what in an ordinary office would have taken about fifteen minutes, I paid a princely sum for the privilege of dealing with a myriad of oak-brained Her Majesty's Servants, and received in return what bore more than a passing similarity to a common 10p postage stamp. I was reminded why one of the major reasons for the American Revolution was the Stamp Act. I don't know why I'm being so hard on the Brits. Here in the USA it's even worse. All the evils of the same sort of bureaucracy, multiplied by fifty, cause each state has its own set of indecipherable rules. And naturally when you get to the front of the line, you find A) You're in the wrong line. B) You don't have the proper forms. C) You've filled out the forms in incorrectly. D) You didn't bring the proper paperwork (Never mind you called 15 minutes earlier before leaving home to make sure), E) ALL the nice people you have been trying to communicate with have obviously some sort of arcane jabberwocky as a mother tongue, and only the most fleeting knowledge of English gleaned from the midnight DeeJays at Hip-Hop radio stations. and finally F) All of the above. And to think, I was laboring under the misapprehension that such things as saloon v. sedan, hood v. top, bonnet v. hood etc would be a problem. So, having roundly insulted Government workers in general, and Her Majesty's in particular, to the verge of having seconds call, and meeting in the clearing in the forest at dawn, perhaps I should just shut up and get on with it. On the way back to the site, I made a stop at the UK equivalent of Pep Bovs, and purchased Gorm's new numbers. At that point, might as well go for the best. Alloy digits, and anodised alloy numberboard. At long last, 155HOZ dead Austin became 155HOZ very much alive Valkyrus/Morgan. At the site, I happily mounted my 165Pound number plate to my 160Pound Morgan. I was just thick enough to be pleased. In retrospect the cutesy mirror-image digits seems a thoroughly gauche Yank engineer sort of thing to do. I do have an excuse. I was, after all Yank engineer, and at that age, I'm sure thoroughly gauche. After living with the pair for several months, I have to admit Gorm had almost stolen me away from Griselda, though I do believe I rationalized it fairly well. With the winter coming on, it was nice to have a heater, even though all it could muster was enough BTUs to warm my left ankle barely out of the frostbite range, and it was nice to not have my right arm exposed to the hurricane's blast every time it rained. Understand now. It wasn't that I never took her out, it was just that I became a little pickier about when. Gorm may have been far the more civilized, but certainly not dull. A plus-8 of the most recent vintage is still filled to overflowing with more than enough quirky little oddments that even that the most Copper-Bottomed traditionalist will feel fulfilled. Go look at a new Morgan. If possible DRIVE one (not at all likely), then remember Gorm was not only almost 50 years removed from your experience, but even for Morgans glacial model changes, he was at least 4 iterations back into the dim past. Despite the generation gap, a Morgan is still a Morgan. If you were to drive the two machines, you wouldn't have to be the proverbial Rocket Scientist to immediately ascertain that the head restraints, rocker switches, padded dash (oops, fascia) surround and propane fuel system are but sleazy suck-ups to the great American Bureaucratic Boondoggle. The principal cause of Morgans profile in the US to change from a myriad of dealers selling $2500 to $3500 motorcars to that of only TWO dealers selling $40.000 and $50,000 automobiles. This unhappy alteration took place over a matter of a few months when Morgans were within a hairs breadth of being forced out of the US market altogether. Our Governmental Goon Show wanted several of each body- style and model for fuel consumption and emission tests, then even more of each to purposely CRASH! That juvenile exercise was purportedly to ascertain the THEORETICAL survivability of a crash at various speeds. What utter insanity. The most survivable crash is the one your Morgan enabled you to avoid with its faultless performance and agility. There could have been as many as 14 vehicles involved in this Government Sanctioned Demolition Derby, with no guarantee of successfully completing the test. At the time, if any part of the eval failed, it all failed. and like a child reciting Lincoln's Gettysberg address, if something went awry, it was start from square one again. All vehicles to be supplied at manufacturers expense, of course. No big deal if your name is General Motors, turning out 1 kilocar per hour, but a VERY big deal if your name is Morgan, and your total production is less than that number per YEAR! In spite of this author's lack of affection for the West Coast USA dealer they, for whatever reason kept the faith, and there are still MORGANS, even if in US form, somewhat less energetic. And Morgans still ARE Morgans, looking, driving, and even SMELLING the same. They are still for the most part satisfyingly in stasis. Show Gorm to a reasonably clever Mountain Gorilla, and the following month get the simian knee-walking drunk, and show him a brand-new plus-8. Without the slightest hesitation, he will sign, "HEY, look. Another Morgan." Not only that, but he would want it... he would want BOTH... and you know what they say... "What do 600 pound gorillas drive?" "They drive anything they..." Oh you've heard it. Sorry. The only obvious differences between the two vintages are the free-standing headlamps of the earlier car. Ah yes, the headlamps. About the fall of 1953, Lucas, who provided Morgan and several other shops with free-standing headlamp assemblies en toto, gave notice that as of a certain date the following year when present supplies were exhausted there would be no further units available. (Full-stop, noxpln). What actually happened was more or less the following: MGs was discontinuing the model TD and replacing it with the model TF, which was restyled to include faired in headlamps. At the time, Morgan was producing from one to five units per week, depending upon demand. Big-Time Lucas wasn't about to keep an entire line running for that sort of low volume. Morgan uses proprietary core parts as much as is practicable, and to manufacture headlamp shells would have required a very costly deep- draught hydraulic press at a cost prohibitive to the sort of light manufacturing operation at the Malvern Link Works. So now you know why we don't have Flat-Rad Mogs to this day. Who cares! I still say it's the most handsome motorcar ever to turn a wheel. It was interesting driving two such divergent model-years of the same Marque. I was surprised at the similarities more than the differences. The first thing was the sliding pillar front suspension. It probably could more properly be called "Sliding-Spindle". The pillar was(is) firmly affixed to the automobile, and the front spindle was mounted in a "coil-over" arrangement, free to slide vertically to smooth out the bumps, and at the same time it can swivel in order to steer the vehicle. A sort of a hinge with an elongated pin. If this all sounds strange, take a wheel off a modern strut suspended auto, and see just how MacPherson and Colin "Lotus" Chapman adapted the technology. It shouldn't be too difficult to locate such a vehicle. We're speaking of virtually every Generic Oriental Econobox on the road today. There were only two reasons for closing the tower at the bottom end and attaching it by an "A" frame. One: For decreased wear. And two: For good handling with a softer ride. The lower A-frame allows the roll of the car to cause the tire to tilt in OPPOSITION to the car's roll thus IMPROVING grip in a corner. Me? I like the Morgan way better. Between the '37 and the '52 front suspensions, I could see virtually no differences, save having been put through an enlarger. Well OK there one or two small items. One was that there were little rebound springs at the bottom of the pillars to help muffle the horrid tooth-jarring KLUNK!!! whenever you drove over a bump that caused the car to go a little light. It's something that happened with amazing frequency. Taking a railway grade crossing at speed in a Morgan could qualify you for flight pay. On the other hand I have never been able to make one bottom out. In my hundreds of thousands of miles of driving Morgans, a chassis has NEVER once touched pave'. And that with a frame constructed with a ground clearance that will not allow a king-sized pack of cigarettes to pass vertically beneath the rail. Speaking of which, contrary to popular myth perpetrated by the ignorant, the Morgan does not... and I reiterate NOT, NOT, NOT!!! have a WOODEN frame. The odd piece of oak and ash seen under the scuttle, beneath the package shelf, and other locations, are for the support of the Morgans BODY, and not the car itself. You see, in the old days motorcars were built up of many pieces. And these pieces were still pieces even when motoring along more or less all at once. The system is nothing whatsoever like a "modern" automobile with it's "unibody" construction. Morgan bodies are constructed one piece at a time using escution pins, small brass round headed brads (tacks), to mount the panels to a preassembled hardwood skeleton. The body is completely separate from the frame, and each panel quite separate from its skeletal support. Prior to assembly, a Morgan body is nothing more than a stack of carefully cut bits of flat sheetmetal, and hardwood sticks. It's a form of construction in favor when horsepower had four legs. Hence the name "Coachwork". If you study any of the cars carefully, you will see that the only compound curvatures are the fenders (ok, wings) and the radiator shell. A compound curvature, for those of you who don't know, is a surface which "bends" in two different directions at once, such as a dome. For those of you who DO know, that's still the answer. To form compound curvatures in a piece of sheetmetal, except in a one-off situation, it is imperative to have an enormously powerful device called a hydraulic press. Remember the headlamps? Hydraulic presses cost staggering sums. A small press can easily exceed the value of everything within the walls of the Morgan compound, including all tools, unfinished automobiles, and Mr. Peter's desk! You can readily understand why Mr. Morgan "farms out" the heavy work to British Pressed Steel (if memory serves). The radiator shell must've near killed him, the company having been more or less forced into that by "We're too grand to take time with the likes of you" Lucas. Everything else on the body is either completely flat or hand formed in simple curves on an ancient bedstead-sized tool known as an English Wheel which first came into use about the time the inhabitants of the British Isles were worshipping oak trees and painting themselves blue. So much for hi-tech. I wonder. Do they still have the Torquemada surplus device where the little round man wearing the old National Health Services size-and-roundness-of-a-penny horn rim glasses, trod mightily on a big pedal to punch each and every louver in each and every Morgan bonnet? The frame itself, now that we've finally, and for all time put to rest the old wives tales of trees, is not only not made of wood, it is neither a heavy steel pressing nor forged iron. It is actually of high grade sheet metal in a very heavy gauge. About the thickness of two old-style British pennies, or US half dollars. It's depth is about ten inches at the cockpit area, a bit more than a foot up forward where the front suspension crossmembers attach, and tapering to considerably less at the rear where it passes beneath the axle. Ever hear a very low automobile referred to as "Underslung"? Now you know why. Flanged inward about an inch at he bottom, and outward about the same at the top, it is generously supported by the suspension cross tubes forward, the lower 12 inches of the reinforced firewall, a heavy bulkhead behind the seats and a hubbed tubular weldment at the very aft. The front suspension tubes were bolted on, the rest welded. A fully enclosed driveshaft tunnel, also flanged at the bottom, tied the firewall and the rear bulkhead together. The cockpit floors were made up of two pieces of 3/4 inch marine grade plywood which were fastened to the frame, firewall, tunnel, and bulkhead flanges with dozens of tiny nuts and bolts. Kind of "stitching" the whole thing into one piece. Enormously strong, but flexible. The theory being that of the yew tree. Extremely tough, but will bend to the ground in a gale. The upper flange supports the body. Of late, Formula One, and Indy Car constructors have slavishly copied the idea, only they use composite materials, and call it "tub" construction. OH, I suppose theirs is a little stiffer. Saying that a Morgan is flexible is a masterpiece of the well-know British gift of understatement. I am convinced the frame and coachwork of the Mog is a carefully and clandestinely developed and highly-guarded secret component of the suspension system. Any doubt is quickly erased on your first drive. In the cockpit, there is no "bucket" nor any other type seat. You plant yourself upon the aforementioned air inflated cushions, and as you settle in, your bum slides like a 3 minute egg into a cup between the well-padded, leather-covered framerail, and the ditto driveshaft tunnel. You don't SIT in a Morgan. You are INTIMATELY CONNECTED. When underway, you feel each perturbation, no matter how subtle through every nerve of your palms and backside. Drive over a diagonal ridge, and feel the entire car go from compression to tension and to compression again as it connects you to every nuance of the road surface. Talk about flying by the seat of your pants! After experiencing a Morgan any... no, EVERY thing else feels vague and disconnected. As if you were driving about on half-flat tyres. The only coupling that could possibly be more intimate is that between you and your lover... after the lights go out. Believe me. I've tried both, and it's a tossup! This sort of tactile micro-feedback would be annoying, no doubt, to those who cut their teeth on more insular vehicles, but for anyone willing to toss out preconceived notions and learn, it offers positioning accuracy unimaginable in any other automobile on the planet. I offer a series of photographs in the automobile section of the Philadelphia Inquirer dated sometime in July of '66. The gist of the article was a comparison between the newer, more compliantly suspended cars and the "Old Fashioned" i.e.: Morgan type, "cart sprung" I believe was their description. Each car was shown in a series of six shots, across the page, in the same corner, on succeeding laps. It was plain to see the other cars, while neatly driven, were in slightly different "lines" from lap to lap. There was a slight imperfection in the track surface which gave a point of reference. In all six shots, my Morgan and I could be seen, tail slightly "Hung out" with steering pointed straight ahead, in a picture book 4 wheel drift attitude, our left front tyre PRECISELY one inch to the left of the little crack in the pavement. The only obvious clues that it wasn't the same photograph reprinted was the different positions of the corner workers... and because I began to notice the photog outside the crowd barrier. I was saluting him in the last two shots. Try THAT in your state of the art rubbery steering Super Coupe. No, I'm not bragging. Well, maybe just a little. But let me assure you I was a long, LONG way from being some sort of local Jackie Stewart, or Mario Andretti. Morgans just have a way of making a driver look GOOD! Another Valkyrie trait... helping men to achieve a higher potential. I cannot drive one fifty feet before my head is filled with far away strains of Wagner. The damn things just do that to me. On a more practical plane, there is a thing I do whenever I acquire a another vehicle, no matter if it's a riding lawnmower, and I highly recommend the practice to everyone. Don't be miserly, BUY THE SHOP MANUAL! Yeah, I know all about that cheesy little thing you got in the glove box (ok cubby locker). That's the owner's manual, and it ain't worth squat. There is one highly respected automobile I know of that has an owner's book about ten pages long, but the shop manual looks like the Manhattan Yellow Pages. The little rag that comes with your car is just he tip of the iceberg. Don't be another Titanic. The shop manual's where you REALLY learn about your car, and even if you never turn a screw, it's how you know whether the garage man is doing a job on your automobile, or on YOU. Something to keep in mind. When I went looking for the manual for Gorm's engine I hit a stone wall. Morgan's of course does not manufacture engines. It was from a Standard Ten (I believe that was the model number.) The Morgan manual is ludicrous. About two dozen pages covering all models from 1937 through about 1965. With line drawings on a blotter paper cover it looked very like a lower-forms child's exercise book. A child who likes Morgans, and so drew one on the cover. I tried finding the Standard Motor Company, and learned they had been swallowed by Triumph. It took only one call to learn Triumph would be no help at all. Days later, I was weeping about my sorrows on the shoulder of a friend whilst having a pint (or two) in a pub near Beachy Head, when a fellow arm bender called over. "Eh, no trick in that. Just go 'round to the local Ferguson Tractor Shop. Same thing, y'know." I couldn't help myself and laughed aloud. He gave me a look of supreme disgust, said "Well, all right then." And departed in a noticeable huff." I stared after. The guy was dead serious. The following week, after ferreting out the Ferguson place, and presenting the difficulty to the counterman, I was shown a hefty tome with a picture of my engine on the cover. Different induction system, but there it was. Everything, including the odd little valve spring retainer/rocker arm spacers was exactly the same. A tractor engine! Small wonder Standard, and later Triumph engines garnered such a reputation for reliability. It also explained why a two litre would weigh in at over forty stone. Thin-wall castings? What's that? Even when it did need internal attention, if the cylinder bores checked a little out of round, there was no need for the machine shop. You simply pulled the individual cylinder barrels out and reinserted them after rotating ninety degrees, thus presenting a fresh face to the side thrust of the piston. The barrels were wet liners, which means the outer circumferences is exposed to the coolant, and were sealed at the bottom of the block by a pair of figure of eight packings. The upper end was taken care of by the head gasket. Amazing! And excellent cooling. Proper cooling is the first and most important step in a reliable engine. All in all, VERY elegant engineering. As with everything however, there is a downside just waiting to turn like a snake and bite the unwary. (Read: those who haven't a shop manual.) Never, EVER turn a Standard, or Triumph engine with the head removed. The drag of the piston rings will eleven times out of ten push the barrels out of the packings at the bottom end, and you will be in for a complete disassembly to install new packings. The Works of course have a very handsome set of specially machined devices, but several lengths of half inch galvanised waterpipe and some flat washers will suffice nicely... for about one twentieth the cost. In spite of a very few disadvantages the engine was as near to unbreakable as any in my experience, and had plenty of room for growth. The original specs were 1500cc and 45 bhp. In it's final permutation in the Morgan Super Sport it came in at 2200cc and 165 bhp. That's for stock engines. There were some really outrageous "Hot Rods", such as Lew Spencer's "Baby Dolls" that I worked out on the slide rule (Time to speed in top gear) at about 200 to 210, and the Triumph Works Team cars at Le Mans were rumored to exceed 250! That's a gain of about 500% over original! Well, I'm impressed! In all my years with British sports cars, I have never seen one of these old four-bangers broken in its stock form, unless savagely over-revved. It is after all a long-stroke design and the piston velocities can get really out of sight at 5500-6000 rpm. And when you think of the side-thrust and reciprocal inertia loads (that's the load imposed on the crankshaft and connecting rods when at each end of the stroke the whole mass including the piston, must stop and reverse itself), you start thinking twice about venturing even 25 rpm over redline. The other algorithm in this hellish equation is that we are discussing a three mainbearing engine. I, like most right-thinking engineers am convinced that all proper internal combustion engines should have a mainbearing between each throw of the crankshaft. Again, there's a downside. That makes the engine longer and heavier. So like so much in this life you must decide where you want to compromise. Seems to me those unknown, unheralded Ferguson back room boys figured it just about right. But why, you ask, a long-stroke design in the first place. Were those guys so dumb they didn't know short-stroke was more efficient? Of course they did! The real onus falls upon, what else, the British tax Lizards. At one time all motor vehicles were taxed upon an equation derived from an arcane formula that was roughly the engine's swept volume multiplied by its cylinder bore. The engineers were caught on the horns of a dilemma. Large displacement = high torque and horsepower. Small bore = low taxes. How do you achieve large displacement with limited bore? Right the first time, students. LOOONG stroke. And that, dear children was why you used to see so many "T" series MGs parked alongside the US Interstates with smoking holes in their engine blocks. The figure the tax folks came up with was called TAXABLE Horsepower, and was adopted by the Royal Auto Club as a way of rating various models of motorcars. RAC horsepower. That also explains the incomprehensible old model numbers. Austin 7, Standard 10 etc. Then to make things really jolly as only the Brits can, there began to appear other ratings. Rolls Royce 16/22, f'renstance. What? All veddy simple all bye. RAC hp/NET hp. See, makes perfect sense. Once you know the story, it gives a great sense of relief to know that British automotive engineers were not stupid, only their tax men, and THAT'S a requirement for the job in every society. Now that all is said and done. Gorm, true to his agricultural genes, never required more than an occasional tune-up and valve adjustment to run like Jack-the-Bear whenever called upon. I still miss the old bastard's throaty baritone song. We, Griz, Gorm and I had many fine times, but as with all things involving mortals there had to come an end. To make it short, my employer reassigned me to a much less pleasant corner of the world. Asmara, Ethiopia of all places. Not a happy change, and certainly not a climate friendly to either Morgan or Valkyrie. As with BMEWS, the contract was indefinite... could have lasted ten months, or ten years, governed by the need. At least I got more notice than usual... about a two weeks. (Why is that called a fortnight?), I have had as little as 24 hours. Luckily I had promised a chap in London first refusal if the Mogs and I ever had to part. He was a chief buyer type at Harrods with carloads of perks and so much of his income was "Beyond the octopus graspings of Inland Revenue." (His words). That meant there was the wherewithal to keep my dear Valkyries in top shape. He was also a consummate car nut, so I knew he really gave a damn, and wasn't buying a status symbol to stroke his Macho self image. You know, what we call a yuppie these days. Best of all, he lived in one of the first really stylish flats in a mews which assured suitable accommodations for such as Valkyries just below his own digs. They would be looked over and well cared for. He leapt at the chance of acquisition and even allowed me a modest profit. He was too enthralled to notice my pain. A friend and I drove sedately down to the Harrod's guy's flat where he offered refreshments. I thought for a moment and refused. I wanted the deed done like a stripped bandage. He gave me his cheque, and I passed over the keys and papers with unseemly difficulty, and departed at once in a cab. Though I heard him call out "Best of luck!", I couldn't look back. I still try not to think about it. No, I did NOT mention Valkyries. Let him learn for himself just as I. PROLOG About six months later in Ethiopia, I received a letter which contained he following:"...what is it with these two machines? Neither the ladies nor the Coppers will leave me alone. Also, am I being too heavy-handed? Sometimes when I'm out for a drive just to idle some time away, things will start feeling DIFFERENT. As if I've been disconnected. As though the cars are driving ME. Scares the hell out of me, even though they never seem to be out of control. Ever happen to you? You didn't sell me haunted cars did you?" I replied truthfully that I could guarantee the cars were definitely NOT haunted, and that he should not try to regain control through main strength. That a gentler, more persuasive touch was best, and if the cars seemed headstrong, why not do what they wanted to do. That could be fun too. I never heard from him again, but I saw he and Gorm, and Griselda in a photo of a big country house in Town and Country about ten years later. He looked singularly satisfied with himself. Joy is Fear. Fear is Joy! Sometimes it's best if you're NOT warned. -FIN- (more to follow)