My Mini Days
Editor’s note: The author wrote a companion piece about the MINI Cooper and globalization, which was published yesterday.
The car was a wreck when I found it. It was British Racing Green and had been left to rot under a spruce tree.
The exterior was a foul blend of pine sap and bird droppings. It was complete but hadn’t been driven since the late 60’s. This was 1972, and I was looking for a project and a drivable car. I convinced my uncle, a Yale-trained mechanical engineer, to help me rebuild it.
He owned a 1935 Alvis Speed 20 Vanden Plas drophead, and was game to take on the challenge of the Mini. Its official designation was Morris Mini 850, and in those days you could actually go to a dealership and purchase parts. He lived in Darien, Connecticut, and we towed the car to his house.
There had been a Mini dealer several miles down the road. They didn’t have any whole cars left, but they had many of the underpinning parts: bushings, rubber bits, grommets. It also turned out that my uncle lived across the road from one of the best English parts stores in the state. You could order almost anything, from pistons and rings to floor mats and trim pieces.
He and I spent two summers rebuilding the Mini. We redid the engine, welded new panels into the floor, and rebuilt the brakes. For some reason, we didn’t replace the tires.
In January of 1974, I drove the Morris back to my house. It was a cold day and the heater was intermittent at best. It still needed work, but the plan was that I would use the car and return to my uncle’s when time permitted to continue improvements.
I drove the car to school and back, learning its idiosyncrasies. It wouldn’t start in damp or wet weather, and was so low to the ground that any snow beyond a dusting and you might find yourself hung up on a drift.
When spring finally appeared I spent much of my time addressing the obvious foibles and most immediate needs to keep the Mini on the road.
One bright August day that year, I went to a friend’s house to give him a lift to summer school. My friend John asked if he could drive the car the five miles to our destination. I agreed, and we went off with John behind the wheel.
We had just driven through town and down a hill on the other side. We pulled out to pass a car in our lane, and a second one came straight at us. John spun the wheel. We clipped a telephone pole, removing the passenger door in the process, and landed in a field.
We were both awake and jumped out of the car. He and I survived with some bruises; I had a minor concussion. The Mini was not so lucky. It was ready for a proper burial.
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