Morgan Motors: More than a car company

A few years ago my wife and I attended the 50th anniversary party of the Morgan Sports Car Club of Canada. It was well run and well attended event but what else would one expect?

Asked to say a few words after dinner, I was honored. Given five minutes to reminisce, I was told to tell a good story, I took ten minutes and told a pretty poor tale. I apologize. The night deserved more. 

For those of you who don't know, Morgans are said to be the first and last of a long line of well respected English-made, traditional sports cars with most ending production in the middle of the last century.

Why is Morgan called first? Because it was founded in 1909. Need I say more? Why last? Unlike Austin Healey, MG, Triumph and the rest, new Morgans are still being made in Malvern Link, England. No longer exported to Canada because of an ongoing dispute with Transport Canada, today the Chinese are big buyers. Check the link: China Morgans.

If this post were just about a car company, admittedly a very old one, but still just a car company, there wouldn't be much else to say. But a Morgan is more than a car; a Morgan is an experience, a philosophy, a global fraternity, a magic carpet on wheels.

Before I bought my Morgan, I first drove a motorcycle and then, when I lost confidence in two wheels, I bought a car, a Volvo 122. The car was safer than the bike but oh-so-much duller. I hated my Volvo. My heart ached for my Honda 305 Super Hawk.

And then, in late December '68, the answer to my predicament appeared in the window of Metro Motors in Windsor, Ontario: A dark green Morgan Plus Four sat in the showroom.

There was only one hurdle blocking my path to ownership. Curly, the dealership owner, refused to sell me the car without first chatting with my mother. I was 21! But, Curly was firm. I lived with my mom and the Morgan would be the family car, a daily driver. 

Curly sought confirmation that my mom wanted to mother a car along with a young son. The answer was yes; Mom loved the little roadster. It brought back memories of the early thirties and the cars my father drove while courting her. Curly acquiesced, and he sold me the car. My mother did not disappoint. Her affection for the Morgan never wavered. In the spring, I rewarded her with a quick trip to Jekyll Island, Georgia, to visit her sister.

 

An Experience 

We left Windsor before daybreak and drove and drove and drove. We weren't rich; we weren't poor but we were wealth challenged. The trip was a gift to my mom. A reward. A treat.

A hotel room was a needless expense. It was, after all, a one day trip. When I got too tired to continue, we pulled into a rest stop and rested. I believe we reached my aunt's shortly after midnight.

I should mention that I had made a similar but shorter trip in the past. I had traveled by motorcycle from Athens, Georgia, to my Windsor home in one day. Leaving Athens at dawn, I had arrived home after midnight. Despite the fact that the Athens trip was shorter, it took almost as long. 

I had to stop and tighten the bike drive chain and later a foot rest vibrated loose. Finding it and all the parts was difficult in the dark. Outside of Toledo the headlamp died. I drove the last freeway miles tucked tightly into the illuminated space behind a transport truck. Tailgating may be dangerous but it's safer than speeding along a busy highway at night with no lights.

Driving a Morgan is an experience. It puts distance back into driving and it colours the experience with pleasure.