Hi all!
I'm a short-time lurker but I've really enjoyed the cars, stories and projects I've seen so far, so I thought I'd sign up and share!
I'm 23, Norwegian, and I like old cars.
In late May of last year I bought a 1976 MGB GT on the outskirts of Shrewsbury and took it home. Here is the story of how that went down. It's a bit long, but I hope you enjoy it.
---
Coventry is a depressing city. When in Coventry, you can never quite rid yourself of the feeling that you would really prefer being somewhere else. Especially during the winter, when my native Norway beckons with all its wonderful snow instead tedious drizzle. But it had been my own choice, one year at a foreign university to finish my degree! Should be good fun! A better person than me would probably be able to get a lot out of it, but I longed for other places than Coventry. While English public transport is quite good, I prefer cars and the personal freedom they offer.
Couldn't hurt to just have a little look, right? Hello Pistonheads, eBay, Classiccarsforsale and message boards! Hi there Mini, MG and Triumph! Nice to make your acquaintance, English insurance agents! Really? Ah. Right.
So I put it on hold for a few months.
---
I got on a train to look at a white 1976 MGB GT, two weeks before graduation. I had already seen a similar car get snatched from my groping hands, so this time the gloves were off. My pocket vibrated. Ah, a reply from Steve. "No problem, I will be in the parking lot in the black BMW X6." Well.
Steve is an entrepreneur in the hotel business, with a wife and child, and interested in planes, boats and motorcycles. This is his wife's MGB. A Christmas present from two years ago that never sees any use. We arrive at the house, idyllically placed in the countryside, the natural habitat for old English sports cars. Narrow country lanes, sleepy fields, tall hedges. Linda is interested in classic cars, and loves the old MG, but she loves her son more. The country lanes are too narrow, the local drivers too fast, and the car is not safe enough for the school run.
Steve bought the car at the aging local pub from the aging local mechanic after he let slip that he was after a classic car as a Christmas present for his wife. The car needed to be done up a bit, but the mechanic and his brother are of the old school, and do not much care for money as long as they have enough of it to feed the cat and pay the barman. The car was repainted from orange to Old English White, and converted from the dreadful "rubber bumpers" to the much prettier chrome bumpers. I would have preferred an original car, but the price is right, I can't spot any rust, and the fact that it is already modified lets me modify it further without feeling bad about it.
The interior needs some love, and the suspension bushings at the front need replacing, but the car seems in good nick.
I let fly a bid. Steve nods. I grin.
---
It is the day of my final task at university: the individual project presentation. But it is also the day to pick up the little white MG. As distractions go, it's a fairly potent one! Pick the car up first, then polish the presentation one last time. Yeah, right! So I exchange a stack of £20s and £10s for the keys and drive home. I present my project. Done.
How can I concentrate when this is right outside my door?
My Slovakian housemate is bored, so I let him pack my suitcases while I drink some beers and sort some papers. He makes me some sandwiches for the journey. I later find out that he has mixed the assortment of odds and ends I have left in the fridge. Nice. Thanks, Jacob, but I meant for you to inherit those spring onions!
A few hours sleep, then Europe awaits.
I get up at 4AM, put all the bags in the car, and I'm off. Goodbye Coventry, if I never see you again it will be too soon.
Four hours later, I stop in London to pick up a new acquaintance who canceled his plane ticket in order to join me in driving the distance instead. The car stinks of petrol. The brakes that made the car shimmy every time I used them on the motorway are now noisy, smelly, and veeery hot. curse word, the fronts are sticking on. We drink some coffee and wait for the local garages to open.
---
We get five days of nothing but early summer sunshine in London. Really. We drink beer, eat good food, and lounge in parks. The car gets new calipers and brake hoses, but the brakes are still sticking on. In the end they power flush the system. Sorted. I brimmed the tank upon entering the city, and they recommend that I don't do that any more because it was leaking onto the exhaust.
Standing outside the flat in London.
We start at 5AM to catch an early ferry. Destination Nurburgring.
We arrive at Dover in good time, and get some breakfast on the cross-channel ferry. Drive ashore in Dunkirk, and head north. Across the border and into Belgium.
Belgium, where you must pay to put air in your tires.
It's another sunny day. Not a cloud in the sky. The MG is doing well. It does not enjoy going more than 70mph, but it will cruise along at 65 quite happily. Just as we are about the praise the car for not overheating on us, praise the Belgian motorways and praise this excellent road trip, we jump feet first into a traffic jam! We sit in stop and go, bumper to bumper traffic for a few minutes, sweating profusely with worry and heat. We take the first exit to a petrol station and open the bonnet to check for heat and oil level (this becomes a routine every time we stop). It seems alright. We debate what to do. The traffic seems to be going faster. So we chance it.
The bumper to bumper traffic simply will not end. Amazingly, the engine temperature stays level! What, is the gauge broken? No! We giggle, grin nervously and pat the dash, hoping against hope not to break down. I have inspected the radiator and it's not in great shape, but it's certainly doing its job! We marvel at the engine cooling system and lament the lack of an interior cooling system. After two hours of traffic, we get to where the Belgians have shut all three northbound lanes of the motorway, leading us onto a smaller road going east. We get lost for a bit. Then we follow the narrow roads going between the small villages along the motorway. Every time we get to a road that is supposed to lead us back onto the motorway, we encounter a stern Belgian policeman who is very keen to wave us onwards, but not very keen to explain where onwards is. After meeting three of them we get lost some more. Instructed vaguely by my GPS-equipped tablet, we suddenly find our way back to another onramp just as the road opens again.
A few more hours. After braking somewhat hard for more traffic, we smell petrol. Hmm, double hmm. We take the first exit to a rest area. Good thing we did! I get on my hands and knees. "Damn, it's curse word the petrol out!" Open the bonnet and the petrol runs from underneath it and onto the wing. We quickly find the problem, a rubber fuel line going to the carburetor has split and distributed petrol all over the engine bay. Fortunately, the leak is near the end and it has a bit of play in it so we just cut the end off and fit it back on.
Incontinence is quite unbecoming, dear MG.
---
We arrive at the town of Adenau in Germany later than expected. No Nurburgring action today. But after having a little look at the track we decide to stay another day. Good decision. So we check into a hotel and eat at a great Italian restaurant.
Wake up, excited. Get some typical hotel breakfast. Orange juice, toast, ham, bacon, eggs. Apparently the track is booked until 5PM, but after that it's open until 7PM. So we put the car into a local garage to get them to check the wheel bearings, which have been a bit squeaky, the diff and trans fluids. We buy a length of hose and petrol filter and fit them to replace the faulty one. After spending £400 on the brakes in London, I have to grin as I pay the man peanuts for the parts and the inspection. We meet two more Norwegians; journalists writing an article on a road trip they are doing in a Toyota GT-86. My co-driver knows both of them. Small world.
Big Nurburgring. And exciting. Scary? No. Just exciting. I don't trust the MG at all, so one easy lap is all she is getting. Porsches, Corvettes and BMWs just absolutely destroy us. Engines roaring, tires howling. It's a fairly quiet Touristenfahrten, and for that I'm grateful. We stay to the right, using the indicator liberally. I'm sure that one lap took a long time, but it was over much too soon.
We go to a nearby viewing area. Three black C6 Z06 Corvettes are really on it, as are the four or five Porsches with "scaffolding in the back" we spotted at the nearby petrol station earlier. The sounds are just incredible. C63 AMG Estate. A Mini Clubman being driven much faster than seems feasible. A motorcycle rider reeeally pushing his bike (and his luck). A white Camaro getting frisky on the straights but going as slow as we were through the turns. We walk to the Carousel corner. We also walk to "Steilstrecke", the unbelievably steep and rough concrete-paved hill the Nordschleife spanned before.
What a wonderful place. I will definitely go back some time, and I recommend that anyone with an interest in cars goes there at some point. I can't recommend bringing an original MGB GT though. It's too slow.
The car got the obligatory (old-style) sticker to boast.
---
The next day we start the day at 7AM in order to get to the ferry to Norway from Hirtshals at the northernmost point of Denmark. That's 1000km, and we have around twelve hours. Should be alright. The Autobahn is boring with a car that rattles and lurches at 75mph, so we take it easy. We have earplugs in, which goes a long way to make the drive bearable. I would not have believed it had you told me before, but by shutting out the wind and tire noises, they actually amplify speaking voices and other sounds. Top tip! The car has seemingly had enough drama, and we get there with two hours to spare, despite a few stops for fuel and rest, roadworks and rain. We get to Norway after midnight, pay a visit to the toll booth, then drive the last few hours home without a hitch.
Waiting in the ferry queue in Denmark.
The exhaust scraped on the England-France ferry so on the Denmark-Norway ferry we were allowed to park with the big boys downstairs.
After three days on English plates (maximum allowed for Norwegian citizens), I pay the tolls and import taxes, amounting to around 60% of the initial cost of the car. The only reason it's that cheap is that the car is a "veteran," that is to say more than 30 years old.
Home safe.
I go to the imported vehicle inspection, and the inspector is all smiles and nods. Oh, I see you have new brake hoses! And new front springs! And new bushings and locking pins! Well, not much to worry about then! Fortunately, he only inspects the drivers side (I only had time to change the bushings and locking pins on that side before the inspection). He lowers the car, complaining that he does not have enough time to inspect it fully. I'm fine with that. He signs the paperwork.
Getting inspected. Where is the chassis number? We never find it. "Let's just agree that you will put it on the rad support though, alright?" Yes sir.
I'm positively amazed when I pick the plates up, it has only been a week since I got off the ferry! Apparently the next available imported vehicle inspection appointment would have been three weeks from then...
As I take the car for its first drive with the new plates, it hits me: I'm 22, I just finished my engineering degree, it's the start of summer, and I'm driving my own sports car. Is there anything better in the world?
I'm a short-time lurker but I've really enjoyed the cars, stories and projects I've seen so far, so I thought I'd sign up and share!
I'm 23, Norwegian, and I like old cars.
In late May of last year I bought a 1976 MGB GT on the outskirts of Shrewsbury and took it home. Here is the story of how that went down. It's a bit long, but I hope you enjoy it.
---
Coventry is a depressing city. When in Coventry, you can never quite rid yourself of the feeling that you would really prefer being somewhere else. Especially during the winter, when my native Norway beckons with all its wonderful snow instead tedious drizzle. But it had been my own choice, one year at a foreign university to finish my degree! Should be good fun! A better person than me would probably be able to get a lot out of it, but I longed for other places than Coventry. While English public transport is quite good, I prefer cars and the personal freedom they offer.
Couldn't hurt to just have a little look, right? Hello Pistonheads, eBay, Classiccarsforsale and message boards! Hi there Mini, MG and Triumph! Nice to make your acquaintance, English insurance agents! Really? Ah. Right.
So I put it on hold for a few months.
---
I got on a train to look at a white 1976 MGB GT, two weeks before graduation. I had already seen a similar car get snatched from my groping hands, so this time the gloves were off. My pocket vibrated. Ah, a reply from Steve. "No problem, I will be in the parking lot in the black BMW X6." Well.
Steve is an entrepreneur in the hotel business, with a wife and child, and interested in planes, boats and motorcycles. This is his wife's MGB. A Christmas present from two years ago that never sees any use. We arrive at the house, idyllically placed in the countryside, the natural habitat for old English sports cars. Narrow country lanes, sleepy fields, tall hedges. Linda is interested in classic cars, and loves the old MG, but she loves her son more. The country lanes are too narrow, the local drivers too fast, and the car is not safe enough for the school run.
Steve bought the car at the aging local pub from the aging local mechanic after he let slip that he was after a classic car as a Christmas present for his wife. The car needed to be done up a bit, but the mechanic and his brother are of the old school, and do not much care for money as long as they have enough of it to feed the cat and pay the barman. The car was repainted from orange to Old English White, and converted from the dreadful "rubber bumpers" to the much prettier chrome bumpers. I would have preferred an original car, but the price is right, I can't spot any rust, and the fact that it is already modified lets me modify it further without feeling bad about it.
The interior needs some love, and the suspension bushings at the front need replacing, but the car seems in good nick.
I let fly a bid. Steve nods. I grin.
---
It is the day of my final task at university: the individual project presentation. But it is also the day to pick up the little white MG. As distractions go, it's a fairly potent one! Pick the car up first, then polish the presentation one last time. Yeah, right! So I exchange a stack of £20s and £10s for the keys and drive home. I present my project. Done.
How can I concentrate when this is right outside my door?
My Slovakian housemate is bored, so I let him pack my suitcases while I drink some beers and sort some papers. He makes me some sandwiches for the journey. I later find out that he has mixed the assortment of odds and ends I have left in the fridge. Nice. Thanks, Jacob, but I meant for you to inherit those spring onions!
A few hours sleep, then Europe awaits.
I get up at 4AM, put all the bags in the car, and I'm off. Goodbye Coventry, if I never see you again it will be too soon.
Four hours later, I stop in London to pick up a new acquaintance who canceled his plane ticket in order to join me in driving the distance instead. The car stinks of petrol. The brakes that made the car shimmy every time I used them on the motorway are now noisy, smelly, and veeery hot. curse word, the fronts are sticking on. We drink some coffee and wait for the local garages to open.
---
We get five days of nothing but early summer sunshine in London. Really. We drink beer, eat good food, and lounge in parks. The car gets new calipers and brake hoses, but the brakes are still sticking on. In the end they power flush the system. Sorted. I brimmed the tank upon entering the city, and they recommend that I don't do that any more because it was leaking onto the exhaust.
Standing outside the flat in London.
We start at 5AM to catch an early ferry. Destination Nurburgring.
We arrive at Dover in good time, and get some breakfast on the cross-channel ferry. Drive ashore in Dunkirk, and head north. Across the border and into Belgium.
Belgium, where you must pay to put air in your tires.
It's another sunny day. Not a cloud in the sky. The MG is doing well. It does not enjoy going more than 70mph, but it will cruise along at 65 quite happily. Just as we are about the praise the car for not overheating on us, praise the Belgian motorways and praise this excellent road trip, we jump feet first into a traffic jam! We sit in stop and go, bumper to bumper traffic for a few minutes, sweating profusely with worry and heat. We take the first exit to a petrol station and open the bonnet to check for heat and oil level (this becomes a routine every time we stop). It seems alright. We debate what to do. The traffic seems to be going faster. So we chance it.
The bumper to bumper traffic simply will not end. Amazingly, the engine temperature stays level! What, is the gauge broken? No! We giggle, grin nervously and pat the dash, hoping against hope not to break down. I have inspected the radiator and it's not in great shape, but it's certainly doing its job! We marvel at the engine cooling system and lament the lack of an interior cooling system. After two hours of traffic, we get to where the Belgians have shut all three northbound lanes of the motorway, leading us onto a smaller road going east. We get lost for a bit. Then we follow the narrow roads going between the small villages along the motorway. Every time we get to a road that is supposed to lead us back onto the motorway, we encounter a stern Belgian policeman who is very keen to wave us onwards, but not very keen to explain where onwards is. After meeting three of them we get lost some more. Instructed vaguely by my GPS-equipped tablet, we suddenly find our way back to another onramp just as the road opens again.
A few more hours. After braking somewhat hard for more traffic, we smell petrol. Hmm, double hmm. We take the first exit to a rest area. Good thing we did! I get on my hands and knees. "Damn, it's curse word the petrol out!" Open the bonnet and the petrol runs from underneath it and onto the wing. We quickly find the problem, a rubber fuel line going to the carburetor has split and distributed petrol all over the engine bay. Fortunately, the leak is near the end and it has a bit of play in it so we just cut the end off and fit it back on.
Incontinence is quite unbecoming, dear MG.
---
We arrive at the town of Adenau in Germany later than expected. No Nurburgring action today. But after having a little look at the track we decide to stay another day. Good decision. So we check into a hotel and eat at a great Italian restaurant.
Wake up, excited. Get some typical hotel breakfast. Orange juice, toast, ham, bacon, eggs. Apparently the track is booked until 5PM, but after that it's open until 7PM. So we put the car into a local garage to get them to check the wheel bearings, which have been a bit squeaky, the diff and trans fluids. We buy a length of hose and petrol filter and fit them to replace the faulty one. After spending £400 on the brakes in London, I have to grin as I pay the man peanuts for the parts and the inspection. We meet two more Norwegians; journalists writing an article on a road trip they are doing in a Toyota GT-86. My co-driver knows both of them. Small world.
Big Nurburgring. And exciting. Scary? No. Just exciting. I don't trust the MG at all, so one easy lap is all she is getting. Porsches, Corvettes and BMWs just absolutely destroy us. Engines roaring, tires howling. It's a fairly quiet Touristenfahrten, and for that I'm grateful. We stay to the right, using the indicator liberally. I'm sure that one lap took a long time, but it was over much too soon.
We go to a nearby viewing area. Three black C6 Z06 Corvettes are really on it, as are the four or five Porsches with "scaffolding in the back" we spotted at the nearby petrol station earlier. The sounds are just incredible. C63 AMG Estate. A Mini Clubman being driven much faster than seems feasible. A motorcycle rider reeeally pushing his bike (and his luck). A white Camaro getting frisky on the straights but going as slow as we were through the turns. We walk to the Carousel corner. We also walk to "Steilstrecke", the unbelievably steep and rough concrete-paved hill the Nordschleife spanned before.
What a wonderful place. I will definitely go back some time, and I recommend that anyone with an interest in cars goes there at some point. I can't recommend bringing an original MGB GT though. It's too slow.
The car got the obligatory (old-style) sticker to boast.
---
The next day we start the day at 7AM in order to get to the ferry to Norway from Hirtshals at the northernmost point of Denmark. That's 1000km, and we have around twelve hours. Should be alright. The Autobahn is boring with a car that rattles and lurches at 75mph, so we take it easy. We have earplugs in, which goes a long way to make the drive bearable. I would not have believed it had you told me before, but by shutting out the wind and tire noises, they actually amplify speaking voices and other sounds. Top tip! The car has seemingly had enough drama, and we get there with two hours to spare, despite a few stops for fuel and rest, roadworks and rain. We get to Norway after midnight, pay a visit to the toll booth, then drive the last few hours home without a hitch.
Waiting in the ferry queue in Denmark.
The exhaust scraped on the England-France ferry so on the Denmark-Norway ferry we were allowed to park with the big boys downstairs.
After three days on English plates (maximum allowed for Norwegian citizens), I pay the tolls and import taxes, amounting to around 60% of the initial cost of the car. The only reason it's that cheap is that the car is a "veteran," that is to say more than 30 years old.
Home safe.
I go to the imported vehicle inspection, and the inspector is all smiles and nods. Oh, I see you have new brake hoses! And new front springs! And new bushings and locking pins! Well, not much to worry about then! Fortunately, he only inspects the drivers side (I only had time to change the bushings and locking pins on that side before the inspection). He lowers the car, complaining that he does not have enough time to inspect it fully. I'm fine with that. He signs the paperwork.
Getting inspected. Where is the chassis number? We never find it. "Let's just agree that you will put it on the rad support though, alright?" Yes sir.
I'm positively amazed when I pick the plates up, it has only been a week since I got off the ferry! Apparently the next available imported vehicle inspection appointment would have been three weeks from then...
As I take the car for its first drive with the new plates, it hits me: I'm 22, I just finished my engineering degree, it's the start of summer, and I'm driving my own sports car. Is there anything better in the world?
.
haha car looks nice, my B is fine above 70mph usually, but i get a bit of front end lift from the rear suspension being lower 
