No stiff upper lips at BritBull car show
What a jolly good surprise.
The British car enthusiasts I met Sunday at Valley Mission Park weren’t at all the snobby, limey-loving fussbudgets I feared they might be.
On the contrary, these folks were gregarious, friendly and downright likable.
My pal Scott Cooper offered a theory on that.
British motorcar owners have to be good-natured, he claimed. They’re always one breakdown away from being stranded on the side of a road and having to beg someone in a more reliable vehicle for a ride.
Whatever. The point is that I had a terrific time making new friends and entering the 1987 Jaguar XJ6 I bought last April in the BritBull XIII car show. And thanks to all you readers who came out to get an Otto button from me.
My Jag was just one of 94 entries among a varied range of English makes like Austin-Healey, Triumph, MGB …
The grass at Valley Mission Park was lined with polished, eye-popping classic automobiles you don’t see every day.
Julie Nesbitt told me about the thrill of driving her 1967 Austin-Healey.
“I go from age 57 to age 18 in five minutes. It’s true. I’m a senior in high school again.”
Marilyn Vollmer, the president of Northwest British Classics car club, described a similar experience with her 1979 MGB.
“I sit in my car. I strap on my seat belt. And I don’t care where I go.”
It’s true. You know me. I could start a Wal-Mart parking lot with all the decrepit old gas-gulping American cars I’ve owned.
But my 22-year-old Jaguar is hands-down the best driving machine I’ve ever had. I took the sage-colored sedan for a spin recently along the twisty roads around Lake Coeur d’Alene.
The big cat hugged the road tighter than a Stateline lap dancer on a heavy tipper’s Levis.
And I am trying to enhance my knowledge of Jaguar maintenance. Just last Friday, I dropped in on Corsmith European auto repair and asked my mechanic, Kelly Corbin, if he could show me how to open my hood.
“You’ve never opened the hood?” he asked with an astonished look on his face.
No.
“You’re a mechanic’s dream,” he said after a bemused pause.
For the record, I did not win the Jaguar division at BritBull XIII. That honor went to an early-1950s Jag, a gleaming red convertible owned by Ray Peterson.
Showoff.
Oh, well. I knew I was out of my league when I had to park next to a glossy 1970-something XJ6.
The proud owner had this professionally made sign set up in front of his car. It contained color photos and all sorts of interesting details about the vehicle.
I had a sign in front of my Jag, too.
It was my 6-foot traveling Dougbench replica ad. My sign features a huge photo of my grinning mug along with the command: “Wake Up and Read Me!”
No wonder I lost.