Chatter on our OCS email group not so long ago turned to one fellow’s ownership of a forty-nine-year-old Austin-Healey. Reminded me of what I did on our Xmas break in 1967.
After discovering I had been dumped by my college girlfriend for a civilian, I spent the time sleeping in the bath tub of my sister’s one-bedroom D.C. apartment (the couch was occupied) and driving around town with a friend who had a Morgan. The “live axle” one. No springs. Jar your teeth right out of your head. As the experts used to say: you hit the first bump in a Morgan, missed the second one and hit the third one.