Roadster the Palace
James Morgan
On Saturday 12th November 2011 at around 4 p m the auctioneer’s gavel came crashing down announcing me as the new owner of the 1946 Triumph Roadster. The journey that lay ahead of us was to be littered with hurdles and mishaps thrust upon me by an ageing old lady whose overall condition was far from suggesting she might be a candidate for intensive care but nevertheless she was to be a regular attendee at the out patients department.
The subject of a five year restoration project by her previous owner the Roadster still demanded a complete gear box overhaul within days of arriving at her new home in the West Midlands. Add to that a new carburettor, clutch and brake overhaul all topped off with a complete re-spray and it is not difficult to appreciate the love-hate relationship which developed between man and machine.
Quite how I came to be a Roadster owner is not easily explained.
My other two classic cars represent and reflect two important eras in my life. The Sunbeam Talbot was the car I grew up in. From the back seat of my father’s favoured conveyance I learnt to read road signs, collect car numbers and acquaint myself with the rudiments of ‘I Spy’. The old car was as much a part of my child hood as snake belts, Spangles and the 11 plus.
The Austin Metropolitan was my first car. It was bought for me when I was only sixteen by doting parents. I managed to convince them that the car being sold by a very dodgy Irish window cleaner in Sparkbrook Birmingham was a never to be missed opportunity and despite being too young to drive I polished it to within a few inches of its life as I waited for my seventeenth birthday to arrive.
This was the car in which I listened, with unbound enthusiasm, to the words of Alan Freeman as he introduced the latest Top Twenty to ‘pop pickers’ every Sunday afternoon. This was the car that witnessed my passing from young boy to man and the vehicle in which I took my girl friend, later to become my wife on our first date. In a vain search to revisit my youth, I acquired the very model in which I spent those idyllic years, which have now come to be known as the swinging sixties.
But what of the Roadster?
I knew nothing of its existence in my formative years. Very few in the bleak working class Black Country town in which I grew up had sufficient income to purchase and run this sleek and eye catching vehicle. My father’s Sunbeam reigned supreme over a motley collection Morris 8’s Austin Sevens and the odd Ford Prefect. There was not a Triumph Roadster in sight.
For over fifty years I lived blissfully ignorant of the existence of this unique and charismatic car. That is until one day whilst attempting to track down an elusive Metropolitan at an auction in East Anglia my eyes fell upon the eye watering lines of a stunning car with a bonnet which seemed to go on forever and haunches ready to propel the beast into the next world. It was love at first sight.
Although the owner of three classics I have no talent as a motor engineer. I put my lack of practical skills down to a deprived childhood without a ‘Meccano’ set. If only I had been given the opportunity to master the skills associated with those spanners and minute nuts and bolts to say nothing of those vast arrays of cogs and pulleys I too may have been able to undertake complicated procedures and cure my beloved Roadster from life threatening ailments.
How I admire you engineers who can fashion parts, long since manufactured, from every day pieces of metal. The columns of this magazine frequently record challenging long distance road trips to remote areas of this country and Europe. Breakdowns, which would have undoubtedly terminated my journey, are resolved by members with the ingenious use of everyday objects applied to hidden parts of the Roadster’s innards. Ladies tights, rubber bands and chewing gum, in the hands of a talented owner/engineer all seem to have properties which enable the old girls to get home.
It is for this reason that my Roadster trips are limited to no more than fifty miles. I am not knowledgeable enough to strip down an engine or analyse a defect and rectify it at the side of a busy main road.
I love driving these old cars but have little appetite for lying underneath them. I am fortunate that in the next village is a septuagenarian mechanic who has untold knowledge of these old cars. He does his best to cram a life time’s experience into a few hours instruction as he does the business on my three old ladies and I deftly pass him the spanners-much as a theatre nurse attends an eminent surgeon.
I like to think there is a place in the classic car world for owners like me; people who are enthralled with the character of these vehicles and gain just as much enjoyment from them as the hands- on enthusiast.
So how on earth did this wet- behind- the ear rookie Roadster owner end up at Buckingham Palace?
Well it was definitely a case of having the right car at the right time.
The event was to be a display of British made cars to represent each year of the Queen’s life-simple as that.
Evidently a similar automobile extravaganza had taken place ten years earlier, to celebrate the Queen’s eightieth birthday and had been attended by a 1946 Roadster but this car had since been sold. The organisers, The All Party Parliamentary Historic Vehicles Group, not surprisingly approached The Triumph Roadster Club with a view to finding a replacement.
The club’s records obviously revealed just such a vehicle, enjoying a quiet life in semi retirement on the edge of The Black Country. Neither the car nor its owner needed asking twice.
The event was originally planned for June to coincide with a plethora of other activities marking the monarch’s birthday.
The paper work was completed. My passport and that of my son who was accompanying me, was checked and I signed the necessary authority to allow the old car to be thoroughly investigated by sniffer dogs.
Sadly a couple of weeks before the day I received a letter from the organisers stating that the point of assembly-The Royal Chelsea Hospital, could not satisfy the exacting security requirements demanded by the Metropolitan Police and the Terrorist Squad. It was hoped that the event would be arranged for late summer or autumn.
In early August the new date of 15 October was confirmed. A new collection point, Wellington Barracks was announced.
Given my previous comments outlining my shortcomings as a classic car mechanic it will come as no surprise to hear that I was somewhat reluctant to submit myself, my son and my Roadster to a journey across several English counties and then take on the delights of congestion in central London.
Call me a wimp but not even a trip to the Palace could justify a rapid and perhaps fatal increase in my highly monitored blood pressure.
I therefore arranged for a specialist transporter to pick up the car the afternoon before the event and deliver it to Wellington Barracks in the allotted time window 11-11 15 am the following day.
I must admit to feeling a little uneasy about this arrangement. The thought of eighty nine other owners casting disapproving glances at the bullet shaped box trailer as it arrived at its destination was a little unsettling. My fears were unfounded. Nearly half of the exhibits arrived in a similar fashion. This included some youngsters from the eighties and nineties to say nothing of a period AA Patrol Van towed in by a modern AA recovery vehicle.
The day went without hitch. Owners were requested to dress in clothes reflecting the year of the car. My son and I responded with trilbies and cravats although I have since been advised that we looked like a couple of spivs!
Period Army and Air Force uniforms abounded as did ladies elegantly attired in fur stoles and seamed stockings.
I cast an envious glance at the owner of an early seventies vehicle who sported an impressive pair of flared trousers a pair of Cuban heels and shirt with a pointed collar which could have drawn blood if not carefully handled.
As you can imagine the cars on display were extremely impressive To my right was a 1945 Wolseley that had been granted a day off from wedding duties and to the left was a Rover 12 convertible that had made its way fearlessly from Felixstowe that morning.
We were introduced to Prince Michael of Kent a knowledgeable classic car man and President of the RAC, who was very complimentary about the Roadster and like most people was taken with her lines and appealing ‘Dickey Seats.’
He was followed by Richard Burden former shadow Transport Minister and MP for Northfield Birmingham. We exchanged a few views about the demise of the car industry in his constituency and he introduced me to the car he was driving for the day and representing 2016, a Jaguar F Pace.
All exhibits had a tale to tell and clearly demonstrated the changing scene in the car industry over the decades
The Daily Telegraph commented;-
“One of the cars we have is a Triumph Roadster from 1946, which was regarded as an above-average sports car in its day. The brochure boasted that it could do 0-60mph in 29.6 seconds. We also have a McLaren P1 hybrid car from 2012 which will go from 0-62mph in 2.8 seconds.
Oh well you can’t win them all. Anyway my head lights were bigger!
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.
The subject of a five year restoration project by her previous owner the Roadster still demanded a complete gear box overhaul within days of arriving at her new home in the West Midlands. Add to that a new carburettor, clutch and brake overhaul all topped off with a complete re-spray and it is not difficult to appreciate the love-hate relationship which developed between man and machine.
Quite how I came to be a Roadster owner is not easily explained.
My other two classic cars represent and reflect two important eras in my life. The Sunbeam Talbot was the car I grew up in. From the back seat of my father’s favoured conveyance I learnt to read road signs, collect car numbers and acquaint myself with the rudiments of ‘I Spy’. The old car was as much a part of my child hood as snake belts, Spangles and the 11 plus.
The Austin Metropolitan was my first car. It was bought for me when I was only sixteen by doting parents. I managed to convince them that the car being sold by a very dodgy Irish window cleaner in Sparkbrook Birmingham was a never to be missed opportunity and despite being too young to drive I polished it to within a few inches of its life as I waited for my seventeenth birthday to arrive.
This was the car in which I listened, with unbound enthusiasm, to the words of Alan Freeman as he introduced the latest Top Twenty to ‘pop pickers’ every Sunday afternoon. This was the car that witnessed my passing from young boy to man and the vehicle in which I took my girl friend, later to become my wife on our first date. In a vain search to revisit my youth, I acquired the very model in which I spent those idyllic years, which have now come to be known as the swinging sixties.
But what of the Roadster?
I knew nothing of its existence in my formative years. Very few in the bleak working class Black Country town in which I grew up had sufficient income to purchase and run this sleek and eye catching vehicle. My father’s Sunbeam reigned supreme over a motley collection Morris 8’s Austin Sevens and the odd Ford Prefect. There was not a Triumph Roadster in sight.
For over fifty years I lived blissfully ignorant of the existence of this unique and charismatic car. That is until one day whilst attempting to track down an elusive Metropolitan at an auction in East Anglia my eyes fell upon the eye watering lines of a stunning car with a bonnet which seemed to go on forever and haunches ready to propel the beast into the next world. It was love at first sight.
Although the owner of three classics I have no talent as a motor engineer. I put my lack of practical skills down to a deprived childhood without a ‘Meccano’ set. If only I had been given the opportunity to master the skills associated with those spanners and minute nuts and bolts to say nothing of those vast arrays of cogs and pulleys I too may have been able to undertake complicated procedures and cure my beloved Roadster from life threatening ailments.
How I admire you engineers who can fashion parts, long since manufactured, from every day pieces of metal. The columns of this magazine frequently record challenging long distance road trips to remote areas of this country and Europe. Breakdowns, which would have undoubtedly terminated my journey, are resolved by members with the ingenious use of everyday objects applied to hidden parts of the Roadster’s innards. Ladies tights, rubber bands and chewing gum, in the hands of a talented owner/engineer all seem to have properties which enable the old girls to get home.
It is for this reason that my Roadster trips are limited to no more than fifty miles. I am not knowledgeable enough to strip down an engine or analyse a defect and rectify it at the side of a busy main road.
I love driving these old cars but have little appetite for lying underneath them. I am fortunate that in the next village is a septuagenarian mechanic who has untold knowledge of these old cars. He does his best to cram a life time’s experience into a few hours instruction as he does the business on my three old ladies and I deftly pass him the spanners-much as a theatre nurse attends an eminent surgeon.
I like to think there is a place in the classic car world for owners like me; people who are enthralled with the character of these vehicles and gain just as much enjoyment from them as the hands- on enthusiast.
So how on earth did this wet- behind- the ear rookie Roadster owner end up at Buckingham Palace?
Well it was definitely a case of having the right car at the right time.
The event was to be a display of British made cars to represent each year of the Queen’s life-simple as that.
Evidently a similar automobile extravaganza had taken place ten years earlier, to celebrate the Queen’s eightieth birthday and had been attended by a 1946 Roadster but this car had since been sold. The organisers, The All Party Parliamentary Historic Vehicles Group, not surprisingly approached The Triumph Roadster Club with a view to finding a replacement.
The club’s records obviously revealed just such a vehicle, enjoying a quiet life in semi retirement on the edge of The Black Country. Neither the car nor its owner needed asking twice.
The event was originally planned for June to coincide with a plethora of other activities marking the monarch’s birthday.
The paper work was completed. My passport and that of my son who was accompanying me, was checked and I signed the necessary authority to allow the old car to be thoroughly investigated by sniffer dogs.
Sadly a couple of weeks before the day I received a letter from the organisers stating that the point of assembly-The Royal Chelsea Hospital, could not satisfy the exacting security requirements demanded by the Metropolitan Police and the Terrorist Squad. It was hoped that the event would be arranged for late summer or autumn.
In early August the new date of 15 October was confirmed. A new collection point, Wellington Barracks was announced.
Given my previous comments outlining my shortcomings as a classic car mechanic it will come as no surprise to hear that I was somewhat reluctant to submit myself, my son and my Roadster to a journey across several English counties and then take on the delights of congestion in central London.
Call me a wimp but not even a trip to the Palace could justify a rapid and perhaps fatal increase in my highly monitored blood pressure.
I therefore arranged for a specialist transporter to pick up the car the afternoon before the event and deliver it to Wellington Barracks in the allotted time window 11-11 15 am the following day.
I must admit to feeling a little uneasy about this arrangement. The thought of eighty nine other owners casting disapproving glances at the bullet shaped box trailer as it arrived at its destination was a little unsettling. My fears were unfounded. Nearly half of the exhibits arrived in a similar fashion. This included some youngsters from the eighties and nineties to say nothing of a period AA Patrol Van towed in by a modern AA recovery vehicle.
The day went without hitch. Owners were requested to dress in clothes reflecting the year of the car. My son and I responded with trilbies and cravats although I have since been advised that we looked like a couple of spivs!
Period Army and Air Force uniforms abounded as did ladies elegantly attired in fur stoles and seamed stockings.
I cast an envious glance at the owner of an early seventies vehicle who sported an impressive pair of flared trousers a pair of Cuban heels and shirt with a pointed collar which could have drawn blood if not carefully handled.
As you can imagine the cars on display were extremely impressive To my right was a 1945 Wolseley that had been granted a day off from wedding duties and to the left was a Rover 12 convertible that had made its way fearlessly from Felixstowe that morning.
We were introduced to Prince Michael of Kent a knowledgeable classic car man and President of the RAC, who was very complimentary about the Roadster and like most people was taken with her lines and appealing ‘Dickey Seats.’
He was followed by Richard Burden former shadow Transport Minister and MP for Northfield Birmingham. We exchanged a few views about the demise of the car industry in his constituency and he introduced me to the car he was driving for the day and representing 2016, a Jaguar F Pace.
All exhibits had a tale to tell and clearly demonstrated the changing scene in the car industry over the decades
The Daily Telegraph commented;-
“One of the cars we have is a Triumph Roadster from 1946, which was regarded as an above-average sports car in its day. The brochure boasted that it could do 0-60mph in 29.6 seconds. We also have a McLaren P1 hybrid car from 2012 which will go from 0-62mph in 2.8 seconds.
Oh well you can’t win them all. Anyway my head lights were bigger!
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.
