In Praise of the British Roadster

My dad was not a rich man. His father was an oilfield roughneck who survived the Great Depression and died when daddy was just ten years old. His mom died when he was 20. After that he was completely on his own, living off a meager salary as an elevator operator at the Texas State Capitol building while putting himself through college.

When his mother died, dad inherited a small amount of money – just a thousand dollars or so, but to him it was a princely sum. Naturally, this new-found inheritance burned a hole in the pocket of this JFK look-alike college sophomore; he promptly bought a pair of suede bucks, a tweed blazer with elbow patches, and a British sports car.

Daddy fell in love with the classic British roadster. I think it was a humble attempt to appear wealthy and carefree – neither of which he would ever become. But my goodness, did he try.

I think his first roadster was an MGA, the predecessor to the iconic two-seat convertible from British Motor Corporation. I don't know much about this particular car, other than the fact that it was tiny, light and fast. He could drive around the hills of Austin or the Texas gulf coast for hours without having to worry about the loss of his family, his mounting debts or his master's thesis. He could think. He could write stories in his mind. He could sing, and whistle, and cry, and scream and laugh without anyone hearing him. I think he imagined himself as a jolly, British cap-wearing gent taking his little roller skate out for a spin down those wandering country lanes in the Lake District.

Later he upgraded to a Triumph Spitfire, and even bought a spunky Lotus Super Seven during his midlife crisis. But that first MG made a permanent impression on him. It defined his youth, his freedom. His escape.

By the time I arrived on the scene, dad had reluctantly shifted to a family sedan. Six years later when my sister entered the picture, he settled for a clunky Chrysler station wagon. But the MG roadster was always calling him, always begging him to try one more time to capture that feeling of being lucky enough to escape the daily slog and take to the open road.

Fast forward forty years, and the Mini Cooper made its debut in America. By this time, dad had a heart condition and mom used a walker. But damned if he didn't buy a Mini Cooper Clubman, large enough to hold his expanding frame and transport a battery-operated scooter for mom.

God was he happy. He was finally retired and could enjoy driving for pleasure again. He bought every accessory he could find for that little Mini – commuter mugs, key chains, umbrellas, even a flat cap. He drove it everywhere, from Texas to Florida to Boston to Utah. He loved his every-day excursions to the grocery store, the post office, the dry cleaners. Sometimes he drove to a nearby cemetery laden with Spanish moss-covered live oaks, just to sit and read or daydream about the childhood he never had. He took his last breath of freedom in that car, suffering his second heart attack in the driver's seat after doing his early morning run to buy The New York Times.

It's been four years since he passed. I miss him every day, some more than others. I remember his quick wit, his ability to tell a story, his humming and whistling. Sometimes I go to mom's house just to peek in his closet and smell his wool blazers. They still smell like him. I feel like he's there with me, reassuring me that things will be all right.

Imagine my excitement last spring when I took my son to the local Subaru dealership to get an oil change and spotted a Mini Cooper Roadster-S in the marquee parking space. It was bright blue with a black rag top, complete with a spoiler and custom wheels. I could hardly wait to grab the keys from the salesman to take it for a test drive.

My Lord. I was transported back to the days when dad taught me how to drive a stick shift in the Triumph. Of course, this little charmer had an automatic transmission and air conditioning -- something daddy told me a true sports car would never have – but I didn't care.

My poor husband didn't stand a chance of talking me out of it. I had to have it. I was done with mom cars forever. And I wanted to recreate the past. I needed to reconnect with dad. So I bought it.

Then COVID hit, and I had nowhere to drive. The office became my living room, travel shut down, errands turned into delivery service. But I found excuses to drive every day. It was springtime in Texas; peak convertible weather. And drive I did. When the sultry summer days stretched out for months, I had to put the top back up just to save my freckled skin from sun damage. But oh my, I was back in my daddy’s happy place.

A British roadster makes no sense. It can’t hold cargo or passengers, it can’t handle Texas floods, it’s dangerous in rush hour traffic. I don’t care. The more top-down days I can capture while I’m still healthy, by God, I’m going to do it.

Did you know there’s even something called the “Openometer” in the Mini drop-tops? It’s a gauge to record how many hours you log with the top down. I’m planning to top mine out, several times over, as a tribute to my father.

When I turned forty, my dad found a phrase in Latin and had it engraved on a bracelet for me. The phrase goes like this: “Horas non numero, nisi serenas,” which roughly means “I do not count the hours unless they are sunny.” Little Mini Cooper Roadster-S – thank you for helping me do this. For my dad.