Memories of an MGA

I would like to drive an MGA again. But perhaps I shouldn’t. Perhaps I should heed the advice: never go back. To drive an MGA again might sour too many memories of raw and carefree youth, of being a country kid with his own sports car making it as a newspaper reporter in the big city.

The day I bought the MGA was the most thrilling of all. I was 19. It was a 1600, made in 1960, seven years old, and British Racing Green. I’d spotted it shining from among the family saloons in a dealer’s yard. Every afternoon for the next week I left the office early to go and rub my hands over its flowing panels, sit behind its wire-spoked steering wheel, gaze beneath its bonnet, and even, when the dealer realised I was getting close to buying, take it out in the beating Australian summer sun for a delirious couple of miles.