The Little Red One
It’s 1968. My parent’s are on vacation. I’m 15-1/2 and have just gotten my learner’s permit. My wheels are turning and my right foot is aching to apply some pressure to a pedal.
Three years prior my dad came home with a car I had no idea existed – an Austin Morris Mini Minor. It was the 850cc transverse-mounted, front wheel drive namesake of the Mini Cooper. In the infinite wisdom of the British Leyland automotive conglomerate, it seemed like every brand of British car made a version of the Mini. They were all the same; the only thing that changed was the engine. It was incredibly tiny. On 10″ wheels it looked like a go-kart with a hard top. It was bare bones, and I knew why – and why my father had bought one – when I learned the price. It was $1,400 but all five of us could get into it. It’s not that the thing was roomy; my brother and sister and I would cram into the back seat and it was pretty much all knees and elbows with not an inch to spare.
There were no door cards or liners – the inside of the body sheet metal was all you had separating you from the rest of the world. There were no door handles or window crank mechanisms; the latch was operated by a plastic-coated cable that straddled the cavity under the window from front to back. Give it a bit of a jerk down and the door would open. The window was divided in two, the back half fixed, while the front half slid aft in a track after you undid the latch on the door window frame. The bottom of the door thoughtfully had an open bin for storage. The dash was equally unadorned with only a speedometer, a gas gauge and amp meter. Underneath was an open shelf that ran the width of the dash. Maybe you had a short pile nylon carpet, maybe you just had vinyl mats.
When he first brought it home it was a light grey-blue. Being so tiny up against huge American 1960s iron, it didn’t take long for him to realize it needed to have a neon sign. After about a year, it got a coat of bright red paint. I guess it helped until the day we were all on our way to somewhere in Puyallup when a Dodge pickup T-boned the poor Mini just forward of the left rear wheel – the very spot I traditionally occupied during family road trips. The Dodge had a hitch on the front and that thing punched a really nice concave dent in the mini, nearly touching my elbow when it was done. I thought for sure that truck was going to put me on its bumper. Believe it or not, my dad got it repaired and kept driving it.
Once in its red stage I wanted to give it a go. With my parents out of town, why not? There was only one hitch – it was a 4-speed with a clutch. I didn’t know how to drive a clutch yet, but hey, how hard could it be? So, one weekend morning while they were out of town, I took it for a joy ride. Once I killed it the first time dropping the clutch without feeding gas, I got it moving. Once I got it moving I could actually drive it fairly well. There was a little bit of herky-jerky, but I was pretty proud of myself. And boy, was that thing a blast. Small, nimble, plenty quick enough for this novice, I still remember having a grin on my face. Trying to stay away from intersections with stop signs was the key. With no synchro in first, I pretty much just waited until I was at a full stop before I shifted into first. Then it was play with the pedals until I somehow got it off the line. I garnered a little more attention than I wanted a couple of times. Still, I made it up the couple miles of West Seattle hills to my buddy’s house, where his mom was appalled at what I had obviously done. So, after a few minutes I waved good-bye to my envious friend and headed jerkily off down the street.
I thought I had been extra smart to have picked his house. For starters, it was mostly neighborhood arterial roads and the way home was initially all downhill and then flat with only two stop signs. In this case, it actually worked out. Traffic was much lighter around town then it is these days. Thank goodness for small favors (or in this case, probably a pretty big one).
My neighborhood friends were also not above pulling shenanigans with this car. One morning not long after my clandestine drive, my dad went up the hillside stairs only to find his little Mini resting comfortably on the sidewalk – on its side. He got it rolled back onto all fours and drove off to work. Eventually he tired of the challenges of owning the little car in that world of big cars. I think the accident also got him thinking about how outmanned the Mini was and he finally sold the little bugger. What came next was near the opposite end of the spectrum – a new 1968 Ford Fairlane Station Wagon with a 302 V-8. By that time someone had foolishly given me a license. Oh, man, I was so excited to see what that thing would do…
