The Murphys Marauders

Have you heard the one about the “A”, the “B”, the Alpine and the Midget?  If not, read along as the tale unfolds, with twists and turns apropos of a daytime soap opera!

The preface to this story is that I had only owned my 1963 MGB for about six weeks before being cajoled by the VBAC MG fraternity (ahem, Jay) into undertaking the 340 mile round trip through the wilds and undulations of the California Gold Country to the charming hamlet of Murphys. Having only driven “Jenny” on a few 20-30 mile shakedown runs, I was somewhat apprehensive about an extended journey; I had replaced all the hoses, fluids, plugs, wires, coil etc. The only serious issue was a leaking rear wheel brake cylinder, which was fixed with assistance from other VBAC members (Rick, Steve, Russ).  So, what could go wrong?

On Friday, September 25, Jay’s black MGA burbled up to the Connolly driveway at the unseemly time of 5:45.  AM!  Having spent the previous evening loading Jenny with the needed items (spare parts, tools, jack, mat-to-lie-on-while-conducting-repairs, cooler with refreshments, etc.), we were as ready as possible.  I gave Jenny a little choke, turned the ignition key and she fired quicker than you could read this sentence.

The morning was mildly chilly, but perfect for proper top-down British motoring.  We traversed the cityscape until merging on to Highway 168, heading East toward Auberry, our first stop.

Rich and Carolyn Furman have a wonderful home tucked away in hills of Auberry, where Rich maintains his white Sunbeam Alpine in fine fettle.  Although the MGs didn’t need a stop, the pilots certainly did, and after a few minutes our entourage, now numbering three, meandered up Powerhouse Road as it skirts Kerkhoff Lake, an hors d’oeuvre for the driving feast to come.  Jenny relished the cool morning mountain air, and we motored along, negotiating the backroads to the South of Bass Lake, to rendezvous with our next participant, Bernie, at Bee’s Bakery in Oakhurst.  Bernie and his superb green MG Midget were ready and waiting as arranged, but first we took time to enjoy a light breakfast at Bee’s, highly recommended for those traveling through Oakhurst.

Fortified and satisfied, our group eagerly motored toward the main driving event: Highway 49, one of the most celebrated routes for wayfarers the world over.  Jay’s MGA led the way, followed by me, Rich and then Bernie.  While the route begins relatively sedately, the road soon demands attention and respect, regardless of the mode of transportation.  Switchbacks? Sure.  Decreasing radius curves? Of course. Off-camber turns with sheer drops on the near side? You bet!  I kept an eye on the oil pressure and especially the coolant temperature, but nothing seemed out of the normal scale.  We forged ahead, navigating the dreaded downhill, decreasing radius, 15 mph, right-hander without drama. I even had time to admire the breathtaking scenery as we crossed the bridge at Bagby.

We motored on, and then somewhere between Bagby and Coulterville, I heard a distinct mechanical tink-tink-tink, as though something had decided it had done enough and was no longer going to participate.  There were no noticeable negative effects, so we continued to Coulterville.

I examined the car but did not note anything amiss.  I queried Rich, who had been behind me, whether he had seen any fine British parts falling from my roadster, but he responded in the negative.  Onward to Copperopolis, through the devasted Chinese Camp area, recently ruined by a major fire.  While the roads were slightly less dramatic, the scenery was nonetheless spectacular. Which is how things were going until ominous mechanical noises started emanating from somewhere below.  Screech, boom, tap-tap-tap.  Gearbox? Rear Axle?  A wheel bearing grinding?  The first fuel station in Copperopolis had me at “hello,” and I pulled in, Rich and Jay following, Bernie retracing his tracks somewhat as he had been leading at that point.  Bernie produced a wind-up jack, some rocks were employed to chock the wheels, the aforementioned mat was deployed, and I crawled underneath to assess the damage.  The exhaust pipe hanging by one bolt and a few threads was the obvious culprit, its partner having departed somewhere before Coulterville.  But I had not had the foresight to bring along any nuts or bolts.  Thankfully, Jay had a bag full of old nuts, bolts and odds and sods.  This cornucopia yielded sufficient resources for me to contrive a roadside repair and our little caravan proceeded, after a brief break.

The remainder of the outward journey provided pleasant motoring, plenty of sights, and, thankfully, no more drama.  We arrived at our lodgings, attended to all the unloading duties, and readied for the Ironstone Concours the next morning.

Imagine an idyllic location for an Automotive Concours; terrific weather, lush backdrop, wonderful people and a stunning and impressive array of Automotive treasures.  This is the Ironstone Concours, which features everything from American muscle, Italian exotics, barn finds, one-off creations, early racers to scooters and motorbikes - as well as our beloved British contraptions.  One of the highlights was an Amphicar which periodically drove into the on-site lake for some leisurely cruising!  There was also a band playing easy-listening music redolent of the 50s, a number of food vendors, and other purveyors of trinkets and miscellanea.

It soon became mid-afternoon and our small troupe decided it was time to pack up and return to our quarters; a few took advantage of some local wine-tasting opportunities, while others remained at the house, enjoying the peaceful view, temperate weather and local wildlife.  One took the time to survey his red beast, to ensure the roadside repair was still adequate and to attend to any other emergent matters!

Sunday, and time to depart for home.  Not before a casual breakfast at a local establishment, mind you!

Then, the ride home began; again, excellent weather beckoned, and after filling the cars with petrol, we started for home, this time on a slightly altered route, stopping at Columbia State Park for some sightseeing, then continuing South.  The trip again incorporated Highway 49, and the same challenges, except, of course, in reverse.  Other than some eager racer-type motorcycles heading North, our road was largely unimpeded, and we made good progress.  This time, none of the motors gave us any trouble, and we were able to reach our respective destinations without further incident.

In summary, this was a thoroughly enjoyable journey.  I learned that Jenny might still need some fettling, but she certainly seems willing to undertake lengthy expeditions!  Thanks to Jay, Rich and Bernie for all their assistance and encouragement during this experience.

• Martin Connolly