Triumph -- A Living Memorial

By Melvin S. Merzon

Day 1: Prelude

It was sunny and very warm in Chicago on Thursday afternoon, when Jean and I drove out to O’Hare for our overnight flight to London. We were going to the 75th anniversary celebration of the Triumph motor car. We had been planning this long weekend for several months and were anticipating a grand time among all these classic and antique cars. Though I was no doubt the car buff, Jean was nevertheless equally enthusiastic about going to England. We had visited various places in the U.K. before, and both of us had much enjoyed both the country and the countryside.

Though we had been cautioned to bring along our rain gear, we landed at Heathrow in bright sunlight the next morning. (Our eight-hour flight had passed quickly and the entire trip, as they say, was uneventful, completely so: uneventful food, uneventful service, and uneventful comfort.) After passing through the bureaucratic eye of British immigration and being perfunctorily welcomed by H.M. Customs, we paused long enough to acquire some cash at the terminal ATM and then headed for the Underground station and our pre-arranged luncheon meeting with friends, Jonathan and Helene. Though we had remained in touch with one another, we’d not seen them for a number of years. We’d met the London couple and their children some year’s back when we had booked, independently of one another, of course, a Colorado River white water rafting trip.

The journey from the airport to London City Center was much longer than I had anticipated, but being people watchers (a spectator sport carefully honed by nearly 18 years of my daily trips aboard Chicago’s famous "El" to and from my downtown office) the ride was a rather pleasant one. Indeed, we had consciously chosen this way for getting into the City in preference to bus, taxi, or limousine. We had thought about hiring a car at the airport and driving into the City but decided against it. Not that I’m averse to driving on the left side. To the contrary, having lived two years in England many years ago I was familiar - and comfortable - with operating a car on English roads. Indeed, given the arrow-straight character of American roads and byways, I rather fancied the far less rigidly laid out automotive pathways (forgetting, of course, the Motorways) of the English town and countryside. Admittedly, as with New York and Chicago, London in-city driving is miserable at worst, tedious at best. So for us, the train was most pleasant. About an hour later, we arrived at our destination and climbed the stairs to Charing Cross, a bustling intersection, and baggage in hand.

Exiting the station, we quickly learned that the Underground is not equipped to handle folks carrying luggage. Given our brief stay, we had brought along but a couple of bags, both of which had wheels ala the current mode of travel. We’re no longer into carrying pieces of hand luggage if we can avoid it; a suitcase on wheels is much more practical. Unfortunately, even bags on wheels won’t roll up staircases, will they?

While I was able to "hoist" my bag up the steps, Jean was not as adept. Happily, a stranger came by, saw her predicament, and quite easily—he was many years our junior, far more beefier in stature—easily lifted and carried her bag aloft. (Who says Londoners are unfriendly!) In retrospect, I wonder how the handicapped coped with the user-unfriendly exit.

Before going to meet our friends for lunch, it was our plan to drop the luggage at the rent-a-car office which, we had been told, was near the station, but where exactly, however, we hadn’t the foggiest notion. With the guidance of a very friendly Underground attendant on the street (what a splendid idea for tourists; we ought to have someone like this in Chicago) we found our way to Kennings, several blocks from the station. (A rule of traveling abroad: deal with an indigenous car renter, they serve you better than the international organizations). We dropped our luggage, flagged down a cab and went to our luncheon rendezvous at a splendid Indian restaurant in Tottenham Court Road.

After a leisurely lunch, the sun still brightly shining, we returned with Jonathan to Kennings and picked up the car. Jonathan took the wheel and quickly drove us to the A25, aimed us in the right direction, and bade us farewell.

Two hours later, having made our way through "rush hour" traffic (it’s much the same everywhere), after turns, a few misturns, and some returns, we found ourselves at the front door of John and Sylvia Hardy’s place in Sevenoaks, Kent. (John’s directions were good. The streets simply didn’t always follow them.) Even though there were no address numbers outside (their home had no numbered address, only a name.) we knew we were in the right place: John’s beautiful green Roadster stood proudly in the forecourt, shards of afternoon sunlight reflecting off its polished surface.

The Hardys must have heard us drive up, for in a moment they emerged to warmly welcome us to their lovely home to share their hospitality (What great friendships do Roadsters almost instantly forge!) We were shown our room and after setting things down, we adjourned to the garden for tea. (Commercial: there’s something about English tea that is totally satisfying, an elixir, if you will, even if it’s served in bags - back when I first lived in England, only Americans, with their rustic colonial habits served tea in a bag. My how times do change.)

Both being flower people, Jean delighted in the tour Sylvia gave her of the beautiful terraced garden, expanses of flowerbeds most decoratively - and decorously - spaced throughout. Being the lesser horticulturally talented, I mainly followed along, enjoying the warmth and the verdancy, nodding approvingly (to me cars are beautiful, for Jean it’s flowers!)

At the side of this extensive garden stood an unused tennis court, netless, blades of grass flowing up in the cracks of the no-longer-used surface. Sylvia indicated it was a splendid place for grandchildren’s tricycles. What a great place, I mused aloud, to build a garage and workshop for at least 5 or 6 more Roadsters. (Suffice to say that no one picked up on my grand scheme, so I hastily dropped the notion.)

We were introduced to the Hardy’s daughter and son-in-law who had since arrived and shortly thereafter we sat down to Friday evening dinner. While the meal was delicious, it was not to be leisurely enjoyed: John and I had to dash off to the evening pub gathering of the Roadster Club members.

As any Briton knows, the pub is a peculiarly - and wonderfully - English institution, which, outside the British sphere of influence, exists nowhere else in the world. Quaint, perhaps a bit anachronistic in this contemporary world, yet still remaining as a convivial social oasis which never ceases to charm us foreigners. This evening was no exception. And how much more pleasure could one have than to be surrounded by Roadster folks and to hear them live and breathe what can best be described as the legend and lore of Roadster restoration. (In the ISOA, our several-hundred strong Triumph club based in northeastern Illinois, I am the sole Roadster owner). To my dismay, there were but a handful of people at the pub that night. (Their "meetings" were more fully social events than ISOA’s, whose monthly conclaves are much more formal.) But the camaraderie was most abundant and I felt most welcome in their midst.

Not much of a beer drinker myself but always welcoming a Guinness (the occasional imbibing of which, especially this evening, brought to memory the evening many years ago that Jean and I spent in a Dublin pub, completely taken in by the mixed voices and the traditional Celtic instruments). I had but one small glass (sorry, guys, an English pint is too much for me).

It was about 10 o’clock, after a pleasant several hours of Roadster talk mainly, when John and I left the pub and drove back in the cool evening air, top down, to Sevenoaks. By this time, the accumulation of hours on the go had caught up with me. Since our Chicago departure, now well over 24 hours ago, we had gone non-stop all day long and the moment of reckoning was now upon me: despite my efforts to stay awake and be a proper guest, I must have dozed off for most of the trip back home (for which I belatedly apologize to John).

Refreshed by the comforting Roadster return ride, once home, I stayed awake long enough for a cup of tea (I don’t recall if tea immediately before bed is an exclusively English convention or not, but it’s certainly an activity in which I’ve happily engaged for a number of years. Let those who so desire quaff their hot cocoa - do they still drink Bournvita? Before retiring. I vaguely remember John’s having a nip of stronger stuff, resisting such earlier in the evening, being the "designated driver." What’s more pleasing, say I, than a hot cuppa - summer or winter, accompanied by small sweet somethings.)

And then to bed. Jean had gone to bed earlier but was still awake when I climbed the stairs. She was reading the novel she’d brought with her. I remember trying to read as well, but I was fully overcome by sleep in seconds it seems.

To be continued...