In 1959, Alec Issigonis and the British Motor Corporation wheeled out a new paradigm: the original Mini – a front-wheel-drive marvel that packed four adults and their baggage behind a transversely-mounted engine. Dinky, frugal, fun. 40 years later, Audi elevated the concept with the A2; an ideological execution so bold, it was too clever for its own good.
‘Your mother wouldn’t like it’, ran the ads – ding-dong marketing to the cad sans the cash to bag an Aston. Carry On sauce promising pulling-power at every turn; that’s how MG positioned the B GT in-period. Not that my Mum took offence: Dad drove an early roadster at the time they first met. A sagging, green rust-box replete with boot rack and steel wheels. Tales of 100mph blasts to Yugoslavia. Parents improbably cool as young people. Faded memories of heady days that made up my mind: I had to have a B, and it had to be GT.
For years I’ve had this recurring dream. I’m on a Triumph Bonneville cruising down a winding country road. It’s early fall and there’s a slight chill in the morning air. I’m wearing a waxed cotton motorcycle jacket over a tweed sport coat, tweed pants, leather boots, and a custom made matte black helmet. As the road curves to the left, I lean the bike over, reach down, and drag a gloved hand across the asphalt, a tactile reminder that I am in the south of England, riding towards a grand destination - the seat of the Dukes of Richmond and the Goodwood Revival.
Hunter S. Thompson once said there’s no honest way to explain the edge because “the only people who really know where it is are the ones who have gone over.”
Ask raffish tailor, Hardy Amies about style, and he’d reply: “A man should look as if he has bought his clothes with intelligence, put them on with care and then forgotten all about them”. The Mercedes-Benz W124 coupé is such sprezzatura made metal, and arguably, one of the finest cars ever built. Now is the time to buy.
“The fact is I don’t drive just to get from A to B, I enjoy feeling the car’s reactions, becoming a part of it” – Enzo Ferrari
Making a post the other day with the pictures of a Land Rover Defender, one word kept popping into my mind: "Icon". But I couldn’t stop thinking, what makes an icon?
To me, the word, the description, the designation “Icon” has lost a bit of its significance – it is being thrown around left and right, and almost immediately a given product seems to have achieved “iconic status”; and it’s a shame.
Imagine the situation: it’s around midnight, you arrive at a poorly lit door with a small shutter, knock...
When I hold one of my father’s steering wheels, I feel like I have a little piece of...