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The name Miata means reward in German and was only applied
to the MX-5s imported to the U.S.A. Hence the astonishingly clever title of
this missive, too clever by half maybe. 1994 R Edition Miata on display with
classic steelies. Photo by Marve Harwell
© 2012.
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A casual glance at this site would inform anyone who feigns
to care that I am quite fond of the Mazda Miata. The concept of a small, cheap and
light car that is fun to drive was the formless dough rising within my car
lusting heart since my beardless youth. But is this beguiling little roadster
stunting my growth?
There are many classic cars that I would love to own like an
MGB GT, Triumph TR4, Austin Healey Sprite, Alfa Romeo GTV or a Lancia Fulvia.
It’s not that any of these cars are unattainable price-wise like a one of a
kind Ferrari driven by Steve McQueen as he evaded Russian spies to deliver
plans for the space shuttle. Quite the
contrary, anyone of these automotive Picasso’s can be had in mint condition for
less than the price of a new minivan.
So why don’t I own any of them? I have to blame the Miata. For
the first time, as I go to look at one of the above classics, I hear a nagging
question, a faint whispering of a single word: why? Why do I want these cars?
What am I looking for? I think anyone of
them is beautiful to look at and all are loaded with old world charm, whatever
that is. Looks, however, were never the first consideration for me when it
comes to any car, new or immortalized. I also don’t view a classic car as an
interesting way to transport lawn chairs to car shows. I want classic cars, not
because I want to display them, but because I want to drive them. Allow me to
examine this concept in needless detail.
When I was about 11 years old my father bought a go kart
for my brother and me one Christmas. This was like buying a future alcoholic
his first fake ID. The go kart was the usual fare of 1970’s prepubescent petrol
head technology. It had a tubular frame, no suspension and five-inch wheels all
powered by a four horse power pull-start lawn mower engine. It was as
comfortable to drive as being drawn and quartered while wearing wool underwear
but man it was fun!
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| The beginning of it all; young Harwell’s on a fateful Christmas morning in 1977. Photo by Marve Harwell ©2013. |
Curiously though, in
spite of employing the same technology that has been faithfully cutting grass
for decades, the kart proved remarkably unreliable. The axle ran through a
toothed sprocket with a bicycle chain around it, not a lot to go wrong there.
The Briggs and Stratton engine started nearly every time with no more
maintenance than good intentions, so that wasn’t the culprit. The problem, like so many marriages, was not the two major components themselves but their
union that caused the grief.
The working components of the go kart were joined together
through a centrifugal clutch. The clutch was a doughnut sized disc of metal
with a hole in the middle that fit over the output shaft of the engine. The
other end of the clutch contained hinged teeth that splayed out (by centrifugal
force, hey science!) and hooked into the chain when you stepped on the gas and
revved the engine. Once the teeth of the clutch caught the chain the kart began
to move and mayhem ensued.
As I alluded to earlier the clutch broke about every other
month and a replacement cost the princely sum of $30. In 1977 you could by a
modest home for $30 and for an 11 year old with no money and a bleak future it
was an impossible sum. My father bought the first few but soon grew tired of
diverting the grocery money to feed the budding motoring enthusiasm of his two
sons. My brother and I were not about to give up our only car so we adapted.
When the clutch was broken the teeth stayed out all the time and when you
pulled the cord to start the engine the kart would leap forward about 15 feet,
if you were lucky. If you were unlucky it would start and run away down the
driveway and crash into the neighbor’s garbage cans. We soon figured out a
clever solution, however, dummy number one would lift the rear wheels off the
ground while dummy number two pulled the starter. Once the engine started and
the wheels were spinning dummy number two would jump into the driver’s seat and
apply the brake while dummy number one dropped the back end of the kart and
hopped into the passenger seat. When we were one dummy short and riding solo a
brick standing on end was used to lift the rear wheels off the ground. Once the
engine was started dummy number two would jump into the kart in such a way as
to jolt it forward enough to topple the brick and off you go.
Eventually dropping the kart as a starting procedure caused
one of the tubular frame rails to split. My father welded the frame back
together but by then we had moved on to a much more reliable Yamaha DT 175
motorcycle and the go kart was hung on the garage wall like a hunting trophy.
The point is, and yes there is a point, my brother and I
tossed aside the go kart without remorse, sentiment or regret once we got the
Yamaha, why? Even though the go kart was amazing fun and the best Christmas
present I ever received, it wasn’t so much the machine itself I loved but the
joy of speed, control and freedom. These things could all be had much more reliably
with the motorcycle, so good bye go kart.
Now that I look back I wish I still had that old kart, not
for the joy of driving it or the laughing spectacle it would give onlookers to
see me do so, but for the sentiment and nostalgia. The go kart was, for all
purposes, my first car and it ignited a life-long passion inside of me. It was
also an amazingly loving gift from my patient and tolerant parents. It may be a
sign of getting older that I regret getting rid of the go kart, so much so that
I bought my daughter one that I keep at my parent’s house so when we visit she
can terrorize the same roads and trails I did way back then. My daughter’s kart
has independent suspension, a belt driven transmission, disc brake and a full
roll cage and is just as frustratingly unreliable.
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Another Christmas and a new generation of Harwell’s fill the
old neighborhood with the dull thrum of single cylinder bliss. Harwell daughter
and nephew carry the torch. Photo by Marve Harwell © 2011.
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The old kart taught me a few lessons; one is to not be so
quick to get rid of things, another is that motoring joy is best achieved through
raw simplicity and the last lesson is that if you can find fun and reliability
you have achieved automotive nirvana. Those lessons have led me to have three
Mazda Miatas in my garage and not one beloved classic.
So are you to conclude, hapless reader, that I have sworn
off classic cars? Nope, quite the contrary, I now will pursue a collector car
with better clarity and purpose. I’ll look for my MG or Fulvia for the sake of
owning something wonderful in the nostalgic context of its time. I’ll enjoy a
classic for the pleasure of driving simplicity in a car that is all mechanical,
uncontaminated by comfort and convenience. But here is the caveat, whatever old
car I buy I’ll keep at least one, probably two, of my Miatas. By keeping the
MX-5 I never have to let a sunny day go by while my classic sits waiting for a
part or while I ply the forums looking for advice on exercising some daemon or
other. The Miata will keep me from
holding a grudge against age or design related faults that frustrate old cars
owners. If my classic fails to start on a summer evening, I have the option of
looking thoughtfully while I rearrange my weekend schedule to investigate the
problem. Then I’ll jump in the Miata, put the top down, and enjoy terrorizing
some quiet back road.
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1967 Mustang GT, a classic like this may someday be leaving
oil spots on the Harwell Garage, yeah I like Mustangs too. Photo by Marve Harwell ©2013.
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As an interesting side note I may not be the only one who
sees the Miata as the reliable spare tire to a more temperamental classic. I
had my bone stock 2000 MX-5 at the spring Carlisle car show to demo some products
I was test marketing. Nobody wanted the products but I had five offers on my
Mazda. In addition to that, in the car corral of that same show, there were
Shelby’s, Hemi Cudas, classic Chevy muscle cars and hot rods of every description.
In amongst this classic iron were three Miatas for sale, looking as out of
context as a salad on Rosie O’Donnell’s dinner table. Astonishingly, at the end
of the weekend all three MX-5’s were sold. I casually wonder what classic cars
the little Japanese roadsters will share garage space with.
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