BritBox loves attention. Yes, yes; hard to believe, but true. Let's face it, one of the 1,743 reasons to own a little British sports car is to bask in the warm, affectionate admiration of jealous onlookers. Especially Miata owners. But not Z4 owners.
Kids say wow, cool car! and thirtysomething soccer moms say nice car, is that an MG? and your boss says stop parking that thing here, it's leaking oil everywhere!—jealous, all of them. BritBox would rather push a Triumph than drive an Escalade, and it's better to push an Escalade than pass a kidney stone, and it's better to pass a kidney stone than pay for a year's worth of gas for an Escalade...
Why do you even want to talk about Chevrolet Suburbans disguised as luxury vehicles?
Look, cars have an amazing ability to touch lives. Of course, there are people like your mother who think of them as colorful toasters—and about as interesting—but almost everyone else in the civilized world thinks cars are pretty neat. Why not? Even if you don't know a Buick from an Austin-Healey, you can probably conjure up some kind of memory that is connected to a car: a cab ride home from the airport, a very hot date at the drive-in theater, helping Dad wash the station wagon when you were just a little critter, the feeling of independence that came with owning your first car, the character-building exercises attached to maintaining that first car, and so on. Let's just agree that cars are very relatable.
The Sporty Red Car gets its fair share of attention, you bet. Sometimes a little more would be nice, like when that van or Hummer starts crossing over into BritBox's lane—but it seems rude to interrupt someone's telephone conversation. That's OK, BritBox rebuilt the car once, it can be rebuilt again. Re-rebuilt? Whatever.
There's also such a thing as too much attention, and this happens two different ways. The first way is when curious motorists tailgate The Favorite TR250 at 65 MPH because they are trying to get close enough to read the name badge on the boot lid. Funny side note: in Triumph's astonishing marketing wisdom, it was decided that the word "Triumph" would appear in exactly one place on the car—a one-by-five inch badge at the back end of the car.
The second way is when lazy, ignorant boneheads assume that The Sporty Red Car is an unfamiliar variant of the Cobra/Tiger/Interceptor let's-drop-a-V8-in-a-British-car theme and they want to show how unimpressed they are. They, too, get right up on BritBox's tail, cruising tauntingly just inches from the exhaust-dusted rear bumper. It's like a test; a battle of wills; a street duel where the honor of classic motoring must be upheld in the face of brazen provocation borne by contemporary expressions of automotive achievement. Finally, the bonehead swings out of BritBox's slipstream, passing in an arrogant yet desperate gasp of catalytic converter-cleansed combustion, strident overhead cam drowning out the music of The Favorite TR250's stalwart pushrods. The challenger passes, normal motoring resumes.
BritBox really hates minivans.
Kids say wow, cool car! and thirtysomething soccer moms say nice car, is that an MG? and your boss says stop parking that thing here, it's leaking oil everywhere!—jealous, all of them. BritBox would rather push a Triumph than drive an Escalade, and it's better to push an Escalade than pass a kidney stone, and it's better to pass a kidney stone than pay for a year's worth of gas for an Escalade...
Why do you even want to talk about Chevrolet Suburbans disguised as luxury vehicles?
Look, cars have an amazing ability to touch lives. Of course, there are people like your mother who think of them as colorful toasters—and about as interesting—but almost everyone else in the civilized world thinks cars are pretty neat. Why not? Even if you don't know a Buick from an Austin-Healey, you can probably conjure up some kind of memory that is connected to a car: a cab ride home from the airport, a very hot date at the drive-in theater, helping Dad wash the station wagon when you were just a little critter, the feeling of independence that came with owning your first car, the character-building exercises attached to maintaining that first car, and so on. Let's just agree that cars are very relatable.
The Sporty Red Car gets its fair share of attention, you bet. Sometimes a little more would be nice, like when that van or Hummer starts crossing over into BritBox's lane—but it seems rude to interrupt someone's telephone conversation. That's OK, BritBox rebuilt the car once, it can be rebuilt again. Re-rebuilt? Whatever.
There's also such a thing as too much attention, and this happens two different ways. The first way is when curious motorists tailgate The Favorite TR250 at 65 MPH because they are trying to get close enough to read the name badge on the boot lid. Funny side note: in Triumph's astonishing marketing wisdom, it was decided that the word "Triumph" would appear in exactly one place on the car—a one-by-five inch badge at the back end of the car.
The second way is when lazy, ignorant boneheads assume that The Sporty Red Car is an unfamiliar variant of the Cobra/Tiger/Interceptor let's-drop-a-V8-in-a-British-car theme and they want to show how unimpressed they are. They, too, get right up on BritBox's tail, cruising tauntingly just inches from the exhaust-dusted rear bumper. It's like a test; a battle of wills; a street duel where the honor of classic motoring must be upheld in the face of brazen provocation borne by contemporary expressions of automotive achievement. Finally, the bonehead swings out of BritBox's slipstream, passing in an arrogant yet desperate gasp of catalytic converter-cleansed combustion, strident overhead cam drowning out the music of The Favorite TR250's stalwart pushrods. The challenger passes, normal motoring resumes.
BritBox really hates minivans.
