This question has troubled scholars, scientists, philosophers, and mechanics for countless generations: should classic cars be preserved, restored, or improved? It is an argument that dates all the way back to the Dawn of Time, when the petroleum for today's vehicles was just starting the slow process of being rendered from dinosaurs. The passion for this debate is similar to the emotion that has provoked wars founded on colonialism, religious faith, geographical boundary disputes, and the ill-fated romantic dalliances of kings. They're not making any more of these cars, you know!
The reanimation of a classic British car is a great way to challenge the brain and yet to massage it, to set clear goals and to exceed them. Restoration promotes a sort of spiritual growth, a wisdom and peace found after gazing into the Abyss of Automotive Despair but finally removing that damned broken manifold stud. The car is not the only thing that is restored.
BritBox's Favorite Triumph TR250 is not loved for its provenance or pedigree; it is loved because of a deep emotional investment that is connected to an intimate restoration. Oh yes, and the financial investment, too. This sporty car is truly the quintessential FrankenTriumph, a Heinz 57, a mongrel running with greyhounds. Did BritBox seek out this sad jigsaw-puzzle motor vehicle, this tattered and crippled remnant of some other enthusiast's faded restoration dream? Heck, no. The Triumph found BritBox, in the same way that stray cats and dogs find us and insinuate themselves into our lives. We start by feeling a mixture of pity and regret, and before we know it, they are shiny and clean and part of our family. Now, BritBox and the reborn Favorite Triumph TR250 get to run and play in the sun. BritBox enjoyed the restoration process, and, thanks to the challenge, grew strong and true.
The custodianship of an un-restored classic car represents a commitment to history, and a devotion to originality. The religion of restoration shares the same icons with the admirable discipline of guardianship; how can restoration despise the preservation of what it tries so nobly to re-create? The roads traveled are made brighter and smoother when graced by the quiet nobility of antiquity. There is powerful magic in cracked leather, splintered wood veneer, faded wool carpets, and the smell of decades of Castrol. We drive with ghosts.
Some car owners regard their project as a blank canvas, a half-realized design exercise, an engineering term paper. The enthusiast’s intent could be to improve the safety or reliability of the machine, or it could be an opportunity to demonstrate an individualistic artistic statement. Customization can range from the addition of electronic ignition, to lever-to-tube shock conversions, to the carefully considered installation of a GE gas-turbine jet engine. The broader automotive culture seems to have accepted the conventional idea of a “hot rod”, so why does the addition of a hood scoop and a rear spoiler to an MG cause dissention, strife, and civil war?
An unspoiled survivor is an important find. Pulled from a barn or dry garage, blinking in bright sunlight that is screened by 30 years of dust and bird droppings: here sits the next improbable time capsule. What to do? Wipe off the poop, put in some fresh gas, jumpstart it, and drive away? No. Place it in a hyperbaric chamber, begin an obsessive restoration, and only roll it out of a trailer at car shows? No. Shoot some pearlescent paint on it and drop a small-block Chevy motor into it? No, no, no! Don't do any of these things because someone on the Internet said to! Do what your heart tells you to do: all the answers are correct.
The reanimation of a classic British car is a great way to challenge the brain and yet to massage it, to set clear goals and to exceed them. Restoration promotes a sort of spiritual growth, a wisdom and peace found after gazing into the Abyss of Automotive Despair but finally removing that damned broken manifold stud. The car is not the only thing that is restored.
BritBox's Favorite Triumph TR250 is not loved for its provenance or pedigree; it is loved because of a deep emotional investment that is connected to an intimate restoration. Oh yes, and the financial investment, too. This sporty car is truly the quintessential FrankenTriumph, a Heinz 57, a mongrel running with greyhounds. Did BritBox seek out this sad jigsaw-puzzle motor vehicle, this tattered and crippled remnant of some other enthusiast's faded restoration dream? Heck, no. The Triumph found BritBox, in the same way that stray cats and dogs find us and insinuate themselves into our lives. We start by feeling a mixture of pity and regret, and before we know it, they are shiny and clean and part of our family. Now, BritBox and the reborn Favorite Triumph TR250 get to run and play in the sun. BritBox enjoyed the restoration process, and, thanks to the challenge, grew strong and true.
The custodianship of an un-restored classic car represents a commitment to history, and a devotion to originality. The religion of restoration shares the same icons with the admirable discipline of guardianship; how can restoration despise the preservation of what it tries so nobly to re-create? The roads traveled are made brighter and smoother when graced by the quiet nobility of antiquity. There is powerful magic in cracked leather, splintered wood veneer, faded wool carpets, and the smell of decades of Castrol. We drive with ghosts.
Some car owners regard their project as a blank canvas, a half-realized design exercise, an engineering term paper. The enthusiast’s intent could be to improve the safety or reliability of the machine, or it could be an opportunity to demonstrate an individualistic artistic statement. Customization can range from the addition of electronic ignition, to lever-to-tube shock conversions, to the carefully considered installation of a GE gas-turbine jet engine. The broader automotive culture seems to have accepted the conventional idea of a “hot rod”, so why does the addition of a hood scoop and a rear spoiler to an MG cause dissention, strife, and civil war?
An unspoiled survivor is an important find. Pulled from a barn or dry garage, blinking in bright sunlight that is screened by 30 years of dust and bird droppings: here sits the next improbable time capsule. What to do? Wipe off the poop, put in some fresh gas, jumpstart it, and drive away? No. Place it in a hyperbaric chamber, begin an obsessive restoration, and only roll it out of a trailer at car shows? No. Shoot some pearlescent paint on it and drop a small-block Chevy motor into it? No, no, no! Don't do any of these things because someone on the Internet said to! Do what your heart tells you to do: all the answers are correct.
