Time Out
My husband, Chuck, is a romantic sort of guy. He’s also a car guy and a camera guy, which explains why he decided several months ago that we should run his Morgan roadster up the Pacific coast from the San Francisco Bay Area to Vancouver Island in Canada. As he explained to me, we’d drive no more than 200 miles a day, to save our backs and maybe reduce the likelihood that the car would break down along the way. We’d have lovely stops to admire the ocean, visit charming B&Bs, and take photos with his Leica IIIg. His IIIg was made in 1957 and was outfitted by Chuck with a 50 mm 1:2 Summitar lens that was made in 1950. This would be a trip to celebrate both a Morgan and a Leica, each of which is made by a company that has stayed uniquely true to its origins and core values over decades, and each of which has attracted extremely loyal users.
I was highly dubious about this road trip but reluctantly agreed once Chuck painted the cozy picture of the B&Bs we would stay in along the way. As one of my friends said when I told her about this planned trip, I was either an unusually supportive wife, an adventurer at heart, or hopelessly naive. On further thought, she declared, I must be all three.
This story requires a short primer on the Morgan. Morgans, which look a little like ancient MGs, are handmade in Britain and are known for their fast engines and very light ash wood frames. That combination explains why there are few of them in the US — they are not designed to meet current American safety standards. They are built extremely low to the ground, have essentially no frills — for example, their leather seats are wafer thin and their tiny rear-view mirrors may be attached to the windshields with suction cups — and are, well, quirky, as you might expect from a complex object made by hand. Morgan owners savor these quirks; it’s part of the pleasure of owning one of these unusual, erratic automobiles. When they get together in their Morgan clubs, these owners often remind me of proud but commiserating parents who can’t help but share stories about their children.
What most Morgan owners don’t know, however, is that there is a link between Morgans and Leicas. The founder of the Morgan Motor Company in 1909, Mr. H.F.S. Morgan, owned and frequently used his Leica Model 1a. Clearly Mr. Morgan, like Chuck, loved quality cars and quality cameras! When Chuck learned about this tie, he knew he had to take his IIIg, the closest model of his various film and digital Leicas to H.F.S. Morgan’s Model 1a, on our Morgan road trip. He loaded it with CineStill bwXX, a black and white motion picture negative film that has an old-timey look, and we headed out.
As we rolled out of our driveway to begin heading west to the coast, a friend snapped a picture of us on his phone. The top is down, the racing-green car glistens in the bright sun, our waterproof duffel bags are safely strapped on the back, and my husband is beaming. My face, by contrast, is a study in fear tempered by resignation. I recall comforting myself at the time by thinking we’d only be gone for a day or two, given the inevitable mechanical problem that would soon strand us somewhere with no cell service.
Imagine my astonishment when, at the end of our adventure eight days later, I did not want to get out of the car. Those eight days had taught me that in this time of cell phones, emails, texts, and tweets, there’s no better way to reconnect with the feel of a breeze on your face and the smells of eucalyptus and pine trees, ocean air, and even impending rain, than to zip along in a tiny, drafty two-seater that rides lower than the tops of the tires on a Dodge Ram pickup (something I learned when a Ram truck pulled into a ferry line next to us). And there’s no better way to reconnect with the simple joys of sharing stories with strangers than to journey slowly through back roads, stopping along the way at nondescript cafes, old-fashioned filling stations, state park restrooms, and those cozy B&Bs.
Having the Leica IIIg with us made the stops all the better. We were amazed at how many people recognized and wanted to talk with us about Chuck’s vintage Leica. Seeing the old camera in use warmed people’s hearts. Conversations revolved around “Can you still get film?” as much as they did about the car. One old-timer, for example, looked on in fascination and happiness as Chuck showed him how to trim the film leader with the ABLON template when slowly (!) loading the IIIg. A much younger girl had never actually seen film much less a camera that did not set the exposure and focus automatically. There’s something missing in our lives today, which this trip in a Morgan with an old film Leica restored for my husband and me: the pleasure of slowing down and taking the time to let our hearts reopen to strangers from all walks of life and our senses reopen to the richness of the natural world.
Traveling with the top down was by far our preferred approach to the drive. Because the car is so small and we were on two-lane roads rather than freeways, it almost felt like we were on foot, walking rather than riding through the countryside. We could smell the ocean long before we could see it, and we became keenly aware of the bird life in the forest as gulls, songbirds, and hawks flew so low we could see the colors of their outstretched wings. As we moved further north and the weather became colder and wetter, we reluctantly put the top up, and relied on the tiny heater to keep us warm even when leaks caused rain water to pool at our feet and drip onto our laps. Traveling with the top up also had its benefits; sitting huddled so close to one another that we had to coordinate our arm movements created an “in this thing together” bond between us. We shared a belly laugh every time my 6’4” husband folded himself into a U-shape to get in or out of the car with the top up. That inconvenient gesture, not to mention the many photos of the car he took as we worked our way up the coast, spoke volumes about how much my husband loves both his Morgan and his old Leica.
Before our trip started, I had told my husband that I was worried the Morgan would attract envious attention, and he had assured me that the car would instead create happiness for others. Although I doubted him, he was right. Just as happened with the Leica IIIg, I was struck by the number of people, especially men, who couldn’t wait to start up a conversation about the car. Many of these men knew about Morgans, and they generally had a story to tell. They knew someone who had one, or they’d always wanted one (one fellow joyfully told my husband, “you are living my dream”), or they’d had a Morgan or an MG or a Spider or a Triumph or a Corvette when they were younger and loved taking it on road trips, and on and on. Everywhere we went, we did in fact bring big smiles to people’s faces, and that in turn brought smiles to ours. I’ve never had an experience like this one. Somehow this funny little car, and Chuck’s beautiful old Leica, became not just conversation openers but bright spots in others’ days, turning strangers into friends with heartfelt stories all along the way.
One of those encounters, with a couple of loggers in the Pacific Northwest, was unusual in that it was initiated by us. When we saw a logging truck stopped by the side of the road, Chuck decided a photo of the tiny Morgan, with its wooden frame, next to the giant logging truck would be fun, and so pulled in alongside the truck. The loggers had never seen or heard of Morgans but loved the idea, and we talked together for a long while about both the car and the Leica. By the end of that visit, we had swapped addresses and learned a surprising amount about each other’s lives.
Our plan was to stay in a waterfront inn outside of Victoria, B.C. as our northernmost destination. We had been there 20 years before and were looking forward to a quiet, peaceful visit, the perfect conclusion to our drive up the coast. To our dismay, when we arrived, the inn had been overtaken by a large crew filming a movie. We were jolted back into the fast-moving, tech-driven, and intrusive chaos of contemporary life. But even so, the journey had worked its wonders. We had eaten and slept well. The Leica IIIg and 50 mm Summitar lens had been perfect for documenting the trip. he car had run well, not counting the one time the engine mysteriously turned itself off as we were driving along a road that happily had a wide shoulder for a quick exit from the roadway. And only when the canvas top was up had a seagull pooped on us. Our time out had indeed been time exceedingly well spent.
