Surviving a Midget That Wouldn’t Stop

Great title, amirite or amirite? You’re curious, aren’t you? That’s the difference between yours truly and the average blogger, kids. Anywho, read on to hear the whole story . . .

Years ago I bought a car called an MG Midget. It looked pretty much exactly like the one you see there on the right. I bought it used off a guy for $1200.00, and he swore he’d never had a problem with it. That said, he was clearly lying through his teeth. Why do I say this, you ask? Because the damn thing broke down an average of probably once a week.  I swear to you, every time I drove through a puddle on the road it died. I’d have to pull off the highway until something under the hood dried out before it would start again. Oh, believe me, it was fun to drive but boy was it a headache. I literally couldn’t drive it outside the county for fear it would break down and leave me stranded in parts unknown.

Random thought: I wonder if the name MG Midget would be considered politically incorrect today? I’m guessing yes.

Anyway, one day my friend Tom and I drove the Midget to town for something or other. It might help the visual to understand that I was 6-2, 210 (still am in fact) and Tom was 6-3, 250, so we undoubtedly struck quite the image driving around town in a tiny little car. So at some point as we’re running around town the brakes on the Midget went completely out. Fortunately I avoided rear-ending somebody [insert your own joke here] and we pulled safely to the curb.

Now, a lot of people would have possibly done something totally responsible at this point like, oh, maybe calling a tow truck. Us? Not so much. In our infinite wisdom we came to the conclusion that we could make it from the east side of Chillicothe to Bourneville, a distance of 15-miles, safely.

Without brakes.

In a car the size of a tin can.

What could possibly go wrong? You know, other than slamming into the back of an 18-wheeler and dying a fiery death?

Here was our plan. Since the Midget was such a small, lightweight car, we figured if I drove really slowly through the city we could make it.

And we did.

How, you ask?

Well, we popped open both doors and stuck our legs out, that’s how. And when we came to a stop light or stop sign we put our feet on the road and skidded to a stop, Fred Flintstone style.

Stop laughing, it worked.

Once we got out of town I actually sped up a little, making sure to keep a sharp eye up ahead for stopped vehicles, hitchhikers, deer and Amish Buggies.

After a tension-filled drive home, Bourneville could finally be seen in the distance. Victory would be ours! Oh, the stories we would tell.

I deftly maneuvered the MG Midget from Route 50 onto Twin Road and on up the hill, turning left onto the street on which my house, and wonderful refuge, awaited. All that was left was turning into my driveway and the safety of my garage, where the Midget could nestle comfortably until her brakes could be fixed properly.

But as we approached my driveway excitement got the best of me. The joy of knowing we pulled off such an amazing achievement blinded my judgment. A miscalculation in speed if you will. Hell, in my elation I’d forgotten the core statement of our mission, which was to go slow because, you know, we had little method in which to stop.

I believe it was as I was high-fiving Tom as we turned into the driveway when the realization hit me . . .

We were going too fast.

Way too fast.

Oh no.

Immediately, both of sensed trouble. We stuck our feet out the door and dug our heels in the gravel the best we could, but it was horrifyingly apparent I’d made a grievous error in judgment, not to mention in miles-per-hour.

I’m not sure what was worse, the moment of impact as we slammed into the garage door or the incredulous, disappointed look on my father’s face as he rushed from the house and surveyed the carnage.

The garage door had sort of folded under at a 90° angle, with Tom and I trapped underneath. Thankfully the top was down, so the Midget was relatively undamaged save for some scratches on the hood. The garage door? Total loss. We’d murdered it.

Tom and I were fine, although as I recall dad wasn’t overly concerned about that. I do, however, recall a lot of yelling about the garage door. Seems I was to going to be held responsible for a new one.

And that was the end of the line for the MG Midget, as I put her up for sale a few days later. I got $1800.00 for it, a tidy $600.00 profit. And I’m not particularly proud of this, but the guy who bought the car was buying it for his son to drive to and from college at the University of Cincinnati.

Yeah, good luck with that, sir. But hey, I needed the money. I had a garage door to purchase.