Take a Jensen 541, add car-loving Anglophile...

I wake up about 6:00 a.m. in my house in the West Midlands in England. After showering and dressing, I head out to the garage. The black leather seats in my dark blue 1954 Jensen 541 are cold. Not surprising since it's late autumn. The old 4-litre inline 6 takes a bit of coaxing, but finally fires up and settles into a steady idle. I pull out into the lane and head towards the local cafe for my typical breakfast of scrambled eggs, sausage, baked beans and toast.

Back in the car, I head west. I'm driving to Wales to visit a friend. As much as I love to listen to music, I've resisted the urge to install a stereo in my car. I love the sound of the engine, the creaking of the glassfibre body on the steel chassis and those odd, mysterious sounds that every old car develops, especially hand-built cars. The sound of the bias-ply tyres as they squeal around a roundabout simply adds to the aural symphony. More than that, though, is the fact that those noises are the voice of the car. When you own an old car or motorcycle, you need to listen to that voice. It's telling you things you can't afford to ignore. Even with the wonderful sounds the car is making, I can't help having music run through my head. My memory pulls up Lloyd Cole and the Commotion's "Rattlesnakes" from 1984. It seems an appropriate soundtrack to a cold, gray day in England.

At a petrol station, I talk to an older gentleman who tells me he used to own a Jensen when he was much younger. He still misses it. He gets in his sterile silver Mercedes-Benz S560 and drives off, no doubt reminiscing about his younger, wilder days. As I finish refueling, I look at the almost baroque lines of the car, the sweep of the curves, the rear window that curves completely around the back, the nearly fastback shape, the unusual grill. It's debatable if the car is beautiful, but it looks like nothing else on the road. I'm happy to be its caretaker during this part of the car's life. One day I'll pass away and it will pass on to someone else who will then become its caretaker. I hope they appreciate it as much as I do.

Midday finds me in Oswestry. A small pub looks enticing. A Shepherd's pie and a pint of the local ale ease the tension from my bones. The Jensen is running well, but it's still work keeping it between the hedges. Heavily crowned roads, damp leaves, bias-ply tyres, drum brakes and ancient worm-and-sector steering means I'm staying on constant alert. Despite that, it's an enjoyable and rewarding drive. It completely engages me, my senses and my skills. The slight shimmy in the steering wheel, the smell of old leather and oil, the sound of the tyres on tarmac, the burble of the long-stroke six, it's all a slice out of another era when England was truly an empire and the future was unlimited.

No day is perfect, and as I drive through northwest Wales, I have a blowout. Fortunately, there is enough room on the verge to pull over and change the tyre. I get the wooden mallet out of the boot and knock the hub loose from the wire wheels. The wires are painted the same dark blue as the car, one of it's most striking features. I put the jack in place, and it's only 15 minutes until I have the spare on and the flat back in the boot. A few knocks on the spin-on hub with the mallet has the tyre safely secured, and I'm back on the road.

I drive across the Menai suspension bridge to the island of Anglesey. I reach Holyhead only a few minutes behind schedule. I pull up in front of my friend's house and park the car. It quietly pops and creaks as it settles down from it's long drive. My friend and I walk down to the local pub for a few pints and some supper. The pub has a beautiful view, allowing us to watch the ferries pull in and out of the harbor. I've lived in three different countries and several states, and I still haven't found anything as convivial and welcoming as a good British pub. After perhaps a few too many pints of good heavy porter, we walk back to his house and I go to sleep in the spare room, looking forward to whatever tomorrow brings me.