Whisper who dares, but the trouble with most classic cars is that they have a nasty habit of metamorphosing from object of desire to utter rubbish the instant you actually get behind the wheel.
A few years back, finally sating my impacted molar-strength ache to drive a Ferrari 365 GTB/4 Daytona –a car which, alongside Lamborghini’s glorious Miura and the Perspex-rumped, one-line masterpiece that is the Maserati Khamsin, I still consider to be one of the three most beautiful cars ever penned- I was so disappointed I sulked for a month…
I couldn’t get behind the bootlace liquorice-thin wheel without rubbing myself an impromptu tonsure on the roof lining, pedal operation required thighs like tug boats, it wasn’t, by today’s standards, quick enough, the brakes only worked at speeds over 100mph and the steering was a ‘serving suggestion’ at best; you could wedge a baby in the wheel and rock it to sleep without once deviating from a straight line.
Sublime to listen to and even better to look at albeit, the Daytona experience was, ultimately, a bit like discovering that Liv Tyler’s a lousy shag.
By contrast, the great thing about the 1960, FMR Tg 500 bubble car I drove the other day is that it’s so dramatically unconventional that you don’t automatically compare it to any modern counterpart as a motoring experience. In fact, it doesn’t really bear comparison with anything at all save, perhaps, the bastard love-child of a de Havilland Chipmunk and a Suffolk Colt sit-upon lawn mower.
Dubbed variously ‘Man in Aspic’ or ‘Snow White’s Coffin’ on its home turf (who says the Germans have no sense of humour?), the Tiger 500 was always known as a Messerschmitt simply because it was built in the factory which used to produce the Bf 109 fighter…
One Fritz Fend had worked on aircraft development for Willie Messerschmitt during the war. Thereafter, he designed invalid tricycles for the many servicemen who had come over all Douglas Bader in the conflict. Working with scrap off-cuts behind his father’s butcher’s shop, he evolved his designs into a three-wheeler with a small engine.
With demand increasing, he approached Willie, suggesting that, since a ban on aircraft manufacture meant the latter’s factories weren’t exactly rushed off their feet (thus forever scotching the apocryphal tale of bubble car informing fighter canopy design), he might care to help. Re-engineered, and with engine capacity increased from 175cc to a mighty 200cc, the most popular tandem-seat, three-wheeled Messerschmitt, the KR 200, was born.
Demand for a faster version led to the addition of four, bigger wheels, hydraulic brakes, a 500 cc twin-cylinder two stroke engine and ‘Tiger 500’ badging to the basic cockpit. It was actually marketed it as a sports car in 1958, hence twin exhausts of the same bore as the straw up which a McDonalds milkshake steadfastly refuses to be drawn unless you suck your face into something resembling a bag of sticks.
But it took an age to develop and cost twice as much as the trike. Which probably explains why they only made 300 of them, and why owner Mark Smith’s 1960 model, which I’m about to not exactly fling round the Goodwood circuit, is now worth about £50,000.
Oh, marvellous. Never mind the fabulous, chrome-trimmed detailing, sumptuous red leatherette tandem upholstery with white piping, two handed, aircraft-style joystick (think F1 helm in Bakelite) and aluminium-framed, Perspex canopy held open on a leather strap… I’ve just noticed a crumple zone of at least, um, three inches between the front of the car and the pedal box, so if I hit anything with any velocity whatsoever, the least I’ll come away with is crutches, the imprint of what resembles an inverted yak on my chest and a seriously hefty bill.
This is not the vehicle for the man issued with a big face who’d rather it didn’t look any bigger. Canopy closed, my head and shoulders sit proud of the bodywork, almost completely filling the canopy with a scant two inches to spare all round. ‘Man in Aspic’ indeed.
However, being entirely transparent, the canopy never induces claustrophobia and the view out is superior to that of anything equipped with an engine but no wings. All safety considerations aside, the cockpit is remarkably well equipped. There’s even a heater of sorts; a flexible hose the open end of which you may either wave at the windscreen for vague demisting, or the footwell for a trickle of two-stroke warmth.
And to drive, it is, of course, an absolute bastard. The four-speed gearbox has no synchromesh anywhere, and even the owner admits that swapping cogs without wince-worthy, graunching noises-off is only possible after decades of practice. Disassemble the Giant’s Causeway and stir the constituent lumps into honey with the oar from a Greek trireme and you’ll have some idea of what’s involved in merely selecting first gear.
Finally on the move, however, the Messerschmitt is more fun than a clown on fire. Shrouded in a two stroke stench which guarantees you’ll only wish to give chase once it has clattered over the horizon, the Tiger biffs along with surprising alacrity, the engine accelerating through various, noisome cabin boom points as you approach a respectable 60mph cruise. Even the top speed is not to be sniffed at -90mph in a shallow dive.
With coil springs in front and some sort of torsion bean astern, it’s pretty comfortable. And, today on Italian scooter rubber, it handles remarkably well to boot. With just 180 degrees lock to lock, the steering is dauntingly direct –one good sneeze and you’re in the shrubby. The roadholding was considered outstanding when it first appeared and, indeed, the car did win a rally, but they promptly banned it because a bubble car winning against ‘proper’ cars was simply not on. Owner Mark has even used his in anger at the Nurburgring, in a race organised between Morgan three-wheelers and Tiger 500s (who says the Germans have no… etc.).
Daytona? Nein Danke. Masochistic Messerschmitt memories will linger far longer… This is the machine in which my missus wished to sear away from the church on the day we were spliced. However, one glimpse of the ankles-in-separate-postcodes positioning required by the Tiger’s rear accommodation makes me somewhat relieved I couldn’t source one. Something old, something new, something borrowed, and far too much on view.