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It's of World War II vintage. One of the owners, Bill Sanders of Jeffersonville, Vermont, sits behind a steering wheel that's on the wrong side of the car, until we remember that the British drive on the left. He is co-owner with wife Jan, and what they have is virtually unique in the United States. It's an Austin Champ, built by Austin Motor Company, LTD. Used as a military vehicle primarily, it's not easily recognized, even by astute British car enthusiasts. It was built for hauling cargo, weapons and platforms, and for radio reconnaissance. It saw action in postwar Germany as a workhorse for the British Army of the Rhine. It reminds us of a warthog: short, squat, powerful and blunt-snouted. The ends of the front bumper appear as metaphorical tusks. Mr. Sanders tells us the vehicle is popular in Great Britain and Australia, but, oddly, rare in the U.S. Given this country's penchant for SUVs, this car/jeep/ATV should be of considerable interest, perhaps as much as the interest paid to Land Rover, which has a large presence here, as well. Rising Above It All
But a hot-air balloon at an auto show? Sure. Anyone who's driving by and is unaware of the Invasion is bound to see it from afar and may well detour to have a look. And another $10 per person is exchanged at the gate for silver and black badges swinging from bright red lanyards. To get to the balloon, one must walk through the entire motorcar collection. And when they arrive, it's $10 a head to step into the basket to hover at 50 feet for five or so minutes. The view is generous, but not to the people operating that attraction, long since bored to tears by the repetitive ups, downs and the fearful expressions of their patrons as the wind keeps jabbing the canopy. After another windy punch, one of the operators smiles wanly, yanks a lever that lets loose a blast of flame, and up they go again. More than Cars and a Balloon
In one area, people are lined up two and three deep. It's a large booth with a front wall that partially hides the cash register and inventory. Customers are waiting for a dark-haired, portly gent to emerge with some change. He does, and points his chin carny-style at a lady as he drops coins into his previous customer's hand. "Yes, I'd like that Triumph medallion right there," the lady points. "Very well," the man says, grinning. He disappears again. We're attracted to a display of tan-and-green baseball caps smartly boasting the MG logo. Obviously well made, we pick one up and find the price tag a tad more dear than we're willing to go. Too bad, but back it goes and we're outside again, returning to where this story began. Chris Francis' voice booms from the sound system. "Deb"? he calls out. "Are you here"? No response. A shrug and witticism later, Francis segues seamlessly to the next winner. Like us, Deb is wandering about in awe, and like us is being amply charmed and bug bitten. As we stroll across Stowe's verdant, rolling fields headed for home, sadness and anticipation knit themselves together. The main event is over for this year, but with ardor and yearning we now wait anxiously for a year hence when we'll get to go "home" again. Page 3 |
We warm
to the moment, then wander on. One car looks rather odd to
us. It's a jeep (British made, of course), but it's not a
jeep, per se. Must be some sort of hybrid, we figure.
e've
reached the last of the cars and cast our eyes eastward.
There, watching over the Invasion, is a brightly colored hot-air
balloon that rises, it's gondola full and swinging, perhaps fifty feet into
the air. Tethered to four SUVs by thick, nylon ropes,
the balloon flutters a bit as a stiff wind passes through.
Its handlers are leery of allowing the craft to rise much
higher.
Hurricane Isabel, fresh from wreaking havoc on the Middle Atlantic states, is surging northward to the West. A high pressure system to the East has boxed Vermont in and a wind tunnel effect had torn through the area the night before. Both systems, nearly spent, give off last, desperate gasps. Thankfully, Providence pushes both quickly North, saving the Invasion from what could have been a sudden end.
ot far from the grassy stage sit the spiky, white tents that shelter most of Stowe's major events. Within the first is free food; burgers and dogs and the foods and drinks of local companies hoping to pump a little brand recognition out of the event.
In the next tent is a cornucopia of motorcar memorabilia punctuated by Union Jacks of different sizes and tee shirts, hats, emblems and decals. There are toys, postcards, books, rare steering wheels and other parts difficult to come by.
