 t all begin over a pint of ale" in Mr. Pickwick's Restaurant, cozily tucked into Ye Olde England Inne in Stowe, Vermont. Between frothy sips, friends Chris Francis, the inne's owner, and Michael F. Gaetano, discussed their shared enthusiasm for British motorcars. Deep within each a shared dream emerged from where great ideas are born. It was misty at first, but slowly took form like a ball of clay ready for molding. As the evening became night, it was carefully sculpted, and twelve years later the British Invasion is its legacy.
Chris Francis and Michael Gaetano share duties on this hectic
day. Both are the event's organizers and they hand the microphone
back and forth depending on which event has moved into the limelight.
Right now, Chris
Francis is the front man. He's vamping his way down the winners' list. It's patently evident
that he's an accomplished showman and every bit as clever
as P.T. Barnum. He has to have been to have co-conceived, co-organized and
co-marketed this gathering.
The critical difference between he and Barnum, however, is
that from his very marrow, Chris Francis radiates class, charisma
and a patina every bit as shiny as the sea of motorcars before
him.
He's dressed casually in white shorts, blue
polo shirt, puffy, white socks and running shoes. No airs
here. That speaks to the character of this event, carefully
crafted by Francis and Gaetano to assemble the enthusiastic throng.
This being a very British event, one might expect ascots,
cravats and top hats, but not one can be found anywhere. And
that's part of the charm of this well-attended event; casual
dress, casual food and, most of all, casual banter.
Today Chris Francis is doing something he clearly relishes: speaking to a large crowd of people who share his passion for British motorcars, and he nary misses a beat when a winner named Deb fails to appear to collect the award for her Aston Martin entry. A shrug and witticism later, Francis segues seamlessly to the next winner.
Today he is the master of ceremonies. His and Geatano's attentive nurturing over the years has made the British Invasion a must-attend event that attracts thousands of enthusiasts from far and wide.
It's late afternoon on day three and his tone is slightly more coarse. He's been tirelessly feeding verbal sustenance to the gathered for a long time today, as he did the day before and the day before that, and there's still one more day to go, but he shows no signs of tiring. In fact, he's on his game, and to tire now is unthinkable.
Spinning Yarn
We begin well before the awards ceremony; when there are stories to be told and Michael Gaetano is holding the mic. He, Francis and hard-core, motorcar evangelists revel in spinning soft-ribald legends for the crowd. The tales, richly embellished, are spiked delightfully with a tongue-in-cheek irreverence--amusing rehashes of police stopping some of the "Invaders" as they've clipped along in their Spitfires or Jaguars, fully decided that speed limits are meant for others.
One, a Londoner, shares the story of being stopped in an English countryside not wildly fond of Londoners. Unable to prove his identity, he consents to having the gendarme call his wife, who, he assures the cop, will surely vouch for his indentity. The policeman returns to the man's car a few minutes later, a smirk unavoidably evident on his face.
"I've spoken to your wife, sir," the cop reports. "What did she say?" "She asked what you've done this time." The crowd roars. "She confirmed that you are who you say you are, and asked if you were in trouble. I said we'd caught you speeding, and she said, 'Lock him up.'" Cat calls, laughs and applause erupt as the bloke hands back the mic and shuffles away grinning.
The amused throng is not unlike the British
Parliament; boisterous and gung ho, but contentionless here.
As in years prior, the faithful, people who have a true, wink-and-nod
understanding of all that is British, are in complete agreement:
There's fun to be had, obsession to be engaged and a fellowship,
however temporary, that will be treasured for life.
As to who has the best car.... Pshaw! The cars here are all magnificent specimens of a uniquely British art form, and while one may well be better than another, it's all a matter of personal preference. The judging, capricious by instinct, will sort that all out.
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