The MGB: Discovering the Art of the Drive

I’ve driven a fair mix of cars over the years — from rough-and-ready off-roaders to the kind of road cars that eat up miles, even the occasional supercar with all its drama and noise. But until recently, I’d never driven a classic. My relationship with them had always been from the outside looking in: a head-turn when one passed on the street, a smile at the design, and a quiet thought of that looks special.

So when I got the chance to drive an MGB, I was curious. Not just to see how it handled, but to understand what it is that makes people invest so much time, care, and money into these cars.

First Impressions

This MGB in particular is finished in deep navy, with white details that make it stand out in a way that’s subtle but confident. It’s the sort of car people take a second glance at. I’ve been told it has even been mistaken for an Aston Martin DB5 before — and honestly, I can see why. There’s something about the proportions, the long bonnet, and the chrome that gives it that kind of presence. What makes this car even more interesting are the custom touches. The Sebring-style arches, inspired by MG’s endurance racers of the late 1960s, give it a broader, more purposeful stance. Originally fitted to allow racing cars to run wider tyres, on a road car they add a quiet aggression that complements the elegance of the original design. It’s still recognisably an MGB, but with a little extra edge — the kind of detail that makes you look twice.

A Bit of History

MG — Morris Garages — started in the 1920s, building small, sporty cars that people could actually afford. When the MGB came out in 1962, it was seen as a step forward: lighter, sharper, and more modern than what came before it. It wasn’t about being the fastest thing on the road, but about making driving engaging and enjoyable. Over nearly two decades, it became one of the most popular sports cars of its time — not because it was rare, but because it felt right.

Behind the Wheel

Sliding into the driver’s seat, the first thing that struck me was how simple everything felt. No touchscreens, no driving modes, no distractions — just a wheel, a few dials, and the road ahead. When the engine started up, it didn’t roar or scream. It had a steady, slightly uneven hum that made it feel alive, like it was settling into its own rhythm.

On the move, the differences between this and a modern car became clear. The steering isn’t feather-light — you feel every input. The gearbox clicks in with a kind of mechanical honesty. And the pace is measured, which means you’re not rushing. It’s less about “how quickly can we get there” and more about “let’s enjoy the drive while we’re on the way.”

That’s the part that really surprised me. With a supercar, the appeal is the performance, the rush, the spectacle. With a classic, it’s almost the opposite. It’s about slowing down, noticing your surroundings, and enjoying whoever’s sitting next to you. You’re not fighting the car; you’re working with it.

Why It Matters

By the time I gave the keys back, I felt like I understood what I’d only admired from the outside before. A classic car isn’t just about its looks. It’s about how it changes your pace, your perspective, even your mood. It’s driving as something shared, not performed.

And the MGB in particular? It has that charm that’s hard to put into words — stylish without showing off, engaging without exhausting you. It’s not a car you drive to impress other people. It’s a car you drive because it makes you enjoy the simple act of being on the road.