From the managing editor, December 2018

For many in the mountains, that first car you got was a ticket to explore.

In North Carolina, we took driver’s education class in high school when we were 15 years old. The classroom and on-the-road training was provided by one of the teachers or coaches who got paid extra for taking on that extra duty. 

My driver’s education teacher was the varsity baseball coach, a guy with a crew cut who demanded discipline from the normally unruly group of youngsters who had dreams of freedom and status that came with issuance of their driver’s license.

Many guys in my high school—heck, many guys most anywhere—looked at muscle cars as the only acceptable style for their ride. Some talked endlessly about their dream car—what wheels, what tires, what gear ratio, what flow in the carburetor. Remember? It was all, “man, mine’s a hot V8, with a 4-barrel carb with a Hurst shifter!”

That wasn’t me. I mean, I got it; I understood what my fellow road warriors were talking about.

However, my testosterone gets tweaked by European cars, especially convertibles that ride low and hug the curves on mountain roads.

I fell head over heels in love with a 1973 Triumph TR6 while cruising down Coxe Avenue in Asheville when I was 17. It was dark green; I came to know that particular color was better known as British Racing Green. It had Michelin red stripe radials, and a wooden inlaid dashboard. The bucket seats sat low and the transmission hump sat high between the driver and the passenger. 

You could have your Chevy Malibu SS, your GTO, your Plymouth or Dodge intermediates with the 426 Hemi.

Those didn’t float my boat. My eyes were only for beautiful European roadsters.

So recently in Waynesville, I did a double take when I saw one, then two, then three Mercedes 190 SL convertibles coming down the road towards the Waynesville Inn. I stopped in the road as the third one approached, waving my hand to stop him to ask if there was a convention or something.

There sure was. Right there at the inn, about 20 of those beautiful cars—all older than I am—were lining up for the annual meeting of The International 190SL Group.

The cars were from all over, and many owners had brought theirs in trailers to be unloaded in a parking lot near the inn.

I had to stop. I grabbed a schedule so I could come back to photograph these lovely vehicles.

Most of the owners were older couples enjoying a long weekend in our beautiful mountains. One gentleman from New Orleans said his father first bought the 190SL he drove. His dad had let him drive it when he was younger, but then the car sat in a garage needing serious repair.

It was completely covered in water when Hurricane Katrina flooded his city, but after serious debate he decided to have it rebuilt.

It felt magical as I walked among those lovingly maintained convertibles. Most were spotless inside and out, and you could tell that most of these cars bore their age with dignity and grace. They weren’t all show-room quality, but that just made them more beautiful in my eye. I’d be nervous taking a picture perfect Mercedes out on a mountain drive. Give me the one with a couple of dings in the door and the slight discoloration in the paint on the hood.

Muscle car? Nah. Just not my thing. 

—Jonathan Austin