One moment please, for one of the faithful.
This Saturday, June 20th, marks the first aniversary of the death of
Dick Criswell. He was struck down while doing one of the things he loved
best in life, driving his MG. At the time he was participating in Brit Run
To The Sun - Alaska '97. On the morning of his death Dick had just
completed one leg of Brit Run where we had traveled over 1000 miles from
Fairbanks to Pruhdoe Bay, Alaska, on the Arctic Ocean, and return, mostly
on gravel roads. Please take your LBC on Saturday and drive an hour in
memory of Dick Criswell.
For a picture story of Brit Run To The Sun - Alaska '97, refer to this
web site: http://www.ntsource.com/~barneymg
Poke the Brit Run sign and follow the arrows. Pictures on this web
site are organised by date. If you're just looking for Dick, you can find
pictures of him and his 1974-1/2 MGB-BGT-V8 from June 7 to June 20.
For those of us who knew him well, and for those who didn't, the
following is a memo and a poem submitted by Dick to the mgs list several
months earlier, in the midst of a discussion of what constituted an MG
Enjoy the browsing and reading,
1958 MGA with an attitude
>Date: Wed, 27 Nov 1996 18:25:51 -0500
>Subject: Re: Measure of enthusiasism?
>There's been a certain amount of talk on this list recently about what
constitutes an enthusiast. Now I've had one or more MGs continously since
1960 (I currently have 7); been active in club activities for most of that
time; been newsletter editor for more than one MG club; Showed MGs, Rallyed
MGs, Autocrossed MGs and been a regular at GoFs and other mini-meets.
>I guess that qualifies me as an enthusiast in at least some peoples eyes.
So let me share with you what the poet W. H. Charnock thought was an
> THE ENTHUSIAST
> by W. H. Charnock
>One man I knew put all of us to shame,
>He drove the last decrepitude of cars
>And vilely drove, his head among the stars,
>Bemused with wistful dreams he could not name,
>For just one year the too-devoted flame
>Against all sense and nature in him burned,
>Then, penniless with riddled lungs, returned
>Him to the sanatorium whence he came.
>To him it all was paradise come true;
>Down empty roads he knew the vestal light
>Of daybreak after driving through the night,
>And slumbrous crimson winter dusk he knew,
>Small pubs on moorland heights, the patient queue
>For Silverstone, the wilderness of rain:
>All this he tasted once and not again,
>For whom life smiled awhile and then withdrew.
>But we, who shared with him that halcyon year
>And pulled his leg because he drove so badly,
>Remember how he took to laughter gladly
>And gave no sign at all and showed no fear.
>If he is wakeful yet, then may the dear
>And tuneless music of that engine note,
>Which charmed him so, into his silence float,
>And all his happy miles again be near.
>And if he sleeps, then somewhere may he wake
>And find a wheel to hold, a road to take.
>Happy Thanksgiving everyone!
>Vintage Parts & Products
>Have MG will travel