Team Adventure
PC takes on Paris in mid-winter… in a topless Triumph Stag
Matt and James drive a Triumph Stag to Paris and call it work.
The Triumph Stag was a machine plagued by a reputation for unreliability when new – and that lazy stereotype endures with many pub bores to this day. ‘More trouble than they are worth mate, you’re better off sticking a Rover V8 in there instead.’ To settle the debate once and for all, myself and Assistant ed James Walshe decide to head to Paris and it’s infamous Périphérique, a place of ruinous traffic jams whose length in miles exceeds double figures, which should put that apparently flaky cooling system to the test. Survive that and we’d be onto the internal roads and faced with crazed locals intent on occupying the exact piece of highway that you’re on at any one time. In January, when the temperatures have plummeted. What could possibly go wrong? We secure an entry to the Traversée de Paris – an annual event where classics join forces in a huge convoy and run amok in the city centre – book ferry crossings and hotel rooms, then declare the plan complete. But we still need a car.
Going green
contributor Sam Skelton volunteered his late MKII, but a number of niggling ailments conspired to rule it out. Happily, a call to my old friends Phil
and Rachael Gunn secured the use of their Stag – a 1975 model in suitably Seventies Java Green. I’d driven automatic Stags before, but this would be my first shot in a manual and I was looking forward to putting it through its paces and showing the French how us Brits did GT cars back in the day.
We leave Peterborough on a brisk but bright Friday morning, bound for Dover and the comfort of our DFDS ferry. The Stag takes the motorway jaunt in its stride and we arrive in plenty of time, boosting our confidence in the car. I’ve done plenty of trips in borrowed metal and it’s always good to get that first foray out of the way without a hitch.
Once on French soil we leave Calais and settle into a steady rhythm on the autoroute. The car feels tight, with none of the clonks and rattles that plague lesser machines. It’s a testament to Phil and family, who have owned the car for almost two decades and also enjoy three other Triumphs in the form of a 2000 MKII estate, a TR7 that Phil has owned since 1986 and a 2500TC MKII belonging to son Sam. Not to mention a 1937 Alvis Silver Crest limousine. Already I have a sneaking suspicion that the Stag isn’t going to give us any trouble at all… a conviction that I keep from James in the interests of not tempting fate. The 180-mile run to Paris passes without incident, a stop for fuel being the only requirement. Upon reaching the hotel and stashing the Stag in the underground car park, I grab a quick snap on my phone and send it to Phil to let him know we’ve arrived OK – so far, so good.
Out and about
Come the morning, we fire the car up and leave it running for a couple of minutes to warm up. It’s only when pulling away that I realise we’ve left an almighty black soot stain from the twin tail pipes on the otherwise pristine whitewashed walls… oops. Edging out into the traffic, the V8 soundtrack burbles away and reverberates off the walls – it sounds fabulous, too. Out on the road, we’re immediately dicing with the locals, anxious as ever to get on with their business and hang the consequences: standard Paris operating procedure then. I quickly realise that even the briefest indecision on our part would be to invite disaster – positivity becomes the order of the day. I find the combination of a thrusting V8 and a chunky manual gearchange ideal for zipping in and out of gaps as they appear… with my pick of six ratios thanks to the Laycock de Normanville overdrive, it’s simplicity itself to keep the V8 on song. Plus, with the roof down the all-round visibility is superb, too. Before long, my worries about the traffic have melted away in the winter sunshine and I’m really enjoying myself. In fact, both of us are chuckling at how a GT car designed for long-distance motorway jaunts is proving to be such an ideal inner city runabout.
After a day spent playing the tourist card, we take the Metro back into town later that evening and enjoy a couple of beers… the pub seems as good a place as any to discuss the Stag’s merits. I’ve fallen for it more than I expected to, partly because the suspension isn’t anywhere near as soft or wallowy as I had feared it would be beforehand. The power-assisted steering also offers more feel than anticipated, although a manual rack would still be my preference. For his part, James is also
appreciating the car much more than I thought he would, although he is still content for me to do all the driving… which suits me just fine.
Early start
Sunday morning sees us up and about before sunrise – the Traversée is an event for early risers. Entrants congregate in and around the grounds of the Chateau Vincennes, with cars, vans and buses spilling out of the grounds and onto the surrounding roads. We park up where we can and get involved in the action. Confirmed Citroëniste James is beside himself with joy, as everything from DSS, Traction Avants, H-vans and of course his beloved 2CVS buzz by. I enjoy the numerous early Porsche 911s taking part, but our Stag is also getting its fair share of attention. As we’d found on our recce the day before, Paris loves Canley’s cruiser alright.
8am is the official kick-off time, at which point we take our place in a snaking queue of old motors that stretches onwards seemingly without end. In true French fashion there are plenty of stops along the way for participants to indulge in a coffee or a Gauloises… or, in most cases, both.
By late morning we’ve taken in sights including Montmartre, the Place de la Concorde and of course the Eiffel Tower, James’ camera is now full of delights and we are buzzing. But once the manic activity of the Traversée begins to draw to a close, we’re happy to peel off from the pack and join the Périphérique to begin our homeward journey. Luckily the Sunday traffic is light and soon we are leaving the sprawling expanse of the city behind us. Blasting up the motorway, the hood is down, the (excellent) heater is blaring and we’re both wrapped up from head to toe… but we’re still freezing our fingers and toes off. Recalling the fate that befell ex-pc staffer Mark Dixon many moons ago on a winter road trip to Paris, where he stubbornly kept the roof down on his Sunbeam Alpine throughout – a rampant dose of flu – we wimp out and stop to put the hood up. The return journey to Calais is accomplished with ease and the ferry crossing is uneventful. In no time at all, we’re back in Peterborough – I drop James off at his place and head home to my flat. Once I’ve parked up in the driveway, I sit for a minute or two, savouring the V8 grumble for a little while longer. Over 700 miles in a weekend and it didn’t miss a beat. Forty years after the Stag went out of production, we’ve proved that it is a truly excellent grand tourer, with a V8 engine that’s one of the sweetest around. Mission accomplished.