Last month, Claus wrote an interesting article about matching numbers. In his exact words; “It all centres on the matter of whether a certain classic car is still today, many years later, equipped with the hardware it left the factory with: Mostly, enthusiasts focus on the engine but as some manufacturers also had individual ID-numbers on transmissions, differentials and in some cases even suspension and body parts the matter can indeed become very nerdy.”
The meat of Claus’ article focussed on engine numbers, which is the main focus of obsession amongst devotees of matching numbers. As discussed in his piece and the resulting comments, it’s a largely meaningless concern as the stamps on an engine block are no guarantee of the quality of the internals, and matching numbers are no indication of how well a car will drive. In my world, I have no problem with a car having a replacement engine if it means it goes better. Indeed, my historic rally car would have been rubbish if it had remained as per factory specification, though as it happened it had long strayed from pure originality by the time I bought it. The remaining matching number parts were actually the worst bits. No, I’m firmly in the camp that originality is overrated. Or at least I am when it suits me.
I may have scoffed at the matching numbers fixation but I have recently been mentally tortured over a detail that sounds ridiculous to someone like me, having a long history of owning modified mongrels. You see, some time ago I bought another old BMW. It’s a genuinely low mileage survivor of its type, with a low count of previous keepers and a good amount of history. I bought it with the intention of having it prepared for motorsport but a change in regulations meant the car dodged that particular bullet. While it was pulled apart for a bit of welding, the plan changed to building it back up to standard specification. It had survived for over 30 years in showroom trim so it deserved to be preserved as such, not only because genuine cars now command a premium over those that have been messed with. There was no point in just tarting it up for a quick sale; if it was worth restoring it needed to be done properly. Therefore, much time has passed and much scope has crept since it should have been packed out of the door and I’m now looking at some quite hefty bills to finish it off. In for a penny, in for a pound. Once it’s done it’ll be truly top notch and come with a photographic restoration to add to its history file. I doubt I’ll make any money on it but there didn’t seem to be any point in half measures. This leads me back to the topic of matching numbers.
Even a partially stripped car has an exponential appetite for storage space. The amount of boxes required to package parts safely away can quickly become overwhelming, and keeping them all in one place isn’t always possible. A few weeks ago, I thought I’d misplaced the box containing the seat belts and I felt like the sky had fallen in. Replacement seat belts are readily available and they’re not hugely expensive, but I became preoccupied with the worry that any replacement belts would not be the original ones. I’ve never worried about this stuff before but now I had a reason to, perhaps extending to a self-created obligation. My brain whirred with nonsense thoughts. If I was ever going to sell the car as being fully restored to original specification, how could I sleep at night if it ended up with replacement belts, their wrongly dated labels silently mocking me and undermining any claim I had that this car was truly a rare survivor? The replacement harness webbing may stop me from headbutting the windscreen but my life could be saved by a sham. The shame of it.
Although I tried to tell myself that it didn’t really matter, I knew deep down that it did. Obviously it wouldn’t matter to a normal person but to the rivet-counting enthusiast looking for the perfect car, it would matter to them. I’d often been amused by people who lost sleep over their right headlamp lens being dated August 1968 when their visually identical left headlamp was marked January 1969. Those folks who advertised for a steel wheel stamped in Week 44 of 1984 to match their originals and satisfy the concours judges. People who go to great lengths to replicate a missing build code sticker that the bible says should have been present. I was once amused by those people, but now I have become one. I feel protective towards my floor mats because they are old enough to have been made in “West” Germany.
You’ll be pleased to know the missing seatbelts have turned up. As my blood pressure returns to normal, the whole crisis underlines why I shouldn’t really have nice things. I’m a naturally scruffy person and I prefer my cars to be functional rather than pristine show pieces. I won’t skimp to make a car drive better but spending serious money on paintwork has always seemed like a cult to which I can’t subscribe, a world for people with heated garages and automobilia in glass cases. Now that I am temporarily skirting the edges of such a world I know I couldn’t cope with the responsibility on a full time basis. I’ll decide whether to keep or sell the car when it’s done, but I suspect I’ll be a little intimidated to use something so fresh in the real world. I guarantee I’ll be too paranoid to park it anywhere. So if I do sell, I’ll be sure to showcase those seat belt labels. Matching numbers, very important, you know.