He didn't want a "new" sports car, he wanted a good, used car. We went to the MG dealer, and looked in the used car section, but nothing popped out at my dad. We wandered a little further, and came upon an "iron lot," where Dad found a 1959 Triumph TR3. It was painted white, had black leather interior, and had all of the great lines of an English roadster. For example, the rear view mirrors were mounted on the side of the fenders, a total of close to five feet in front of the driver. Dad started to drool, but managed to ask to look at the engine, and the various tops for the car. The salesman told me the hood key was in the glove box, and asked me to get it. It was the only thing in the compartment, so it wasn't hard to find, a chrome-plated "T" that tapered to a shape that fit the two bolts in the hood. Remember, this was 1966, and I was all of 14 years old, so the fact that the T-wrench looked as though it had never been used didn't set off any alarms, but it felt funny.
The salesman, let's call him "Dave," popped the hood, and what greeted us was an immaculate Triumph in-line four cylinder engine, that looked like it just rolled off the assembly line. The car had about 45,000 miles on it, but for a seven year-old car, that was pretty low. We were still oohing and ahhing over the engine, and I noticed that there was a paint line, showing that the car's original color had been a lavender shade of purple. Again, to a fourteen year old, it seemed weird, but it didn't set off any alarms. Dave showed us the twin SU-carburetors, and told us that it took some time to learn how to keep them in sync. My dad was now drooling openly, and his hand kept reaching back for his wallet.
Dave told my dad that they were asking $1,200 for the car, but he'd do him a "solid," and drop it to $999. Dad had a thousand dollars, in cash, on him, ten $100 bills. Dad was quiet for a minute, appearing to "mull it over," then he looked Dave right in the eye and said, "Make it an even $900, and you've got a deal." That's how we got the little sports car from Hell. I call it that, because those things I didn't think much about at the time, were about to make themselves understood.
Mom drove off in the '63 Galaxy we had, and left right after Dad made his deal. This is mid-1960's, there were no cell phones, I-80 was four lanes, and we got as far as the Milk Farm before the engine seized up. Those of you familiar with the I-80 corridor through Vacaville, Dixon, and Davis know that although it gets into triple digits in the summer afternoons, it can drop into the '60's at night. Couple that with the Delta Breezes coming from the Southwest at 10 - 20 mph, and it can get quite cold after a day of 100 degree heat. I was freezing. Dad walked back to the Milk Farm, and used a payphone to call a tow truck, and to let my mom know what was going on. We got home around 11:00 pm, the tow driver helped us push the car up the driveway, into the garage, and it stayed in that spot for almost a year.
Work on the car went fairly slowly. We didn't have lifts, or any pneumatic tools, so everything had to be broken down by hand. Dad had set up boxes to hold the various systems associated with the engine, ignition, carburetion, heating/cooling, etc. As we pulled the assemblies from the block, we would put them into their box, to soak in solvent until we got back to them. It wasn't until we had the entire engine broken down that we would find out how hard it was to get parts for. A lot of things had to be ordered by mail, and new parts could take forever to arrive. As we "cracked the block," my dad started giving me more responsibility with the reassembly. He would double, triple, quadruple check my work, and I learned how cars ran. I was also learning to take care of a car I had a lot invested in.
I have no idea what all of the parts cost, and I had some help with the car's appearance, repainting, reupholstering, and an electrical problem that was probably created by my dad, but fixed by the Chief of Police, who was the father of a friend, and enjoyed puzzling problems like the one that developed. All I know is, that almost a year to the day, I put the key in the ignition, turned it on, and hovered over the starter switch while I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and pushed...
VRRRROOOOOOMMMMM. Pop, pop, and then an uneven purr. I was so excited, I practically wet myself. We tweaked for a few minutes, checked the adjustments of the carburetors, and adjusted the idle, and stood back in awe of this sleek purring roadster that we had given a new life.
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