While my intention was always to make a bit of money when the time comes to sell it, not using this car never figured in my game plan. ![]() The first time I clapped eyes on my car was when the container doors were swung open in a Dubai shipping yard. That man was the one I bought it from, and lest we forget, I did so unseen. Rather, it was kept in a garage under a cover for years, inherited by the man’s son who obviously had no interest in it.Įventually this man’s son asked a man who knows about these things to re-commission the TR6 and sell it on his behalf. The stack of documents and photographs that came with the car when I bought it showed serious amounts of dedication and spending power, but once it was like new (better than new, really) again, it appears that it was never used. It’s easy to see that this man, who lived in Germany, had been bitten by the same bug that got me when I was a pre-teen and he’d left no stone unturned while returning this car to its former glory. And my TR6 falls firmly into the “fully restored” category, having cost its owner huge sums of money that he would never recuperate. The survivors, though, are more often than not fully restored cars that will hopefully never go the way of those that were left to the ravages of time. Cars aren’t built like they used to be, and that’s the best possible news in many respects. British cars back then were slung together and untold millions were reduced to little more than piles of brown powder or derelict monoliths dying undignified deaths in overgrown gardens outside rundown houses. When it provided family transport for us in 1980, it was less than 10 years old, but was even then considered “past it”. Still, that car’s hooks have remained in me for 35 years. He stopped enjoying it, and when that happens, it’s usually time to say goodbye to a car, no matter how desirable it is on good days. ![]() I recall him constantly chasing rust on it, patching it up, repainting it and despairing when its troublesome Lucas electrics packed up – which was fairly frequent. It became something of a running joke that my father had sold the car to finance a top-loading Betamax video recorder (it was almost as big as the Triumph), as that’s what he used the money for.īut the truth of the matter was that it was a millstone around his neck. ![]() In a few short months that TR6 had changed me forever. We went on family holidays in it, he drove to work in it, and when he decided to sell it, I actually wept. In those heady days of not actually caring what might happen in a potential accident, my two brothers and I squished up on the rear “shelf”, with a cushion lovingly crafted by my mum. ![]() When I was 8 years old, my father bought an early example to use as the family runaround, despite its lack of any rear seats. Many people have asked me why I chose a Triumph TR6 and the answer is quite simple: it’s the car that got me into cars. It hits every mark, ticks every box, and in the two months since it arrived on these shores, I’ve driven it at every opportunity.īut as I mentioned a couple of weeks ago, the time has come for it to be secreted away in a secure, air-conditioned storage facility where it will be safe from harm caused by the harsh summer temperatures, and will be worked on to ensure it’s in the finest fettle for winter when I intend to use it as my daily driver. She’s really good with money and I’m really not, you see.īut in this particular instance, I know I’ve bagged a bargain and I can enjoy some good old-fashioned, guilt-free motoring in a car I’ve always wanted to own – one that’s simple in its construction, stylish in its appearance, and has the ability to turn heads and get its rear-end hanging out while taking corners at nearly pedestrian speeds. As regular readers will be aware, I recently treated myself to a classic car, or as I like to refer to it in front of Mrs Hackett, an “investment”.
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