Family Cars and My Cars

As we grow up on our journey through life into adulthood from being children we are very much influenced by our parent’s views and ideals, and this will affect the way we think, what we choose for ourselves and how we behave. That influence extends to our sense of reasoning (or lack of it at times) when we select the car we drive, particularly when it comes to choosing our very first car.

This is the story of the cars that were part of my life, right from my eaerliest recollection of life, up to the present day. There are the cars I grew up with, including those that I bought for my own use, and why I made those choices.

My earliest recollection of a family car was an early 1950’s VW Beetle, bule in colour, had a small split rear screen and semaphore arm trafficators. It was also left hand drive on account of my dad buying it in Bremenhaven, West Germany, whilst living and working there for a British electonics company. He and mum were there for a few years and that is where I was born.

In its previous life this old Volkwagen Beetle had been a Bremerhaven taxi cab, and when my parents returned to live in England, the car came home with us.

The picture shown here is actually of that car, and I discovered it whilst raking through the loft at my parents house after dad had passed away. The shot was taken in the winter of 1963, one of the worst winters for snow on record.

I do have some misty memories of the car. It was always parked on the drive in front of the living room bay window, as per the photo, and the cat used to sit on top of the front tyre under the wing when there was rain, to keep dry.

Dad changed the steering controls on the Volkswagen
from left to right hand drive

Funny what you remember as a kid. I also have a recollection of dad out there on that drive with his toolbox, changing the driving controls from the left to the right–hand side of the car.

Mum could not drive at that time, but had taken up driving lessons. I used to kneel up on the sofa in the bay window of the living room and watch as her driving instructor called at the house to collect her in his car, an Austin A40 Farina, painted in that duck–egg blue colour and with a black roof.

I recall riding in the front passenger seat of the Volkswagen Beetle, fascinated by the twist knob in the centre top of the dash that operated the trafficators. I was 6–years old and on occasions allowed to switch them on once and and while, under instruction and as she approached juctions. I also remember that privilege being taken away on the day when I didn’t operate them when I was supposed to, instead of listening to the orders from the driving seat.

Waking up in the morning to a thick blanket of snow,
and of course the car wouldn’t start.

One of my most vivid memories of that old car was an occurance during that long and cold winter of ’63, on a morning when I awoke to find a dense covering of snow. The bungalow we lived in at the time had a driveway, which although flat, sloped down to the road for the last 15 feet or so and at quite a steep angle. The road outside was also on a hill, falling away to the right – the opposite direction to that nearly always required to get to the places we needed.

Although I was too young to be aware of it at the time, the car was equipped only with 6-volt electrics and on that bitter cold day it flatly refused to start. After helping, as best as a small boy could, the Volkswagen Beetle was pushed to the end of the drive. I sat bemused as we coasted out onto the snow–covered road and down the hill, attempting several bump starts as we went.

The car must have started, because I do remember my mother battling with the thing as we fish–tailed up the slippery road towards our intended destination.

Chopping in one Volswagen Beetle for another

This Volkswagen Beetle, when dad took over ownership, had completed an intergalactic mileage, due to its former job–role, and by 1965 it was on its second time around the mileage clock and on the same engine. The bodywork, had become quite rotten, so rotten in fact the chassis was in grave danger of leaving it behind at the next bump.

Dad thought this Volkswagen Beetle had been such a “damn good car” (his exact words until the day he died) he went out and bought another. 4985DP was jet black in colour, grey seats and only a year old. He sold it less than a year later on account that it continually broke down. He never had a Volkswagen Beetle again.

The Riley One–Point–Five

By now Mum was back out at work doing her bit to bring more money into the home by returning to her vocation as a primary school teacher. In line with this it became necessary for her to gain her own transport and what she got was something that I really wish I had paid more attention to.

To see a Riley One–Point–Five today is like spotting a pile of rocking horse poop. You see the occasional Wolesley 1500, which had the same body but not performance, but the Riley — no.

Built upon a Morris Minor 1000 platform, and with the same torsion bar suspension, the car was powered by a 1.5–litre 4–cylinder BMC A–series lump breathing through two one–and–a–half inch SU carburettors. This car could certainly lift up her skirts and run with the wind. There was always a nice smell of leather inside, as I recall.

Wood vaneer dash and a rev–counter!

The colour of the Riley was a mid–blue with a green tinted external sun visor peak thing that was fixed over the top of the windscreen. Inside it had blue and white leather seats, a wood veneer dash and boy oh boy, it had a rev counter! I would love to see one of these again, or even drive one.

The alternative Wolesley version was a much steadier machine, and you can find examples of those still in existance. It shared the same engine as the Riley, but with a single SU carburettor and no rev counter. Whilst you occasionally see the Wolesley 1500, the Riley One–Point–Five is not well represented.

One of my most vivid memories of that car was a rather painful one. On a family outing, and upon parking the car at a Dorset beauty spot, we all assembled at the boot to change into our wellies. Whilst I was sitting on the rear bumper to change my footwear, the stay to the boot lid gave way and the lid hit me straight on the top of my head. To say it hurt was like saying Everest is a molehill. Some say that having learned of this episode in my life that it does explain a great deal about me today. I’m not entirely sure what is meant by that?

As I said, Dad was running the black VW, until he got fed up with it breaking down and so got shot of it – to a vicar, as it happens. My memories are a little confused about what happened then. I have fuzzy recollections of a pale blue Morris Minor 1000 2–door saloon and then a dark blue Vauxhall HA Viva.

I think there was something about these cars being on loan from a Mr. Johnson, the proprietor of a local garage, as my father used to get on quite well with him. Certainly the next permanent car to arrive was sold to us by Mr. Johnson, as I can remember going out in it with them both for a test drive.

The arrival of the Austin Cambridge A60 Diesel

LYL78D was a black Austin A60 Cambridge diesel saloon. Now, this was a period in time when diesel powered cars got their well–deserved reputation for being dirty, slow and smelly. Yep! It was all of those all right – and more! As I grew older, and could be trusted with the responsibility, it was my job on school mornings to go out and start up LYL so she would be ready and waiting (thawed out in winter) for the road.

The Austin Cambridge had the ignition lock in the centre of the dash and the keyhole had little wings on either side with grooves that held the wide head–part of the old Union ignition key. To start the car you had to turn the key, which also turned these wings, against a spring and keep the red light glowing on the dash.

The key had to be held against the spring for the count of 10 very slow seconds; a bit that always made my fingers sore. At the end of time period you planted your foot hard down on the accelerator pedal, turned the key the rest of the way, which activated the starter motor. The starter was kept turning over until the engine coughed, spluttered and fired up. At that point there would be a enough blue smoke to blot out the light of day, whilst the engine roared into life before it settled to a rhythmic beat.

The diesel Autin Cambridge was a slow car
with a 0–60 time of around two and a half days

I think that once it got rolling practically nothing would stop it. Dad used to announce with such pride how a two–week family holiday, including loads of site seeing and the journey back home, has been acheived without having to refuel. If the enthusiasm of his proclamations equalled the level of reality, according to his scale of measurement I reckon that car used to go around the world twice on only one tank of diesel fuel!

The Austin Cambridge A60 diesel was quite a rare beast. There were at the time plenty of petrol versions driving about the streets, as there were of its cousin, the Morris Oxford. My grand parents, on my mother’s side, lived in the Dorset town of Weymouth, a place my Grandfather retired to upon leaving the marine salvage business. The people next door, Mr. & Mrs. Polly, had a white (with a black roof and also diesel powered), D–registration Morris Oxford saloon.

As the Engine Fired, Day Turned to Night

As there was only on–street parking, and when we were visiting, the two cars used to sit one behind the other outside the front of the house. It was amazing when both engines were started up together. Sunbathers on Weymouth beach would pack up their deck chairs and leave for home, thinking night was upon them, and starlings would fly for the trees to roost. Good old cars though – solid and robust.

Whilst I am on the subject of Grand parents, my Grandfather had another vehicle that was very much part of my life. WKO 914 was a 1956 4–door Morris Minor saloon with red leather seats, red carpets and black bodywork. Although the same shape as the later Morris 1000 saloon, this earlier version had a smaller 805cc 4–cyclinder engine, a small back window, a split windscreen, larger rear wheel arches and semaphore arm trafficators.

My Grandfather bought the Morris Minor second hand from a lady schoolteacher in London in 1958 and owned it until he died in 1975. He was a terrible driver, as I recall. For a start he would ride the clutch pedal, which resulted in premature wear and failure of at least two clutch assemblies that I remember.

At one point the engine was becoming so badly worn out the car had to be given a good run–up at Boot Hill if there was to be any chance of making it to the top without stopping. Eventually, the Morris went to a local garage for the engine to be re–bored and re–conditioned. It came back painted bright pale blue – the engine that is, not the car.

My first experience of driving
was in a public car park in the Morris Minor

This was the first car that I actually drove. I was about fourteen at the time and one bitterly cold winters day, in a gravel covered public seaside car park at Chesil Beach, I was allowed to drive the Morris up and down a few times. The driving lesson came to an end when I was ushered hurriedly from the drivers’ seat, something that seemed to coincide with the arrival of a marked police car!

I was allowed also to drive the car into Grandads garage. It all started off okay, until I went for the brake. As I was using the clutch foot to do this, and as soon as I went for the brake pedal, the car shot forward and crashed into the back of the garage.

My Grandmother, being a frugal woman and a displaced native of Leeds, used to bottle fruit and make jam in quite large quantities. I think she never really got over World War Two and food rationing. Looking back on things now I’m sure she was still expecting supply ships to be torpedoed by German U–boats. Anyway, all her Kilner jars and bottles were stored on shelves at the back of the garage — or were until that day.

There was jam and chutney smeared all over the front of the car

With the impact from the car the shelves in the garage tumbled off the wall and the front of the car became smothered in broken glass and all sorts of substances that stuck to the paintwork and smelled horrible. Fortunately there was no damage – to the car. I think my grandfather nearly had a heart attack.

When you are young, time really does not have any real meaning or significance to you, and as a result it is often difficult in later life to recall events in accurate detail in relation to order. All I know is that at some stage during those tender years the Riley went and was replaced with 880FYY, a Morris 1000 Traveller in Rose Taupe finish.

Now, I don’t know if anyone reading this knows what the colour Rose Taupe looks like? It is perhaps best described as having the appearance of a child’s pot of water, which they have been using to wash out their watercolour paintbrushes. A sort of murky mauve/brown dirty colour that has such a peculiar name that I have still remembered it some 40–years later!

The Morris Minor Traveller was always full of kids
for the morning school run

The Morris 1000 traveller was the one used by Mum for the daily school run and for perhaps the longest period a car remained in the family. We would pick up Annabel Fowler from just around the corner in Spinney Close, making the total number of kids in the car at that point up to four, when you included my brother, my sister and me. It was on to Grosvenor Road to collect Sarah Holmes, and a bit further along for Peter Sanderson and then Andrew Stevenson.

It wouldn’t be allowed today though would it? One child in the front passenger seat (no seatbelt). Four in the rear seat (again no seatbelts) and two or three more in the luggage space at the back. It was all right for Mrs. Stevenson when it was her turn as she had a Rambler Shootingbrake. This was a huge white monster of an American estate car with a bonnet large enough to land a Lynx helicopter on. Quite bewildering for a small boy, it was, and five kids would all fit in a row along the back seat.

The training in car maintenance and mechanics had begun

880FYY certainly wasn’t new when Dad bought it and it was in a pretty poor state when it eventually went many, many years later. It was from this car that I received the beginnings of my education; my initiation into car repairs and maintenance procedures.

Dad worked long hours and would usually arrive home after 8pm, whereupon he would often be greeted with one tale of woe or another from Mum about a defect she had experienced with her car that day. There was often the lament of, "How was am I supposed to get to work tomorrow morning!" Dad would curse and complain, have his dinner, and adjourn to the garage to start work.

Being the not quite so willing apprentice at the time, I can remember those cold dark winter evenings lying on a hard floor by the light of an inspection lamp. I would be rebuked gruffly for not handing over the right spanner, or for losing some small part or another somewhere. I seem to recall many evenings being spent this way and I couldn’t have been any older than thirteen.

What baffles me now, when I think about it, is why this had to be done so regularly. Why wasn’t the problem fixed the first time and the rest of the evenings spent indoors watching telly like normal kids? The only explanation I can come up with is that as my father was as tight as a ducks bottom and probably bodged the jobs with string and sticky tape hoping to save sixpence, but to end up spending more time and money trying to avoid spending a little time and money. The dynamo was a componant that used to get a lot of attention I recall.

Cars can turn Dad’s into heros

Whilst the Rose Taupe coloured Morris 1000 Traveller was in our care Dad bought a MkII Triumph 2000 saloon, registration number XTC316H. The car was finished in Saphire (navy) blue with tan coloured upholstery, and was fitted with overdrive.

Now, this was a posh car and he who drove it certainly went up in my estimation when that vehicle arrived on the driveway. These were lovely cars and school boy rivalry was kicked into life on account of the father of one of my friends from up the road drove a Rover 2000.

Many a discussion concerning the merits of owning a Triumph as opposed to a Rover were discussed in the top of the Elm tree at the bottom of the garden, such as six–cylinders v’s four. I could be very persuasive in those days for a fourteen year old when it came to cars. That Triumph was with us for ages, and always looked immaculate.

When 880FYY gave up the ghost, Dad did something really quite rash. He spent some money! He ordered a brand new Morris 1000 Traveller in Glacier White with Navy trim. This was one of the very last Morris 1000 traveller’s to be made and carried the registration number GPK20K.

Once the novelty of having a new car wore off it became quite boring as nothing seemed to go wrong with it. No more lying on a cold garage floor late into the evening in the light of the inspection lamp, but I didn’t miss it that much really.

Driving old bangers around a field
is where the real learning to drive took place

At the age of fifteen, Bruce, a school chum at the time, who’s parents lived in a huge country house with about 4–acres of land, used to have an old banger of a car that he would drive around the paddock at the top of his garden. I used to visit often and that si where I did quite a lot of driving.

Initially, Bruce had a Renault Dauphine that he bought for about 10-shillings from someone his Dad knew. As well as the Renault Bruce got his hands on an old Standard 8, a car that I couldn’t quite get my head around on account that as a saloon car it did not have an opening boot lid. Instead there was a drop–down flap in the region of the rear number plate, behind which was stored the spare wheel. You had to put your luggage into the boot compartment by tipping the rear seat forward and feeding it in through the aperture behind. Very awkward I should imagine.

We had great fun rallying around that field in those cars and I always looked forward to my weekends when I would jump on by pedalcycle and ride the 12–miles or so to see Bruce and his cars, sometimes stopping at his village filling station to collect a gallon a fuel on the way.

The Renault was a little difficult to drive on mud, as being rear engined the tail used to swing around with very little provocation. In fact, I was responsible for stoving in the back wing against a tree during an over enthusiastic power slide, something that caused a bit if a rift in our friendship.

Another car that we used to drive around the field was a black Austin A35 saloon. This car was quite tidy and once Bruce was old enough, and had passed his test, he used the car on the road. I, being a year younger, used to have to be content with sitting in the passenger seat and going out for a cruise with him.

In 1973, when I was sixteen–years old, Dad did something unbelievably stupid. So stupid in fact that I find it hard to type the words. Not only did he spend some money again, which I can forgive him for, but he traded the blue Triumph 2000 for a brand new M–registered Morris Marina 1.3 saloon in Teal Blue with tan interior.

The excuse? This car was the Morris 1000 replacement, according to British Leyland anyway, and therefore it must be good – especially as it had been factory Ziebarted to prevent rust. He had this car a long time, and even though I am embarrassed to admit to it, I drove it on occasions after I passed my driving test.

What a horrible car! A gearshift that was like rattling a stick in an open manhole, suspension that I believe was constructed from elastic bands, styling that wasn’t, and all that cheap plastic! It was awful.

I said at the beginning of this story that parents have a strong influence on the way we think as we grow up and this was proved to be so at the time I bought my first car. I had just passed my test after only a handful of lessons, and much practical experience thanks to Bruce and GPK20K. Having a part–time job I figured I could afford an old runabout, providing it would be relatively economical to run.

Buying my first car

Having scoured the local papers, and studied the pages of the Exchange and Mart, I ended up with a 1962 Morris Minor 1000 4–door saloon in Dove grey and with registration number 5494MW. Of course, Dad took charge of ‘helping’ me choose my car and I am sure there would have been many other makes on offer that would have served me well for very little money.

I was swayed into keeping up the family tradition in buying a Morris Minor 1000. It wasn’t a bad choice actually, as I had developed quite a good level of knowledge as to how to deal with the mechanics of the model. I bought it for £115.00 from a guy in Bix Bottom, near Henley.

Dad used to have a strong dislike for Fords. “Dagenham Dustbins,” he would call them, and would always seize upon any opportunity to run them down as being complete rubbish. No, he was a staunch Leyland fan, and being naïve, I initially went along with his opinions.

When learning DIY car mechanics,
very often thngs were made worse rather than better

Being young and relatively stupid, as I believe I was then, when I look back and think about it (I really was quite idiotic in fact). I learned enough about the mechanics of Morris Minor 1000’s to either write a book on the subject, or to build one from a box of miscellaneous parts in the dark with one hand tied behind my back. I was always under the bonnet and often caused more problems than I solved. But learned a hell of a lot in the process.

The Morris Minor 1000 was launched in 1957 and replaced the Morris Minor, the type my Grandfather drove. It initially had a 948cc engine, over the 805 unit of the previous car. Up until 1962 the direction indicators doubled as side lights, which meant that when you were driving with your lights on, and indicated, your side light on the appropriate side of the car would wink on and off.

In 1963 the engine size was up–rated to 1098cc and the direction indicators became separate lights to the sidelights, albeit they shared the same cluster unit. The windscreen wipers were upgraded from the clap–hands type arrangement to the modern sweep format that we are familiar with today. My 1962 car therefore had the 984cc motor.

Learning to double–declutch.
I had to as there was no synchromesh

Although in quite tidy physical condition, the gearbox had lost all its synchromesh. This meant I had to drive the car double–de–clutching through every gear change to keep ratios matched with revs, both going up the box as well as down. This was necessary to prevent leaving all the teeth from the gears behind on the road.

Although seen as a pain at the time I actually think now the fault provided a good training exercise in understanding the needs of a car when changing gear, because if you got it wrong it very much told you about it! I drove the car like that for nearly a year and until I located an MOT failed 1964 saloon that was going for scrap.

Dad and I set off in Mum’s Morris 1000 traveller, GPK20K, complete with a selection of tools, and lifted the engine out, complete with gearbox, from the scrap car. Between us, and the owner of the dead car, we manhandled the lot into the back of the Traveller. As the donor vvehicle was the later model I took this opportunity to have the indicator light clusters from it as well.

On the next available weekend, Dad and I got the old and disused garden swing from the back garden, removed the bonnet of my car and positioned our make–shift scaffold and lifting gear over the engine bay. This made an ideal stand from which to hang a block and tackle, to be used for engine lifting.

The beauty of the Morris Minor 1000
was that everything was put together with nuts and bolts

The front panel of the Morris Minor could be unbolted and once the radiator behind was out of the way as well, and with the bonnet off, everything was just so accessible. Inside, having lifted the carpets, most of the floor pan could be removed exposing the gearbox mountings and prop shaft connections, as far forward as the bell housing.

With the gearbox mounting bolts removed, and the ones from the engine mountings, we hoisted the engine up a few inches and pushed the car backwards, leaving the engine and gearbox behind – or in front, depending upon how you look at it.

Before the replacement unit went in we removed the sump and inspected the main bearings. They seemed to be in good order so we replaced the gasket and bolted the sump back again. To get the replacement engine and gearbox in was easy. We just hoisted it up, lined it up, and then pushed the car forward to meet it.

Having got the engine and gearbox into the car everything was bolted down in place. The radiator was re–fitted and filled with coolant and the front panel put back on. At this stage we set about replacing the ignition points, spark plugs, oil and air filter and of course filled the engine with new oil. The bonnet went back on and the time had come to give it a try.

Then came the time to see if the engine would start

Anxiously I put the key in the ignition, switched on, pulled the starter knob and bingo! She started first time. At this Dad jumped in the passenger seat and we took off for a spin up the road – still with no floor in the car! She went like a bomb, and not only did I have synchromesh in the gearbox, but I had an extra 150cc in the engine as well. I later fitted the light clusters to make the modification process complete.

That car used to whiz up and down the M4 between Reading and South Wales for 10–weeks of basic police training and with the cassette player thumping out Status Quo’s On The Level album, all the way there and back each weekend. I drove for thousands and thousands of miles in that car, until one day I grew tired of it. This was at the beginning of the long hot summer of ’76.

A fool and his money are very soon parted

I now fancied something a little more sporty, and having now built up a bit of a no claims insurance bonus, I felt I could do with some open air motoring. Upon examining the classifieds in the local paper I found a 1966 red Triumph Spitfire Mkll for sale, priced at £165. Without further ado, and with very little thought, I telephoned the lady to make a viewing appointment

I jumped in my car and I was off to have a look. Stupidly, I paid the asking price and drove it away, complete with worn out gear selector linkage and perforated body sills. I had that car six–months and loved it, but the end to its life came rather abruptly on the A31, just passed the Rufus Stone turn in the New Forrest.

Following a loud rattling noise from the engine, there came an almighty bang, at which the engine stopped dead. If I hadn’t quickly got to the clutch the car would have stopped dead also. As I coasted to the edge of the road, clouds of blue oily smoke billowed into the air and rivulets of hot oil ran from the trailing edge of the bonnet and up the windscreen glass.

Peering through the smoke under the bonnet
to see what had happened

After pulling onto the verge and lifting the bonnet, and after stepping back for a minute or so from the clouds that erupted from beneath. Sitting in little pools of oil around the engine bay area were fragments of alloy type metal and small lumps of cast iron. As the smoke dispersed some more I saw a large fist–size gaping hole in the drivers side of the engine crankcase.

The motor had shot an end, which is a term used to describe what happens when a con–rod (the connecting rod between crank shaft and piston) becomes detached at one end and then smacks against the inside of the engine casing smashing a hole through it. I wasn’t driving particularly fast when it happened, but I think the engine was so clapped out that it literally fell to bits inside.

The car had been faltering for a few miles prior to the incident, and knowing what I do now, I think this was a piston starting to become ‘wedged’ in the bore – catching every so often on the up–stroke, until it wedged completely. This would have caused the con rod to buckle, shear and then smash its way out of the engine.

The purpose of the journey through the New Forrest was that of driving to my Grandparents house in Weymouth on account of the death of my Grandfather. Mum and Dad had gone there earlier in the day and I was to join them to help sort out the house.

Dad was not pleased at all with being called out

After walking about 3–miles to a filling station I telephoned ahead to tell them what had happened and asked that Dad come out to rescue me. He was not best pleased when he turned up, and after attaching a tow rope between GPK20K and the stricken Spitfire, he towed me all the way to Weymouth.

So as to get home again I used WKO914, Grandads 1956 Morris Minor. This car would now became my regular transport whilst I set about trying to revive the Spitfire. It was my mother that had the unenviable task of towing me and the Triumph the hundred odd miles from Weymouth back to Reading later that year.

In the village of Twyford in Berkshire there was, and probably still is, an accident repair centre where in the yard at the back there were a number of crashed cars. Dad and the proprietor of this place used to go to school together, and as a result of a friendly agreement, my Spitfire was taken there, initially for scrapping. However, in the yard was a Triumph Vitesse 2–Litre Mkll convertable that had sustained front–end damage.

Many Triumph car models
shared the same or similar chassis and other parts

Knowing the Spitfire was a derivative of the Herald, and the Vitesse was no more than a Herald with a bigger engine, I negotiated the acquisition of the Vitesse for parts. The plan was to transplant the 2–litre six–cylinder unit from the Vitesse into the Spitfire. After all, Triumph produced a car called a GT6 that was a hardtop Spitfire coupe with a Vitesse engine in it, so the job should be relatively easy.

The fact the Spitfire was riddled with rust and was nothing short of a heap of junk didn’t feature in my thought process. I was dazzled with the dream of having a 2–litre Triumph Spitfire to drive around in. I would have been far better off repairing the Vitesse, especially as this car was a convertible and had obviously been a write–off due to it being beyond economical repair rather than there being any real structural damage.

I think that Triumph Vitesse only needed a new bonnet, which of course on these cars formed the whole of the front of the body. Anyway, the project ran into one difficulty after another and eventually I threw in the towel, scrapped the lot and settled my mind to living with the old black Morris Minor. I did say I was stupid, and this is exactly the type of thing to prove that.

As soon as I saw the Triumph GT6 I was smitten

However, whilst I was clearing up my tools, I looked up to see a Saffron Yellow Triumph GT6 Mklll drive into the yard. After the driver got out and disappeared into the reception office of the repair centre I wandered over to take a look.

I had often seen these cars from a distance and admired them, but now looking at it close up I thought it was gorgeous. I was caught looking over it when the driver returned, and upon my admission of interest he informed me that he had a car sales business up the road and the GT6 was up for grabs.

I followed him back to his used car lot, and after much discussion, we agreed on a discounted price for the car. I paid that man every last penny I had in my possession, plus a bit more I managed to scrounge from here and there. I think I paid something like £1,350 for a 4–year old car.

The non–overdrive model of Triumph GT6

XBP755L was a non–overdrive model of the Triumph GT6 and so had the higher ratio final drive compared to that of the with overdrive model. It also had the rotoflex couplings in rear drive train, but I can’t quite work out why because this rear suspension layout should have only been on later cars, implemented to cure the tuck–under characteristics of the Triumph rear swing axle when engaging in enthusiastic cornering.

The year of manufacture (1971) also meant the engine had not yet been nobbled by the USA emission control regulations (that came the following year). As a consequence of the higher final drive the car didn’t accelerate that quickly from 0–60, but the 30–70mph was amazing!

The Triumph GT6 could eat MGB’s for Breakfast

This car would go through this speed range completely in second gear and would eat MGB’s for breakfast. It sounded nice as well. Those old Triumph 6–cyclinder engines did have a nice exhaust note and they were quite economical to run too. About 40mpg if you were careful.

Some have referred to the Triumph GT6 as being the poor man’s E–Type. Sitting in the drivers seat and looking out of the windsreen over that power bulge down the centre of the bonnet you certainly got that E–Type feel. That’s as far as it went though. I still think, when I see these cars today, that they were a lovely looking machine and should have been a whole lot more successful than they were.

As I had now got the GT6 I lost interest in the old black Morris Minor and so it was parked up on in the corner of my parents drive and just left to stand idle. That is until one day when my brother decided to use it to get himself to a party he was attending.

Driving home that night he was involved in a collision, which marked the end of the life of the car on this planet. What we as a family should have done was to have it repaired, because it wasn’t that badly damaged. If it was around today that Morris Minor would probably have been worth quite a lot of money. However, because of more burning issues, like my Grandmother’ss deteriorating health, WKO914 went to the grave.

The GT6 was a meaningless fling,
but the forbidden love was a Triumph TR6

The car I really wanted, and had always yearned for, was the Triumph TR6. It would have to be a pre–’72 model, so as to have the 150bhp engine. Later examples were detuned to 125bhp. Every time I saw a TR6 I would go all weak at the knees and just gorp like some idiotic imbecile. I thought this sports car was the dogs jewels and found it strange to the point of being ridiculous that many of my friends were lusting after Mini Coopers and Cortina 1600E’s.

I still would love to have a TR6 today, but so many of them have been mucked around with, notably the petrol injection system being removed in favour of twin or triple carburettors. Why do people have to ruin things like this? There was nothing wrong with the injection system. It’s just that people did not understand it, and when they do not understand things they think they are no good.

After I had been driving the GT6 for about a year I bumped into the guy who sold it to me. He showed to me a 150bhp 1972 TR6 in white with overdrive he was advertising for sale.

Now how do you cope with that? I was nineteen years of age without two pennies to rub together and I was looking at something that I had been lusting after with every sinew and bone in my body – and yet knew I couldn’t have it. That was cruel, really cruel.

The S–Series TVR seemed an attractive alternative

I had at that time also noticed the TVR S–series, and as much as I thought they were really beautiful, they always seemed to be too far out of reach to be given serious consideration. Somewhat out of my league, I thought.

My other half, when I met her in 1976, had a 1967 green Morris 1000 2–door saloon. I was now convinced these cars were going to haunt me for the rest of my life, as I couldn’t seem to get away from them. After a few months she changed it for a 1969 Ford Escort 1300 Delux with a kind of duck egg blue colour and with rectangular headlights instead of the more usual round ones. Her Dad drove a Sapphire Blue K–registered Mklll Cortina 1600 XL saloon, which he kept in immaculate condition. He too was a DIY man with his cars.

My subsequent engagement to my now wife resulted in the sale of the GT6 and for the sum of £750. In the interest of saving up sufficient cash for a deposit for a house my mode fo transport became a Honda CB–125 motorcycle. Later, when engagement turned into marriage, the Escort, which started off as hers, became ours.

I was now the proud joint owner of a 1300cc Ford Escort

I hated that car! It had done 130,000 miles, the engine rattled like a bag of nails, frequently went wrong and religiously failed its MOT each year without exception. CYP796H was the registered number and when we eventually sold it I was not sorry to see it go. My wife still accuses me of having a personal vendetta against that car, even today, even after more than 30–years. We bought her Dad’s Ford Cortina after that, and for a very reasonable price.

Back at my parents place the blue Marina had been left to die in the corner of the front garden, making it one of the very few cars that went from showroom to scrap yard whilst having only one owner throughout its whole life. The end of GPK20K came in the New Forrest on the A31 when it was stuffed up the back in a traffic queue.

After years of voicing his loathing for Fords, Dad bought one!

That’s about all there is to know, except that despite his vehement loathing for them, Dad went and bought a FORD, a Mkll Cortina estate in blue, rust and red oxide. It looked like something you would have entered into a banger race, yet, he was so proud of it. I think the pride, however, was more as a consequence of how little he managed to pay for it rather than how good he thought the car was.

As for me, motgages had to be paid off, money needed for maintenance on the house and then there were kids. Due to my family obligations, my mode of transport for many years has been diesel powered and capable of carrying at least five people, but one day, one way or another, I will have my ‘toy’ to play with. A TVR Chimaera 500 would be fantastic, but a good TVR S3 or 4 would serve well. You never know, I might even get to realise my dream and find a reasonable pre’72 Triumph TR6. If I do, you will be one of the first to know.

First Published September 2001

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