That’s My Story, and I’m Sticking to It!

by Kevin Jeffers

It was a hot and humid July day in 1974 when the shiny mimosa yellow 1973 Triumph TR6 cruised slowly past the crowds at the St. Matthews Parish Festival. The driver crept along, only wishing that someone he knew would notice him.

I had just detailed the TR6 for my neighbor Jeff and, as he was prone to do (provided that his wife wasn’t looking), he tossed me the keys to the TR and let me take it for a joy ride. For a car-obsessed teen, this was just about heaven!

I had detailed the TR6 since it was purchased new by my neighbor. During that process I learned every inch of the roadster, which would prove important down the road. I knew the scratches in the teak dash and the rust spots starting to develop thanks to Ohio winters. I knew the after-market Sony speakers in the back and the AM (3 buttons) / FM (2 buttons) radio. I continued to detail the roadster until I bought the car.

In the fall of 1976, I put a deposit on a Porsche 914 at Capital Porsche Audi. I had been saving money and looking for a replacement for my first car purchase—a 1959 Nash Metropolitan that I bought for $175.

I passed on a ’41 Willys coupe on the wise recommendation of my dad to buy the Metro. I also passed on buying a 1959 Porsche B convertible, due to insufficient funds. Working on the Metro, which had been a constant struggle since I bought it, was a learning experience. I learned a lot about keeping rust from falling on my face and the use of ample lubricant and heat to loosen corroded bolts, remnants of a combination of cheap steel and Ohio winters.

My high school buddies refused to ride with me in the Metro because the exhaust fumes nearly gassed them out. The 1500 cc Austin-Healey engine was just about the only redeeming quality of the thing. When the front end buckled and collapsed as I drove one day, I was happy to see it go. I thought the white 914 would be sporty, rust-free fun for an 18-year-old.

The day after I put money on the Porsche, Jeff asked me if I would like to buy his yellow TR6 since he had ordered a new Corvette. I immediately jumped at the chance—the asking price was just about what I was willing to give for the 914: $3,200. I did not quibble on the price.

I called my girlfriend to tell her of my purchase—when I told her I bought a yellow car with red striped tires, she was not sure what to think. She later told me that the way I described it sounded like a clown car! She soon grew to love it. In fact, her other suitors accused her of only going out with me because of my car.

Taking her baby sister out for rides in the snazzy roadster certainly helped my cause, improving my standing with both my girlfriend and her mom. I had tremendous fun in the car for the next year and a half.

My friend Dennis and I would take his Labrador puppy, Brutus, with us to the park in the TR6—we hoped even ugly guys could pick up ladies with that combination. My buddy Joe hated it when we set out for an evening of 3.2% beer and cruising because I had to wash it first and then stop at Kim’s house.

I drove it every day to my job at the Holiday Inn and even used it as a tool to help start hotel guests’ cars in the harsh cold winter of 1977. It was a solid little car.

In the summer of 1977, I was struck with an epiphany that I should probably go to school and put my “cars and bars” aspirations on hold. The first gentleman who saw the TR6 bought it on the spot—it looked and ran really well. The buyer lived an hour to the east of me and said that he intended to keep it for a while.

After that, I stopped to look at every other TR6 that I saw, hoping that this gamble on school would pay off someday and give me the wherewithal to buy one again.

College went on as college is prone to do, and I graduated from the University of Cincinnati after marrying that young lady whom I courted with the TR. Kim and I moved back to Central Ohio to start our family.

In the fall of 1986, my wife and I decided to go for ice cream with our baby boy. We had choices—GD Ritzy’s, Dairy Queen, and Friendly’s—Kim chose GD Ritzy’s, which required a drive past Beechwold Auto Sales. As we passed the car lot, a mimosa TR6 sat conspicuously at the front, under a direct light that seemed like a beacon sending me a signal and calling me in.

On the way back from ice cream, I pulled into the car lot and left the others in the car as I inspected the TR. Kim said that after I sat in the front seat for just a few seconds, I looked up at her as if I had been surprised.

There was a scratch on the teak dash that matched my memory of the car. I recognized the Sony speakers. The rust marks had been fixed, and I recognized little else. I asked the owner of the car lot, Don, if we could look back at the title and see where this car came from.

After a brief search, Don was able to determine that this had been my car!

As luck would have it, the gentleman that I sold the car to had taken good care of it and now had traded it for a Volvo—3 miles from my house, 20 miles from where I lived when I sold it to him, with him still living an hour east.

For nine years, we had moved many times, and now the yellow TR6 was offered to a new home just a few miles from me.

I knew that I had to buy this car back even though we were as poor as church mice, with a mortgage, a toddler, a one-car garage, and three more years of graduate school to go. I could not quibble on the price.

I phoned my mother and asked how my credit rating was with her and pleaded with her to loan me the money to buy it. With her help, I bought the car back.

In 1996, I was able to have the car improved with a complete engine overhaul, thanks to Joe Tatrai, and a complete body redo, thanks to Gene Wood. Tatrai and Wood were both highly skilled with the best reputations and agreed to take my project as their final project before retirement.

Since I had little kids in the house, the rebuild included removing the convertible top completely and installing a jump seat in the space created with 2 sets of seat belts.

I know, I know—I drove them around with no car seat. Shame on me.

The car has been a rather reliable friend ever since. It now serves as a training tool for those needing instruction in a manual transmission.

It is hard to know what lies ahead for my roadster, but I hope and expect it to be with me for many more trips to get ice cream.

If anyone asks about the car, it won’t matter how much they offer—my answer will always be the same: “This one is not for sale.”