As a teenager, I loved cars. All cars; it didn’t matter what it was, as long as you turned a key and it moved forward. My secret passion was for sports cars. Most likely this was the result of having read “The Red Car” by Don Stanford (1954), a tale of a teenage boy who discovers a non-running MG TC, restores and then drives it with the help of Frenchy Lascelle, a local mechanic. I was hooked. No idea how many times I read that book, but it was a lot. I desperately wanted my own “found” sports car and a Frenchy to help me get it on the road.
There were two obstacles to my own “Red Car dream.” One, I had no money, and two, there was a distinct lack of Frenchys in my neighborhood—not a great start. Fortunately, I had some friends who shared my passion. The result was I was able to get close to my own “Red Car” with a little help from my friends.
My friends tended to be just a bit older than me and therefore more independent and able to buy used cars without much trouble. As a one-man-cheering squad, I would encourage my friends to buy an assortment of sports cars so I could share the experience.
My first “friend car” was Steve’s Triumph TR3 in red (naturally) with tan interior. There was something thrilling about those cut-out doors allowing you to reach out and grab a handful of road gravel while you sped along. Of course, we spent most of our time fussing with its various problems. Since those cars were relatively simple, even two high school kids with minimal skills could keep them on the road. I associate Steve and the red TR3 with the rich smell of oil and gasoline that filled the interior with its romantic sports car scent. It had a drinking problem—oil. Steve and I cruised the neighborhood when the car was running and our mission was always the same: go visit girls unannounced with our cool sports car. A teenage boy’s dream.
Next in my group of friends was Curt. He was one of the oldest members of the group and recently out of high school, so he had more time to devote to cars. Also, he had an older brother who was more mechanically inclined. That helped all of us. Curt had two cars we played with, one an early VW Bug that felt like a toy, not a real car. Super easy to work on, but it wasn’t really a sports car and lacked power to have any real driving experience. Curt’s other car filled the void: an Austin-Healey Bugeye Sprite. It was the tiniest car I had ever seen, and guess what—it was red. This was his pride and joy and he had embarked on a restoration in his garage. Very ambitious and it made an impression on all of us as it was very “adult.”
One day, the five of us were in Curt’s garage admiring the latest completed work on the car when one of us (I swear, it was not me) accidentally dropped a paint thinner-soaked rag on a freshly painted rear fender. Gasps of horror echoed in the garage and poor Curt lost his mind that day. We all denied responsibility and walked backwards out of the garage for real fear of Curt throwing a wrench at our collective heads. We were never invited back into Curt’s garage.
My friend Bob had a somewhat unnatural affinity for The Beatles. He bought everything he could get his hands on: every album and single the day it was available. As a group of friends, we often marveled at how Bob had money for all of that, but when we went out for fast food, he never had any money. Strange the things you notice as a kid. Since The Beatles had a Mini Cooper, Bob became obsessed with that car. At the time they were not imported to the United States, so Bob hatched a plan to go to Canada and somehow bring one home across the border. To this day, I have no idea how he did it or how he financed it. Most of us assumed it was all that unspent fast food money. Once safely home, he promptly painted the British Union Jack on the roof and with his “Beatle haircut,” he lived his dream. We were all amused and entertained.
My friend John found a real sports car, an Austin-Healey 3000. It was very beat up, but I did not care. It was a real 3000 in two-tone blue and white, low to the ground, and smoked like the Marlboro Cowboy. I think I liked that car more than John. Our best time was driving it from Pittsburgh to Watkins Glen for some sports car races. It was a total adventure as the car was not exactly roadworthy. Etched in my brain is overheating that car on the New York Interstate. We pulled over onto the grassy median to change a broken fan belt and poured the last of our melted ice cooler water into the radiator. We made it to The Glen and actually slept in the car. For that, I will always love an Austin-Healey 3000.
Finally, we come to Bill. Older and more adult, having graduated years before us, Bill was drafted into the Vietnam War. We had a going-away party and sent him off with as much bravery as we could muster. While overseas, GIs were allowed to order any car they wanted and it would be waiting for them when their service was completed. Bill’s car of choice was a brand-new Triumph TR6 in navy blue with tan interior set to arrive at the docks in New Jersey. For some reason, Bill invited me to go with him to pick up the car and drive it home. I was in heaven. A new sports car and a road trip. Also at that point in my life I had never flown in an airplane, so I had that to add to my adventure list. I can still see that stunning blue sports car sitting alone on the dock, top down, wheels slightly turned, just waiting for us. What a great trip we had driving a brand-new sports car from New Jersey to Pittsburgh. I was living the dream, in someone else’s car.
Regrettably, I’ve lost track of all those people and all of those cars. Who knows what has survived, except the best memories a car-crazed kid could ever want, even without Frenchy.
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