In My Own Words
By #STC60TS56749L
Transcribed by Robert Frassinello
It is the darkest day of my life: June 27, 1968. I am a little over eight years old and already used up, cast aside, and up for sale—for bottom dollar. Probably not worth much more than the piddly amount the Dodge dealer is asking the used car guys to get for me. My cloth top is brittle, torn in several places, and revealing a gaping tear. I am fitted with a fiberglass retrofit hard top—crudely mounted. My body has been bumped and banged at every quarter, and in a pathetic attempt at preparing me for trade in, my once beautifully stylish lines have been puttied up and buried under a backyard dark metallic red paint job. Mechanically I am a train wreck, but I will start up.
As I languish, I hear two young guys approaching me. One is saying to the other, “It’s no XKE, but it is a British Roadster.” The response from this guy’s buddy is, “It is cheap enough.” And they walk into the dealership.
After some time they return to my side for another look. The guy with the checkbook says, “Can you believe that scammer said the price was a mistake, that it was supposed to be $929 not $629? And he will only accept a cashier’s check.” Am I doomed to bear the embarrassment of the company of wretched unwanted cars?
A day and a half later it happened, I could not believe my bug eyes—the same two guys drive up, look me over, and walk over to the dealership. Within minutes they return and the young guy with the checkbook climbs in. The familiar process begins, and I am telling you I have never felt better. My key is slipped into the ignition switch, quarter turn clockwise, choke gently pulled out about a third of the way, and then the starter is pushed. I will not fail, I will start, and I will rev with conviction. This guy is going to feel all the torque I can muster. He is going to drive me off this lot today. The other guy climbs into his car and drives away. This is happening. The only way this guy—who they’ve been calling “Frazz”—is going to get home is by driving me.
Frazz drives me with respect, recognizing the need to shift with finesse because synchronization is not one of my attributes. I am parked in front of an old Victorian near the corner of Hyde and Filbert. Being parked on the street is not the coolest thing in the world, but I am not alone anymore—this guy checks in on me every day, and on the weekends we head north out of San Francisco to the countryside. I love the way every other British sports car we pass offers a wave. Those weekend rides are as good as it gets.
The year unfolds with the roar of my throaty 1991cc engine, the laughter of Frazz and what seems to be a different lady friend each time. Not all gals are enthralled with the aroma of blow-by and the force of the wind messing a well groomed coif.
It was a bright beautiful San Francisco morning in September 1968, Frazz comes out to the curb, gives me the once over, and exclaims: “This trip will be top down.” It’s a wedding in Crescent City 300 miles up Highway 101, and Frazz had no plan “B” if rain happened to fall. A few things tossed in my boot and we were off. The first 200 miles we were in heaven, barreling along at 60-plus miles per hour, savoring every curve, basking in the fall sunshine, and feeling about as cool as a cucumber. Then things changed dramatically; rain fell lightly at first and in a torrent soon after. My cockpit was drenched and there was no letting up. Water filled my gauges like fishbowls. We did finally arrive, soaked to the core. Frazz covered me with a tarp, and I did not see him again until Sunday morning when we drove back down to San Francisco. The return trip validated my very being: the weather was beautiful, the air crisp, the sound of my back rap as we descended long grades was symphonic—a beautiful ride.
Inevitable Changes
I should have known by now, Frazz’s life was not predictable. Winter of 1968 he went off to Vietnam for nine months, and while he was gone I was stored in a garage belonging to Frazz’s Dad, John. I was ignored for a long time, then one morning John opened the door, sat down and fired me up. I was taken out of Ukiah—north on the 101—out to Highway 20 and on to Blue Lakes with John’s friend Ben Foster riding shotgun. We sailed through the crisp morning air, and settled in at Blue Lake where John and Ben would celebrate every Blue Gill they caught.
When John and Ben cut through Highway 20’s banked curves at a pretty good pace they wondered about the outcomes of a possible mishap. John wrote Frazz asking what to do in the event of a crash. Frazz said, “Bend over, place your head between your legs, and kiss your rear end good-bye.” The following week John had me fitted with seatbelts and an industrial strength roll bar.
In late summer of 1970 Frazz returned, picked up his belongings and together we started college life. Life was relatively uneventful until we met The Woman. There she was in the driveway, carefully bathing an MG Roadster with a soapy cloth. The MG was admittedly sweet and the lady was hot. Days after that first encounter, Frazz jumped behind my wheel and I knew something was up—the scent of English Leather filled my cockpit. At first I worried about this Donna Rae, as Frazz called her, coming between Frazz, me, and the Sierra foothill drives I cherished.
Time proved no worry was necessary. The three of us headed up Highway 99 to Red Bluff—on that trip a bottle of red wine seemed to be their beverage of choice and while I sat in the parking lot waiting patiently, Frazz and Donna attended a Joan Baez concert.
During those college days I turned 10 years old, and as a gift I was treated to a fully rebuilt engine. More power, less smoke!