My First Sports Car

In 1958, I turned 16 years old, got my driver’s license and was determined to buy my first sports car. Actually, my first thought was to buy a pre-war American car and build a hot rod because I didn’t dream that I could afford a sports car. I had joined the national Hot Rod Association (NHRA) in the mid-50s; read books and magazines on the subject; and wandered through a local junkyard with my grandfather looking for likely candidates for rodding. Incidentally, the first car that I drove was my grandfather’s 1939 Ford coupe with a bored-out flathead V8. This was before I was 16, and grandpa took me out on Island Road, in the Cicero Swamp, and taught me how to work the clutch and shift gears.

I had worked part-time at a shoe repair shop, after school and on Saturdays, from seventh through eleventh grades. The store was run by a family friend, my grandfather being a silent partner (the shop was located on his land), which probably explains why I was able to work there without Working Papers, with pay starting at $3 a week and increasing to $10 a week by the time I reached the twelfth grade. Anyway, after subtracting 10% for donations to my church and accounting for other expenses, I had saved up $650 by the fall of 1958. At that time, good used MG TDs were going for over $1,100 so it looked like a hot rod was the way to go. We did look at an MG TD down in Syracuse that was advertised in the paper for $650. I was real excited on the trip into the city but quickly became disappointed when I saw the car; a rusted-out clapped-out piece of junk. Then, a couple of weeks later, we looked at one in Jamesville that was going for $750. It was dusk when we arrived to inspect the car, but it looked pretty good. In fact it looked as good as one that we had seen for sale up at Syracuse University for $1,150. The owner took me for a quick ride around the local winding roads. The sound of the exhaust, the wind rushing by my head, the smell of the leather and the green glow of the instruments on the dashboard delighted my senses as we barreled through the twilight. This had to be my car! My father apparently also thought that it was a good deal. When we got home he talked with my mother, and they agreed to loan me the extra $100 I needed to buy the car. They even gave me $25 to pay for the first year’s insurance.

MG TD, serial no. 14493, was delivered to our driveway the next evening, money changed hands and dad drove the former owner home. It was Halloween 1958. I couldn’t go with them or even look at my new car in the garage because I had to finish a 1,500-word term paper for American History that was due the next day. I thought of that wonderful little car sitting out in the garage and agonized over “The Purpose Of Our Constitution” while wishing that for once I hadn’t waited until the last minute to do a hated homework assignment. A couple of days later we discovered a puddle of water under the car. It had a blown head gasket, which explains the $750 price and also why when we went to inspect the car the owner was washing it and spraying water all over the place with the hose. So I bought a factory shop manual and proceeded to tear the engine down in my parent’s unheated garage over the winter of 1958-59. Parts were placed in various size boxes from the shoe store, which were labeled to ensure proper identification for reassembly. Only one part was lost; the little brass drain faucet for the block, which probably had caught the eye of one of the neighborhood children.

My grandfather, who was 83 years old, gave me valuable assistance with the work. He was a car guy having owned the first gasoline-powered car in North Syracuse (a 1911 Metz). He also had repaired Model T Ford’s in his barn, which was large enough for four T’s, and was proud of having made a new ring gear for one of Barney Oldfield’s racecars. In those early days, if you needed a tool, you didn’t go to Sears or call the Snap-On tool truck, you made it yourself. Granddad made a tool for compressing the double valve springs in the MG head. Since we had the head off to replace the gasket, we scraped off all of the carbon that had built up, because the former owner had used Amoco unleaded high-test gasoline; ground the valves; and repaired two damaged rocker arms. It was a real thrill when I pulled the starter knob the first time after reassembly and the engine came to life and ran good. In subsequent years, I reupholstered the seats and prepared the body for repainting by a retired body shop man (he charged $40 for spraying the car).

I drove the TD for five and a half years. It took me to Troy, NY, when I attended RPI; was my regular transportation to work and to the races; but always was taken off the road for the winter.

The 1961 US Grand Prix, at Watkins Glen, is especially memorable. I stuffed a small tent, sleeping bag, ice chest and other paraphernalia behind the seats and into the passenger seat and foot well of the MG (the TD didn’t have a trunk) and drove over to the track for the entire weekend. I had the good fortune to pitch my tent next to some folks about my age who had come down from Ontario, Canada, in an Austin-Healey. They insisted that I join them for supper, and we became friends sitting around a campfire and singing songs in the crisp evening air. The next day my father joined me to witness a classic battle between Stirling Moss, in Rob Walker’s privately entered Lotus, and Jack Brabham, in a factory entered Cooper. It was Moss’ driving genius against the power of the Cooper’s new Coventry-Climax V8 engine. After running nose to tail lap after lap and trading places several times, both cars retired from the race leaving Innes Ireland to claim the victory in a factory-team Lotus.

The last race that I drove the car to was the US Grand Prix at Watkins Glen in October 1963. In the spring of 1964, I purchased a new MG B to increase my mobility and driving pleasure. The 1952 TD sold quickly for $1,050. I remember the day the new owner drove it off down Church St., turned right on to South Bay Rd. and passed by our side yard. The car had never looked or sounded so good as at that moment, and I wondered if maybe I hadn’t made a big mistake selling my old friend.

Twenty years later I learned the whereabouts of the TD. It seems that the person who bought it from me had sold it to a neighbor, who let it go into disrepair and eventually stored it in an old barn. The car was badly in need of restoration but was not for sale. I couldn’t bring myself to go and look at it.

By Richard D. Jeffers