2009.09.06 The Legend of Dad's Triumph
File:IMG 0358.JPG File:IMG 0357.JPG File:IMG 0356.JPG
We were out for a family walk near Mount Tabor when I happened across this beautiful example of a Triumph TR3.
Suddenly my brain flashed with dozens of memories of my father reverently telling me about his TR3. It was his first serious sports car. At the time he was contemplating getting one of the new-fangled Mustangs, but decided to go with the Triumph instead because of his personal preference for lightness. And, apparently, he would have had to wait for a Mustang, and there was a shiny new British Racing Green TR3 available immediately - burning away at his soul. Dad never really was what I would call the most patient of people.
He told harrowing tales of his exploits in the car. Including, but not limited to, several daring brushes with death that he freely admitted were more a matter of limitations of his own stunted wisdom than of any performance lack of the car. The way he described his adventures in the car showed me clearly that it wasn't simply a matter of how much he liked the TR3. He experienced the car in a way that revealed a simple joy that resounded with me. As much as he would smile retelling the deeds of daring, however much élan he attributed to himself, it didn't reach out and shine through his eyes the same way that his descriptions just being happy while driving it did.
His favourite to tell, and my favourite to remember, is how the extremely low chassis and the swooping low curve of the door would let him reach down with a match and light it on the pavement while he was driving, so that he could smoke his pipe. I could almost smell the cherry tobacco (and almost give a little cough). Over the years, my mental image of this one facet has been fleshed out with aviator goggles, a heavy leather jacket, and a jaunty white scarf that gestured in the wind behind him dramatically. I hate to think about the plaid slacks, permed hair and big mustache that he was more likely sporting.
The doom of the Triumph was my dad's eagerness in racing it. His team at an autocross event was short an entry, so he loaned the TR3 to one of his friends to flesh out their entry. The friend understeered the low little British sports car into a short concrete wall, totalling it. He would laugh with a wry smile whenever he remembered. I think he was better at accepting things and moving on than I have been.
It's possible that I've tried to recreate that sensation of bonding and joy with ever car I've ever had, to emulate my father. I'm not sure if I've ever really lived up to the original in that regard, but that's the sort of thing that sons cannot ever really be sure about. One thing that I do know that I got right, though, was the intent to attempt at joy.