My TR6 was a dirt-lot derelict with a rock-and-roll heart 

Younger folks may find this unbelievable, but in the 1970s, cars that are now coveted and revered were often neglected and sometimes even abandoned. Such misfortune befell this 1969 Triumph TR6, left for dead on a scruffy Long Beach dirt lot, where thieves had plundered its seats, bumpers, and hubcaps. Upon sighting it, I thought, “Whoa, that’s nice!”

The DMV identified the lienholder as a local bank, whom I called.

Me: “I found a car you own abandoned and want to buy it.”

Bank: “Where’s the car?”

Me: “Somewhere in Long Beach. Good luck finding it.”

Bank: “The loan is in default. Bring in a cashier’s check for $300 and we’ll release the title to you.”

Me: “That’s a deal.”

And just like that, I was a new TR6 owner! The trunk contained dozens of canceled checks that I trashed, and a 5×7 glossy of a wide-eyed Iggy Pop singing at the Waldorf. “Go out to the funky bar i get hurt—crying inside,” read an inscription. That I kept.

After inflating the tires and checking the oil and coolant, I jumpstarted the TR6 using my roommate’s $150 GTO (a carport find). To my delight, the TR6 ran wonderfully. Driving without a seat was another matter, but a milk crate and couch cushion sufficed for the 65-mile ride home. But talk about scary …

While the car ran great, the master cylinder was fading, and it required much frantic pedal pumping for any brake action. Also, a front A-arm mounting bracket had broken, causing random steering aberrations. Not what you want when perched atop a makeshift seat.

With effort, however, the situation improved. I found seats and bumpers, fixed the brakes, and a welder reattached the suspension mount. After a repaint, the TR6 became a reliable daily driver.

Wheel covers proved elusive, however. Rejecting British Leyland parts pricing, I bought Sears hubcaps reminiscent of early TR6 ones. Except they fit poorly. One clattered away on the Ventura Freeway, and another escaped on winding Mulholland Highway early one morning while I was racing down to Leo Carrillo Beach to surf. I heard ringing as it hit the ground, then watched it scurry across the centerline and onto a dirt shoulder, where it started bouncing. Whirling like a chrome sawblade, it then took a final glorious leap into a steep, wooded canyon.

Naturally, I stopped, but there was no finding it without risking a lifetime dosage of poison oak or worse, tick and rattlesnake bites. I soon returned the remaining hubcaps for a refund.

Sears did alright by me. So did that little TR.

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