This Corvette Stingray Is a Sleeper That Really Speaks to Me

Steve Morris and I were both supervisors at the 3M plant in Columbia, Missouri. Steve had the first shift and I had the second, leaving my mornings open to go to classes, as I continued to make glacial progress towards a four-year journalism degree, which I hoped to complete in just seven.

One afternoon, Steve grabbed me at shift change. “Got time to go out to the parking lot? Something there you might want to see.” He was only a mild sort of car guy, so I wasn’t expecting much. A Monte Carlo, maybe? Possibly a Ford Granada.

It was an orange 1969 Chevrolet Corvette Stingray convertible with a 427-cubic-inch V-8 and a four-speed manual transmission. Really? I didn’t even know Steve knew how to shift.

“You wanna go for a ride?” he asked. Yes. Yes I would.

This would have been about 1976, so Steve’s Corvette must have been roughly seven years old. I don’t recall the details regarding how he came to own the car, but I remember that he seemed almost as surprised as I was that he did. It was clean, but not mint, though everything apparently worked.

The 3M plant was on Route B, a winding two-lane so busy and consequently treacherous that “Pray for Me, I Travel Route B” bumper stickers were common. I had to get back shortly to lead my shift (we made computer circuit boards, mostly) so we drove a couple of miles south, turned around and headed back to the plant. I was impressed. “Have you really gotten on it yet?” I asked Steve.

“No,” he said. “I haven’t.”

Seeing rare clear road ahead, I said, “Well, maybe this would be a good time.”

Steve downshifted to second and floored it. The world exploded. The 427 sounded like it was coming through the firewall—soundproofing in a ’69 Vette convertible is minimal, as it turned out—and we were pinned against the seat. Steve shifted to third, and stayed on it for a few more seconds, then backed off. We looked at each other, mutually wide-eyed. Steve grinned and said, “Wow.”

And that was the moment I fell in love with the Corvette Stingray, the third generation. Within a month I would own a C3, but all I could afford was a clapped-out ’69 coupe, with a 350 V-8 that had a compression ratio that felt like about two to one, mated to a slippy automatic transmission. I still loved it. It was like dating a beautiful woman who drank too much. Our affair lasted two years. Parting was such sweet sorrow.

Fast-forward to last Saturday, where friends and I were wandering the Mecum Florida Summer Special auction in Kissimmee, Florida. Mecum will be back in central Florida January with its massive 4500-vehicle Kissimmee auction, but with “just” 1500 vehicles, this summer show is more relaxed.

And, in one of the staging lanes, there it was: A Can-Am white 1969 Corvette coupe, with a 427 and a four-speed and red line radials on Rally wheels. The auction was full of jacked-up four-wheel-drive trucks, decked-out SUVs, low-slung exotics, and restomods with plated 22-inch wheels. This unmolested Corvette was a wallflower, invisible unless you spotted the 427 emblems on the hood, or looked inside to see the manual transmission shifter. In other words, it was exactly what I wanted.

I really had no idea what it would bring. It was certainly more desirable than a small-block 350-equipped model, but of the four available 427 configurations, this was the most common, the most modest: The 390-horsepower, matching-numbers L36 engine with a single four-barrel carburetor. Fine with me; I don’t need three carbs.

The odometer read 76,599 miles, with likely no guarantee that it’s right, but it could have been. The car had factory air conditioning, another plus, especially in Florida. The engine compartment was clean, with a little chrome added.

I guessed the car was in #3 “good” condition, possibly a bit cleaner, and as such, Hagerty values it at $34,600, which I think is a helluva bargain. Value was up for the car by 6.1 percent over the past year, which is a slow-but-steady positive. By the time I added Hagerty’s suggested pricing adjustments, including $2000 for air, we were knocking on a $40,000 door, still a price I could maybe sell to my wife.

But there’s no time: The Can-Am white Corvette approaches. We watch from the bleachers as it rolls across the red carpet. Bidding is casual but steady. The gavel falls: $40,000, or $44,000 with fees.

And then it was gone. Auctions are wonderful to establish short-term relationships, and by “short,” I mean like 15 minutes. Marriage may be possible, but requires, say, a six-year commitment unless you pay cash.

So long, Can-Am white Corvette; glad we met, no matter how briefly. Parting was sweet sorrow, etc., etc.

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