Kevin Hackett
As regular readers will be aware, I recently treated myself to a classic car, or as I like to refer to it in front of Mrs Hackett, an “investment”. She’s really good with money and I’m really not, you see.
But in this particular instance, I know I’ve bagged a bargain and I can enjoy some good old-fashioned, guilt-free motoring in a car I’ve always wanted to own – one that’s simple in its construction, stylish in its appearance, and has the ability to turn heads and get its rear-end hanging out while taking corners at nearly pedestrian speeds. It hits every mark, ticks every box, and in the two months since it arrived on these shores, I’ve driven it at every opportunity.
But as I mentioned a couple of weeks ago, the time has come for it to be secreted away in a secure, air-conditioned storage facility where it will be safe from harm caused by the harsh summer temperatures, and will be worked on to ensure it’s in the finest fettle for winter when I intend to use it as my daily driver.
Many people have asked me why I chose a Triumph TR6 and the answer is quite simple: it’s the car that got me into cars. When I was 8 years old, my father bought an early example to use as the family runaround, despite its lack of any rear seats. In those heady days of not actually caring what might happen in a potential accident, my two brothers and I squished up on the rear “shelf”, with a cushion lovingly crafted by my mum. We went on family holidays in it, he drove to work in it, and when he decided to sell it, I actually wept. In a few short months that TR6 had changed me forever.
It became something of a running joke that my father had sold the car to finance a top-loading Betamax video recorder (it was almost as big as the Triumph), as that’s what he used the money for.
But the truth of the matter was that it was a millstone around his neck. I recall him constantly chasing rust on it, patching it up, repainting it and despairing when its troublesome Lucas electrics packed up – which was fairly frequent. He stopped enjoying it, and when that happens, it’s usually time to say goodbye to a car, no matter how desirable it is on good days.
Still, that car’s hooks have remained in me for 35 years. When it provided family transport for us in 1980, it was less than 10 years old, but was even then considered “past it”. British cars back then were slung together and untold millions were reduced to little more than piles of brown powder or derelict monoliths dying undignified deaths in overgrown gardens outside rundown houses. Cars aren’t built like they used to be, and that’s the best possible news in many respects. The survivors, though, are more often than not fully restored cars that will hopefully never go the way of those that were left to the ravages of time. And my TR6 falls firmly into the “fully restored” category, having cost its owner huge sums of money that he would never recuperate.
It’s easy to see that this man, who lived in Germany, had been bitten by the same bug that got me when I was a pre-teen and he’d left no stone unturned while returning this car to its former glory. The stack of documents and photographs that came with the car when I bought it showed serious amounts of dedication and spending power, but once it was like new (better than new, really) again, it appears that it was never used. Rather, it was kept in a garage under a cover for years, inherited by the man’s son who obviously had no interest in it.
Eventually this man’s son asked a man who knows about these things to re-commission the TR6 and sell it on his behalf. That man was the one I bought it from, and lest we forget, I did so unseen. The first time I clapped eyes on my car was when the container doors were swung open in a Dubai shipping yard.
While my intention was always to make a bit of money when the time comes to sell it, not using this car never figured in my game plan. So as soon as it was road legal, I set about racking up as many kilometres as possible – both to get used to its idiosyncrasies and to discover problems that might have been hidden, safe in the knowledge that it would soon be going into forced hibernation when anything that needed sorting would be.
Initial findings were limited to little more than the engine running a bit roughly, particularly just after start-up, but that seemed to sort itself once on the open road and I put it down to the twin carburettors needing some fine adjustment. The ambient temperatures and humidity can cause these things to play up. I also found the brakes to be next to useless and when I drove over a speed hump, the front suspension groaned and squeaked. None of which caused me too much concern, because in a digital world, this is perhaps the ultimate analogue car and would be both simple and inexpensive to put right.
But I always knew that some day, sooner or later, it would break down on me. I signed up for this experience, warts ’n’ all, so I would never be able to put the blame on anyone else’s shoulders, but I wasn’t expecting it to happen quite so soon.
It was a Wednesday night and I needed to be out early the following morning to grab some shots of the car for these very pages before the heat made being outside unbearable. I knew the fuel level was at “critical” rather than just “low”, so headed to my nearest petrol station to fill up, rather than do it in the morning. As I pulled onto the forecourt, my brow already soaked, the sight of dozens of queuing cars meant I was going to be here for a while. After 10 minutes, the TR6 coughed and spluttered before the engine stopped turning. I’d run it dry.
In front of far too many motorists, I pushed the car to the pump, filled it up and turned crimson from embarrassment as it point blank refused to start again. So I pushed it into a car park bay (it weighs less than a tonne and is remarkably easy to manoeuvre with one hand on the wheel and another on its windscreen surround) and tried, in vain, to get it going. People stared, pointed and smirked. One or two stopped to tell me how beautiful my car is, but I was too busy panicking to appreciate the compliments.
Help was at hand though, in the form of a service centre at the far end of the forecourt. So I pushed it over, spoke to the man in charge and lifted its bonnet. He took out the spark plugs and cleaned them. He removed the fuel filter and blasted compressed air through it. He fiddled with the carburettor settings and eventually got it running again. It turned out that running the tank dry had flushed a load of contaminants into the fuel lines.
The mechanic, a friendly man named Seth, agreed to source me another fuel filter, and I asked him how it was he knew about old engines. “I’m from the Philippines,” he replied. “These kind of engines are common there – they are what I grew up working on.” This was a most welcome development – I had already found a trusted mechanic to at least keep the engine on fine form.
A couple of weeks later, I returned to have the new fuel filter fitted, and for the first time, got underneath the car for a good snoop around while it was on the ramps. And what I found was, as I’ve already described in a previous column, a car that was practically new. The feeling of relief was palpable.
And now, as it resides at Parc Fermé, it has been thoroughly inspected and I’ve been given a shopping list of things to pick up for it while I’m spending a few weeks in the UK. It needs a new water pump, it could do with a larger radiator, and the brakes definitely need a new actuator – none of which will cost me much financially.
I’m looking into having those pesky Stromberg carbs replaced with new, more reliable units and I’ll upgrade the headlamps so it’s easier to see at night while driving – again, these are things that will increase the pleasure of ownership, but without breaking the bank. Come November, this classic British car will be back on the road, tearing up the tarmac and putting a huge smile on my silly face.
My wife has bought a colour-coordinated headscarf for the Hollywood screen siren look and I am now planning in my mind the various drives I will take it on. It’s better than money in the bank for a great many reasons, but there’s still one thing nagging away at me: its insurance status.
The fact of the matter is that cars in the UAE that are more than 20 years old cannot be covered by more than the most basic third-party liability. And that means I’m extremely vulnerable – if someone crashes into me, I lose my car with little or no financial compensation as a result, and that’s plainly wrong. So I’m investigating alternative arrangements while it’s locked away and will report back with my findings as soon as there’s anything to report.
In the meantime, if you’re procrastinating over the decision about treating yourself to a classic “investment”, take my advice and do it. In these times of anonymous automobiles, there’s little to make you feel better about being on the road than a classic car that hasn’t set you back a small fortune.
If you are interested in more information about what’s involved and what the various pitfalls of importing a classic car are, feel free to email us in touch at motoring@thenational.ae.
