It was a summer evening in the late 1960’s and my father and I dropped by Roy’s garage. A handful of people crowded around one of the bays as a car was slowly being let down by the lift.
This was the era of the Shelby Mustang and Cobra, the Pontiac GTO, the Dodge Charger, the Sunbeam Tiger, and the Jaguar XKE. The tires that touched down on the concrete belonged to a very interesting and unique sports car. It was called the Griffith. It was from Blackpool, England, and a company called Trevcar Motors. It was a compact coupe made of fiberglass with a set back Ford V8 as the power plant.
In 1969 this was truely an exotic car. To be able to be standing next to it was a thrill. The hood was hinged forward and the V8 was there in all its glory. This was a car that would scare the crap out of you while giving you the thrill of your life.
My brain buzzed when I heard that the owner was selling the car. How could I convince my father that this would be a perfect first car for me? It would take a very delicate conversation between my father and me. I would have to insert some leading questions to get a feel for how he felt. I could tell he found the car interesting. I knew he liked sports cars, because he had had a MG-TD when I was four years old.
I could see the interest slowly building in my father’s eyes. Then one of the guys that worked for Roy said to my father, “You know this plastic body will burn in an instant if this thing gets in an accident.”
I could have strangled him.