This is the sad tale of my first chance to own a sports car and how I blew it—the chance, not the car. No harm came to the car—at least, not until the story was over.
I invite you to step back with me 40-some years to the mid-1960s, when sports cars were still riding their postwar first wave of popularity in this country. Alfas, Austin Healeys, Corvettes, Jaguars, MGs, Porsches, Triumphs…you spotted them everywhere, on both roads and racetracks. They were stimulating machines, each with its interesting differences but all alike in their commitment to roadcraft as an art. To drive a sports car in those days was to sniff at plebian comforts; you were all about pure performance. You were an adventurer.
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