Well, here's my $0.02. Actually it's long, so we'll say $2.00. It's an excerpt from an article I wrote for the TRA National Newsletter.
I caught the sports car sickness from my brother Tico, 16 years older than I, who owned sports cars, rallied, was in a sports car club, and crewed on SCCA teams (Triumph, Lotus) in the sixties. He raced at Cumberland, Marlboro, Connellsville, PA, etc., but also in the west and Midwest. One of my earliest memories is a ride in a sports car that I think was a TR3. The ride was Tico's present for my fifth birthday. The car was red, loud, the top was down, and it went around turns fast; it was totally unlike the American barges that my father drove. I loved it. I also played in a TR3 that sat in our driveway. It was going to be Tico's own racecar, but it never got finished.
In 1967, for my eleventh birthday, Tico gave me a subscription to Road & Track magazine. I not only read every article and every advertisement, I memorized them. To a child, races seemed like events of mythic proportions and the drivers like heroes. I wanted to be a grown-up with a sports car. I wanted to shift gears, double clutch, heel-and-toe, four-wheel drift, rally, race, go too fast on public roads. I imagined myself doing all these things while I rode in the back seat of my father's giant mushy Buick and got carsick on curvy West Virginia roads.
The sports car bug went into remission until 1977 when I drove my 1950 Oldsmobile Futuramic to an SCCA race at Summit Point. I actually saw and heard what I had only dreamed of when I was eleven. Two weeks later I had a 1970 MGB. I learned to four-wheel drift, double clutch, heel-and-toe; drove way too fast on public roads; put the top down even in cold weather. The B was my only car.
My need for MG parts led me to the local foreign car parts store. The owner campaigned a 1968 BMW 2002 in SCCA club road-racing. My frequent visits for parts led to a place on his pit crew. I started dating the Parts Girl. I drove my sports car to the sports car races and was actually involved. My pit pass was proudly displayed as I walked through the paddock area, maybe carrying a tire, hot, tired, dirty, and feeling on top of the world. I was pretty much a gopher; I didn’t get too deep into working on the car. He had his employees for that. I kept track of fuel use, tire pressure, tire temps, lap times, and when we had to go to the grid, plus lent a hand whenever needed. Once I went to The Longest Day of Nelson with a TR7.
In the fall of 1979, the novelty of driving the B on a long commute in all kinds of weather started to wear off. I ended up with a new BMW 320i. After a while, I felt something lacking in the BMW. It had no character. I missed the wire wheels, loud exhaust, wind-in-the-hair top down motoring, so I started looking for another sports car.
At that time, I saw a Triumph advertisement that showed a TR7 parked in front of all the TR models that preceded it. It was not at the TR7 that I looked, but at a TR3 - powder blue with wire wheels - in the background. This was just what I wanted. It looked very uncivilized with the cut-down door styling. To me, the TR3 epitomized the sports car - excellent racing and rallying history, good performance, and no-nonsense design. I was directed to a dealer who had two TR3s for sale. After looking at them, I took the powder blue and rust one for a test drive. The engine would not idle, it would die. The front suspension was so far gone that it hopped all over the road. None of these things mattered to me - I had decided to buy it as soon as I saw it. This happened in 1980 and I have had the car ever since.
Sorry for the length.