The Beast

The Beast. (Long-ago photo by BobbaLew.)

—My very first car was the 1958 Triumph TR-3 roadster pictured above, an early fish-mouth.
Later TR-3s had a wider grille-opening.
It wasn’t much of a car: no heat, and very minimal weather protection.
It had a roadster-top which clipped to the windshield and body-cowl. It also had “side-curtains” inserted into receiving-sockets in the doors. They had sliding plexiglass window-sheets. (Click the link readers.)
If it rained you got wet, and if it was cold, you froze.
I remember coming down the hill into Blossburg (PA). It was snowing and I had the top off.
On the shoulder my sister and I put the top up. We were returning to my college in western New York.
Williamsport (PA) seemed to be where it changed from not too bad to frigid. Blossburg is north of Williamsport.
I also remember the windshield-wipers stalling in the snow, and me leaning out the side to see where we were going.
Fortunately that was before we installed the side-curtains.
The car was an old drag-racer, and came with drag-slicks on the rear. Slicks were impossible on wet pavement, but I had the two original Pirelli Cinturatos that came on the rear. I swapped ‘em on, and that made the car tractable.
I later found out the car wasn’t legal; it was registered for only towing — like to a drag-strip.
I drove it at least three months before I realized this. In college I was out of the state where it was registered (DE).
As purchased it was open exhaust (no muffler) = extremely loud. The previous owners lettered “Pizzazz” on the front fenders. My father called it “Pizzazz.” (I sprayed that out with model-car paint, same thing with the two black racing stripes.)
My mother was horrified. My brother was thrilled when I brought it home. That thing was so loud It was waking our entire neighborhood.
It also was insanely powerful. It had been tuned for drag-racing, and could lay rubber even in second gear (four-on-the-floor).
It was so strong a college-friend called it “a beast.” He had a 383 four-speed Plymouth two-door, and before that a Chrysler 300F (I think).
Rudimentary as it was, I used “The Beast” for dates. But mainly “let's go for a ride in ‘The Beast’.”
Even at college I never drove it much.
I also attended a US Grand Prix at Watkins Glen, where me and another friend convinced staggering drunks it was one of the race-cars.
The car crippled in the rural outback returning to my college. The tiny Bakelite finger for the points in the distributor broke.
I got it running with pieces of popsicle-sticks being equivalent to the Bakelite finger. It crippled again when the starter-motor jammed the flywheel ring-gear.
My sister’s boyfriend, her first husband, pushed me all the way back to my college with his brand-new ’65 Tempest convertible. We pushed it with a two-by-eight tied to the rear-bumpers. (First of four husbands.)
Doing that required him driving all the way up from DE to western New York, where my car was crippled.
I was later able to remove the starter-motor, but it was burned out. From then on I’d lasso guys to give me a push. I even got so I could push-start it myself; get it rolling, then hop in and slam it into second-gear. But I usually parked it on downhills.
I remember dating a really pretty girl once. We walked all the way to the downhill where I had it parked, so I could start it without her having to push.
She told me I should be dating the girl I ended up marrying. “You told him that!” My wife-to-be was aghast — she was extremely shy.
The only year in college I had “The Beast” was my senior year. That was also the year I discovered my wife-to-be. I guess she’d been after me since we were freshman, but I never knew. She was extremely shy.
We began hanging together, and one night we were supposed to attend a college music concert, but that fell through.
We decided to take “The Beast” for a ride instead. I lost control on gravel, and the car flipped, ending upside-down on its hood and trunk.
Neither of us was hurt, although I was slightly injured. We managed to wriggle out on-our-own before friends arrived.
And neither of us was paralyzed. Part of that was a TR-3’s cutaway doors. An MGA mighta broke my neck.
You’d think this would be enough to scare off my wife-to-be. But it wasn’t.
Her mother, a real pill, had already picked out a husband for my future wife. She loathed the guy = “a creep!” she always shouted.
He dated her once, scaring the wits outta her demonstrating the 100 mph capability of his ’57 Chevy.
“The Beast” wasn’t damaged much. I’d had the top off, so all that was destroyed was the windshield. I also found out later the rollover broke a steering tie-rod to the left-front wheel, so it had no input.
All it did was follow the lead of the right-front, which still steered.
College finished I packed quite a bit into it, and motored home to northern DE.
My father bought me a used Corvair, which I was to pay for, but couldn’t. “The Beast” got parked next to my famblee home, with hopes I’d return to it some day.
I didn’t. My parents quickly sold it without my permission after I left and moved to Rochester (NY). The one with the title was me, but who cares? 75 smackaroos for groceries!
This fulfilled my mother’s greatest wish.
“God is my copilot!” she’d trumpet.
“So I guess you’re the pilot,” I’d say.
“Don’t get smart,” she’d bellow, glaring at me.

• My college was Houghton College in western New York, from where I graduated with a BA in 1966. I never regretted it, although I graduated a Ne’er-do-Well, without their blessing. Houghton is an evangelical liberal-arts college, and was the first religious institution to not consider me rebellious and of-the-Devil = a threat.
• A motor has a toothed ring-gear on the outside edge of its flywheel, which is how a starter-motor spins the motor.
• Remember my parents were hyper-religious super-zealots, and I was “rebellious.” (Rebellion for Patrick Henry.)