It's time. Time to put away my new toy, hide it from the harsh realities of the summer. In an upcoming issue, I will produce a recap on what life has been like since my 1976 Triumph TR6 landed here a few weeks ago, but as I always knew it would, the heat and humidity that hammers us every year has caused me to admit defeat. On Sunday, I drove it up to Parc Fermé, one of Dubai's few car storage facilities, and ordered an Uber car to take me back to work.
It was a bitter-sweet moment, akin perhaps to waving goodbye to a child at the gates of a boarding school. I know it’ll be OK and I know where to find it, but truth be told, I’ll miss its face every time I walk through my apartment building’s car park. Sad? Mrs H thinks so.
The night before I took it to its new temporary home, I went for a final drive. The temperatures were just about low enough for me to give it a spirited thrash, with the roof and windows down (it helps if there’s turbulent air rushing around your head), and as I was a couple of minutes from home at one of Dubai Marina’s many traffic light stops, another car – an SUV – pulled up alongside.
The driver powered down its window and shouted above the roar of the traffic.
“Nice car,” he said in a Scottish brogue. “Thank you,” I replied.
“Is it for sale?” “Err, no. I’ve only just bought it – ask me again in a few months.”
And so it went on for a couple of minutes, during which I explained where I had bought it from and a bit about its history. But still the questions kept coming. Would I sell it to him? Could I give him my number? How much is it worth? Where can I get one? And then, when the light turned green and a taxi started sounding its horn behind me (that time between those two occurrences really is the definition of a split-second, isn’t it?) I had to curtail our chat and speed off.
This made me feel exonerated. I had told this stranger how much money my car was worth (twice what I’d paid for it, incidentally), and if we had been at the side of the road, I know he would have written me a cheque there and then. He was serious and the fact that his wife’s head was nodding in agreement as we spoke, meant that he had all the approvals needed.
As I sped off, I knew that he would have been cursing our lack of time, but I was sure I was not ready to sell in any case.
Mrs Hackett, upon finding out this news, said the inevitable: “Get it sold, buy two more” – spoken like a true capitalist. And yes, her suggestion makes a great deal of sense, but there is a problem in the logic in this instance. Because having now thoroughly inspected my car with an engineer, getting it on the ramps and shining a torch into its darkest recesses, I can safely say that I had the bargain of a lifetime, and to buy another in this condition, I would need to spend exactly what I told the stranger what it was worth.
Everything still looks brand new – the washers still shine, the screw threads are clean as a whistle, the stainless steel exhaust even has its stickers on it, and there isn’t a single sign of rust or any other decay.
Knowing that these cars were built in strike-torn 1970s Britain with all the care and attention normally displayed by an airport baggage handler, I know it’s in finer fettle than when it left the factory.
And, as with every aspect of owning this car so far, from finding it, negotiating its price and going through the process of importing and registering it, if I can do it, then you can too.
