I Murdered a Spitfire

I often tell people I have owned two different Spitfires. I am not lying, but I am not telling the whole truth either. But then again, I am getting ahead of myself.

In 1987, I transferred to Richmond as a Senior Systems Consultant with AT&T, under the urging of my then wife Wendy (a Richmond native) with my young family. Marcus, my oldest, was only three, and we had budding twins, Martin and Maria, all of five months old. The move from San Francisco to little 'ole Richmond, former capital of the fallen Confedrate South, was quite a shock, but that, as they say, is another story.

While getting to know the people in my new office, I met a young man named Stuart who had a 1980 Triumph Spitfire. He had just gotten a promotion and desperately needed to sell the car. Stuart was not a true enthsuiast--just a young guy with a 'cool' car that was in desperate need of everything. The only good thing that could be said about the car is that it ran. Well--just barely.

I'm such a nice person, and I don't like to take advantage of people, but this was as opportunity that, if I could swing it, I could nab a nice project car for little money out of pocket. I talked to Stuart one day about what he was going to do with the car.

"Man, I am so stressed. I have to move next week, and I don't know what to do with my Spitfire", he said woefully, as if a great stone was tied around his neck.

"Would you like to sell it?", I asked, hoping to see a glimmer of interest in his eyes.

His coutenance chaged dramatically. Perhaps he sensed a way out of his dilema, but he was all ears. "What did you have in mind?", he asked, with a pregnant look of hope on his face.

"I'll give you $300 for it", I said firmly, but honestly. Stuart's reaction was a tortured, sad, almost defeated look, but it did not take him long to decide. "OK", he said reluctantly, "$300". We shook and the deal was done. I asked him if I could get the car on Saturday morning. He said sure, and gave me his street address in Richmond's famous "Fan" district" and we agreed to meet at 10 A.M.

My wife Wendy was not angry about the deal, but she shared a kind of vicarious joy with me as I told her about it. After all, I owned a Spit when I first meet and courted her. My pristine canary yellow Spitfire was quite the subject of gossip with her co-workers when I used to pick her up every day fromn her job as a legal secretary at the third largest lawfirm in downtown San Francisco. We had some great times in that car and she knew it. She also knew how much I loved that car.

We arrived at Stuart's houce at the appointed time in our Ford Aerostar, with all of our children in tow. Stuart seemed pleased--and relieved--that he got the car started. Apparently, it had been sitting for sometime.

I gave him cash for the car, and he handed me the title, and we were off. I put my 'numer one son', Marcus in the car with me. The 'green triumph', as Marcus used to affectionatly came to call it, sang it's pretty little exhuast note, despite the tired engine. With great anticipation, I boldly lowered the brand new folding top, strapped Marcus into the passenger seat and slid behind the wheel. It was a bright and envigorating mid fall day, and Marcus seemed to be in awe of his first ride in a convertible. And may I proudly say, that ride was in a proper British Car!

One small problem from the beginning was that the license and state inspection sticker were both out of date--a big non-no in Virginia. I had Wendy cover my six so that no trailing county constible would pull me over. We stealthy negotiated our way to our home in the Brandermill subdivison taking tree lined back roads to avoid any attention.

The car ran, but that was about all. It obviously needed new everything. The steering linkage was rubbery and the car darted slightly from side to side. The gearbox was a rare electric overdrive model, but it kept popping out of top gear. The brakes were very weak too. Even the radio did not work! But despite all these maladies, it was a Spitfire, and it was my Spitfire. A flush of fond memories came over me in that brief stint behind the wheel of my new steed. Little did I know, it was to be the first and last time I ever drove the car.

Once the car was safely home, I took a closer look and maturely realized that repair was not really an option. The car needed too much of everything. And as our British friends would say, 'it never would pass the MOT'. I decided that rebuilding everything was the only sensible plan, and the first place to start was to yank the engine.

The Spitfire four banger is a simple, iron block design dating back to the early 1950's. It's forward tilting hood makes it an easy task to pull out the engine, and with a rented hoist, a couple of six packs of beer, and some help from a friend, the 1500cc powerplant (an oxymoron when refering to a Spitfire engine) was out. I had picked up a used engine stand, and we mounted it right away so I could begin the disassembly.

Being a typical Mexican kid raised in the Catholic Church, I was more than familiar with saying the phrase, "Bless Me Father For I Have Sinned...", so it is with this familiar mantra the tale of woe really begins.

Here was my first sin. I was so anxious to restore the car, I started taking everything apart. The seats, brake lines, and countless other little parts started accumulating in boxes in my workshop. Then the real disaster happened.

My ex and I never really had a good marriage and the proverbial $h!t hit the fan. Divorce was emminent after our after seperation. Although she left me, I left the house so that the kids could stay in their home. In retrospect, this was a big legal mistake, but let's not go there. I was soon to lose everything, but the Spitfire shell sat next to the house and just languished with inattention.

Let's fast forward about two years. My ex was putting me through Divorce hell, and my entire world was falling apart. I was in debt, legal fees were mounting and for the first year, I did not have a permanent place to live. The Spit was the least of my worries. But when the house was eventually sold, I had to do something with it. Fortunately, Wendy did not have the car towed to the junk yard, so I had the car towed to a friend's backyard back in the Richmond Fan..where it all started. She had a spare parking place behind her house off of an alley and did she did not mind letting it sit there.

And that is real the last and greatest BC sin occured. My friend was selling her house and I was flat broke at the time, and unable to even get the car towed to my current residence. She left the car there and the new owners had it towed away--never to be seen again.

A sad reminder is that in my jewelry box, I still have the original key fob and key that Stuart handed me so sadly that day. As I said, "Bless me Father, for I have sinned....." ;-)

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