This article originally appeared in the October 1994 issue of Road & Track, as well as Peter Egan's second volume of Side Glances.

In the crosscurrent of conversation at any gathering, we are probably all capable of overhearing key words and phrases that cut through the din and clatter

and resound in our ears with perfect clarity. In a room full of noise, we separate them and hear them as distinctly as blips on an otherwise silent radar

screen. For Mata Hari, the overheard phrase might have been, " … arms shipments ... " Members of Congress can probably pick up such conversational

fragments as, " ... huge campaign contribution ... " or, " ... free airport parking ... " from 40 feet away. In my case, the magic words were, " ...

thinking of selling my old TR-4 ... " With a quick scan of the table (we were at the home of our friends Pat and Charity), I determined that these magic

words had come from the mouth of a guest named John Helland, a lawyer who works with Pat at the Public Defender's Office in Madison, Wisconsin.

"Did you say you were selling a TR-4?" I inquired, trying to speak, swallow food, and clear my throat all at the same time while not seeming too eager.

"Yeah," John said. "Are you looking for one?"

"Well, I might be," I answered.

My friend Pat looked at me with amazement, then borrowed one of my favorite lines and said, "Egan, I ought to hit you with your own hat." Pat remembers

vividly all the complaining I did during my recent restoration of an MGB, my many solemn vows never to do a complete, ground­-up restoration again.

"Next time," I had told Pat, "I will save myself thousands of dollars and two years of hard work in the garage and buy a car that's already restored. No

more parts cleaner, dust, paint fumes, or rust for me. I'll buy a good car and just drive it. Let someone else do all the work."

I even vowed to follow the example of an R&T reader who told me he had a batch of bumper stickers made up that said, "STOP ME IF I TRY TO RESTORE THIS

CAR."

Hence Pat's amazement. So I had to confess to the entire now-silent dinner table that I had been looking at and thinking about a TR-4 as a fun restoration

project for many years, and I was (all along) just waiting for chance and serendipity to drop the right orphaned car on my doorstep, so to speak.

Pat continued to shake his head.

John's TR-4, it turned out, was a non-running, almost un-rusted Oklahoma car. As a victim of outdoor storage, it had a bombed-out interior but was

otherwise complete. An early car (1962, he thought), it had no dents or collision damage. He had it parked in a rental U-store-it garage near his family's

home in Wisconsin Dells, about 50 miles north of Madison. Did I want to go look at it?

Of course I did. Had to.

So we agreed to meet at a place called Monk's Bar in Wisconsin Dells on a Tuesday afternoon. John would lead me to the storage garage for a look at the

car.

Just by chance, I happened to make this drive in a new Miata, a Road & Tracktest car I had at my disposal for the week. Happily, the car

arrived on the same afternoon I was scheduled to meet John in "the Dells," as we locals call this picturesque little tourist town on the Wisconsin River.

So I put the top down and headed north on a beautiful summer afternoon.

It's been a few years since I've been in a Miata, and I'd almost forgotten how much fun they are to drive. Small, quick, nimble, absolutely delightful.

Wonderful controls, perfect harmony among gearshift, pedal movement, tach needle and steering wheel. Sort of like an early Lotus Elan, except you can leave

the tools and the fire extinguisher at home. Also, both headlights and both electric window lifts work, every time.

Whatever it lacks in that indefinable hardcore edge and ownership risk/thrill of an Elan, it makes up for in sheer let's-take-a-ride usability. It's a ball

to drive, and you can drive it hard without the guilty feeling that you are using it up.

So I arrived at the Dells, reacquainted with—and thoroughly charmed by—the Miata, met John at Monk's Bar, then drove out to the storage facility to

look at the TR-4. The overhead garage door opened to reveal a baby blue car sitting on four flat tires and covered in boxes. Michelotti's famous draped

headlights and handsome carburetor blister on the bonnet peered out from beneath old suitcases, clothing, and household goods like the mechanical nucleus

of a future garage sale.

John helped me uncover the car, stacking boxes out in the parking lot. One box I moved contained a leather purse, a squirt gun, and the sheath to a rubber

dagger. "Don't want to lose this stuff," I joked to John, who just grinned and shook his head. The things we save. With everything out of the way, I sized

up the car.

Straight body, not much rust, although one rocker panel had been replaced, and there was some minor floor cancer. All interior carpeting and panels were

gone and the seats were wrong—old MGB seats, recovered, with headrests. Baby blue paint over original red, with overspray on the wiring harness, wiper

motor, etc. Engine and driveline were all in place, and the engine could be turned over by hand. Many loose and unconnected wires hanging down to the

ground. No top.

In other words, a perfectly good candidate for an absolute total restoration that would probably cost several thousand dollars more than the current asking

price of the world's nicest complete and running TR-4.

Nothing new in this. Not for me, at least.

"If you don't restore it yourself," said the familiar, evil voice within my brain, "you'll never really know if it's done right. Better buy it now and get

to work." Thanks a lot, evil voice.

We put the boxes back in the garage and shut the door. "I'll have to think about it for a few days," I told John. "I don't know if I'm ready for another

project this big."

"I'm not in any hurry to sell it, "John said. "Just let me know."

On the drive home, I took winding county roads almost all the way, up- and downshifting the Miata through small villages, over one-lane bridges, through

glens and hollows with red barns and old farmhouses. It was a beautiful, warm evening with great thunderheads building up in the west. Storm coming later,

no doubt.

It suddenly occurred to me that if I actually owned a Miata, I could take drives like this every evening. No garage work. All I'd have to do is make car

payments, which (experience had taught me) were always less than the ongoing parts bill of a restoration job.

Instead of re-sleeving the TR-4 engine, Barb and I could take an autumn tour of New England. The two weeks (or more) I would spend bent over the bead

blaster, cleaning rust off A-arms and brake drums, could be spent on a trip up the Blue Ridge Crest Parkway or down the Natchez Trace. Interior work alone

would require more time and money than a weekend trip to the Oshkosh Fly-In or a Labor Day drive around Lake Superior.

Driving a Miata, in effect, begged that terrible question: What, exactly, is it that we are doing here? Do we restore old sports cars so that we can drive

them? Or do we restore them just because they have charm and we like to work on them?

If we fix them up just for the driving, why have I always sold my cars within one year after restoration—including the MGB I just completed last year?

Worked on the car for two years, took one good road trip, drove it around for a while, and then sold it to pay for my Reynard Formula Continental racing

expenses. The car was almost perfect. Why didn't I keep it? Why is there always the Next Big Thing?

I'd talked to several Miata owners who had told me that owning a Miata had taken them out of the hunt. They no longer scanned the classifieds for old

Speedsters, MGs, or Triumphs. They didn't want old sports cars to repair or restore anymore. They were having too much fun driving.

Would this happen to me if I bought a Miata? Think of the time I'd have on my hands. Think of the shop tools I'd no longer need.

I could sell my parts cleaner, bead blaster, lathe, engine hoist, engine stand, Whitworth wrenches and sockets, Uni-Syn carb tool, micrometers, cylinder

hones, ring compressors, gasket scrapers, kingpin reamers, and SU wrench, just for starters.

Okay, I'd have to keep some of this stuff for racing. But most of it would be superfluous for Miata ownership because, by all reports, the cars are just

about unbreakable. If you bought a new one, it would be many years and many miles before that engine came out of the car. Your car rebuilding hobby would

essentially be transformed into waxing and driving, with the occasional oil change or brake pad replacement.

What would I do with my life? The effect of owning a Miata, on me, would be about the same as telling the Joint Chiefs of Staff that all threat of war had

suddenly been eliminated and that they could turn in their uniforms and look for jobs in the civilian sector. Now what? These were all troubling questions.

I pondered them as I drove the Miata across the soft and beautiful Midwestern evening, with its rumbles and lightning bolts, and I talked them over with my

wife, Barbara, when I got home. She was just opening the day's mail, which included the usual bundle of letters from animal protection groups, animal rights

organizations, and animal shelters.

Barb loves animals and contributes to many of these charities. She also adopts stray cats and dogs that nobody else wants, usually at the points in their

lives when they are in need of expensive veterinary care. (I secretly suspect that our vet drops these animals off on our doorstep because he's making

payments on a Learjet or a ski condo, but I may be paranoid.) Barb handed me my own stack of mail, which included a Moss Motors sale flyer, an updated

Roadster Factory catalogue, and my British Car Market newsletter.

"You'll probably buy that Triumph," she said matter-of-factly, "because you won't be able to stand the thought of it sitting there, all worn-out in a dark

garage. It needs help, just like our cats and dog."

"I probably will," I admitted.

Bowing to the inevitable, I called John last week and left a message on his answering machine, telling him I will probably buy the old Triumph—if he can

wait until I finish paying off the engine rebuild on my Reynard. He called back and left a message on my machine asking me to call back, then I called

back and left one on his. We haven't actually spoken in person, but I gather the deal will go through.

So. It appears I may be a Triumph owner again, for the first time since 1973, when I sold my last TR-3. Having made that commitment, I must admit that I've

also found myself looking through the classifieds these past few weeks at ads for used Miatas and stopping by the local Mazda dealership to look at new

ones. I have a pile of brochures at my bedside.

In reality, there's no way on earth I can afford to make payments on a Miata and do a full restoration on a TR-4 at the same time, so I seem to have made

my decision for now.

Still, I can't help thinking what a great parts runner a Miata would make (as long as the parts weren't too big) for a long-term TR-4 restoration. A very

long-term restoration, broken up by autumn drives through New England and trips down the Blue Ridge Crest Parkway to the Oshkosh Fly-In and around Lake

Superior. It may be both fun and instructive to own one sports car that is a place in the mind and another that drives, all at the same time.

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