The name Supra means a lot of things. To many it means 2JZ engines, four-digit horsepower figures, and owing so meone a ten-second car. To others, it’s Toyota’s last true sports car, a sign that the tuner culture of the 90s would not go quietly into that dark night. To my father, though, it means so much more.

Ten Years of Memories

My Father’s original 1980 Toyota Supra when first purchased


His story starts in 1981, on a spring break drive from Connecticut to Florida. Placing his faith in his 1977 Pontiac Sunbird, he set out on the 2,000 mile journey. While the Pontiac did survive the trip, the freshly-rebuilt automatic transmission fared less well. Not wanting to sink more time and money into a car that had always been problematic, he and his father set out car shopping.


The car my father ended up purchasing was a 1980 Toyota Supra, the oft-forgotten first generation of the historic nameplate. With a hundred and ten horsepower and a solid rear axle, it was neither fast nor furious, but its looks quickly worked their way into my father’s heart. The long hood, sweeping rear hatch, and plush red interior became a second home for him — one that would last for ten years.

They sure don’t make interiors like they used to


Sadly, New England roads aren’t kind, and even the legendary Supra can fall victim to salt and snow. My father did what he could, but unrelenting rust and rot eventually made the car into a shell of its former self. Rather than keep it on life support, he sold the Supra, but never forgot the memories he’d made with it.



My Father’s 1984 high school senior portrait


Enter the Supra, Stage Right

I grew up in the backseats of Subarus, hearing my father recount those memories with almost mythic presence. It was more than just the car that carried him to triple-digit speeds against the Miami sunrise, it was a companion through good times and bad. I could always tell he missed that Supra, but he’d never think to replace it. So, I did.


For years, I browsed first-generation Supras online. Unfortunately, it seemed like the issues that plagued my father were universal — rust, rot, and general disrepair could be found on nearly any car I saw. The few that could be found in good shape commanded a steep premium, one that placed them far outside the realm of practicality. But in car buying, you don’t need a thousand cars that fit your criteria. You only need one.

During a late-night Craigslist binge, that one made its appearance. A running, driving 1979 Supra with a four-digit price tag. I hemmed and hawed — it had the wrong wheels, the colors were different, maybe he wouldn’t want it — but with a bit of urging from my girlfriend, I decided I had to at least see the car in person.


The interesting thing about car-buying online is that a car can be almost anywhere. This particular car wasn’t near me in Connecticut. It wasn’t even in an adjoining state. I’d found a perfect car, but I found it in a very un-perfect place: Nebraska. But, I did what college student with more gumption than sense would do: I packed my bags and booked a flight.

There And Back Again

The supra as pictured in the Craigslist ad


I started planning my alibi. I told my parents I was on a road trip to see a concert with some college friends. I took every precaution to keep the trip a secret, so it would be a true surprise when I made it back. That is, if I made it back.

My girlfriend met me in Nebraska, never one to say no to an adventure. With her support, and just enough in my bank account to make a deal, we set out to finally see this Supra with our own eyes. All my father’s memories, every experience he had in those ten years with that car, lay only a short taxi ride away.


We arrived at the seller’s house just after sunrise, the Supra proudly on display in his driveway. Under its blanket of light morning dew, the car looked absolutely gorgeous. Still, a small part of me wondered if the ad was a lie. Surely, a 38-year-old car couldn’t be in good enough shape for the 1300 mile drive, could it?

A quick test drive proved me wrong. The Supra fired right up, never missing a beat as we lapped the seller’s neighborhood. I was ecstatic, this plan might actually work. I handed over the cash, the seller handed me the title, and that was it. I now owned a 1979 Toyota Supra. Now I just had to get it home.


Eastbound And Down

Day One of the trip was all about preparation. Cars have never been kind to me, and I wasn’t going to let anything stop this drive. Tools, equipment, and jumper cables found their way under the Supra’s sleek hatch before we set out. After remembering the fiery near-death of my Legacy GT, we elected to purchase a fire extinguisher too. Better safe than sorry.




The car averaged a surprising 22-25MPG

The miles blurred by, cornfield after cornfield dotting the horizon as far as we could see. The car sat perfectly at 80 miles an hour, nearly topping out its government-mandated 85mph speedometer. Wind rushed in from its crank opened sunroof and power windows as passengers in passing cars gawked at this 40-year old machine.


Smooth Sailing, Meet Rogue Waves

The Supra with what some consider to be it’s modern counterpart


It didn’t take long for the first problems to pop up. Hours into the drive, cooling air beckoning the approach of night, we tried the car’s lights. The headlights worked as well as we could’ve hoped, but that’s where our luck ran out. The dash, hidden in shadow from the slowly draining light, remained stubbornly dark.

The initial plan, in Roadkill fashion, was to tape an LED torch to the dash. Unfortunately, that best-laid plan went awry when we realized the taillights were similarly dimmed. With three hours of driving left before we made it to our non-refundable hotel, our options seemed limited. With “just drive without lights” not quite making the list, we pulled into a hotel parking lot to figure out what to do.


Borrowing some hotel tools, I decided to try and replace a lighting fuse. Unfortunately, a sizeable shock and a numb hand led me to leave that fuse exactly where it stood. With the issue irreparable for the moment, we slunk back into the hotel lobby defeated and broke.

The saint of a clerk, after hearing the story of our journey, did something amazing. She charged us a nominal fee, and slipped us a room key. “If anyone asks, you’re my cousins”, she said with a wink. Confused but appreciative, we soon discovered the need for the cover story: she’d given us the largest suite in the hotel.


The Supra from the hotel room window, the rear hatch filled with tubs of spare parts the seller provided

Waking up with a fresh head and the knowledge that we could no longer travel at night, we set out for the last eleven hours of the drive. Pennsylvania proved to be the most interesting part of the drive yet, providing us with something we hadn’t seen in days: a hill. Not just any hill, mind you, but the historic “Highest Point of I-80 East of the Mississippi”.


There’s a reason these are flyover states.




Homecoming

The time I gave in my alibi hadn’t quite run out yet, so my father wasn’t expecting the sound of tires entering our driveway. The look of bewilderment on his face upon seeing the ghost of his old Supra at our house was worth every penny of the car’s purchase price. When he realized that I was behind the wheel, his confusion only escalated.


“What is this?” he asked, eyes wider than I’d ever seen them. He eyed the car like a lost friend, simultaneously knowing and rediscovering every curve on its body. I handed him the keys.

“It’s yours.”