The Red Zone: A Bugeye Sprite Restoration

Entering the Red Zone

The sound was unmistakable. No need to look to know that the miserable, hot, sweaty hours of finger numbing work were over. The nanosecond of verbal restraint followed by an oath akin to “bugger”, belied the cold, hard truth: I had just cracked the #@%$ing windscreen.

It wasn’t the first nor would it be the last in a string of setbacks as I approached the finish line of my 4 and a half year restoration of a 1960 Austin Healey Sprite. Anyone who has ever endeavored to restore a car knows the process can be described in many ways, but the image that prevailed for me in the last few months was that of being in the Red Zone: the goal in sight, but those last yards…

The Bonnet Becomes the Enemy

The second half began with rebuilding and upholstering the seats and dash. This proved strategically brilliant as it provided a refuge in the upstairs storage area during countless future moments of despair. Gazing at the shiny chrome dials and plump bolsters was sweet respite from what awaited in the garage, my most formidable opponent, the bonnet. Devoid of the eyes and bright smile that makes a Bugeye look jolly, it was a sneering red chunk straight from hell. After removing pounds of Bondo, previous repairs that seemed to have been done in a High School Vo-tech shop mocked me. I should have returned to eBay to find another, but kept telling myself that if I cut, welded, shrunk, hammered and dollied enough I could make a purse from the sow’s ear.

It was a given that I would paint IV in my garage. Previous experience with my Spitfire predicted a high chance of success. After spraying and sanding and sanding and sanding and sanding, came the buffing and buffing and …you get the picture. Perhaps, it was time I should learn to “play nicely”. My “bird”, who was getting strangely jealous and about to get back on Match.com, was recruited as an apprentice for this and other upcoming pieces of the project. If nothing else, we could pretend we were on a date during the pandemic. I was the one who sanded through to the primer. The “touch up” with leftover paint was, inexplicably, an epic failure. Another trip to the paint supplier and the “Old English White guy” had a color match, resprayed the right front wing and the boot and started sanding and sanding and sanding... My apprentice, no longer jealous, decided pruning shrubs was the better portion.

Windscreen Wars: Round One

Here is something about attaching the windscreen that brings the goal line into focus. After watching a couple YouTube videos that made it look easy, we wrestled with gaskets and glass, used enough lube for an orgy, uttered many unprintable words, ruined three or four old hotel key cards, and sunk to the concrete exhausted when the glass finally popped into the frame over two hours later. We called it a day and headed for the Pandemic Pub (my refrigerator). The next weekend was bloody hot, but it was install the windscreen or trim more hedges. In retrospect, we should have done the latter. Kindly return to opening paragraph of this saga.

Windscreen Wars: Round Two (and Three)

Two weeks later, with the help of two $3 tools which would prove their worth over and over, the second windscreen and gasket came together “Bob’s your uncle” and, feeling on a roll, we dove right into the install. We reviewed what NOT to do, and labored in fearful silence until all four bolts were in and all four hands lifted cautiously away. Rejoicing was short-lived as our eyes were drawn down to a glaring gap between the gasket and the cowl. Another online survey revealed that, while this imperfection is common, IV’s was uncommonly large. Once again cursing British engineering, the only option was to remove the windscreen and reform the cowl. This involved partially dismantling the dash, a chunk of wood and a small hydraulic jack. It was undeniably crude, but it worked well enough. The windscreen was attached for a third time, the wipers reattached and tested. Of course they didn’t work. We called it another day and headed back to the now frequented Pandemic Pub. A defective wheel box would be my project a couple days later.

The Perils of the Red Zone

The Red Zone is a perilous place. Sanded through paint, broken windscreens, funky cowl, defective wheel boxes… So close, and yet, so far. I was certain I had done everything twice. I turned my focus back to shiny objects - new alloy wheels, and ordered up tires and scheduled the install and balance. I arrived on the appointed day only to be given a large helping of Nope on the install of new tires on after market wheels. A local tire shop assisted, but upon mounting the first one, the balancing weights got knocked off by the tie rod end. I have become a well known repeat customer in supply and service shops around Rhode Island.

Crossing the Goal Line

The last phase, putting all the pretty bits together, is the final pass into the end zone. As the tub was transformed by soundproofing, carpet, panels, seats and a truly “proper” steering wheel, all the dropped passes and replays faded into history. It took one more morning to attach and tweak the bonnet and IV was ready for her maiden voyage around the neighborhood. It had been 4 years, 151 days since the trip to Connecticut. Thumbs up from neighbors assured me that my smiling Bugeye shames the growling Camaro four houses down. Of course, each drive creates a punch list of things to sharpen up; a restoration is the gift that just keeps giving.

Why We Restore

If you are reading this, you are already vested in some way in this great hobby. If you have done or are doing a restoration, I hope my story resonates with your own experience and made you smile. If you are new to ownership of a vintage British motorcar or yet to engage in a restoration, I share all this not to discourage- quite the opposite actually. I believe it is all the setbacks and successes that make each and every ride so very gratifying and such a source of pride. The intimacy between us and our machines is enhanced by knowing every bit of them from the rubber on the pavement up. Restoration is the work of craftsmen – men and women put head, hands and heart into the process of creating or recreating something beautiful. Whether you drive a Rolls or a Mini, restore by yourself , play well with others, or buy at the auctions, you are part of a game well worth showing up for- continuing and preserving passion for vintage British sports cars.

Author, Pat Sykora (The “Bird”)
Technical assistant, Ernie Connor (The guy that did the work)