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“The Grass is Chameleon Greener”
Turning the clock back around eighteen years, I remember seeing my first TVR in the carpark where my wife worked. A bright yellow Chimaera. Wow, what an introduction to the marque. A barrel of drool and a year or so later I entered TVR ownership by way of a 1994 Griffith 500 after seeing a friend’s and being smitten. Over the years I lavished the kind of attention on the car that would make my wife envious. Having an eye for perfection, I often joked that I spent more time under the car than driving it. I’ve forked out more money on this tub of plastic than Cameron on a Brexit campaign but have rarely regretted it. Rarely. I just loved that fantastic low-down burbling grunt that wants to send you sideways into the nearest lamppost from a standing start whist people stare in appreciation, impressed that the driver is still grinning stupidly despite the rapid approach of certain death. And that classic, passive-aggressive look that’s timeless. Almost. But I exaggerate about the sideways thing, I’ve never been an ‘over enthusiastic’ driver and it’s important to point this out.
2005 arrives, and with it comes “Axel-F” by Crazy Frog (remember that? Hopefully not!) and Elliot, my first born. This is an event I suspect is bitter-sweet for many TVR owners – the joy of becoming a parent juxtaposed with the realisation that the car that you’re already too busy to drive will surely seize itself into a permanent resident of the garage, a home to mice and confiscated kids toys – the annoying ones where the batteries never seem to die. In our madness, we decided that we’d have another two children, with the last one making her presence very known back in 2009. By this time, my car has probably only covered a few thousand miles in my nine years of ownership. Not enough, I know; I could pass it on to someone else but there’s just so many of those lampposts out there. Better just to keep it safely covered up in its heated garage…
With the exception of a tip over to Le Mans, my dates with the Griffith became the odd, short run out before tucking it back in. Either that or minor flirtations in the garage, where I’d disappear for a quarter of an hour’s gentle repose in the driver’s seat or, if I was in the mood, a quick rub-down of the bodywork. It’s true to say that unlike ‘Life BC’ (Before Children), the most I saw of the Griffith was usually when I had to retrieve something from the garage. Not ideal ownership, but TVR’s just have that knack of forcing you into a pseudo-logic where you can justify retention at any cost.
And then it happens – I put my back out. In actual fact, I think it was caused by lifting my Griffith’s bonnet off on my own, probably so I could scrub something that didn’t need scrubbing. Two weeks of mostly lying on the sofa ensued with only Apple TV for company. I think I watched just about every TVR video on YouTube. And it was during this time that a seed of dissatisfaction started to germinate. As I said, I think that the Griffith is timeless – almost. However, I couldn’t help feel that seeing one sat next to the more modern TVR’s made it look, well, dated. A little. I know, it’s heresy, but I’ve said it now. And so I started looking at the Speed Six cars. I knew that they were a different beast to the V8’s but they just looked the business. I ended up with my YouTube favourite list full of Tamora clips and quickly became obsessed by owning one.
This little seed was nurtured for the next few years until I found myself in that fortuitous and irresistible situation where I had a fully gown S6 obsession and a bit of disposable income. Misappropriating the company internet connection like a pro I start to trawl through the PistonHeads classifieds with a raised pulse. After a number of weeks searching and checking out possibilities, there She was, a jaw-dropping, heart stopping Chameleon Green, one owner 2006 Tamora. OMG, as the kids say. Now, in my financial defence, it was above my top budget and despite nearly passing out at the keyboard at its beauty, it was actually my wife that encouraged me to go and see it (yeh, I know, right!). Now, what to do? I’ve sixteen years of history with the Griffith, could I actually part with it after all that? As a famous tree in Middle-Earth once said, “Don’t be so hasty, little Hobbit.” Time to apply a healthy serving of that pseudo-logic and keep hold of the Griffith for a bit, just in case…
Calls were made, emails exchanged and dates arranged; I was off to Western-Super-Mare to buy the beast at first sight make a very thorough and well considered viewing. Ahem. The day of the visit came; we all five jumped in the daily-drive and charged off to the coast, placating the children by way of promises of ice-creams and donkey rides.
Parking up around a half mile away we walked the rest of the journey, much to the annoyance of the kids, who were attempting to renegotiate terms as we went.
Eventually we arrived and were greeted by Martyn, who opened up the garage. There was the usual anticipation-inducing buzz as the fuel pump primed and then a roar from the sports exhaust as it came to life. Martyn backed it out onto the driveway. Wow x 10. The sunlight sparkled off of the perfect paintwork, which morphed through the green range as we circled it, thoroughly caught up in the “even better in the flesh” phenomenon. It was just what I was looking for; a modern twist on the classic shapes of older TVRs with its short overhangs, flared arches, boot spoiler and bold diffuser. The interior a brilliant take on subtle and purposeful with its tactile metal switches, unobtrusive dashboard and sweeping lines. And then there’s the Tuscan seats, which suit the curves of the interior so perfectly it was as if they’d always planned to use them but had run out stock until now.
A delicate and well-rehearsed reversing off of the sloping drive and onto the road and we were off for a drive. The car was solid, direct and engendered the kind of attention usually reserved for A-listers. I was hooked, but I think that had been the case long before today if I’m honest. A deposit was made over the interweb and we left in order to celebrate with coffee and donkey rides.
The date of pickup finally arrived. Our day was quite eventful from the outset; we had arranged with my sister to look after the kids whilst my wife and I travelled down on the train, only to be told by British Rail that some tool had joyridden a tractor (yes, a tractor) and taken out a bridge on the main line to the South. This would necessitate a tortuous route that would end up adding a few hours onto the day. However, we found our way there eventually to see the Tamora waiting resplendently on the driveway. After taxing it there and then (you’ve got to love this interweb thing) and having a ‘Tamora Essentials’ guide by Martyn, I duly reversed the car off the sloping drive, scraping its underside on the road, and pulled away before Martyn could change his mind. We managed the magnificent distance of around ¼ mile before I thought we should find a prime parking space on the promenade, grab a coffee and admire the car. It was fun to watch people walk past and study it; it’s fair to say that it attracted positive attention. I then decided that we’d do the two-hour journey back with the lid off – it was a nice day after all! Armed with sixteen years of practice with stowing the Griffith roof in the boot, I set about the task with confidence. To say that we must’ve provided some hilarity to the couple sitting drinking tea in the car behind is likely an understatement.
Would it go in? No chance. I twisted, turned, flipped and rotated it but it wasn’t having it. To my eternal shame I even resorted to looking through the manual. Eventually we got it in and set off and when I say ‘set off’ I mean kangarooing, over-revving and generally looking like a learner driver as I struggled to get used to the odd pedal orientation, the sharp throttle response and more. Soon enough though we were on the open road and we could relax a little. The mix of A and B-roads, towns and motorway demonstrated the comfort of this incredible car in all environments and when we eventually got home, the Griffith was usurped of its place in the heated garage. I don’t think it listened to my mumbles of apology.
Over the next few months I would jump at the chance to take it out for a spin, often taking it into work whilst the weather was pleasant. The attention the car got was infectious and, at times, humorous (a bloke sitting on a low pub wall almost fell off in his desperation to point at my snarling negotiation of the sweeping traffic island). I am sure that my neighbours thought me mad as I’d wash down the already clean bodywork just so that I could see it gleam. What a car. All I needed to do now was to get an advert up and become a one-TVR owner again. Yes, it was time to sell the Tamora.
No, you heard me right and on that bombshell, let me explain. Yes, I am selling the Tamora; it’s an absolutely gut-wrenching decision and one that’s been excruciating in the making but one has to go and it had to be the one I enjoyed driving the least, and that is the Tamora. If I’m more specific, it was the Speed Six. In my continued defence, I had carried out due diligence when looking to upgrade; I had read the forums, spoken to people in the know and had test-driven another Tamora but I thought that my initial misgivings would all go away after a little time together because let’s face it, how different could two TVR’s be?
The answer? Very, VERY different. It’s a comparison that seems almost impossible to convey to those that are unfortunate enough the pose the question to you when you get talking about the subject. From the seating position to the dash layout, from the handling to the sound, from the pedal hinge-points to engine characteristics. If they didn’t look like siblings you would want a carry out a DNA test to determine if they were related.
Ultimately it came down to driving style and what I was used to for the last sixteen years with the five litre V8. When I drive the Griffith, I like to be able to cruise along at around 40 mph and then, without changing gear, prod the go pedal to get a full shove of torque in the back and a satisfying growl from the engine. When I’d do this in the Tamora, it does…well…nothing. It didn’t even sound like it was trying. I know that it’ll upset people for me to describe it this way, but it felt gutless and flat, not at all what I was used to from driving a TVR. Yes I know, you need to drop a gear and get some revs going, but that’s just not how I want it to happen. Sure, it was nice to do this on occasions but it just isn’t the way I want to drive. It felt like a sleeping tiger that I had to keep poking with a stick to wake up (but when it was awake, you’d better run!)
There’s other things too; the dashboard that just can’t be seen if the sun’s anywhere in sight, the lack of the Griffith’s elbow ‘groove’ on the transmission tunnel that just keeps sending you elbow slip-sliding all over the place, the woeful steering lock that puts you on a parking collision course with curbs and then there’s the sound. When I turn the key in the Griffith I get that spine-tingling growl that says to all around “hey, I could eat your Eurobox for tea if I wanted to!”, an aural pleasure that just never leaves you, whatever speed you’re doing. But with the Speed Six, you don’t get much to smile about until you’re making progress at around over three or four thousand revs.
Did I mention the “CD of Doom”? When I bought the car, I happened to find a CD in the stereo; now I’m not lamenting the choice of said CD but rather the fact that it was there in the first place. In all the sixteen years I’ve had the Griffith, I’ve never felt the urge to turn on the stereo when driving because I just never got bored of that V8 soundtrack. And yet, even during the limited time I’ve driven the Tamora, I found myself thinking at times about turning on the tunes. And that worried me.
It’s not all negative; I still step out of a trip in the Tamora feeling more or less the same as I’d stepped in and not, as with the Griffith, like I’d done a heavy leg and arm workout in a sauna. But I can live with these things (although, a power steering upgrade may find its way onto my Christmas list…). I have done the maths for the torquier 4.5 upgrades and the LS replacement but it’s just financial suicide and not worth it when I’ve got a much loved V8 sitting on the driveway already.
So would I recommend a Tamora? Absolutely; they are fantastic machines that offer so much for the money, but I would just offer caution to the seasoned V8 owner – be sure that the Speed Six is for you as the grass is not always chameleon greener on the other side.
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