I'd imagine that most Sunbeam owners got their first Sunbeam experience with something other than a Tiger or Series Alpine. In my case, it was 1978, gasoline prices were going through the roof, and my college student budget was strained to keep my '68 Dodge Coronet's tank full. That's the only rationale I can think of for buying my first Sunbeam, a fastback 1969 Alpine Coupe.
It seemed strange and exotic, and I had next to no experience working on cars, but what the heck, I'd just learned how to gap the points on my Dodge - I was now the master of all things automotive! How hard could it be to keep a Sunbeam running? I'd soon find out. Literally within days the starter quit starting, the charging system quit charging, and the headlights became prone to turning on or off at any time of their own choosing. The Coupe quickly became a personal rolling technical school.
After a few months I had ironed out most of the major bugs and settled down to tackling the little things: balky door, seat and window mechanisms, miscellaneous Lucas conundrums and the like. Still, between repairs, it was fun to drive. Unlike the heavy-steering early '70's Toyotas I had test-driven, the Sunbeam was easy to drive on the open road, and had excellent brakes and head room. Fast? Nope. The Coupe model had the cast-iron head with single Stromberg carb, 68 HP on a good day, and had trouble getting out of its own way.
Two years later I named the car IRVING, partly from its license plate "IRV 788" but mostly from an old novelty song played on the Dr. Demento radio show, called "The Ballad of Irving, the hundred and forty-second fastest gun in the West." I figured that my IRVING was about the 'hundred and forty-second fastest Alpine in the West.
IRVING took great offense to this notion. Within a month, the starter shorted out again, this time melting the insulation off the battery-to-starter cable, which drooped down across the plastic fuel line and severed it completely. I propped open the hood to find sparks dancing across from the exposed, red-hot battery cable to the back of the engine block, just inches from where fuel was freely spilling onto the ground around the car from the full, 17 gallon gas tank. With no tools close at hand to disconnect the battery, I called the fire department. Just as the fire truck rolled up (they probably thought it was a false alarm), a huge ball of flame erupted from the engine compartment high into the night sky. Momentarily as surprised as I was, the fire fighters still managed to extinguish it in less than ten seconds. Expecting the worst, the Alpine emerged remarkably unscathed with minor paint damage to the underside of the hood, needing just another starter, plus a few new hoses, wires, and (re-routed) battery cable to get it back up and running.
A few months later IRVING, still offended, burnt up its number three rod bearing while on a trip to Vancouver, BC. An early-morning phone call to a friend (Jim Leach) got a 40-mile flat-tow back to Seattle from Everett. I'd have felt a little guiltier if Jim hadn't been the one that I'd let talk me into buying the car in the first place.
By this time I'd purchased a well-used Mk II Tiger, (and also bought and sold my first Series V), so transportation was no problem. (That goal of cutting down on car expenses while in college had long since been forgotten.) In true early-bachelor style, I pulled the engine from the Coupe, physically dragged it up the stairs to my apartment and repaired it on my kitchen table.
It still ran badly afterwards (a piston ring broke immediately, followed soon after by parts of the rest of the piston), but I entered it anyway in the next autoslalom at Sunbeam Northwest III in Olympia. Why? Well, as "The Ballad..." goes: "a hundred and forty-one were faster than he, but Irving was looking for one-forty-three." With no power to speak of, full pinch understeer worse than a Tiger and piston-slap that could be heard a hundred feet away, second place in stock class was very rewarding.
IRVING went on a downhill slide from there. Yes, it was discernable. The fuse box, mounted on a hole in the firewall with inside lead wires that were too short for access or repair work, started acting up unpredictably, causing various shorts. The ignition system would go dead without warning, and it became necessary to carry a long umbrella with me so I could reach underneath the parcel tray and poke at the back of the fuse box to restart the engine without having to pull over to the side of the road. The Coupe's end seemed near when, heading to a party after the next Pacific Tiger Club banquet, a member following me in his Tiger told me he could see what looked like "glowing cigarette butts flowing out of your tailpipe." As I pulled the car into my driveway that night, the head gasket blew.
IRVING appeared in the classifieds that week. Soon after, a fellow with grand delusions of installing a V-6 or a rotary or something came by to look at it. I let him have his delusions - and the car.
Owning the fastback was quite an education. Areas of car maintenance that I wouldn't have dreamt of tackling before, such as electrical, engine or clutchwork, became almost second nature on the five Series Alpines I've owned since. But the most important lesson learned was: never name your Sunbeam IRVING.
(Dick Sanders is an accountant from Seattle, Washington, and Membership Chairman of Pacific Tiger Club of Seattle. His daily driver Series V Alpine has seen over 130,000 miles since 1983, including a 5,500 mile roundtrip to SUNI II at Lake Geneva, Wisconsin in 1994.)