Do we love the TR7?

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Looks to kill

Even now, this is a car with the power to startle. Not through horsepower – unless it’s a V8 on a wet roundabout – but with its looks. I’m still fascinated by the abrupt chop of that turret-like roof, the hunched mass of its high-decked boot, the ribbed air vents decorating its strangely-shaped ‘D’ pillars and the surprising discovery that the rear wheels lie almost directly below it, creating a wheelbase that seems too short.

Which it was if you hit a bump mid-bend on a wet day, an intrusion that could reverse your direction of travel faster than a snowboard spill, as I found to my embarrassment on a damp roundabout 35 years ago.
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Coupe or convertible?

Is the TR7 ugly? I suppose so, but these days it seems amazingly bold and interesting. Those that actually like the TR7 – not a common breed – tend to prefer the convertible, which looks pretty rakish when shorn of its roof, the rising wedge of its lower body emphasising the design’s dynamism. But I prefer the shock of the coupe. It’s more rigid too, and usually comes with a sunroof.
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The inevitable

The TR7 story is typical British Leyland (BL), a tale of unrealised potential, missed opportunities, bungling build-quality and industrial strife, and enough of it to fill this page more times than a 7 owner would have visited a dealer with pop-up headlight problems.
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Man about town

Here are some lowlights. Every factory the TR7 was built in – and there were no less than three – was closed soon afterwards. It wasn’t cursed of course, BL’s then boss Michael Edwardes trying to rationalise a sprawling web of factories, but the TR was moved first from strike-stalled Speke, in Liverpool, to Triumph’s original factory in Coventry and finally to Solihull whose car (rather than Land Rover) plant it also witnessed the closure of.

Every time the production line shifted supplies dried up and development work slowed. At least quality improved with each move.
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A shaky start

The first Speke-built cars were spectacularly shoddy, often identifiable by doors that were too big for their apertures, their trailing edges rarely lying flush with the rear wings. Paint peeled from the pop-up headlamp covers, the slant-four engine was fond of cooking itself and the original four-speed Morris Marina gearbox wasn’t up to its less-than-mighty torque.

As this photo shows, seat covers could be easily damaged.
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Not all bad

Yet there was a lot to like about this car, even if its character was totally different from the buck and roar of the old TR6. Its simple suspension was long-travel for a supple ride, and sufficiently well sorted that the TR7 handled pretty tidily provided you remembered about the scope for back-end break-away. It was also unexpectedly comfortable, with excellent seats and an attractively logical control layout that was far better thought-through than you’d find in most cars of the era.

Triumph was a leader in cabin ergonomics, as well as making engines that quietly broiled without ever shifting the temperature gauge, as Stag owners know.
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Rock bottom

The 7 was never quick, unlike the rare V8-engined TR8 (pictured) prematurely killed by the Solihull closure, but brisk enough to entertain. Today they’re dirt-cheap, their prices depressed by the cheapness of old MX-5s. Pricing starts around £3,000, while V8-powered TR8s are much rarer and cost around £10,000.

Still, you’ll struggle to unearth that much ‘70s fun for the money, and the spares back-up is superb. I’m thinking of amazing my mates with some witty retro-tastelessness.