My wife Donna and I moved to Aiken, SC in May of 1989. After settling into our new house and our new jobs, I thought a nice reward would be a new car. Having driven nothing but small economical cars up until this point, I thought this time I would try for sporty. What I really wanted was a brand new MGB. I had always wanted one, ever since my high school days, unfortunately they hadn’t made them new since then either, about 15 years.
Although the Honda marketing people would tell you the Prelude I was currently driving was “sporty,” I had a different definition. There were only three cars out there that I could think of that fit the bill, the Honda CRXsi, the Pontiac Fiero and the Toyota MR-2. Being a Honda person, my first inclination was to buy the CRX. But they had just restyled it and I wasn’t really sure if I liked the way that it looked. They had just gotten the Fiero right, with the GT model, V-6 & fake fastback look, but lingering bad press left me doubtful. The MR-2 was an interesting possibility, but its price was a little more than I (we) wanted to spend.
Needing to do more research, I headed to the magazine aisle at the local store. Here I knew I’d find some guidance in the latest editions of Road & Track, Automobile, etc. There on the cover of the July 1989 Car and Driver was a picture of Mazda’s newest car, the Miata. It was small, it was sporty and it was a convertible, but it looked a little too “cute.” The surfer dudes and chicks posing with it didn’t help either. The article was very complimentary and even hinted at the true sporting nature of the car.
That weekend we headed over to Rader Mazda in Augusta, GA to check out a Miata. They had a red one on the lot. It was not for sale, but it could be test-driven. The salesman, whose name I have forgotten, agreed to let me drive it, but only after he drove it to spot a few miles away. Ostensibly to get me away from busy Washington Road, but I suspect it was really because he liked to drive the car. After just a short trip up Stevens Creek Road I knew this was my next car, it just felt right (sounded right too.) When we got back to the lot, I told him that he was going to let me take my wife for a drive to see if she would like it. This was in fact true, but I had a secondary motive as well. I wanted to go for another drive.
Donna and I agreed that we would buy a Miata, just not red, neither of us like red. The three of us gathered around the desk in our salesman’s cube and informed him of our decision. He said, “Great, I need a non-refundable $500 deposit.” “That gets you on the waiting list.” As I handed him the check I asked, “How long is the list?” “Well, I’m not sure, about 10 or 12 people,” he replied. “How long a wait will it be,” I asked. “We are supposed to get 6 a month, so maybe two months,” was his reply.
I called after 6 weeks, he was purposely evasive. I couldn’t find out how long the list was, where I was on it or even how many cars they had sold so far. After 2 months, I called again. The results were the same. I still know nothing. I made a sign to hang outside my cubicle at work: Brian Bogardus, beloved co-worker and friend, has been held hostage by the Evil Mazda Dealer for 65 days. I put up a new number every day. 66 days. 67 days…70…80…
Reading in newspapers and magazines I found out that this was some sort of phenomenon. I am not alone, there are hundreds, maybe thousands like me out there waiting too. Certain regions of the country were allotted more Miatas. Larger dealers got more than smaller ones. Less patient folks were driving great distances. Should I head to Florida or maybe Atlanta? Some dealers were getting $20,000 for a car with a list price of $13,800. There were reports of $25,000. That reminds me, we never did discuss price before I got on the waiting list.
After three months I called and asked for my non-refundable deposit back. I couldn’t take the wait anymore. The salesman said that if I really wanted my money back I could have it. “But you are close to the top of the list,” he said. “How close?” I asked. More evasiveness. I’ll wait some more.
Two days later I get a call, “I’ve got a red ‘C’ package that is yours if you want it.” I am tempted, but decline. There was the red problem, plus I didn’t want all those options. I wanted a base model so I could put my own sound system in, with a CD player, etc. A week later, another call, there is a white base model with my name on it. “I have to think about this, let me call you back,” I said. Donna is not really happy with white, but she can sense my frustration. I ask several of my co-workers, some say wait and some say go for it. I call the salesman back and tell him I’ll wait on a blue. The hostage sign gets a revision; I didn’t think I would need three places for numbers.
The call comes on day 108, “I have a blue ‘A’ package. Do you want it?” “I’ll be there at 5 this afternoon,” was my reply. My first experience in a Miata was the test drive way back near the end of July, it was November 7th before I got drive number two. By the time all the paperwork is signed and my friendly salesman explains what all the buttons and knobs do, the sun is down and the temperature is in the upper 40’s. Driving home on I-20 with the top down I didn’t notice the chill at all.
This was the first story I submitted for publication in the Mt. Hood Miata Club’s newsletter. I am often long-winded and rambling; the story above is proof as it has over a thousand words, and it seemed to take up 3/4 of the August edition. This ChatGPT version has under five hundred. Shorter or better or both?
Donna and I moved to Aiken, SC, in May 1989. Once we’d settled into our new house and jobs, I decided it was time to reward myself with a new car. I’d always driven small, economical ones, but this time I wanted something sporty. What I really wanted was a new MGB—the car I’d dreamed about since high school—but they hadn’t been made in 15 years.
Honda insisted my Prelude was “sporty,” but I disagreed. The only cars that came close were the Honda CRXsi, Pontiac Fiero, and Toyota MR2. Being a Honda guy, the CRX was my first thought, but I wasn’t sold on its new styling. The Fiero GT finally looked right, but its bad reputation still lingered. The MR2 was tempting, but too pricey.
So, I went to the magazine aisle for guidance. On the cover of the July 1989 *Car and Driver* was Mazda’s new Miata. It was small, sporty, and a convertible—though maybe a little too “cute,” with surfer models draped across it. Still, the article hinted this was a serious driver’s car.
That weekend we went to Rader Mazda in Augusta. They had a red Miata for test drives only. The salesman drove it out of town first (probably just because he enjoyed it), then handed me the wheel. Within minutes on Stevens Creek Road I knew—this was the car. It felt right. When we got back, I insisted on taking Donna out too—partly so she could approve, mostly so I could drive again.
We agreed we’d buy a Miata, just not red. Around the salesman’s desk, he asked for a \$500 non-refundable deposit to join the waiting list. I handed him the check and asked, “How long’s the wait?” He shrugged: “Maybe two months.”
Six weeks later I called—no answers. Two months—same story. At work I hung a sign outside my cubicle: “Brian Bogardus, beloved co-worker and friend, has been held hostage by the Evil Mazda Dealer for 65 days.” Each day I updated the number. 66… 70… 80…
I wasn’t alone—articles called the Miata a phenomenon. Cars were scarce, some dealers charging $20–25,000 for one that listed at $13,800. I hadn’t even nailed down the price before giving my deposit.
By three months I demanded my money back. The salesman begged me to wait—I was “near the top of the list.” Days later, he offered me a red “C” package. Tempting, but no. Then a white base model. Donna disliked white, and I held out for blue. My hostage sign had to make room for three digits.
Finally, on day 108, the call came: a blue “A” package was mine. That November 7th, after paperwork and a crash course in knobs and switches, I drove home on I-20. The sun was down, the air in the 40s, the top down. I didn’t feel the chill at all.