In the spring of 1984, as Timex Computer Corporation’s inventory dwindled and the American user community faced an uncertain future, an unlikely savior emerged from Southern California. David Higgenbottom wasn’t a computer industry executive or a venture capitalist. He was a 35-year-old body shop owner who had bought his first computer—a T/S 1000—for $35 at a local department store. What began as curiosity about a discontinued product line would evolve into an audacious attempt to resurrect the entire Timex/Sinclair computer business.
The Dream Takes Shape
Higgenbottom’s journey into the computer business started modestly enough. After some initial skepticism about the T/S 1000’s usefulness, he had come to a simple conclusion: “I liked it!” When the Timex/Sinclair 2068 reached the market, he bought one immediately. Ideas began clicking in his mind, and soon he was working up plans to sell system packages featuring the 2068 as their centerpiece. It was almost an extension of his earlier venture, Magnum Industries, where he and some associates had tried to develop and market an original electric car design.
But Higgenbottom quickly discovered the frustrations that had plagued many in the Timex/Sinclair ecosystem. When he tried to obtain computers from the Timex sales representative, he found the same machines available for much less at local discount stores. The marketing structure seemed designed to discourage business. Then, just as he had lined up a deal with a Los Angeles organization to buy a significant number of TS 2068 systems, Timex made its announcement: they were abandoning the computer market. Higgenbottom had to return to his customers with disappointing news. “You know those computers that you really liked?” he told them. “Well, they just quit making them.”
What happened next was driven by curiosity as much as anything else. Higgenbottom called Timex and asked who was going to take over the marketing rights to their computers. “No one,” they replied. When he expressed interest in obtaining those rights himself, Timex responded with a question that might have deterred a more cautious person: “Are you sure you want to do that, Dave?” At that point, he was sure.
Building the Case
By March 1984, details of Higgenbottom’s plan were beginning to circulate through the user community. He had formed a legal corporation called Trinity Magnum Company and was proposing to sell the computers under the TimeStar name through a nationwide chain of franchise stores called “The Little Computer Store.” The Synchro-Sette newsletter reported that aftermarket software and hardware companies were being contacted, with over 48 expressing interest. The vision was ambitious: customers could enter a store and purchase both hardware and software on the spot, with software duplication done on location and consumers able to examine programs on the computer before purchase.
Higgenbottom contacted some 57 Timex/Sinclair third-party vendors who had stuck it out after Timex’s departure and asked for pledges in support of his proposal. He devised what he described as “a very detailed plan” for how he would sell the computers, then went back to Timex with his research and information. By May 1984, the Timelinez newsletter reported that the venture combined some 47 companies into a publicly held subsidiary of Trinity Magnum, with plans for individual investors and user groups to obtain stock in Trinity Magnum and limited partnerships in The Little Computer Store.
The community’s response oscillated between hope and skepticism. In June 1984, T-S Horizons noted that the rumor had evolved past the “pure rumor stage” and into the “within the realm of possibility stage.” The newsletter planned to publish more information, possibly an interview, and ended with an encouraging “Keep your fingers crossed!” But the same month, the Syntax newsletter reported a different story: “Timex says no proposal has been received to take over retail sales of their computers.”
A Moment of Validation
Then came a breakthrough that lent credibility to Higgenbottom’s efforts. On July 16, 1984, InfoWorld published an article titled “Born-Again Timex” that confirmed negotiations were underway. Higgenbottom told the magazine: “The Timex/Sinclair computer is about to be born again.” More significantly, Timex officials confirmed they were at least open to discussions. Doug Smith, manager of product planning at Timex, stated: “If we had not been interested, we would not be talking to him.”
Higgenbottom’s vision had grown more detailed. He told InfoWorld he wanted to see 1,000 Little Computer Stores nationwide selling only Timex/Sinclair hardware and accessories. He claimed 55 small companies were interested in investing in the TimeStar project and expected to have a business agreement finalized within weeks. He saw a market “never conceived by Timex” and was convinced that the existing grassroots network of Timex/Sinclair fans could continue to support it.
Not everyone shared this optimism. Carl Landau, head of a Timex/Sinclair users’ group in Chicago, captured the community’s divided sentiments perfectly: “This is either the fraud of 1984, or proof that the great American dream is still possible.”
The Grand Vision
By early 1985, Higgenbottom had refined his proposal into something truly ambitious. In a lengthy interview with Time Designs Magazine, he laid out plans that went far beyond simply rebranding the existing computers. The TimeStar would be “our company’s over-all generic computer,” he explained, with four different models all based on the 2068. One would be an entry-level business computer called the TimePro, featuring a professional keyboard with 96 keys including 15 function keys. “A semi-colon would be where it is supposed to be,” he noted, a pointed reference to one of the TS 2068’s ergonomic quirks. All models would use the extended Sinclair BASIC familiar to 2068 users and retain the one-touch keyword entry system.
Each Little Computer Store would feature 2,000 to 3,000 software titles. The stores would be specially licensed to reproduce software on-site in multiple formats: cassette, disk, wafer, or ROM cartridge. This approach would greatly reduce inventory costs while providing customers with immediate access to a vast library. Sophisticated programming languages like Forth, C, and Pascal would be offered on ROM cartridges, as would CP/M software.
Perhaps most intriguingly, Higgenbottom claimed that an interface existed that would allow the TimeStar to run Commodore software using Commodore disk drives. “Most people are afraid to buy a computer because it might become obsolete,” he told Time Designs Magazine. “With what we are proposing for the TimeStar…it will be known as the timeless little computer.”
The scope of his vision matched its audacity. He had assembled what he described as “some of the best experts in all the areas—lawyers, programmers, engineers, marketing specialists.” He told the magazine that no one had ever been able to spend more than ten minutes with him discussing the proposals and shoot his ideas down. “I’m not afraid of pot shots,” he declared. The interviewer confessed that after spending well over an hour on the phone with Higgenbottom, listening to all the details, “he soon had even me believing.”
The Reality of Numbers
But beneath the enthusiastic plans lay a sobering reality: Higgenbottom needed to raise nearly $22 million. This amount included the possible acquisition of a floppy disk drive company in California along with its Singapore manufacturing facility. He had prepared a 200-page document detailing his plans to support his loan request. A lending group was reviewing the financing. There was talk of a tentative closing date of December 31, 1984, which was subsequently extended.
By September 1984, Syntax reported that Timex and Higgenbottom had exchanged preliminary letters “to decide the terms on which they may want to talk,” but that no actual negotiations were taking place. The field remained open, but progress seemed elusive.
The challenges extended beyond mere financing. As Higgenbottom would later note, the obstacles weren’t just about money—they were also about navigating corporate bureaucracy. In one conversation, an unnamed person at Timex told him that if he had only brought his information on support and marketing plans a couple of weeks before Timex’s announcement to exit the computer market, they probably would have reconsidered. But Timex had lost money on their computer venture, and corporate wounds heal slowly.
Hope and Criticism
By December 1984, T-S Horizons announced that it appeared Higgenbottom had secured “a very substantial investment.” The newsletter was excited enough to make a last-minute announcement about the development. But the celebration proved premature: the original investor reneged, and Higgenbottom was forced to seek other backers. By April 1985, there was talk of another big investor and expectations of closing a deal soon, possibly within a week.
The drawn-out saga began to generate criticism within the community. Some publications questioned whether newsletters like T-S Horizons were being “overoptimistic” about Higgenbottom’s chances. One editorial took issue with announcements that success appeared imminent, especially after Timex confirmed they had made no firm commitments. T-S Horizons defended its coverage vigorously, pointing out that critics should understand Timex was unlikely to verify anything until money was on the table and papers were signed. They argued that passing along information as they received it wasn’t rumor-mongering—it was journalism.
The newsletter’s editor captured the community’s conflicted feelings about Higgenbottom’s crusade: “We fear that if Dave is unable to pull it off he will be remembered by many as the man who failed to bring back the Timex computer, rather than the only person who tried to save a fine product and its users despite early prophecies of failure and criticism from those who should have supported him.”
The Cost of Dreaming
Behind the business negotiations and financing challenges was a personal toll that rarely made it into the newsletters. Higgenbottom’s phone bill alone for 1984 exceeded the annual salary of at least one newsletter editor. The project had been, as Time Designs Magazine noted, “both time consuming and financially draining.” Yet when asked what he hoped would occur in the coming weeks, his answer remained simple and focused: “I want to get my loan!”
Throughout the ordeal, Higgenbottom maintained that even if his only accomplishment was keeping interest in Timex/Sinclair computers alive after Timex’s announcement, it would have been worth it. He had demonstrated both the fervor of an entrepreneur—the same intensity he had shown years earlier trying to sell electric car designs while dressed in a three-piece suit—and the persistence of a true believer.
When asked if anyone had ever called him “mad,” Higgenbottom replied that “crazy is probably the better word. I get used to that.” But he also noted something telling: no one who spent more than ten minutes with him discussing his proposals had been able to shoot his ideas down.
What Might Have Been
The TimeStar never materialized. The Little Computer Stores never opened their doors. The $22 million never landed in Higgenbottom’s bank account, and Timex never signed over the rights to manufacture and market their discontinued computer line. By late 1985, the window of opportunity had closed. User groups continued to meet and newsletters continued to publish, but they did so knowing that no white knight was coming to restore the platform to commercial viability.
In retrospect, Higgenbottom’s attempt reveals several truths about the Timex/Sinclair story. First, it demonstrated the depth of commitment within the user community—so much so that a body shop owner with no computer industry experience believed he could build a business around a discontinued product line. Second, it showed that even in 1984-85, as the industry was consolidating around IBM PC compatibles and the Apple II, there remained a belief that an alternative computing ecosystem could survive on enthusiasm and grassroots support alone.
Perhaps most poignantly, the episode illustrated the fundamental disconnect between community passion and business reality. Higgenbottom’s vision of franchise stores staffed by enthusiastic owner-operators, of software copied on-site, of a “timeless little computer” that could run Commodore software and offer professional features at entry-level prices—all of it rested on the assumption that dedication could overcome market forces. The Timex/Sinclair community certainly had the dedication. What it lacked was the $22 million, and in the computer industry of the mid-1980s, dedication without capital was merely a beautiful dream.
When T-S Horizons worried in April 1985 that Higgenbottom might be remembered as “the man who failed to bring back the Timex computer,” they were also making an implicit argument: he should be remembered as the only person who tried. In the end, both things were true. David Higgenbottom failed, but he failed while trying to do something that no one else even attempted—to take a discontinued, orphaned computer line and transform it into a thriving business through sheer force of will and entrepreneurial vision.
For a year and a half, his quest gave the community something it desperately needed: hope. The newsletters tracked his progress, users debated his chances, and third-party vendors signed on to support him. Even the skeptics, like Carl Landau, couldn’t dismiss the possibility entirely. In an ecosystem abandoned by its creator, where users had grown accustomed to making do with whatever they could cobble together, the idea that someone cared enough to risk everything was itself a kind of validation.
The Timex/Sinclair computers would continue to have their devoted following for years to come, long after Higgenbottom’s bid failed and the newsletters ceased publication. But they would do so as hobbyists and enthusiasts, not as participants in a commercial marketplace. The comet had passed its perihelion, and no amount of determination could reverse its trajectory back toward the sun. All that remained was for the amateur astronomers to continue tracking it as it sailed into the outer darkness, growing dimmer with each passing year—but never quite forgotten.
David Higginbottom passed away in 2019.