The Hemi is dead. The Challenger and the Camaro as we know them are gone for good. Only the seemingly eternal Mustang remains. I think we can call the second golden age of American performance as being officially over, and what comes next is uncertain. It’s time to take stock of an automotive epoch that lasted over three times as long as the original, and produced cars that were arguably much better. In the future, the best of these twenty-first century muscle cars may even be more collectible. Does that sound like heresy? Maybe, but hear me out on this.

The original golden age of American muscle lasted just a decade or so, give or take, depending on what you believe was the first muscle car.  It came to a crashing halt around 1974 with the multipronged assault of rising insurance rates, soaring gas prices, fuel shortages, and ever-tightening emission regulations. What followed the muscle car years has been dubbed “The Malaise Era” by journalists. It too lasted about a decade, and it took yet another generation before the next golden age of American performance cars arrived. But this one greater than the first, not just in acceleration and handling numbers but in the diversity and quality of the cars. Here are a few to try on for size:

The last manual V-8 performance sedans

As is so often the case, the apex of an epoch comes just before the end. Just as the T-Rex was around for the explosive end of the dinosaurs, the Cadillac CT5-V Blackwing is here to see out the second golden age of American automotive performance as the industry moves towards electrification and away from driver-focused fun like manual transmissions and high-displacement V-8s. The Cadillac is perhaps the greatest American sedan of the modern era, and given the endangered status of sedans in general, it’s likely to go down as the greatest of all time. With a 668 hp supercharged V-8, polished handling, and an available 6-speed manual (the take-rate for which has been around 50 percent). Not even out of production, the CT5-V Blackwing is already being viewed as semi-collectible. If the history of its GM super sedan predecessors is any indicator, these cars aren’t likely to get any cheaper in the future.

Its predecessors in super sedandom were of course the Chevrolet SS and the Pontiac G8 GXP. Yes, technically these were products of GM Australia’s Holden division, but in execution, powertrain and conception, they were thoroughly American-inspired. For years, American brands had tried and failed to build a credible sport sedan to tackle the Europeans, but with this pair GM finally succeeded in building what was essentially an American take on BMW’s beloved E39 M5, minus the crippling costs of ownership, and also with an available manual transmission. They never seemed to depreciate significantly once they became used cars, and today it takes around $50,000 to secure a manual transmission version of either one. After cars like the CT5-V Blackwing inevitably go extinct, it’s unlikely they’ll get any cheaper.

The most powerful muscle car, ever

This second golden age of American muscle gave birth to something muscle car fans of the 1960s couldn’t conceive of even in their wildest nitromethane fume-fueled fever dreams—The 2023 Dodge Challenger Demon 170.

Superbird, Schmooperbird, this 1025-hp rolling affront to mundanity had what Dodge billed as “Holy $#!&” level performance: 0-60 in 1.66 seconds (which incidentally subjected the driver to 2.004G) and history’s first production 8-second muscle car in the quarter-mile (8.91 seconds ET at 151.17 mph). Holy $#!&”, indeed. And it is likely destined to be the fastest road-going muscle car with the classic big front-engine V-8 and rear-wheel drive formula. Because they’re likely to be among the most sought after muscle cars of the current golden age, even the eye-popping $150,000 to $200,000 asking prices of today may seem like an incredible buy in the future.

The best handling (and braking) muscle cars

Muscle cars from the 1960s gained a reputation as being one-trick ponies. Straight-line acceleration is where they excelled, and they didn’t do much else. There were exceptions, of course—the 1969 SS and Z/28 Camaros with four-wheel discs both handled and stopped well, for example. But the latest crop of muscle cars presents an embarrassment of riches from a braking and handling standpoint. The Mustang Shelby GT350R and Camaro SS 1LE were among the best. The headline to Car and Driver’s 2017 test of the latter said it all—”Born to run. And turn. And stop.” The myth of the one-dimensional muscle car was shattered. Brembo 6-piston calipers and GM’s FE4 suspension with Magnetic Ride Control gave it about 1.11G of grip, matching that of a Ferrari 488 GTB. It really was a supercar for everyman. Both the Shelby and the Chevy are phenomenal cars. It really comes down to whether your allegiance lies with the blue oval or the bowtie.

Do the muscle cars of this current, second golden age have the same charm and sense of nostalgia as those of the 1960s? No, of course not. But give them time. Production numbers also tended to be higher, and as the second golden age cars get older, their thoroughly digital nature will likely present greater serviceability issues. But in terms of build quality, performance, and handling, they’re light years removed from their predecessors. Automotive nostalgia also grows with time. And since it’s a virtual certainty that there won’t be another V8/ICE-powered muscle car revival, their end-of-an-era status makes a powerful case for collectability in the not-very-distant future.

***

Check out the Hagerty Media homepage so you don’t miss a single story, or better yet, bookmark it. To get our best stories delivered right to your inbox, subscribe to our newsletters.

The post The Second Golden Age of Muscle Is Over, and It Was Better Than the First appeared first on Hagerty Media.

Subaru began selling four-wheel-drive-equipped Leone station wagons in the United States as 1975 models, and each passing year after that saw more American car shoppers deciding that they wanted cars—not trucks, cars—with power going to all four wheels. Toyota got into that game with the Tercel 4WD wagon, sold here for the 1983 through 1988 model years, and I’ve found one of those cars in its final parking space in Denver.

The very affordable Tercel first went on sale in the United States as a 1980 model, badged as the Corolla Tercel at first (in order to take advantage of the name recognition for the unrelated Corolla, which had been a strong seller since its American debut in 1966).

The original Tercel had an interesting powertrain layout, with a longitudinally-mounted engine driving the front wheels via a V-drive-style transmission that sent power to a differential assembly mounted below the engine. This resulted in an awkward-looking high hood but also meant that sending power to a rear drive axle was just a matter of adding a rear-facing output shaft to the transmission.

Making a four-wheel-drive Tercel wasn’t difficult with that rig plus a few off-the-shelf parts, and Toyota decided to add a wagon version of the Tercel at the same time. This was the Sprinter Carib, which debuted in Japan as a 1982 model. The Tercel 4WD Wagon (as it was known in North America) hit American Toyota showrooms as a 1983 model.

A front-wheel-drive version of the Tercel Wagon was also available in the United States, though not in Japan; most of the Tercel Wagons I find during my junkyard travels are four-wheel-drive versions.

This car has four-wheel-drive, not all-wheel-drive (as we understand the terms today), which means that the driver had to manually select front-wheel-drive for use on dry pavement. Failure to do so would result in damage to the tires or worse. American Motors began selling the all-wheel-drive Eagle as a 1980 model, with Audi following a year later with its Quattro AWD system, while Toyota didn’t begin selling true AWD cars in the United States until its All-Trac system debuted in the 1988 model year.

The Tercel 4WD Wagon sold very well in snowy regions of North America, despite strong competition from Subaru as well as from the 4WD-equipped wagons offered by Honda, Nissan, and Mitsubishi.

This one is a top-of-the-Tercel-range SR5 model with just about every possible option. While the base 1986 Tercel FWD hatchback started at a miserly $5448 ($15,586 in today’s dollars), the MSRP for a 1986 Tercel SR5 4WD wagon was $8898 ($25,456 after inflation).

One of the coolest features of the SR5 version of the ’86 Tercel 4WD Wagon was the six-speed manual transmission, with its “Extra Low” gear. If you’re a Tercel 4WD Wagon enthusiast (many are), this is the transmission you want for your car!

The SR5’s plaid seat upholstery looked great, as an added bonus.

These cars were reasonably capable off-road, though the lack of power made them quite slow on any surface. This is a 1.5-liter 3A-C SOHC straight-four, rated at 62 horsepower and 76 pound-feet (probably more like 55 horsepower at Denver’s elevation).

The curb weight of this car was a wispy 2290 pounds and so it wasn’t nearly as pokey as, say, a Rabbit Diesel, but I’ve owned several 1983-1988 Tercel Wagons and I can say from personal experience that they require a great deal of patience on freeway on-ramps.

I can also say from experience that the Tercel Wagon obliterates every one of its anywhere-near-similarly-priced competitors in the reliability and build-quality departments. This one made it to a pretty good 232,503 miles during its career, and I’ve found a junkyard ’88 with well over 400,000 miles on its odometer.

The air conditioning added $655 to the price tag, or $1874 in today’s dollars. This one has an aftermarket radio, but SR5 4WD Wagon buyers for 1986 got a pretty decent AM/FM radio with four speakers as standard equipment. If you wanted to play cassettes, that was $186 more ($532 now).

The Tercel went to a third generation during the 1988 model year (both the second- and third-generation Tercels were sold in the United States as 1988 models), becoming a cousin of the Japanese-market Starlet and getting an ordinary engine orientation in the process. The 4WD Wagon went away, to be replaced by the Corolla All-Trac Wagon. The 1996 Tercel ended up being the last new car available in the United States with a four-speed manual transmission, by the way.

These cars make fun projects today, though finding rust-free examples can be a challenge.

***

Check out the Hagerty Media homepage so you don’t miss a single story, or better yet, bookmark it. To get our best stories delivered right to your inbox, subscribe to our newsletters.

The post Final Parking Space: 1986 Toyota Tercel SR5 4WD Wagon appeared first on Hagerty Media.

The weekend before Memorial Day, I took my customary road trip down to “The Vintage” in Asheville, North Carolina. This is the biggest vintage BMW event on the East Coast, with 600 cars in the village of Hot Springs nestled in the mountains north of the city, and the event hotel in Asheville is a non-stop, three-day hoopla where walking round the parking lot is as much fun as the official event itself. I’d missed it last year due to a family health issue, so I was looking forward to returning.

In addition, I decided to drive Hampton, my 49,000-mile survivor BMW 2002. I’ve written quite a bit about Hampton in these pages, describing how I’d bought the car from its original owner in 2019, how I revived it while taking care not to disturb its remarkable originality, how it didn’t sell on Bring a Trailer because people may say that they love survivor cars but what brings the money are shiny powder-coated vapor-honed mirages, and how I gradually warmed to the car’s survivor vibe. It’s not a quick 2002 like my 2002tii, but it’s an incredibly solid car, virtually free of the usual thunks, klunks, and rattles that haunt 50-year-old vehicles.

Even though it appeared that I would be keeping the car, the 50,000-mile rollover strongly affected how I used it. I know, it was stupid; it’s not like it was some ultra-low-mileage vehicle. It was already a survivor car, not some Cosmoline-coated hangar queen, but I still felt that the mileage was something to be hoarded like Bitcoin or virginity or something equally silly. But between one road trip to Vermont a few years ago and the required back-and-forth to the Monson warehouse on the MA/CT border where I store cars, the mileage had crept to 49,900. I had this epiphany: Do you want it to roll over on the way out to Monson, or do you want it to happen when you’re doing something big and fun?

So big and fun it was. Hampton was going to The Vintage. I took it for a shakedown drive, found a sticky front brake caliper, replaced it, drove it again, and by the time I got back, I was within 28 miles of the big rollover.

Then something unexpected happened. Two days before departure, one of my two road-trip companions called me saying that his BMW 2002 had problems and couldn’t make the trip. I thought about how I have these cars in the Monson warehouse gathering dust, and offered him my ’73 BMW Bavaria. After all, the Bavaria ran fine when I used it a few years ago for a mini-road trip to upstate New York to be used in a movie, and in my recent piece about how all my cars seemed to be rising in revolt, the only issues with the Bavaria were a dead battery from sitting and low-rpm buffeting from imperfectly synchronized Webers.

However, something occurred to me. I’m a big proponent of replacing convention mechanical ignition (points and condenser) with an electronic triggering unit such as a Pertronix (you can read about the debate here). The main reasons are A: points can wear down and close up, causing the car to die, and B: the quality of new points and condensers is absolute garbage these days. And yet I was about to head off on a 2,000-mile round trip in my only two vintage cars still running points. Why? Well, when I was trying to sell Hampton, I wanted to keep it original, and now there wasn’t time to order a Pertronix. With the Bavaria, after its first trip to The Vintage in 2014, I tried installing Pertronix, but for reasons unknown, the car didn’t want to rev over 4000 rpm with it installed, and I never figured out why (I’ve never had this happen on any other car), so I reversed back to points. So both of these cars were not only running points, but were still running the points that were in them when I bought them. (Spoiler alert: Point gap would figure prominently in repairs on this road trip, though not in the way I expected.)

So early on a Wednesday morning, my two companions met me at the Monson warehouse. We put a charged battery in the Bavaria and checked the fluids, then I checked the point gap in both cars with a dwell meter and adjusted it. Then we headed south for Asheville.

Oh, Hampton’s big mileage rollover? It happened 30 minutes into the trip. Over and done. I did my best impression of Paul McCartney singing “Let Me Roll It.” She’s a road trip car now.

We made it to the night’s destination Winchester, Virginia, a little over halfway, without incident. Hampton seemed genuinely happy to be free of its cloistered stored-in-a-barn-in-the-Hamptons-for-10-years-then-treated-like-a-wallflower existence.

When we were about to go to dinner, I got a phone call from a friend—professional vintage BMW mechanic Paul Wegweiser. He said that his friend and customer Mike was about 30 minutes south of me with a dead 2002, and asked if I could help. I called Mike and learned that he and the car were safe in a gas station parking lot with several hotels within walking distance. I said that it made the most sense for me to look at the car in the morning (daylight, it’s on my way to Asheville, auto parts stores are open, etc).

So the following morning I found Mike and his 2002. I’ve written over and over about the common things to strand a vintage car on a road trip (ignition, fuel delivery, charging, cooling, belts, and to a lesser extent clutch hydraulics). A car that goes from driving to dead is highly likely to be a victim of one of the first two. You can give a blast of starting fluid down the carb throat to test which it is (if doesn’t start, it’s ignition, but if it starts and runs for a few seconds, it’s fuel delivery), but for some reason I went right for the points—I yanked off the distributor cap and watched them while Mike cranked the engine. They clearly weren’t opening.

Setting the point gap is usually easy, as points usually have a notch that sits between two little bumps on the distributor plate that allows you to put a screwdriver in the notch and lever it against one of the bumps to increase or decrease the gap. However, the nylon block on these points was so badly worn that the slot wasn’t between the two bumps, and they didn’t really fit right on the plate. Plus, these were the unusual left-opening points used on 2002s with vacuum-retard distributors. I didn’t have a spare set of these with me, and the odds of any AutoZone having them was zero. It took quite a bit of fettling to get the point gap dialed in. When it was, Mike tried starting the car. The carb let out such a loud belch-and-backfire that it startled us all. I theorized that Mike had probably flooded it trying to get it to start with closed points. Eventually it started and idled, and a test drive verified that the car appeared happy. Mike joined our caravan, and we made it down to Asheville without further ignition-related issues.

It was a wonderful event. The organizers of The Vintage refer to it as “a gathering, not a car show.” It’s not a concours. There are no trophies. No one “wins” anything. While there certainly are some lovely restored high-dollar vintage BMWs there, it’s far more about shared passion and enthusiasm irrespective of budget. It’s the kind of event where, on the drive down or in the parking lot, if you need a part or expertise because your car is broken, there are hundreds of people who have your back, and that is a beautiful thing. My having helped Mike was part of the spirit that naturally flows out of the event.

There’s also a long history of my friend Paul Wegweiser pranking me at The Vintage. One year, he bombed my Bavaria with yellow chicken feathers that I’m still finding inside the car. Another year, he actually zip-tied burned-out wires under the dash of my 2002 and a burned-out fan motor under the front seat so I’d smell it on the drive home and wonder where the electrical fire is. He has threatened to put zip-ties on my driveshaft and half-axles so he can read about me going crazy trying to find the source of the noise. However, this year, he said that, since Hampton is such a lovely survivor example, he wasn’t going to screw with it. Like an idiot, I believed him.

The drive home hit a bump on our first stop in southern Virginia. Mike’s car had the good fortune of dying literally as we were heading into a gas station parking lot. Again, it was due to the points having closed up, but this time things were worse—the inside of the distributor cap was coated with soot, the points were noticeably more pitted than before, and I found that the thin braided wire grounding the distributor plate to its body had detached from its connector. And, to add insult to injury, we appeared to be parked near a leaking sewage line or septic tank.

My theory was that the detached ground strap was causing a much stronger spark across the points, which in turn caused both the pitting as well as the soot on the inside of the cap. I got everything buttoned back up, and we continued heading north. I rechecked the distributor on Mike’s car whenever we stopped, and it appeared to be soot-free with the point gap holding stable. One of my travel companions noted that another service area was also, uh, fragrant, but we were parked next to a drainage culvert at the time.

We arrived that night in Chambersburg, Pennsylvania. While we were unloading our bags from our cars, someone noted that the smell of Virginia rest stops appeared to have followed us. While we were waiting in line to check into the hotel, the red light went on in my head: It was my “friend” Paul. After all, someone who zip-tied burned wiring into my car certainly wasn’t above putting something foul-smelling into my BMW. After I checked in, I went back outside and did the nose test under the hood, along the rocker panels, and at the tailpipe, but nothing jumped out at me. I thought that maybe, whatever he’d done, it was heat-activated. He’s a clever guy.

Before we headed off in the morning, I re-checked Mike’s car. I pulled off the distributor cap and was relieved to see both the absence of soot and that my repair of the little ground strap was holding.

Then I borrowed his key and went to start the car so I could check the dwell. It clicked but didn’t start. I pulled out my voltmeter and measured the battery voltage. It read 13.1 volts. Standard resting voltage of a fully-charged battery is 12.6 volts, so it had plenty of voltage.

To make testing easier and eliminate the car’s ignition switch as the source of the problem, I connected a jumper wire to the starter solenoid. I touched the other end of the jumper to battery positive. Again, click but no start.

The no-start decision tree is pretty easy to follow and usually quite definitive. This was beginning to look like a bad starter motor. Pulling the starter isn’t a 10-minute job like the alternator, and we didn’t have a spare one with us anyway, so I wanted to be sure. I was about to swing my car in front of Mike’s to jump it when one of my other companions said he had a new fully-charged lithium jump pack. We hooked it up, it buzzed, and still… click, but no start. Just in case there was a bad connection in Mike’s battery cables, I used my jumper cables to connect the battery directly to the starter. It made no difference. And Mike’s car is an automatic, so there was no way to push-start it.

I lit the Hack beacon and posted a the “2002 down, 2002 needs starter motor” message on the Facebook page for The Vintage, then began removing the starter. With it out, I did the on-the-asphalt test of connecting it directly to the battery. It did spin, but the spin-up time seemed unusually long. Two people quickly answered the post, one of whom had two used 2002 starters at his repair shop just 20 minutes north. He said that we’d actually met once in the parking lot of a Sheetz convenience store nearby. When I got home after the trip, I looked through my old trip photos to The Vintage and found pics of the meeting. Incredibly, it was 10 years almost to the day, and I was driving the same Bavaria.

I tested both used starters by jumping them with Mike’s car’s battery. They both seemed to spin up a bit slowly, but one was obviously faster than the other. Installation, however, was a bear. The solenoid on the replacement starter was fatter than on the original one, and it couldn’t get past the bracket for the kick-down cable for the automatic transmission. I had to loosen the bracket to move it out of the way. It was the kind of bent-over pulling-up-wrenches work that angers up my aging back, but I seem congenitally unable to say “Good luck with AAA” when there’s a problem I can diagnose and fix.

Finally, with one of the starter’s bolts holding it snug enough to the bell housing to verify the repair, I reconnected the battery cables and again touched the jumper wire to battery positive.

Click, but no crank.

No. NO. Not possible.

My first thought was that the engine was seized or otherwise prevented from turning. I chocked a rear wheel with one of the other starter motors, had Mike put it in neutral, and manually rotated the engine (it’s easy to do this on a BMW 2002 by just grabbing the cooling fan and leaning on the belt with the heel of your hand). It rotated easily.

Stumped, I jumped in my car and swung it nose-to-nose with Mike’s to jump it. Why? Don’t know. Just to try something, I guess.

It spun instantly.

Wait, what?

As I put the car back together, I began to accept the idea that I’d gotten the diagnosis wrong. It probably never needed a starter motor. If it started with a jump, the problem was likely the battery. Just because the battery had more than the necessary 12.6 volts, that doesn’t mean that it was able to deliver the cranking amperage to spin the engine. I hadn’t suspected the battery since it looked new (Mike said he’d installed it when he bought the car last year). But it was a mystery why it didn’t start with my friend’s jump pack.

With the starter fully secured and the ignition switch reconnected, the started instantly with a jump and a twist of the key. I re-checked the point gap using the dwell meter, and it was still fine. I verified with my voltmeter that, with the engine idling, there was about 13.5 volts at the battery, indicating that the alternator was charging it. Mike and I said our goodbyes as he was peeling off to drive home to Pittsburgh, about 250 miles. I advised that, as long as he didn’t shut it off the car, he’d likely be fine.

Does anyone get it? Anyone see what I missed? I’ll give you a hint: It’s as plain as the nose on your face.

A few hours later, this text appeared on my phone: “Update! The good news: I am safe at a rest stop off the turnpike. Bad news: I am kaput! Car puttered out and battery is fried. Smoking and a little stuff coming out. I am 96 miles from home, which puts me within the free 100-mile tow! P.S. I think that [expletive deleted] smell was ME!”

Oh. My. God.

The smell! I can’t believe I missed this.

An old-school voltage regulator is designed to to rapidly open and close (not unlike ignition points), bringing the alternator in and out of the charging circuit so that the average voltage to the battery with the engine running is about 13.5 to 14.2 volts. When a regulator fails, it can fail in two ways. They usual “fail open,” which means they never bring the alternator into the charging circuit, so the battery runs down and eventually the car dies (or won’t start). But if they “fail closed,” they cause the alternator to always feed the so-called full-field voltage (about 17 volts) to the battery. This over-charging boils the sulfuric acid in the battery and produces gaseous sulphur which smells like rotten eggs. THAT’s what we all were smelling. It wasn’t sewage. It was the battery being fried.

If someone had said “I smell sulphur,” or “I smell rotten eggs,” my voltage-regulator-stuck-closed neuron would’ve fired, but I missed it. This is why the car’s resting battery voltage read 13.1 volts instead of 12.6 (I can’t believe I missed this one too). And, most important, this is why the battery wouldn’t crank the starter in the car—it was ruined. It’s also why, when removed, the starter was slow to spin up. Had I dropped my own battery in Mike’s car, or used my battery to bench-test his starter, it would’ve spun fine. It was also likely a contributor to why the points were pitting and the distributor cap was coated with soot.

I think that part of the reason I got it wrong was that it was just a few months ago that I wrote about buying a new battery for Hampton when the problem turned out to be a bad starter motor, but I felt like an absolute idiot. The entire episode could’ve been avoided had I simply jump-started the car like anyone who doesn’t pretend to be a know-it-all would’ve done, and if, once it was running, I checked the battery with a voltmeter both while the engine was idling and while it was revved up. I would’ve seen the over-voltage. I had a spare regulator in my trunk. That and a trip to an auto parts store for a battery… it would’ve been so easy.

I still, though, didn’t understand why the car didn’t start off my friend’s lithium jump pack.

A day after we got home, my friend messaged me:

“So I figured out why the starter didn’t crank with the jump pack. It’s a ‘smart’ jump pack that sensed that the battery was at 13.1 volts. That’s the buzzing we heard when you hooked it up. Per the instructions: ‘HOMPOW [brand] car jump starter with intelligent clamps provides protection against over-charging, over-discharging, surge voltage, overload, over-voltage, short-circuit, reverse polarity, and high-temperature protection, making your devices jump faster in a safe way.’”

Oh, my two cars, with their decades-old points? Flawless. Absolutely flawless.

When you blow a diagnosis, all you can do is learn the lesson, and hope that the consequence of being wrong isn’t too painful in time, effort, money, and the degree to which you’ve caused yourself or someone else a pain in the butt. At least this one made for a good story, and two good arrows in the diagnostic quiver.

***

Rob’s latest book, The Best Of The Hack Mechanic: 35 years of hacks, kluges, and assorted automotive mayhem is available on Amazon here. His other seven books are available here on Amazon, or you can order personally-inscribed copies from Rob’s website, www.robsiegel.com.

Check out the Hagerty Media homepage so you don’t miss a single story, or better yet, bookmark it. To get our best stories delivered right to your inbox, subscribe to our newsletters.

The post Blowing a Diagnosis on a Road Trip appeared first on Hagerty Media.

If you’ve been reading my columns long enough, you’ll know I’m a big fan of the full-size, “Nimitz Class” cars GM built from 1971 to ’76, from Caprices to Delta 88 Royales to Fleetwood Talismans. They were the last GM hardtops, and the last GM full-sizers that were available in every basic body style: coupe, sedan, convertible, and station wagon.

Buicks were still pretty big in 1976—in fact, this was last call for truly unapologetic room and length. In 1977 all the big Buicks—indeed, all big GM cars—would be downsized to tidier dimensions, except for the Olds Toronado and Cadillac Eldorado, who had to wait until the 1979 model year.

There were three versions of Electra for 1976: The Electra 225, the Electra Limited, and the super plush Electra Park Avenue, the last of which had a center console—though the transmission lever was still mounted on the steering column. The Park Avenue was available as a sedan only.

I have seen two very nice Park Avenues too, and will be writing at least one of them up sometime, but that’s for another day!

Technically, the Limited was also an Electra 225, though it was not badged as such. The lowest priced Electra was the 225 coupe, at $6367. GM built 18,442. Limited coupes started at $6689 and were more popular, to the tune of 28,395 units sold.

Most popular Electra of all was the Limited four-door hardtop, with 51,067 cars built at a starting price of $6852. For comparison, the priciest ’76 LeSabre was the Custom four-door hardtop, at $5166. LeSabres looked more like their flossier Electra brethren this year as well, adding the quad rectangular lights the Electras first gained in 1975.

As one would expect, there were plenty of standard features on the Electras, including the 455-cubic-inch V-8, Turbo Hydra-matic automatic transmission, power front disc/rear drum brakes, High Energy ignition, power windows, and Custom seat and shoulder belts. The Limited added a two-way power seat, a 60/40 divided front seat upholstered in cloth, a quartz crystal digital clock, and of course the much more luxurious seats and door panels. The 225 interior was nice too, but it was a bit plain in comparison.

And there were still many optional extras, as you’d expect of Detroit in the ’70s. Such as the Landau roof seen on our featured example. You could also get steel-belted whitewall tires (steel-belted blackwalls were standard), automatic level control, a four-note horn (these were loud and well worth the extra charge), carpet savers, a litter container, power antenna, automatic climate control, power door locks, power trunk release, and more.

The seats, of course, were really plush. While they perhaps were not as scientifically fashioned as Volvo’s famous orthopedically designed chairs (I can speak to those seats too, as a former Volvo owner) they were definitely cushy. It was the kind of car that was pretty much like driving around in your living room.

And if you were on a business trip to Omaha and the Holidome was full up for the night, the Limited’s seats made for rather nice first-class sleeping quarters—in a pinch!

I saw our featured car at the annual car show held indoors each January in downtown Rock Island, Illinois. I had seen the car before a couple of times, but hadn’t gotten any really good pictures. It was interesting, of course, due to its color. I recall seeing it the previous summer and thinking if it wasn’t the original color, the paint was done very well.

Well as it turns out, the car came out of the factory wearing this color. I did recognize the color, but believe it was limited to the smaller Buicks like the Skyhawk (Buick’s version of the Chevrolet Monza 2+2) and Skylark coupe, sedan, and hatchback. But I was fairly certain it was not available on the LeSabre/Electra/Estate Wagon.

Shortly before I began this column, I saw the car advertised on my local Marketplace: “All original 76 Electra Limited. 2 door, 455/400. 37K original miles. Factory optioned “Firecracker Orange” paint only offered in 76.” So the car apparently was special-ordered in this color. Of course, back then, you could do such things. Today, not so much!

***

Check out the Hagerty Media homepage so you don’t miss a single story, or better yet, bookmark it. To get our best stories delivered right to your inbox, subscribe to our newsletters.

The post 1976 Buick Electra Limited Coupe: Sun-Kissed Yacht appeared first on Hagerty Media.

I’ve been measuring the progress of the rebuilds for the pair of Honda XR250R engines on my home workbench in fractions of an inch. It may sound like the whole situation is going nowhere fast, but the project is going quite quickly: After fitting and sizing new valve guides into the cleaned and prepared cylinder heads, it’s time to take a seat—or eight.

For me, the cylinder head of the Honda XR250R is the gift that keeps on giving. Back in 2020 I brought home an absolute piece of junk that immediately dropped a valve and made a paperweight of the piston. Back then my goal was simply to have a running motorcycle, so the engine got a new piston, along with a a new valve and some fresh gaskets. I didn’t know what I didn’t know, so I shoved that new valve into place and crossed my fingers that the engine would work properly. Somehow, it did.

The further I get from that project, the clearer it becomes that the engine ran again because of pure luck.

The two engines on my bench now are a far cry from that project. Four years on, I understand the importance of the smallest aspects of an engine and know the risks that come with throwing an engine together with half used parts, half new parts, and zero real preparation. This pair of cylinder heads has taught me to do things the right way, to understand not only what I am doing but the proper way to do it, and which tools to use along the way. With a fresh set of valves sitting on the workbench, my most recent job was to mate each set of four valves to their seats: four ring-shaped surfaces in the hardened metal of each cylinder head.

The second stroke in the four-stroke cycle is often underappreciated. So much of the power potential in an engine comes from compressing the fuel and air mixture before burning it. Leaky valves bleed off that compression, and leaks are often due to bad valve seats. When functioning properly, seats help limit wear and tear on the valves, which open and close thousands of times per minute.

The tools for cutting valve seats can be relatively affordable all the way to wallet-draining. I elected to go on the more affordable end of the price spectrum and picked up a kit from Neway Manufacturing. After trying it out by refreshing a very poorly running engine, I was impressed with how simple the three cutters made the process of cutting the perfect valve seat: Install the pilot into the valve guide with a light twist, dab a bit of oil onto the pilot to reduce friction, slide on the first cutter, use the T-handle to rotate the cutter clockwise just a few turns, slide the cutter off and check the work.

I quickly developed a feel for how much material was removed by each clockwise rotation of the adjustable carbide cutters. Setup took seconds, then it was two quick passes with the 60-degree and 30-degree angle cutters to establish the rough geometry before sliding the 45-degree tool in place and dialing in the surface against which the face of the valve would actually sit.

A three-angle valve job is more or less the bare minimum for valve seats these days. A machinist would have happily lightened my wallet and added two more angles, and the additional cuts would help airflow, but a five-angle valve job is overkill for the agricultural nature of the Honda XR engines. I was able to do a three-angle job at home, and the performance of these engines will likely be very close.

After marking the seats with Prussian blue and checking the width of the 45-degree seat after the final cut, everything got cleaned before I re-blued and lightly lapped the valves against the fresh seats to check the contact on the valve faces. Once everything fit perfectly, the only thing left was the final cleaning and preparation for installing the assembled cylinder heads on the engines.

This marks the end of an adventure that was at times a nightmare but in the end was so rewarding. Every step of the top end of these engines was done right, by my own hands, in my own shop: Disassembly, parts selection and replacement, fitment, assembly, and soon break-in. Just four years after stumbling through a rebuild hoping the engine would run at the end of it, I am now staring at the possibility of two rebuilt engines that are stronger than they were before I worked on them and that, because of that work, will last longer than I can probably imagine. The contrast makes me laugh at who I was then, and that person would likely laugh at me now, panicking over a fraction of a millimeter of additional valve seat width. Neither is more correct than the other: We were both just having fun making broken engines work again. Neither completely right nor completely wrong, just happy to be fixing things.

***

Check out the Hagerty Media homepage so you don’t miss a single story, or better yet, bookmark it. To get our best stories delivered right to your inbox, subscribe to our newsletters.

The post Eight Fresh Seats and Nowhere to Sit appeared first on Hagerty Media.

Most of the 20th-century Italian cars you’ll find in North American car graveyards today will be Fiat 124 Sport Spiders and X1/9s, with the occasional Alfa Romeo 164 thrown in for variety. For the first Italian machine in the Final Parking Space series, however, we’ve got a much rarer find: a genuine Maserati Biturbo Spyder, found in a boneyard located between Denver and Cheyenne.

1989 was an interesting year for the Maserati brand, because that was when the longtime friendship between Maserati owner Alejandro de Tomaso and Chrysler president Lee Iacocca resulted in a collaboration between the two companies that produced a car called, awkwardly, Chrysler’s TC by Maserati.

The TC by Maserati was based on a variation of Chrysler’s company-reviving K platform and assembled in Milan. I’ve documented five discarded TCs during the past decade, and those articles have never failed to spur heated debate over the TC’s genuine Maserati-ness.

In fact, I’ve managed to find even more examples of the Biturbo than the TC during my adventures in junkyard history, and even the most devoted trident-heads must accept those cars as true Maseratis.

The Biturbo was Maserati’s first attempt to build a mass-production car, and it went on sale in the United States as a 1984 model. It was available here through 1990, at various times as a four-door sedan (known as the 425 or 430), a two-door coupe, and as a convertible (known as the Spyder). This car is the first Spyder I’ve found in a car graveyard.

The heart of the Biturbo, and the origin of its name, is a screaming overhead-cam V-6 with twin turbochargers.

Unfortunately, the 1984-1986 Biturbos sold on our side of the Atlantic used a blow-through fuel-delivery system featuring a Weber carburetor inside a pressurized box, with no intercoolers. Forced induction systems with carburetors never did prove very reliable for daily street use, and the carbureted/non-intercooled Biturbo proved to be a legend of costly mechanical misery in the real world.

This car came from the factory with both Weber-Marelli electronic fuel injection and an intercooler, rated at 225 horsepower and 246 pound-feet in U.S.-market configuration. This more modern fuel-delivery rig didn’t solve all of the Biturbo’s reliability problems, but it didn’t hurt.

A three-speed automatic was available in the American Biturbo, but this car has the five-speed manual that its engine deserved.

When everything worked correctly, the 1989 Biturbo was fast and decadent, with nearly as much power as a new 1989 BMW M6 for about ten grand cheaper. The Spyder for that year had an MSRP of $44,995, or about $116,500 in 2024 dollars. Sure, a Peugeot 505 Turbo had an MSRP of $26,335 ($68,186 after inflation) and just 45 fewer horses, but was it Italian? Well, was it?

Soon after the time the first Biturbos hit American roads, I was a broke college student delivering pizzas with my Competition Orange 1968 Mercury Cyclone in Newport Beach, California. At that time and place, bent bankers and their henchmen were busily looting Orange County S&Ls, and the free-flowing cash resulted in Biturbos appearing everywhere for a couple of years. Then, like a switch had been flipped, they disappeared.

This car appears to have been sold all the way across the country from Lincoln Savings & Loan, so it doesn’t benefit from that Late 1980s Robber Baron bad-boy mystique.

If you had one of these cars, you had to display one of these distinctive mobile phone antennas on your ride. A lot of them were fake, though.

This car appears to have been parked for at least a couple of decades, so I believe the 28,280 miles showing on the odometer represent the real final figure.

There’s some rust-through and the harsh High Plains Colorado climate has ruined most of the leather and wood inside. These cars are worth pretty decent money in good condition, but I suspect that it would take $50,000 to turn one like this into a $25,000 car.

Still, it has plenty of good parts available for local Biturbo enthusiasts. I bought the decklid badge for my garage wall, of course.

***

Check out the Hagerty Media homepage so you don’t miss a single story, or better yet, bookmark it. To get our best stories delivered right to your inbox, subscribe to our newsletters.

The post Final Parking Space: 1989 Maserati Biturbo Spyder appeared first on Hagerty Media.

Sorry to have separated this from Part I by nearly a month, but two other stories—the Cobra story and being a hostage negotiator for Larry Webster’s Ferrari turn signal assembly—were both too good not to tell . . .

When I was last in the warehouse in Monson, on the Massachusetts/Connecticut border, where I store five cars, they all had difficulties starting, or running, or passing inspection, or all three. “Lolita,” my ’74 Lotus Europa Twin Cam Special was the most troublesome, as it was leaking gas from the 50-year-old rubber O-ring and plastic plug at the bottom of both float bowls. I broke one of the plugs removing it, so I needed to procure the part and go back the following week.

With the leak literally plugged, I got the Lotus inspected. The plan was to then drive it home, but as I described in the first installment, dealing with the vagaries of the other cars made the session in Monson run long, and I didn’t want to drive the tiny Lotus home in rush-hour traffic, so I left the car’s retrieval for another trip.

This created the very happy problem of which car to drive out to the Monson warehouse and leave there when I drove the Lotus back home. Of the “fun cars” at my house, my ’73 BMW 3.0CSi has permanent at-home-pampered-in-garage status. I was planning on taking my 49,000-mile survivor BMW 2002 on its first real road trip, so it needed to stay. Normally, my BMW M Coupe (“the clown shoe”) would be the swapper, but I’d loaned it to a friend for a couple of weeks.

So I did something that you’d think would’ve already happened, but was in fact new to me: I drove “Zelda” the Z3 out to the warehouse. I’ve owned the little ’99 BMW Z3 2.5-liter straight-six roadster for 10 years, interrupted by my selling it to a friend, whose son then drove it over a median strip (no crashed sheet metal, just bent suspension components), and I bought it back so her insurance company wouldn’t total it and part out the car. I’d only sold the car to her in the first place because I’d run out of storage spaces, so when I bought it back, it needed to sit outside, under a cover—something I swore I’d never do to a roadster, but I was out of options, and the car really wasn’t worth anything at that point anyway. It worked out pretty well; I found that as long as it sat covered in the part of the driveway that got sun, both the cover and the car would dry out and stay mildew-free. I haven’t used the Z3 much recently, but whenever I do, I’m instantly reminded how wonderful any drop-top car is in terms of giving you that sense of whole-body relaxation, and a zippy responsive little roadster is just sublime.

So I did a mini road-trip in Zelda, keeping off the interstate and staying on local roads out to the Monson warehouse as a dry run for doing the same but in reverse in the Lotus. It was heaven, until I heard a scraping sound from the left front wheel during braking. I had this same thing happen with the Lotus when I was sorting it out, and it turned out to be due to pistons on one side of the caliper being seized and thus shoving the rotor into the caliper itself, making it sound like a lathe cutting metal. I drove Zelda gingerly the rest of the way, and made a note to myself to buy a left front caliper and be prepared to replace it in the warehouse when I want to retrieve the car.

So now it wasn’t just the five original cars in the warehouse that were revolting.

Still, if the cars could talk, Zelda would’ve said, “I’m being pampered with indoor storage!” And Lolita would’ve said, “He’s not only spending time with me, he’s bringing me home!”

Little did I know that Lolita was about to throw a total hissy fit.

This was the first lengthy drive I’d had in the Lotus since I put it in the warehouse last September to wait out a registration issue (a story I’ll save for another day). Other than the fact that the lowering springs and adjustable shocks I’d installed cause the car to bottom out on anything other than glass-smooth roads, the drive began well. The Europa is the kind of car that, when you drive 42 mph in a 35 zone, you feel like you should be arrested for the amount of fun you’re having, and, off the interstate, there were many of those roads between the warehouse and home.

Then, on one of these lovely leafy winding New England two-lanes, I got caught behind a lumbering gravel truck. While I was bemoaning the truck’s harshing of my mellow, the Lotus began to behave strangely. At first it stumbled in a way that made me think that the plugs were fouling, but I eventually realized the car was losing power. The narrow windy road didn’t have a great breakdown lane, so I toughed it out as long as I could. Fortunately a church appeared. The car basically died as I rolled into the parking lot.

Then I recalled that, during a drive in the Lotus last year, something similar had happened, and I solved it by reseating the distributor cap. I did the same thing here. It took me a little while—the cap isn’t easy to get to, as the Lotus-Ford Twin Cam engine has a Ford four-cylinder block with the distributor driven by the “jackshaft” (the engine’s original in-block camshaft), so it’s down underneath the intake manifold. The car started, revved, and drove.

And then, about 10 miles later, it happened again. The car began missing, ran worse and worse, lost power, then died where the small road I was on intersected with a local two-lane. And the engine exhaled its last gasp with a backfire so loud that a nearby road worker looked for the source of the gunshot.

Fortunately, there was a wide shoulder and plenty of visibility, and cars had to come to a full stop at the intersection anyway, so I felt safe troubleshooting there. I poked around under the hood (well, under the boot; mid-engine car and all that), and found what was certainly the problem.

Federal-spec Europas like mine have dual Stromberg carbs, which have a warm-up circuit that utilizes cross-pipes from the exhaust manifold to heat up the carbs, as well as a second set of butterflies between the carbs and the intake manifold.

I, like nearly every other Federal-spec Europa owner, had removed the cross-pipes and wired the secondary butterflies open. Only I hadn’t used wire. I’d used zip ties. And I could see that the zip tie on the linkage to the front secondary butterfly had broken, leaving the thing free to just flap around. You don’t have “Eureka!” moments often while troubleshooting, but this fit the symptom perfectly. If the thing flapped shut, with one carb completely starved for air, of course it ran horribly.

I didn’t have any zip ties with me. I almost cut a piece off one of my shoelaces, but then I realized the bag the Lotus’ cover lives in was in the car. I cut the bag’s drawstring, used a piece of it to tie the front secondary butterfly linkage open, patted myself on the back for my diagnostic skills, and set off to what surely would be an uneventful remainder of the trip.

Of course, I was wrong. It died again, this time in the middle of a four-way intersection. In general, Lolita has been remarkably reliable since the excruciating resurrection and sort-out depicted in my book, The Lotus Chronicles, but on this trip, it was completely justifying the old adage that Lotus stands for “Lots Of Trouble, Usually Serious.” I got the car restarted, and with another lunge-and-gunshot-and-die maneuver, got through the intersection and onto a shoulder.

As I sat in the car and thought, I realized that the common thread here was simple: It was time. The car ran fine for a certain amount of time, then ran worse, then died, then revived when I’d waited for a certain amount of more time. What I was doing during that time wasn’t relevant; it was the waiting that was fixing it.

Clogged fuel filter. This is the textbook system of a clogged fuel filter. Contaminants in the gas tank, likely particulate matter like rust or sediment, get carried into the fuel filter. The flow of fuel deposits them against the mesh screen inside the filter. The longer you drive, the more fuel flows, the more blocked the screen gets. When you stop, the contamination doesn’t go away, but enough of it falls off the screen that fuel can flow again. This tends to be worse in fuel-injected cars, where the electric fuel pump delivers 100-psi fuel pressure (typically regulated down to 30 with the surplus sent back to the tank via a return line) that can easily cause contaminants to block either the big visible filter or the tiny mesh screens that are often hidden in vintage fuel-injected cars, but it can also happen in a carbureted car with a mechanical fuel pump delivering 3 or 4 psi of pressure.

The fact that the filter was (apparently) clogged didn’t really surprise me. When I revived the Lotus after its nearly 40-year slumber, I was unable to remove its twin 5-gallon gas tanks to clean them out, so there was no bag of drywall screws dumped in and the tanks thrown into the back of a pickup truck and driven down a bumpy road. There was no taking them to a radiator shop to have them boiled out. There was no rust encapsulation treatment. There was no Red-Kote internal bladder. Instead, I simply took a Scotch-Brite pad and zip-tied it to the end of a rod that I slid around on the bottom of both tanks, then washed them out with gas (hey, you do know what the title of these columns is, right?). Really, the only surprise was that I got five years out of the first filter. But, yeah, I had forgotten about the rusty tanks.

I didn’t feel unsafe where I was, but I was in a highly visible area to be working on a highly visible car. Now that I had the problem nut-shelled—the data showed that I had five to 10 minutes from first-hesitation to dead car—I continued driving to find a better work area. It arrived in the form of the parking lot of a Lowe’s and a BJ’s Wholesale Club. I drove to the edge of the lot, away from prying eyes who might see the amount of gas I was almost certain to dump onto the asphalt.

The fuel filter for the Europa is very difficult to reach. It’s too low and too far forward to easily access from the engine compartment, but the car itself is too low to easily get at it from underneath, unless the car is on a lift. Because the filter is below the tank, I knew that gravity was going to do its thing and cause fuel to go everywhere when I disconnected the lines from the filter. And, of course, because I was lying on the ground and holding the filter in my hand, I also knew that I was going to have the quintessential mechanics’ experience of gas running right into my armpit. As they say in the Army, enjoy the suck.

Fortunately, I had my regular travel tool kit with me (which I throw in the trunk of whatever car I’m running out to Monson), so in addition to grabbing a screwdriver, I readied a pair of quarter-inch ratchet extensions, hoping I could use them to plug the deluge that would certainly flow out of the fuel lines after I pulled them off the filter. I reached up and under, found the filter, found the first clamp, undid it, got the armpit wash, plugged the line with the first extension, then had the repeat experience for the second. Hey, livin’ the dream, right?

With the filter in my hand, I emptied the fuel inside onto a paper towel, expecting to see rust and sediment.

Nothing.

I tapped the filter on the paper towel. Still nothing.

I was stunned. When I’ve had this problem on fuel-injected cars, what’s come out often looks like coffee grounds.

Crap. Had I gotten this wrong?

I wiped off the inlet end of the filter, pursed my lips around it, and blew, like blowing bubbles through a straw.

It wasn’t plugged shut, but I could clearly feel a restriction.

I wiped off the other end and back-blew through it several times. To my delight, I could see a fine gray mist come out. I returned my lips to the inlet side. The restriction appeared to be gone.

Booya!

I re-installed the filter (and re-experienced the armpit enema), verified that the car started, took my bottle of drinking water and rinsed both my actual armpit as well as that of my T-shirt, and drove the remaining 40 miles home, fragrant but satisfied, without incident. Aren’t vintage cars fun?

So, Lolita is home again. I have a lot of work planned for her. I’m going to yank out the suspension, as my attempt to lower the car to Euro specs looks great but produced a car that bottoms out on the smallest of surface imperfections. The plan is to reinstall the springs that were originally on the car, but keep the adjustable shocks.

But not before I replace the fuel filter.

***

Check out the Hagerty Media homepage so you don’t miss a single story, or better yet, bookmark it. To get our best stories delivered right to your inbox, subscribe to our newsletters.

The post My Cars in Storage Are Revolting (Part II) appeared first on Hagerty Media.

Packard was such a great luxury car. And I’ve always loved Studebakers too, from the Art Deco-style cars of 1932-33 to the bullet nose ’50-’51s and the Gran Turismo Hawks of 1962 to 1964. But long story short, the merger of the two was not good for Packard. However, it did produce some interesting variations. Perhaps the most interesting offshoot of those times—or most odd, if you prefer—is the one-year-only Packard Hawk.

The Hawk was an extension of the all-new 1953 Studebakers, the sleek Commander two-door hardtop in particular. In 1956, a new, taller hood and trapezoid central grille were added among other new trim details, and they became the Hawk series, with the Golden Hawk the top of the line, complete with a Packard V-8 under the hood.

But starting in 1957, Studebaker’s own 289-CID V-8 was found under the hood of new Golden Hawks, and was supercharged to boot. New and oh-so-trendy fins were added as well. With its power and style, it was one of the more compelling—and fast—choices in new cars that year.

Unfortunately, Studebaker-Packard Corporation was in poor health financially during this time. “True” Packards ended in 1956. 1957 Packard Clippers were essentially super-deluxe Studebakers, though they did receive 1955-56 Packard styling cues, including the instrument panel. But beneath the skin, it was mostly the top Studebaker sedan, the President Classic. A nice car in its own right, but not really a Packard.

Originally, this was to be a stop-gap solution, with all new and truly large Packards to appear a year or two after, partially designed by Richard Teague. But the money never came in, and there never was another all-new Packard, strictly speaking.

That said, there were the 1957 Packard Clippers, available only as a four-door sedan and a four door wagon, dubbed “Country Sedan.” And 1958 brought, surprisingly, additional Packard models.

It was the final year for the company, yet the Packard series, comprised of the Packard 4-door Sedan, Packard Hardtop, and Packard Station Wagon (all without model names) got a heavy, and rather wild, facelift with quad headlamps and unusual double fins on the rear.

Then there was the Hawk. The Packard Hawk was essentially a Studebaker Golden Hawk with a long, low “catfish” style grille, gold Mylar inserts in the fins, leather interior, and a simulated spare tire sunk into the trunk lid, among other minor details.

As an ad declared, “It is designed with that imaginative flair you only expect to find in Europe’s most fashionable automobiles…a regal air that immediately distinguishes its owner as a man of position. Put yourself in that position…behind the wheel of a Packard Hawk, soon.”

While I’m sure few people were fooled, it was all in all a nice car. It still had the swoopy lines of the Golden Hawk, an even more sumptuous interior (borrowed from the extra glitzy and rarely seen Golden Hawk ‘400’), full instrumentation in a handsome engine turned dash, and—best of all—the supercharged 289-CID V-8, with a 3.56-inch x 3.63-inch bore and stroke, and good for 275 horsepower!

The 1958 Packard Hawk had a $3,995 MSRP, weighed in at 3,470 pounds, and only 588 were built. For comparison’s sake, a ’58 Golden Hawk based at $3,282 and sales were slightly better, but still really low, to the tune of 878 units. But then, 1958 was a recession year, and even fat, healthy car companies like GM were losing thousands of sales.

Not too many folks were optimistic about Studebaker-Packard. And indeed, it was last call. Come 1959, Packard was no more, though the corporation continued to be called Studebaker-Packard for several years after the cars’ demise.

And those final cars were not really the majestic luxury cars folks of a certain age at the time had remembered. But the last new car from Packard, this Hawk, was still a pretty cool conveyance. Leather, supercharged V-8, sleek lines, what’s not to like? And a rare birdie, too!

Our featured car was spotted by your author at an SDC Club meet in Iowa City, Iowa, back on August 11, 2018. I was lucky in that I had no idea this show was going on, but my uncle, David Klockau, texted me about it, so I hopped in the Town Car and made the hour jaunt down Interstate 80. I was not disappointed!

In addition to this fine ’58, there was an aquamarine ’58 Golden Hawk, a Wagonaire, a really nice mint green ’53 sedan, and many others. I’d actually been meaning to write this car up for years, but kept forgetting about it. There’s always more shows to attend and cars to gawk at! I’m happy to finally give this final-year Packard model its due.

But wait, there’s even more! While I was working on this column, I ran across pictures of another ’58 Hawk I saw when I visited the Studebaker National Museum (if you find yourself in South Bend, I highly recommend it) back in 2015 with my friend Jim Cavanaugh, an Indianapolis resident and fellow Studebaker nut.

It was fetching in its gunmetal gray paint with saddle tan leather, and I recall gawking at it for some time. At least until I caught the last Studebaker built, a turquoise metallic ’66 Cruiser, out of the corner of my eye, and went scampering away to it! So expect more Studebakers sometime soon.

One final note. In preparing this column, I used some brochures I received from Suzanne Reid. Her dad was another Studebaker fan and owned several. She had a number of booklets and brochures from the ’50s and ’60s and was kind enough to send them to me when they needed a good home.

I was thrilled to receive them and spent quite some time reading through them. They were a great help in pinning down some of the details for this column. I thank you, ma’am!

***

Check out the Hagerty Media homepage so you don’t miss a single story, or better yet, bookmark it. To get our best stories delivered right to your inbox, subscribe to our newsletters.

The post 1958 Packard Hawk: All in All, Not a Bad Way to Go appeared first on Hagerty Media.

As I write this missive, the last of my poison ivy patches have finally crusted up and fallen off. Mind you, I don’t normally go to the doctor for such things, but the spread had gotten out of control and I needed a steroid to suppress future outbreaks. The doc asked me what the hell I was doing to get so much exposure to the three-leaf devil. Clearly, this healthcare professional had never pulled a Studebaker and its accompanying parts out of the woods.

Then he surprised me, tearing the Rx sheet off his little booklet and handing it to me. It was a prescription for where—in this very county—I could find more Studebakers, should I want them. Turns out we both had the itch!

So, how did this all go down? Well, to go way back in history, let’s start at the first place I got poison ivy requiring a steroid. As a young boy with a $5/hr gig doing odd jobs around a local dairy farm-turned-garage, where over 200 Studebakers resided, 9th-grade me elected to free a 1948 International pickup from the grasp of a girthy vine. Taking pity on me that spring, my mom frequently applied First-Aid cream all over my blistery body while I popped steroids and hoped for relief.

I’ve obviously learned so much since my folly of youth.

Fast-forward to more recent matters. I had been hiding something out at the Studebaker farm: a pretty decent, seafoam green, 289-powered secret with power steering and brakes. I bought it in North Carolina about four years ago, while I was living in Germany, along with a very ragged parts car parked in the farm woods. Although the acquisition was prompted by the tragic loss of a dear friend, the upside was that I had the honor of finishing his project. The transatlantic transaction was brokered with the help of my longtime friend, Studebaker farm owner, and mentor, Truett. My dad, who has since filled my position as Studebaker farmhand, took part as well.

I’ve been storing the good Lark at the foundry storage, since I got that place sorted. Now that there was a place to put it that wasn’t my backyard, the bad Lark (aka parts car) could reenter the equation.

My wife and I hitched up yet another U-Haul trailer and arrived ready to pick up the car over Easter. This particular example had been sitting in the woods since before I started working there in 1997 or so. (It had a decade-long stint in a different forest before making its way back to a cow lot on the farm’s original acreage.) This may come as a shock: the car is not salvageable.

Upon arrival, I started preparing the bad Lark for loading by removing parts that could, at best, impede our movement or, at worst, embed themselves in a fellow motorist’s windshield. Exhaust, loose glass, trim panels, and trash were all secured, disposed of, or made into makeshift upholstery. With a place to sit and a solid place for anchoring, Truett pulled the wobbly Lark around the silos and into an open staging area. Again acknowledging the unsavable nature of the hulking Stude, my father loaded the decrepit mass onto the trailer with a crunchy yet gentle shove from the Takeuchi track loader. (No good parts were harmed in this procedure.)

Note: There are a handful of old Studebaker Zip Vans still on the property. These operate, for my purposes, as quasi-mobile storage sheds. The first stop was one packed full of old shop manuals and radios. Truett was kind enough to leave me to my own devices and let me remove what I wanted. I loaded up an old AM radio that my Hawk was missing, along with a half dozen old books for the foundry’s blossoming library.

Next stop was yet another zip van, this one filled with bell housings, transmissions, and crankshafts. Not needing any cranks at that moment, I focused on gear-related items. Three forward gears coupled by fluid isn’t my preferred motorization option, plus my good Lark came with a manual pedal assembly. When Truett unearthed a GM T-5 five-speed and a two-year-only GM-patterned bellhousing, my project plans came into final focus.

My final task was to investigate a large patch of randomly strewn car parts buried in the dirt. Here, we return to the problem of poison ivy.

Some of these scattered parts were evidently covered in furry vines, whose 3 leaves had not yet emerged from winter dormancy. Unfortunately for me, self-preservation gets completely switched off when I see obscure foreign cars and their parts.

First to be unearthed: a Subaru FF1 instrument cluster. Too ragged to keep, I threw it back after rolling it around in my bare hands for a while. Following that, the remnants of an old Pacer that I had parted out in high school caught my eye. I snapped off the hairy vines standing between me and my future refrigerator magnets… er… Pacer emblems. What’s this I see? A Citroën DS roof? I wonder if there are any snakes under there. A flange axle Dana 44? I’ve got to at least flip it over to find an axle tag! Might as well touch my face while I’m at it!

I’ve had the itch, I have the itch. And I pray I’ll always have it.

***

Check out the Hagerty Media homepage so you don’t miss a single story, or better yet, bookmark it. To get our best stories delivered right to your inbox, subscribe to our newsletters.

The post Always Itching for More Studebakers appeared first on Hagerty Media.

Chrysler’s Plymouth Division used the Belvedere name from the 1951 through 1970 model years, and the first to get properly exuberant tailfins was the version built for 1955 and 1956. Here’s one of those cars, found at a Denver-area self-service car graveyard recently.

Just as was the case with such Detroit machines as the Chevrolet Malibu and Ford Crown Victoria, the Belvedere name began its automotive career appended to another model name that subsequently disappeared. This was the 1951-1953 Plymouth Cranbrook, the two-door hardtop version of which was designated the Cranbrook Belvedere.

The best-known Belvederes today are the 1962-1970 B-platform midsize cars, which served as the basis for the legendary Plymouth GTX and Road Runner muscle cars. After 1970, the Satellite name—itself a former Belvedere trim-level designation—shoved the Belvedere name aside.

Chrysler’s low-priced Plymouth Division sold cars like mad after World War II ended, but Plymouth’s dowdy late-1940s body designs were hurting sales by the time future-crazed 1954 rolled around; during that year, Buick and Oldsmobile blew by Plymouth in the sales standings. For the 1955 model year, new Plymouths got the Virgil Exner “Forward Look” treatment, fins and all.

Now Plymouths looked just as modern as their Chevy or Ford rivals, and sales increased by more than 240,000 units versus 1954.

Not only that, but 1955 Plymouth shoppers could opt for overhead-valve V-8 power under the hood for the first time—previously, every Plymouth since the brand’s birth had been powered by flathead straight-four or straight-six engines. Chevrolet had introduced an OHV V-8 of some importance for the 1955 model year as well, while Ford’s Y-Block V-8 had debuted the year before that.

Chrysler had been bolting its Hemi V-8 engines into high-end Chrysler-badged models since the 1951 model year, and even the DeSoto and Dodge Divisions eventually received the Hemi treatment. Lowly Plymouth, however, wasn’t about to get such a costly engine (until later on), so a cheap-to-manufacture “semi-Hemi” or “polyspherical” version with a single rocker shaft per cylinder head was devised. That engine family begat the Hy-Fire polyspherical-headed V-8, which used a different block design and eventually led to the LA-series small-block V8s that were built from the middle 1960s and into our current century.

This bubbling stew of related and not-so-related Chrysler V-8 engines gets very confusing in the 1956 model year, when new Plymouths could be purchased with either the semi-Hemi 269-cubic inch V-8 (also known as the 270) and its 180 horsepower or the A-series 276-cubic inch Poly V-8 (generally known as the 277) with 187 horses. This car has the latter type, which may be original or could be a swapped-in later version with more displacement. The A-series Poly V-8 proved to be something of an evolutionary dead end, though it was a successful engine that was installed in plenty of Chrysler machinery through 1967.

The base engine in the 1956 Belvedere remained the good old flathead straight-six, with a displacement of 230 cubic inches and an output of 125 horsepower.

The base transmission was a three-speed column-shifted manual, but this car was heavily optioned and came with the PowerFlite two-speed automatic transmission controlled by Chrysler’s new-for-1956 pushbutton shifter (the shifter, located to the left of the instrument panel, has been removed from this car).

The PowerFlite was a true automatic, unlike the earlier Fluid Drive.

This Motorola AM radio lacks markings for the CONELRAD nuclear-attack frequencies of 640 and 1240 kHz, even though they were required in 1956. Perhaps it’s an overseas-market radio.

The list price for a 1956 Belvedere four-door sedan with 269-cubic inch V-8 started at $2154, or about $25,201 in 2024 dollars. The automatic transmission added $184 to that ($2153 after inflation). A 1956 Chevrolet Bel Air sedan with 265-cubic inch V-8 and Powerglide two-speed automatic had an MSRP of $2356 ($27,564 in today’s money), while the 1956 Ford Fairlane sedan with 272-cubic inch V-8 and Ford-O-Matic three-speed automatic listed at $2409 ($28,184 now).

The Plymouth Division was named for a brand of rope popular with American farmers at the time, but later on the branding changed focus to Plymouth Rock and the Mayflower. During the middle 1950s, Plymouth logos depicted the Wampanoag people humbly presenting gifts to their future conquerors.

This car has very little serious rust for a 68-year-old car that has been sitting outdoors in Colorado for decades, though the interior has been thoroughly nuked by the harsh High Plains climate.

It could be restored, but that might not be an economically sensible choice for a fairly ordinary mid-1950s Plymouth post sedan. The more powerful Fury hardtop coupe gets most of the attention given to ’56 Plymouths these days.

This car’s final parking space is among many other interesting vehicles from the 1930s through 1970s (including the 1952 IHC L-130, 1959 Borgward Isabella Coupé, 1958 Edsel Citation, 1963 Chevrolet Corvair Monza Club Coupe, and 1963 Chrysler Newport that have appeared in this series) at Colorado Auto & Parts, located just south of Denver.

CAP is home to the famous aircraft-radial-powered 1939 Plymouth truck, which was built there by members of the family that has owned the establishment since the 1950s. If you stop by to buy some ’56 Belvedere parts, you’ll see this pickup parked next to the cashier’s counter.

Yes, it runs and drives!

***

Check out the Hagerty Media homepage so you don’t miss a single story, or better yet, bookmark it. To get our best stories delivered right to your inbox, subscribe to our newsletters.

The post Final Parking Space: 1956 Plymouth Belvedere 4-Door Sedan appeared first on Hagerty Media.

In late April, Larry Webster, he who brought me on briefly at Road & Track eleven years ago and then here at Hagerty, contacted me and asked for my help. It began with, “How far are you from Groton?” a question I can’t say I’ve ever been asked before.

The story was that the turn signal assembly (the housing and stalks) for Webster’s Ferrari Dino was being rebuilt by Unobtainium Supply Co., a one-man operation in Groton, Massachusetts, but it had been there for a year without completion. “I’ve talked to him every week for the past six, and it’s been a constant ‘one more step, about a day,’ but I’m starting to think it’s never going to get done,” Webster texted. “I might need you to do a rescue.”

The deeper story is that Webster has been restoring his 1975 Dino 308 GT4 (see part I and part II) for the past three years, and many things have gone wrong or gone long or gone over budget along the way. In addition, there were issues over and above the normal project delays, things like specialists passing away with Webster’s parts still in their possession. The project is nearing the point of the car being whole, so he really wants the turn signal assembly back, but he was beginning to fear that dark fate might strike a third time: He wondered if there was some personal situation, such as a poor turn of health, preventing the gentleman from getting the work done on the assembly. This is a fine line to walk. While you don’t want to be “that guy” who’s a pest in the middle of someone else’s hardship (as the saying goes, be kind—you never know what battles people are fighting), you’d also hate to lose an, um, unobtanium part if things went south.

“The turn signal assembly can be bought,” Webster texted, “but not the housing that is the bulk of the steering column. He is rebuilding #37 in this diagram (the stalks and switches). I can buy a new one which looks not original. That’s the situation I’m in. I would leave #37 with him, as it is useless to me and maybe one day he’ll finish. What I desperately need is #16, the cover.”

In subsequent texts, more frustration came out. “I’ve talked to him every week for the past six. Dude who owns the shop [Verell] is nice and his heart is in the right place, [but] I have no idea if he even knows the status of my switches, even though he’s said for a month ‘Just one more day to finish.’ 75% [of the time] when I call, I get voicemail. When he answers, he’s been great. I spoke with him Tuesday. He [says he’s] recovering from a cold and he’d email me the final estimate on Wednesday. No dice. I emailed back that I want to send somebody by to pick up my parts. No response. I’d appreciate someone simply knocking on the door and putting eyes to what is going on.”

Groton is a pleasant 50-minute drive for me, so I told Webster I was glad to hop in one of the fun cars and shoot out there and see what was what. He texted me “Operation: Save My Parts is now engaged!” along with a representative photo of the piece I needed to rescue.

So on a lovely day a few days after “OSMP” had officially commenced, I drove out to Groton in my white ’73 BMW 2002. The Ferrari sign on the garage indicated that I was clearly in the right place, but unfortunately, my door-knocking at both the garage and the front door went unanswered. I did run into a neighbor, who offered that Verell’s wife’s car was in the driveway but his wasn’t. I tactfully posed the question, “But he’s usually here, right?” and didn’t hear anything back that sounded like a personal crisis. I went into town, grabbed a bite to eat, came back, still no second car, still no one answering the door, though I did see what looked like a content well-cared-for cat through the side glass. I left a note in the mailbox, reported back to Webster, and headed home.

A week later, Webster texted me saying he’d still heard nothing from Verell, and was considering flying out to do an in-person intervention, or at least a friendly stalking.

“Let me try again,” I said. “Really, it’s no hardship for me to take another one of my cars through the twisties on the way back out to Groton.”

So I did, this time letting my ’79 Euro 635CSi enjoy the countryside (like I said, no hardship). And this time, to my surprise, Verell answered the door. I was suddenly face-to-face with a stocky late-70s-looking stone-faced gentleman in overalls. I explained who I was and why I was there, and said as non-confrontationally as possible that Larry Webster had asked me to collect the turn signal assembly for him in whatever condition it was in.

The terse response from Verell’s craggy New England face was, “He’s going to have to pay me first.”

“Um, just a minute,” I said. Figuring that being an intermediary might be more productive than simply dialing party #1 and handing my cell phone to party #2, I went out to the privacy of my car, called Webster, and said that I’d just had a face-to-face with Verell.

“No way!” Webster said. He was thrilled that I’d actually made contact.

Then I explained the “He’ll have to pay me first” part.

“I’ve tried to pay him several times,” he said with some degree of frustration. “I’ve asked for an invoice. I’ve offered half now and half when done. Whatever the delay is isn’t because of payment.”

Webster then repeated Plan B from our initial conversation: “See if you can just get the housing back. If he wants to keep working on the switch, that’s fine.”

I went back inside and proposed this to Verell. He softened a bit. “Well,” he said, “it’s not that simple. There’s a wiring harness that’s still attached to the housing. I have it pulled out just enough to work on the switch. It’s extra work to detach the harness from the housing. Besides,” he said, “I’m almost done. It’ll be done tonight, tomorrow at the latest.”

This was all cordial and to-the-point. I’m a sucker for cordial and to-the-point. I’m also a big fan of “it’s not that simple.” Tell me anything in a reasoned, experienced voice and I’ll believe it. And yet, Webster had sent the part to the guy a year ago, and had given me some pretty specific instructions regarding coming back with some physical goods. It was an awkward position to be in as a middleman.

“I don’t know any of the details of the housing and the switch,” I said, “but I wouldn’t want to cause you extra work.”

Then I joked, “Anything Ferrari-related is way above my pay grade anyway.” Verell’s stone face relaxed a bit.

Then I offered—truthfully: “I actually write for Larry’s magazine, so I owe him several favors. And, I don’t know if you know, but a lot has gone wrong with him putting this car back together. I’m just trying to help him out with this one small part of it.” This wasn’t any sort of a strategy, but afterwards I recalled reading that a technique for dealing with people in charge of their fiefdoms is to candidly explain your need and ask for their help, because deep down, people want to help, but they want you to ask and want to be acknowledged as helping.

“How about this,” I said. “Can you look me in the eye and tell me that it’ll be done in the next few days?”

Verell sighed, then looked me in the eye. “It’ll be done in the next few days, maybe even tonight or tomorrow,” he said. Then he added, “It’s the only thing I’m working on right now.”

“That’ll be a good thing for me to tell Larry,” I said. He smiled. I thanked him, we shook hands, I went back to the car, and reported all this to Webster with the recommendation that he give the gentleman a few more days.

A few evenings later, when I was eating dinner with my wife, I got a text from Webster. It said:

“WOOOOO HOOOOOOOO! I just got a bill from Verell, which I paid. He said he’ll ship it tomorrow. You could definitely be a hostage negotiator!”

Still, the fat turn signal assembly hadn’t sung yet. I recalled the scene in the movie Proof of Life where hostage rescuer Russell Crowe tells Meg Ryan and David Morse “Don’t you DARE celebrate until the wheels of the plane touch down in the United States.”

Five days later, Larry texted me: “Yayssssss! Thank you Rob!” With it was a photo that was not only proof of life, but proof of release.

So there you have it. My new third act in life. Rob Siegel: Hack unobtainium parts hostage negotiator. I’m certain there must be a few BMW 2002tii Kugelfischer mechanical-injection pumps out there in need of my services.

***

Rob’s latest book, The Best Of The Hack Mechanic: 35 years of hacks, kluges, and assorted automotive mayhem is available on Amazon here. His other seven books are available here on Amazon, or you can order personally-inscribed copies from Rob’s website, www.robsiegel.com.

Check out the Hagerty Media homepage so you don’t miss a single story, or better yet, bookmark it. To get our best stories delivered right to your inbox, subscribe to our newsletters.

The post My New Side Hustle: Hostage Negotiator for Captured Parts appeared first on Hagerty Media.

For folks of a certain age, say “Calais” and many will probably think of the small Oldsmobile of the mid-1980s. But well before the GM N-body Calais, later renamed Cutlass Calais and sharing a platform with the Pontiac Grand Am and Buick Somerset/Skylark, the Calais was the first step in Cadillac ownership.

Well, at least since 1965. Prior to that year, the least expensive Cadillac (please don’t call it the cheapest—it was still a Cadillac, after all) was the Series 62. Of course, it had the same body, dimensions, and excellent engine and transmission as all the other Cadillacs, but the interior was, if not spartan, definitely less flossy than, say, a Coupe de Ville.

But it was popular. Indeed, it was the primary go-to Cadillac for many years. In 1953, 47,316 four-door sedans, 14,353 coupes and 8367 convertibles were built. While the pillarless Coupe de Ville first appeared in 1949, by the early 1950s it was sharing its basic body with the Series 62 two-door hardtop, but had a much more luxurious interior.

Then in 1956, the first Sedan de Ville appeared—one of GM’s trio of the all-new C-body four-door pillarless hardtop body style. At $4698 it was about $450 more than the pillared ’56 Series 62 four-door sedan—and not near as swoopy. As a result it sold about 15,000 fewer copies.

It was still a Cadillac staple, though, and in 1960, 26,824 six-window Series 62 sedans and 9984 four-window sedans sold. Then in 1965 the Series 62 was, in keeping with a completely new body (and missing the signature fins for the first time since 1948), renamed the Calais. It held the same spot in Cadillac hierarchy. Available body styles included a two-door hardtop, four-door hardtop, and a four-door sedan.

By this time the de Ville series was passing the Series 62/Calais by in popularity. Just in four-door sedans, the Sedan de Ville outsold the equivalent Calais 15,000 even to 7721.

In 1971 Cadillacs were once again all new inside and out. And the Calais returned. It turned out that this would be the last all-new Cadillac Calais, ever.

The ’71 de Ville and Calais were only 0.8″ longer than the 1970 models, but looked much longer and lower in person. They were also perhaps a bit less opulent and excessive interior-wise as previous versions, but your author, having once sat in a navy blue ’71 Fleetwood Sixty Special Brougham owned by my friend Andrew Bobis, would respectively disagree.

The slick-top Sixty Special was no more, with the Fleetwood Brougham, with its padded roof, remaining as the top “owner-driven” Cadillac. But Cadillac marketers, hedging their bets, renamed it the “Fleetwood Sixty Special Brougham” for ’71. All had the padded top. This designation would continue through 1972, then be quietly retired and “Fleetwood Brougham” became the norm again.

But we were talking about the Calais, weren’t we? As always, it was at the opposite end of the Cadillac line compared to the Brougham, but was still a looker with its new sheetmetal and smooth lines.

It was even smoother as the Calais was the only Cadillac in which you could not get a vinyl roof from the factory. Though of course many enterprising Cadillac dealers would put one on if you asked nicely.

But really, that’s a plus these days if you’re lucky enough to find a ’71 Calais. Those vinyl tops looked good, but let’s face it, over years they’d deteriorate and unless you lived in Phoenix, they’d trap water and rust the top from the inside out. Lots of trouble. At least now, 50-odd years later.

For 1971, the Calais came in just two models, a two-door hardtop and the four-door hardtop. There were, for the first time, no convertibles on the standard Cadillac body, with the final de Ville convertible coming off the line at Clark Street in Detroit in 1970. No, the convertible was moved to the Eldorado this year, and a baroque beauty it was, but I’m digressing again! Another time.

The Calais four-door hardtop had a base price of $6075. Remember I said that the Calais’ popularity was going downhill? It was very apparent in 1971. Even with an all-new body, only 3569 were built. And this was the most popular Calais. The two-door hardtop, despite being slightly less expensive at $5899, sold even fewer, to the tune of 3360 units.

Meanwhile, the $6498 Sedan de Ville sold over 69,000 copies, though it must be said the Calais was rather plain when parked next to a Coupe de Ville or Sedan de Ville. They had almost no exterior chrome other than on the front and back ends; a thin side molding was the only adornment to its ample flanks.

I imagine folks walking into a Cadillac dealer showroom looked at a Calais, then at a de Ville, and thought, “I think it’s worth the extra four hundred bucks.”

As the ’71 Cadillac brochure confided, “The Calais is the easiest step to experiencing the pride and pleasure of Cadillac ownership. The brilliant new Cadillac styling and elegant interior appointments, the long wheelbase, the big Cadillac engine and increased-capacity brakes—these and other outstanding features mark the Calais as a true luxury car.”

It was certainly Cadillac priced. Despite looking perhaps a bit plain compared to a Coupe de Ville or Fleetwood, the four-door Calais’ sticker was still more than a Buick Electra 225 Custom ($5093) or Oldsmobile Toronado ($5449) and was within spitting distance of a Chrysler Imperial LeBaron two-door hardtop ($6044).

This may explain why sales for each body style failed to even hit 5000. It was the bridesmaid, not the bride. It just didn’t look as snazzy parked at the country club as, say, a red Coupe de Ville with white top and white leather. And you couldn’t get leather on a Calais anyway.

The two Calais interior upholstery choices included Darlington cloth, a “satin-finish fabric tailored with vertical piping and a horizontal vinyl insert,” again referring to my brochure, which is what our featured car sports. It would be my pick. This choice came in six different colors; the other option was an all-vinyl interior, available in two colors.

But at any rate, the Calais continued through the late 1970s as the easiest choice into joining the Cadillac family. The final year was 1976, which was the final year for this generation. Come 1977, the Calais was no more, and the least expensive Caddy became the Coupe de Ville.

I heard about our featured car before I saw it: My friend Dave Mitchell, who we visited at his shop the day before a car show, told us a friend of his from high school owned it, and he’d stopped by less than an hour before we arrived. I vowed to find it at the show, and the result is the photos you see here. I just adored it—especially the Adriatic Turquoise paint with matching interior! It was the first ’71 Calais I’d seen up close, ever.

And she was a beaut!

***

Check out the Hagerty Media homepage so you don’t miss a single story, or better yet, bookmark it. To get our best stories delivered right to your inbox, subscribe to our newsletters.

The post 1971 Cadillac Calais: A Series 62 by Any Other Name… appeared first on Hagerty Media.

After recovering from my failed attempt to ream the new valve guides in my Honda XR250R cylinder heads with a few strong pours and a few days away from the garage, I found myself plopping said chunks of aluminum onto the counter of Thirlby Machine Shop. The man behind the counter told me not only that he didn’t have the tooling for the job, but also that the shop was not interested in buying it. But then we struck a deal. 

The valve guides in question are made of C63000 bronze and the manufacturer says the best tool for machining them is an adjustable diamond hone. If you ignore the incredible precision required to make the final product, the setup is relatively simple: a diamond abrasive fits into an attachment that can be driven by hand drill. The system is set up in two main parts: the drive head and the mandrel, the latter sized to the valve guides in question. My friendly local machine shop had the $450 drive head from a job a few years ago, but its assortment of mandrels did not include anything small enough for the 5.5mm required by the valve guides in the cylinder head of my Honda. The shop offered to loan me the driver head if I would purchase the $400 mandrel.

I know a good deal when I hear one. The proper mandrel arrived quickly, and I dove headlong into learning how to use an adjustable hone. The process became a bit intimidating after I read on machining forums that small-diameter mandrels can be delicate and, for a new user, tough starting points. Plus, I would be following the recommendations from the producer of the tooling only loosely: I would not have a pump to circulate the cutting oil, and my workpieces would not be solidly mounted. Knowing I could be lighting $400 on fire on a Saturday morning, I picked up the driver head from the machine shop and prepared my workbench. 

The tooling itself is a really sweet piece from Goodson. It has only one simple adjustment: a knob with four marks. Turning the adjuster clockwise a quarter turn from one reference mark to the next pushes the diamond stone out to contact the valve guide. Not so scary after all, then. The process was as follows: Retract the diamond stone to its lowest setting, insert stone and mandrel into valve guide, then adjust the stone to put light pressure on the guide. Attach a hand drill, flood the hone with cutting oil, run the drill through the guide in a handful of long, smooth strokes, retract the stone, remove the mandrel, measure the diameter of the valve guide. Simple, right?

Sure sounded like it, but it was also an oddly scary proposition since I was using two tools that were new to me, one of which was also borrowed. The diamond stone needed to be broken in at least a little—the manufacturer of the mandrel says the stone won’t really hit its stride till it has machined several hundred guides—so I put an old guide into my bench vise and used that to get a feel for how the day was going to go.

Holding a small squeeze bottle of oil in my left hand, I held a cordless drill in my right, plunging in and out of the guide at a nice steady pace while squeezing a steady steam of oil into the valve guide and keeping a keen feel for how much drag the hone had. Using the cordless drill made the process almost too easy; the hardest part was mentally adjusting to the fact that very glittery oil was, in this case, a positive thing.

Even in the slower speed setting, I didn’t have to run the drill wide-open to get a smooth feed, so no oil was slinging about the bench. To get the full stroke of the diamond stone, I had to make a small spacer for the cylinder head to sit on, which had the added benefit of keeping things cleaner, too.

It was a slightly hypnotizing process. The concentration required mixed with repetitive movements would have lulled me into honing away an entire guide if it weren’t for my fear of blowing past the perfect diameter for the valves.

When it came to measuring the progress of cutting, I felt as though I was getting crafty, but I was just being resourceful. A proper bore gauge for valve guides would be a one-trick pony in a stable of tools already overrun with horses for countless courses, so instead of buying a new tool to measure the inside diameter of the guide, I used one of the pilots from my valve seat cutting kit. The pilot has a very mellow taper that is meant to center and lightly wedge it in the valve guide, and by fitting the pilot into the valve guide, and noting how far it extended into the guide, I could figure out where I was at in the machining process and how much material I had left to remove. Once I reached a point where the valve stem would insert through the guide, I made a final pass to machine a nice slip fit that will keep these valves running smoothly for what I hope to be hundreds, if not thousands, of hours.

After the first four valve guides, I had the process just about locked in. The second cylinder head took a fraction of the time and the results were likely slightly better. Now that these heads have smooth valve action, the next step in prepping them is mating the valves to their seats. A proper three-angle valve job is the only acceptable way to do that, so the next installment of this series will be getting the seats cut and some final prep items before I make the final preparations for installing the valves and closing up two engines that have been haunting my workbench for over a year. The sound of them popping to life is so close, yet so far away.

***

Check out the Hagerty Media homepage so you don’t miss a single story, or better yet, bookmark it. To get our best stories delivered right to your inbox, subscribe to our newsletters.

The post Diamonds Are an Amateur Machinist’s Best Friend appeared first on Hagerty Media.

The Type 1 Volkswagen first went on sale in the United States in 1949, and two were sold. After that, VW dealers here did increasingly well with the Type 1—eventually known as der Käfer or the Beetle— with each passing year, with the American Beetle sales pinnacle reached in 1968. These cars have become uncommon in car graveyards in recent years, but I found this fairly solid ’70 in Colorado last winter.

For the 1970 model year, Volkswagen of America offered five models, all built in West Germany: the Beetle, the Karmann Ghia, the Fastback, the Squareback, and the Transporter (which was pitched as the Volkswagen Station Wagon at the time).

The 1970 Beetle was available as a convertible, as a two-door sedan, and as a two-door sedan with sunroof. Today’s FPS car is the latter type, which had a list price of $1929 when new (about $16,001 in 2024 dollars). The non-sunroof sedan cost just $1839 that year ($15,254 after inflation).

The Beetle wasn’t the cheapest new car Americans could buy in 1970, but it was a lot of car for the money. The 1970 Austin America (known as the Austin 1100/1300 in its homeland) had an MSRP of $1815, while American Renault dealers offered a new 10 for a mere $1775. The 1970 Toyota Corolla two-door sedan had an astonishing list price of $1686, which helped it become the second-best-selling import (after the Beetle) in the United States that year, while Mazda offered the $1798 1200 two-door. For the adventurous, there was the motorcycle-engine-powered Honda 600, priced to sell at $1398, and Malcolm Bricklin was eager to sell you a new Subaru 360 for only $1297. How about a 1970 Fiat 850 sedan for $1504? The Ford Pinto and Chevrolet Vega debuted as 1971 models, so the most affordable new American-built 1970 car was the $1879 AMC Gremlin.

The first factory-installed Beetle sunroofs opened up most of the roof with a big sliding fabric cover, but a more modern metal sunroof operated by a crank handle replaced that type for 1964.

The final U.S.-market air-cooled Beetles were sold as 1979 models, which meant that Beetles were very easy to find in American junkyards until fairly deep into the 1990s. You’ll still run across discarded Beetles today, though most of them will be in rough shape and they tend to get picked clean in a hurry.

Volkswagen introduced the Super Beetle, which received a futuristic MacPherson strut front suspension and lengthened snout, as a 1971 model in the United States. Most of the Beetles you’ll find in the boneyards today will be of the Super variety, which makes today’s non-Super an especially good find for the junkyard connoisseur.

I’ve owned a few Beetles over the years, including a genuinely terrifying ’58 Sunroof Sedan with hot-rodded Type 3 engine that I purchased at age 17 for $50 at an Oakland junkyard. It acquired the name “Hubert the Hatred Bug” due to being the least Herbie-like Beetle imaginable. Later, I acquired a 1973 Super Beetle and thought it neither handled nor rode better than the regular Beetle; your opinion of the Super may differ.

The Type 1 Beetle was obsolete very early on, being a 1930s design optimized for ease of manufacture, but it was so cheap to build and simple to maintain that customers were willing to buy it for decade after decade. Beetle production blew past that of the seemingly unbeatable Model T Ford in 1972, when the 15,007,034th example rolled off the line, and the final Vocho was assembled in Mexico in 2003. That means a last-year Beetle will be legal to import to the United States in just four years!

The first water-cooled Volkswagen offered in the United States was the 1974 Dasher, which was really an Audi 80. It was the introduction of the Rabbit a year later (plus increasingly strict safety and emissions standards) that finally doomed the Type 1 Beetle here; Beetle sales dropped from 226,098 in 1974 to 78,412 in 1975 and then fell off an even steeper cliff after that. For the 1978 and 1979 model years, the only new Beetles available here were Super convertibles.

The original engine in this car was a 1585cc boxer-four rated at 57 horsepower, although there’s plenty of debate on the subject of air-cooled VW power numbers to this day. These engines are hilariously easy to swap and were once cheap and plentiful, though, so the chances that we are looking at this car’s original plant aren’t very good.

This is a single-port carbureted engine with a generator, so it could be the original 1600… or maybe it’s the ninth engine to power this car. Generally, junkyard Type 1 engines get grabbed right away these days, but this car had just been placed in the yard when I arrived.

The hateful Automatic Stickshift three-speed transmission was available as an option in the 1970 Beetle, but this car has the regular four-on-the-floor manual.

To get into reverse, you push down on the gearshift and then into the second-gear position (this can be a frustrating process in a VW with worn-out shifter linkage components).

By air-cooled Volkswagen standards, this car isn’t especially rusty. I’m surprised that it ended up at a Pick Your Part yard, to be honest… and now here’s the bad news for you VW fanatics itching to go buy parts from it: I shot these photos last December and the car got crushed months ago. I shoot so many vehicles in their final parking spaces that I can’t write about every one of them while they’re still around.

It even had the original factory Sapphire XI AM radio.

***

Check out the Hagerty Media homepage so you don’t miss a single story, or better yet, bookmark it. To get our best stories delivered right to your inbox, subscribe to our newsletters.

The post Final Parking Space: 1970 Volkswagen Beetle Sunroof Sedan appeared first on Hagerty Media.

First, let me rewind the tape about 15 years. I was driving through Brighton (basically West Boston) with my family in the car on the way to a holiday event at my mother’s. Suddenly one of my kids chirped “DAD! DAD! What is THAT?” Coming at us was a little two-seat roadster with massive tires and flared fenders, a mouth like a bass, and an engine note like a line of howitzers.

“That’s a Cobra replica,” I said, giving a thumbnail of my journeyman’s knowledge of what a Cobra is.

One of the kids asked “How do you know it’s a replica?”

“Because,” I dad-splained, “No one would be driving a car worth as much as our house through Boston at 4:00 on a Friday.”

Now, on to the story…

I have a friend, a genteel guy in his early 80s, who owns a 1965 427 Cobra. I’d seen the car once before, a little over 20 years ago, in his modest garage. At the time, I was too jazzed up to ask detailed questions, but I remember faded paint and a dusty interior, so my assumption is that the car was in original unrestored condition and wasn’t currently running. I shivered when I sat in it and experienced what I’d read about—that the drivetrain in a 427 Cobra is so massive that, to accommodate it, the transmission hump pushes the pedals off-center, so when you’re sitting in the driver’s seat, your legs curve off to the left.

Fast-forward to last month, when I ran into this fellow. He said that he had driven the Cobra for the first time in a couple of years, it ran rough, and then lost power. He described a route that he took where the second part was downhill, then said that the car’s fuel pickup was in the front of the fuel tank, so he hypothesized that, from sitting, water had formed in the tank, and that when he drove downhill, the water went to the front of the tank and got sucked into the carbs, which stalled the car. Miraculously, this happened close enough to his house that he literally coasted it into his driveway. He wanted to know if the water-in-the-fuel theory was plausible (“Does the defense’s theory hold water?”), and if so, what would need to be done to fix it. He said that he wasn’t certain whether or not he’d put fuel stabilizer in the tank before it sat.

I concurred that yes, ethanol in fuel does attract water, which is heavier than fuel and thus does settle at the bottom of the tank (and is also highly corrosive, so, yeah, bad), but with all the bugaboo about the evils of ethanol in fuel, I’d never had a starting or running problem in a car that had been sitting that I could say was caused by ethanol / water, even in cars that sat for six months with no fuel stabilizer. I said that I drain a gas tank only when I open up the filler cap and it smells like varnish, and that two years was kind of a funny window. So could this have happened? Sure. But did it happen and was it the cause of his problem? More of a definite “maybe.”

“What’s involved in draining the tank?” he asked. “I have a couple of oil drain catch pans.” I advised that that’s not a great way to do it, as then to dispose of the gas, you have to lift up the drain pan and funnel it into a gas can, and that’s messy and hard on the back. I said that the better way to do it is to suck the gas out with an electric fuel pump and directly spit it into as many 5-gallon cans as necessary to hold it. I offered that I have a small fuel pump wired with a pair of alligator clips that I use expressly for this purpose, and that, if he supplied the gas cans and a fire extinguisher, I’d be glad to come over and drain it for him. We set it up for 3 p.m. the following Wednesday.

A few days later, with my travel tool kit, the fuel pump, a battery, and some hose in the trunk of my E39 BMW, I drove to the house. I recognized neither it nor the garage, and when my friend rolled up the door, I can’t say that I recognized the Cobra, either, as it was now stunningly attractive. He said that he’d had it painted about 20 years ago—likely shortly after I first saw it—but this is a gentleman who’s unpretentious about these sort of things (in other words, his “painted” could well be someone else’s “restored”).

I unloaded my tools and he got the gas cans and the fire extinguisher, but before we began draining the tank, I asked him to again run down what happened when the car died. He repeated the story. For some reason, I was hesitant to set in motion a messy smelly task unless I had more indication that it was necessary. “Let me just look at it for a bit,” I said.

I eyeballed the big 427. As you likely know, I’m mainly a vintage BMW guy. The only American V-8s I’ve been around were the small-block Chevys in the parade of Suburbans I owned. The engine in this car was so far outside my wheelhouse that I might as well have been a blind concussed cyclops interpreting data from the Large Hadron Collider at CERN. Still, at the basic level, it was just another engine. I put on my Tyvek suit and got down to it, taking care not to scratch the paint.

I noticed—and you can kind of see it in the photo above—some not-inconsequential residue in the valleys on the top of the intake manifold, which I took as evidence that it had been leaking fuel. When I looked closer, I saw what I believed to be active leakage weeping from the base of the forward carb. That might have accounted for the residue in the forward valley, but not the rear one. I took a wrench and snugged down both carbs.

I was curious if the float bowls had anything in them, be it fuel or water, so I asked the owner if I could pull the air cleaners off and verify that the accelerator pumps squirted anything when the linkage was goosed. I worked the linkage and was surprised to see that the front carb’s butterflies opened, but the rear ones didn’t appear to. He explained that this was normal—the linkage was progressive, with the rear carb not being engaged until the front carb was mostly open. I commented that this was like the progressive Weber 32/36s on some of my cars, except they did that between barrels in the same carb, whereas this car progressively engaged an entire carb. I noted that the front carb squirted what looked and smelled like fuel, but the rear one wasn’t squirting anything. Also, the choke setup was unusual, with an owner-installed cable-actuated choke on the front carb, while the rear carb appeared to have the original automatic choke, though it wasn’t closing. Not wanting to break anything, I left that mystery for another day.

Having found the source of one of the two locations of gas residue, I made sure the fire extinguisher was handy and had the owner start the car. It roared to life and began idling as I scrutinized the carbs, fuel hoses, and intake with a flashlight.

Then I saw gas dripping. I barked “SHUT IT OFF!”

The leak was coming from the left corner of the rear float bowl and dripping onto the manifold, almost certainly responsible for the residue in the rear valley. I checked all the screws holding the bowl on. None of them were snug, and the one at the dripping corner was finger-loose. I tightened them all, wiped up all wetness, checked things a second time, and we very carefully tried again.

This time, the engine stayed dry. As it warmed up, the owner blipped the throttle, leaning into it a bit more each time. He smiled.

“This,” he said, “is how it’s supposed to sound.”

I said something about how it wasn’t that I didn’t believe his theory on water in the tank, but that sometimes it’s best to try the smaller, easier things first.

“What do you say we drive to the gas station and put a few gallons of fresh high test in it?” he said.

“Sounds like a plan!” I began walking around to the passenger door when I heard him say something completely unexpected:

“Would you like to drive it?”

Wait, what?

To say that I don’t often have the chance to do things like this is a massive understatement. But at the same time, I long ago developed an adult’s balance of the craving for sensation with both risk and my own comfort level. I thanked him profusely, then politely demurred—unfamiliar car, he should be the one to determine whether or not it’s running right, etc. I don’t regret it in the least.

I pulled closed the feather-light door by its leather strap, then latched the meaty seat belt, its buckle the size of a sandwich. I reflexively looked for a shoulder belt. “There isn’t one,” my friend said. “If you need more stability, grab the dash with both hands.”

By this point, it was maybe quarter to four. It was a cool overcast spring day, just the kind of weather that could have convinced you not to go drive a valuable vintage roadster, because if it rains, putting up the top is like setting up Earnest Shackleton’s tent.

In other words, it made me feel breathtakingly alive.

We ambled our way to the gas station, my friend feeling out the car after its two-year sit and troublesome re-emergence.

Then, on a small road somewhere in New England, without warning, he punched it.

I have never experienced anything so raw and visceral in my life. My genteel octogenarian friend’s blue eyes shone like he was 20 years old.

“This is running great,” he calmly said.

We arrived at the gas station, which was at the intersection of a small local road and a local highway, and not far from an interstate. He put a few gallons of gas in the car, then again asked me if I wanted to drive it. By this time, was 4 p.m., and the traffic density had picked up substantially. Again I thanked him, and again I declined.

“Maybe when it’s not close to rush hour,” he said.

“That would be awesome.”

He pulled away from the pump, but rather than turning around to go back the way we’d come, he positioned the car to turn onto the local highway. I saw that there was an immediate right turn on another local road. I pointed to it and asked “You’re going to take that?”

“Nope,” he deadpanned.

When there was an opening in the traffic, he nailed and wailed. The Cobra exploded forward. Raw passion gushed out of both him and the car as this gentleman, intimately familiar with what the car was and what it could do (oh, did I forget to mention that he is the original owner of the car?), deftly jammed a thumb in the eye of everything ordinary. He slotted the gears, the best WAAAAAAAAA-shift-waaaaaaaa ever known, better than any adolescent boy’s dream of what sex or driving would be like. It was a thing of abject beauty.

Then he pulled onto the interstate, taking the entrance ramp with a ferocity that had me grabbing the dashboard with both hands while I laughed my head off. I commented that traffic was lighter than I would’ve expected at this hour, but his Paul Newman–like eyes just remained laser-focused. Then he took the exit ramp at a speed I would not have thought the car was capable of. The car heard my thoughts and said to me “You know nothing, Rob Siegel.” The Automotive Powers That Be were blessing me with something singular.

This is why we love cars.

When we returned to sedate speeds on local roads and were about a mile from his house, an oncoming car flashed its lights to indicate there was a speed trap up ahead. I happened to glance that the car’s inspection sticker and noticed that it said “21.”

“You know that your sticker’s expired?”

“Oh, it’s way expired,” he said. “If I’m stopped, I’ll say that the car was off the road for a few years and I just now drove it to get gas, which is true.” Then he turned and looked at me and said, “You can get away with a lot when you’re my age and tell the truth.” Words to live by. By chance (at least I think it was by chance), the police officer was parked directly across the street from my friend’s house. My friend pulled the Cobra into his driveway and, from there, slowly into his garage. The officer stayed where he was.

“That,” I said, “is something I’ll remember my entire life.” I offered that I’d be glad to help him with the car again.

“Sure,” he said. “Come back some other time. Then you can drive it.”

When I got home, I looked at the photos I took, and initially was disappointed there weren’t more. Then I realized. Of course. I was living in the moment. It’s burned into my soul. I don’t need no stinking photos.

So, if you witnessed us—a little blue two-seat roadster with massive tires and flared fenders, a mouth like a bass, and an engine note like a line of howitzers, being driven like he stole it by a genteel-looking older man with a glint in his eye and someone who looks like a thin Jerry Garcia in the passenger seat—and if you tell your family “That’s a Cobra replica; no one would be driving a real one through traffic at 4 p.m. on a Wednesday,” don’t be so sure. The universe is full of light, wonder, and unburned hydrocarbons, and if you’re in the right place at the right time, The Cobra Wizard may choose you.

***

Rob’s latest book, The Best Of The Hack Mechanic: 35 years of hacks, kluges, and assorted automotive mayhem is available on Amazon here. His other seven books are available here on Amazon, or you can order personally-inscribed copies from Rob’s website, www.robsiegel.com.

Check out the Hagerty Media homepage so you don’t miss a single story, or better yet, bookmark it. To get our best stories delivered right to your inbox, subscribe to our newsletters.

The post The Hack and the Cobra appeared first on Hagerty Media.

Full disclosure: I love these cars. This basic body style first appeared in Autumn 1976 as a ’77 model, and the was given a more aerodynamic restyling in 1980, though the basic size and shape remained. That ’80 body lasted all the way to 1992, with only minor exterior and interior trim and styling changes. But my favorite is the facelifted 1990-92 models. And it takes me back to when Cadillac just made cars: sedans, coupes and the Allante convertible. Nary a 4×4 or crossover to be seen!

It was a better time. I loved Cadillac back then. Lincoln too. It goes back to early childhood and my Grandpa Bob’s 1977 Continental Mark V. Big, bold, with hidden headlights, opera windows, and swank interiors. Oh sure, I loved the Porsche 911s and Lamborghini Countaches of the time, too, but my heart was with domestic luxury cars, even at 11.

A big plus at that time (circa 1991-92) was that the father of one of my best friends, Cameron Saunders, was a salesman at Horst-Zimmerman Cadillac-Pontiac-Honda in downtown Rock Island. Cameron brought the big, plush 1991 and 1992 Cadillac brochures to school, which I hid in my desk and ogled during lunch and at recess. No, really.

It actually got to the point that the teacher took them away! I was heartbroken. By golly, what’s wrong with looking at fine luxury cars? And why confiscate such treasures from a car-obsessed kid, dang! But such is life—and childhood.

Fun fact: years later, after I got my driver’s license, I went back and talked to the principal, who was a neighbor of ours, to see if possibly they were still in a closet or drawer somewhere. Of course they were long gone, but a short time later I was able to replace them with a little help from eBay. As you can imagine, my brochure collection has grown substantially since then, but I’ve digressed enough already!

While the same essential car existed from 1980 through 1992, what it was called depended on the year. In 1980, it was the Fleetwood Brougham (and associated tonier Brougham d’Elegance, which included what I like to call the “lawyer’s office” interior in all its button-tufted glory). It would remain the same through the 1986 model year.

Starting in 1987, however, it became simply the Brougham. This was due to confusion which began in 1985 with the new front-wheel drive C-body de Villes and Fleetwoods. Yes, in 1985 there were two Fleetwoods. The smaller, yet still luxurious front-wheel drive Fleetwood, and the 1980-vintage Fleetwood Brougham.

For several years it was uncertain if the new front-drive car would replace the more established model, but since the rear-wheel drive Caddy kept selling, GM kept building it. Thus, starting in ’87, the RWD car was the Brougham and the FWD car was the Fleetwood.

Fun fact: the 1987 Brougham got a “new” grille, but it was actually the former grille first seen on 1981 Coupe de Villes, Sedan de Villes and Fleetwood Broughams. The ’88 was virtually the same, but in 1989 another “new” grille was featured—this time the former ’82-’86 grille. You might say GM was a pioneer in recycling. Personally, I think it’s a clever use of already-paid-for tooling.

But in 1990, the need for a more elaborate refresh was apparent. In addition to yet another new grille, Cadillac added flush “Euro” style headlights, new taillights, a revised instrument panel, and new side cladding adorning the flanks. As before, it was available in Brougham and Brougham d’Elegance versions, with all cars wearing ample chrome and a padded vinyl roof.

Despite my having at least 16-18 Cadillac books, I have to admit I was a little bit stymied in beginning this article—not one of my points of reference had production or price figures on anything after 1990.

Fortunately, my friend Dave Smith delivered in spades, as he has all sorts of dealer-only publications from back then. A ’91 Brougham based at $30,225, the d’Elegance with cloth was $32,027, and the d’Elegance with cloth was $32,597.

Dave and my other friend, Jeremy Shiffer, knowledgeable resources both, were able to confirm confirmed that 26,439 Broughams were made in ’91. Of that total, 8,812 had the d’Elegance package.

Our featured car was owned by my friend Anthony Gozzo at the time I began compiling information for its writeup, although it was for sale. Anthony has a tidy business selling classic 1970s-2000s Cadillacs and Lincolns, and he found this car—with a remarkable 21,000 original miles—in LaSalle, Illinois. Of course he has several nice Caddys and Lincolns in his personal collection as well.

As he related, this car “sold new at Lambert Jones Olds-Cadillac in LaSalle, Illinois. It was a spectacular example. The 5.0 may hold it back a bit, but unfortunately they aren’t as easy to come across in this condition or with a 5.7. Sort of at the point where even the underdogs are just as appreciated since they’re so hard to find.” And a bit later he told me it was sold and going to a happy new home in California.

These cars are appreciating, too. Valuation isn’t really my bailiwick, but Anthony had this listed at $31,995 and it sold in less than 48 hours. But to his and the car’s credit, it is a remarkably well-preserved version by any standard. And I personally loved the white with dark blue interior.

My friend Jayson Coombes and I have often discussed how while years ago we would have wanted leather, now the velour (or Prima Vera cloth, as Cadillac called it) is more appealing to us. It just looks so comfortable.

These were the last Cadillacs with all the cool little styling touches too, like the miniature wreath and crests on the front seat side shields, the wire wheel covers, and the ample woodgrain trim inside.

For facts-and-figures folks, additional options included the Gold Ornamentation Package ($395), genuine wire wheels ($1000), power Astroroof ($1355) and Firemist paint ($190 for the upper body, $50 for the lower accent moldings/cladding).

Sure, the more aerodynamic 1993 Fleetwood and Fleetwood Brougham, which retained this car’s chassis, was classy and sharp too, but a lot of those little chrome details and gingerbread were no longer present. And a bit of that old Cadillac swank and swagger was lost, never to return.

But don’t despair! For those seeking classic American luxury, there are still Broughams out there, looking for happy new homes, to whisk their owners to supper clubs for surf and turf and gin and tonics! Anthony is but one purveyor of these classic chariots. If you’re so inclined, seek them out. And until next time, Brougham on. And always tip your bartender.

***

Check out the Hagerty Media homepage so you don’t miss a single story, or better yet, bookmark it. To get our best stories delivered right to your inbox, subscribe to our newsletters.

The post 1991 Cadillac Brougham d’Elegance: Cadillac, Cadillac, Cadillac Style! appeared first on Hagerty Media.

In case you’re new to the ongoing saga of me being completely in over my head with cars, and now in decrepit real estate, let me offer a quick recap: I bought a defunct centenarian foundry in historic Statesville, North Carolina. I plan to fill it with my oddball, garbage cars. The path thus far has been neither easy nor straightforward, but I’m inching closer to my imaginary goal: a parade of my sh**box cars driving through town and into their new home.

After two days of sweeping the crusty floor, emptying the ex-municipal trash cans, and two trips to the scrapyard, my train of weird and deplorable vehicles was nearly ready to pull into this station. Though I very much wanted the en masse entrance of my dreams, it didn’t look promising. Due to the gradual nature of my cleanup efforts, a one-at-a-time approach—bringing the car to the foundry in piecemeal fashion—seemed most prudent.

Part of the foundry’s appeal is that it’s just a few minutes’ drive from my house. The first driving stint featured my fleet’s champion of both water solubility and moisture intrusion: a 1971 Citroen Ami 8. This one had been protected from the weather under cover of a mule barn at my house, and its ease of movement earned it immediate shelter privileges. Getting it to the foundry didn’t seem like it would be a real challenge. Other than the car’s tendency to gush fuel out of the fuel filler hose on left-hand turns with anything over 3/8ths of a tank, I didn’t have any major concerns.

I turned the ever-reliable ignition and bumbled my way down the road from my house, into the foundry property gates, over the drainage bridge, and through the main entrance. For the return trip home to get the next car, I found myself staring at a red, flat-tired, and fixed-gear hipster bike. Perfect for my next transport leg! At first, the Presta valves weren’t keen on taking new air but after I got PB Blaster and channel locks involved, the tires held air with merely a slight hiss. My first pitstop and mandatory celebration point would be Statesville’s defacto town hall—Red Buffalo Brewing—to replenish my hydration and proteins.

Next up to move was the Hobby 600—my space-shippy Fiat-based 1990s camper van. That one had been parked outside, in my yard. Each and every time it rained, my mind feared the future in which I’d have to one day fix water damage behind the carefully stitched headliner. Also, the diesel FWD drivetrain resting over its tiny front tires sometimes caused it to sink into the ground.

Being made out of aluminum honeycomb, the Hobby van might not seem robust but my experience proves otherwise. It drove over to the foundry without issue. However, I neglected to measure the size of the van’s doors, nor did I test driving inside the facility, before purchasing the storage property. I skated by, in the end. With a handful of inches to spare, I backed it under a precariously hanging double gantry. I walked home so as to not push my luck with the vehicle gods.

I figured the next up should be my quirky yet surprisingly unfussy ’58 Moskvich 407-1. How this car continues to run, drive, and stop with zero attention constantly baffles me. I chucked the fixie bike in its trunk, mostly full of East German roadside breakdown tools, and headed off.

It dawned on me, as I was pumping the brakes and bouncing down the road on cart springs, that after the Moskie things were about to get a lot more difficult.

I won’t use the term “daunting” to describe the remaining vehicle moves, at least not yet. But here’s where things started to get more tedious. As you may have read, I pulled the radiator out of my Studebaker Gran Turismo Hawk after it failed and stopped me from making it to work. Well, ol’ Rex at the radiator shop was still waiting on a core. Breaking out the tow dolly for such an insanely short ride seemed to me an admission of defeat. Attempting to be resourceful, I rummaged through my collection of radiator hoses, trying to find something to loop the upper and lower connections on the block and run things demo derby style.

Nothing that wouldn’t make contact with the fan turned up, and I really didn’t feel up to further disassembly for such a foolhardy cause.

Finally, I succumbed to the pressure, drove it up on the ratty blue dolly, and unloaded the Stude a totally lame 0.7 miles later.

And what was waiting for me there? That’s right, another immobile Studebaker! You’ll read more about my beautiful ’61 Lark Cruiser in future articles, so I don’t want to spoil things too much. I can say that it doesn’t run and has no brakes due to some of my own idiotic decisions. More on that later.

While we’re on the topic of dumb things, I remembered that my comealong was still dangling from the foundry’s rafters after hoisting and reuniting that ’87 Chevy 1500 bed with its cab. I dislike using ratchet straps as winches, but I despise running needless errands. So, click by click, on it went with my improvised winch and a scant six blocks later, off it came with the help of the park pawl and a brief tug of the trailer out from under.

A few weeks prior to discovering the foundry as a potential storage location, I made my annual soft commitment to turbocharge my Australian-market Holden VL Commodore. Doing so more in earnest for 2024, I started pulling apart the cooling system and realized that I had made a pretty serious error about five years ago.

At that time, I had filled the cooling system with water before moving to Germany. Once I returned to the U.S., I faced a long list of parts to order for the car, which were all sitting in my online shopping cart for months following the foundry happenings. This left the Commodore in a compromised position, with the cooling system completely open and dry. It was, however, mobile, and I was growing tired of using the dolly.

Long ago I had heard that it was possible to run a Studebaker V-8 without coolant for 45 seconds starting from room temperature. I know that advice isn’t totally pertinent to this Holden application, but I was willing to try anyway.

I rode over to the sock factory—my somewhat failed attempt at finding a local storage solution—on my bicycle of choosing and hopped into the Commodore. Avoiding the typically long warmup time, I cranked it out of there in a quasi-running state, with the clutch out. That spent three seconds. After slinging the factory the doors shut, I hopped back in the car, started again, and motored up past the farm and garden store, up to the stop sign, and left in front of First Presbyterian. Eighteen seconds of run time and then off. Seeing the light go yellow, I keyed off and coasted up to the next stoplight. If I could hit 30 mph and get lucky at the following light, I had a good chance of coasting to within 100 yards of the foundry. The 3.0-liter Nissan six roared through the signal, allowing me to key off and coast, only to unlock the steering column at 28 miles per hour and approach to the foundry gate. Off. Total time: 39 seconds. I used a further 10 seconds getting into the front bay, but I figured with all the on/off shutdowns I was probably still in keeping with the framework of oral tradition.

Moving on. It was time to start transporting le French stuff. As long as I could keep the driver’s side window from breaking loose from its duct tape tethers and smashing itself to bits in the bottom of the door, the Renault GTA seemed relatively straightforward as my next candidate. Earlier, when I started it up to make sure it ran, a toasty smell and orange glow coming from a pile of acorns sitting on the catalyst flange caught my eye. But I’m pretty sure they burned all the way up.

The hurdles with the Renault were primarily bureaucratic, rather than mechanical. When purchasing a vehicle in North Carolina with an out-of-state title, some additional hoop jumping is required. Namely, one must guess when the local License and Theft Bureau of the DMV is open; it’s something like 2 hours in the morning on three days of the week and I can’t ever remember any specifics. Therefore, the Renault is still plateless and on its Connecticut title. (Obviously, it’s insured.) I figured a bit over a half-mile wasn’t going to invite any undue risk or attention from local law enforcement. I pulled my beloved yard-sale-find Masi Gran Corsa road bike out of the shed and chucked it in the back; under the cover of broad daylight, the trip took place without incident and I biked home yet again.

At this point, I was starting to see serious progress both at the foundry and in what now looked like a far less crowded home garden! With solely a Wheel Horse and a Yamaha Chappy remaining at home, I believe the real winner of the sh**box triathlon was my wife, who now has room for her flowers.

Lest you worry I’ve gone soft, dear reader, you know I still have oddball vehicles sprinkled elsewhere in town. The move continues!

Matthew Anderson is a Carolina-based engineer with a penchant for backyard wrenching, weird and unloved cars, and crudely planned adventures, with a bit of harebrained world travel mixed in. We don’t ask him too many follow-up questions.

***

Check out the Hagerty Media homepage so you don’t miss a single story, or better yet, bookmark it. To get our best stories delivered right to your inbox, subscribe to our newsletters.

The post Car Storage Part 5: Let the Sh**box Parade Begin! appeared first on Hagerty Media.

The American Motors Corporation did good business selling small, sensible cars bearing the Rambler brand during the late 1950s through early 1960s. Rambler sales peaked in the 1962 model year, after which competition from new compact and midsize offerings from the Detroit Big Three made life tougher for the not-so-big Kenosha outfit. During the middle 1960s, AMC battled for midsize sales against the likes of the Chevrolet Chevelle and Plymouth Belvedere with its Rambler Classic. Today we’ll admire the first AMC product in this series with a Classic 660 found in a yard located between Denver and Cheyenne.

The Classic began life as a 1961 model during George Romney’s reign at AMC, then got a complete redesign for 1963 and became bigger and more modern-looking. Unfortunately for AMC, Ford introduced the Fairlane as a 1962 model, while Chrysler was right there with brand-new B-Body midsize machinery at the same time. As if that wasn’t enough, GM stepped up with the Chevelle and its A-Body siblings for the 1964 model year.

AMC, by then without Romney (who had gone on to become governor of Michigan), completely redesigned the Classic for 1965 and it looked just as slick as its many rivals. The following year, the Rambler name entered a phase-out period that was completed when the final AMC Ramblers were sold as 1969 models (the last year for Rambler as a separate marque was 1968).

The 1965 Classic was a bit smaller than the Fairlane, Chevelle, and Belvedere, though somewhat bigger than the Commander from soon-to-be-gone Studebaker.

The ’65 Classic offered plenty of value per dollar; the list price for this car would have been $2287 (about $22,894 in 2024 dollars). Its most menacing sales rival was the Chevelle Malibu, which had an MSRP of $2299 ($23,105 in today’s money) with roughly similar equipment.

This car is a 660, which was the mid-priced trim level slotted between the 550 and 770. Rambler shoppers who wanted to pinch a penny until it screamed could get a zero-frills Rambler 550 two-door sedan for just $2142 ($21,443 after inflation), which just barely undercut the cheapest Ford Fairlane Six ($2183) and Chevelle 300 ($2156) two-door sedans. Studebaker would sell you a new Commander two-door for a mere $2125 that year, but found few takers for that deal.

The 1965 Classic’s light weight (curb weight of 2882 pounds for the 660 four-door) made it respectably quick even with a six-cylinder engine. This car was built with an AMC 232-cubic-incher rated at 145 horsepower. If you wanted a genuine factory hot rod Classic for ’65, a 327-cubic-inch V-8 (not related to Chevrolet’s 327) with 270 horses was available.

But back to the straight six: This incredibly successful engine family went on to serve American Motors and then Chrysler all the way through 2006, when the final 4.0-liter versions were bolted into Jeep Wranglers. The 232 was used in new AMC cars through 1979.

Automatic transmissions were very costly during the middle 1960s and the Classic didn’t get a four-on-the-floor manual transmission until 1966, so the thrifty original buyer of this car went with the base three-speed column-shift manual.

At least it has a factory AM radio, a $58.50 option ($586 now).

You had to pay extra to get a heater in the cheapest 1965 Studebakers, but a genuine Weather Eye heater/ventilation system was standard equipment in every 1965 Rambler Classic.

AMC sold more than 200,000 Classics for 1965, and the most popular version was the 660 sedan. I still find Classics regularly in car graveyards, so these cars aren’t particularly rare even today.

This one is just too rough and too common to be worth restoring, but some of its parts should live on in other Ramblers.

Its final parking space has it right next to another affordable American machine that deserved a better fate: A 1979 Dodge Aspen station wagon.

***

Check out the Hagerty Media homepage so you don’t miss a single story, or better yet, bookmark it. To get our best stories delivered right to your inbox, subscribe to our newsletters.

The post Final Parking Space: 1965 Rambler Classic 660 4-Door Sedan appeared first on Hagerty Media.

I’ve written numerous pieces about storing five of my cars in a warehouse in Monson, on the Massachusetts/Connecticut border. The advantage is that it’s cheap—$70/month per car. But the disadvantages are substantial: It’s an hour and ten minutes from my house if there’s zero traffic (which is rare); I have to coordinate access with the owner; my cars are blocked in over the winter by RVs, boats, and trailers; there’s no electricity; and a particularly rainy summer last year caused mildew problems. Last fall, I did a full-on desiccant attack, putting two DampRid containers in each car, plus an industrial desiccant brick used on cargo vessels to help prevent “container rain.” I hadn’t been out there since November and was waiting for the big rigs to vacate the premises so I could deal with the fleet.

At a bare minimum, all five of the cars needed inspection stickers and the desiccant refilled. I expected them all to have needs. I didn’t expect what was perilously close to a full-on revolt.

First on the list was “Lolita” the ’74 Lotus Europa Twin Cam Special. She’d actually been sitting out there since September. I’d finally gotten the car registered in Massachusetts (a long story I’ll tell another time) and was anxious to get her inspected and back home.

The lack of electricity in the warehouse means I can’t put the batteries in the cars on trickle chargers. I used to pull the batteries out and bring them home for the winter, or move a good battery around between cars, but my back no longer allows that. However, my experience has generally been that if I simply unplug the negative battery cables, when I return three months later, the cars usually start up, and if not, I have a battery jump pack I use. The hour-plus drive home usually does a decent job of recharging the battery, and if not, I have chargers and battery testers at the house. Of course, when three months turns to six, things can be more difficult, but the Lotus started up fairly easily.

While the car was idling, I put it through its inspection paces and found nothing wrong. But inspection notwithstanding, part of my post-storage procedure is to check all fluids as well as look under each car for leaks, both stationary and running. I shined a flashlight beneath it and saw fluid dripping into a spreading puddle. I shut the car off and swiped a paper towel through the puddle.

Gas. Damn.

Even under the best of circumstances, fuel leaks are something one should have zero tolerance for, and things are worse on the Lotus, because any leaks from the Stromberg carburetors or the lines feeding them drip directly onto the starter motor, which gives me the heebie-jeebies about restarting the car until I’ve waited long enough that any fuel has evaporated. Plus, for all the just-in-case stuff I’ve accumulated in the trunk of my BMW Bavaria in Monson (tools, paper towels, oil, coolant, jumper cables, starter fluid, etc.), I didn’t have a fire extinguisher. So, everything ground to a halt, especially the idea of getting the car inspected.

If I couldn’t diagnose and repair the source of the leak there, I’d need to tow the car home. It turned out to be coming from the two plastic plugs in the bottoms of the Strombergs’ float bowls. I did a little searching on my phone and learned that the leak is fairly common in Stromberg-equipped British and Swedish cars and can be stanched by simply replacing the O-ring. I unscrewed one bowl, gently squeezed the plug’s plastic prongs together, and popped it out. Suddenly, it seemed that I could rescue my get-the-Lotus-inspected-then-drive-it-home plans by going to a nearby hardware store and matching up the O-rings. Unfortunately, when I tried to pull the 50-year-old O-ring off the 50-year-old plastic plug, one of the prongs broke off in my hand.

Okay. No inspection for Lolita today. There were still four other cars in the queue. I turned my attention to “Sharkie,” the ’79 BMW Euro 635CSi. Like Lolita, Sharkie started up easily when I reconnected its battery. Unfortunately, when I went through the inspection checklist, I found that something was wrong in the handbrake lever’s ratchet—it wouldn’t stay seated. A non-functional handbrake is a certain inspection fail. I pulled up the rubber boot and found that the anchoring bracket for the ratchet had broken off from the transmission hump.

I decided to cut that day’s warehouse adventures short and beat it home in Sharkie, where I had the equipment necessary to fix the handbrake ratchet.

I thought about welding the bracket back in place, but although I own a welder, my skills are poor, and I wasn’t certain if I needed to pull up the carpet, which would be fairly involved. So instead, I settled on pop-riveting the bracket. Three drilled holes and three rivets later, and the job was done, and I got Sharkie stickered.

The plugs for the Strombergs were plentiful enough online that I searched for the lowest-cost vendor (about $18 per plug), clicked, and waited for the shipping confirmation. Unfortunately, the following day, the vendor called me to say that the plugs were out of stock. I then stepped through four vendors in increasing order of cost, calling each one, and finding that they too were out of stock. I eventually climbed to the top of the cost curve and called the venerable Moss Motors in Virginia, from whom, shipped to my house, the two plastic plugs and O-rings set me back 80 bucks. As they say, sometimes you just have to pay the man (or woman).

With float bowl plugs and a fire extinguisher in tow, I piloted Sharkie back out to Monson and again had at Lolita. I snapped the first plug into the already-removed float bowl and reinstalled it.

Since there was no downside if I broke the second original plug, I pried it out of the second bowl without needing to drop it. It came out easily, and I replaced it with the second new one. I re-checked the fuel lines, and with the fire extinguisher at the ready, started the car. No leaks. The Lotus appeared ready for inspection.

I took the car to a nearby inspection station and parked it in front of the service bay like you’re supposed to. The six-foot-tall inspector came out and stared suspiciously at Lolita. I ran down the car-specific details: “The horn button’s not in the middle of the steering wheel; it’s under the dash and to the left. The headlight switch is to the right. You have to pull it out and then turn it clockwise. The wiper and high beam stalks are very fragile. Oh, and you literally need to take off your right shoe to move the car, otherwise you’ll hit the gas and brake pedal at the same time.”

The inspector in this very small town, who, to put it mildly, doesn’t see a lot of Lotus Europas, was not happy with this. He barked “I don’t even think I can get in the (bleep)ing thing. Just drive it in and do the lights-wipers-horn for me.” They’re supposed to drive it in, not you, but I complied. Then, for the jack-up-the-front-wheels-and-check-for-play test, I handed him a hockey puck and told him exactly where to position it and the jack so he didn’t tear up the fiberglass, but advised that the car is so low that if he didn’t have a low-rise jack, he might not be able to get it under the car at all. Rather than take my head off, though, he seemed to warm to my thoroughness and my knowledge of my own car, and offered that they have a similar issue with Corvettes. The Lotus emerged without damage and with a Massachusetts inspection sticker. I celebrated with Lolita’s first-ever fully-legal drive—five miles to the CT border and back.

With Lolita finally stickered, I turned my sights on the three early 1970s BMWs in the warehouse. First was “Louie” the ’72 2002tii (the Ran When Parked car). Its reconnected battery barely had enough juice for two cranks, but the jump pack got it started. While warming it up, I didn’t see any leaking fluids but was astonished to find the brake fluid reservoir essentially empty. The level was down past the feed to the clutch cylinders, so any leakage had to be coming from the brake hydraulics. I crawled under the car with a flashlight and double-checked to see if any fluids were leaking down the tires, and found none.

Then I remembered: This same thing happened last year. At that time, I refilled the reservoir, hammered on the brakes, took the car for a short drive, found no leakage, carefully drove the car home while stopping several times to check, made it without incident, and tried to diagnose the problem. Leak-free vanishing of brake fluid typically means that it’s going into the brake booster, but I dipped a long zip tie down into it and it came up dry. At some point, I put the car back in the warehouse. Here I was, a year later, faced with exactly the same situation, reinforcing the adage that problems like this rarely cure themselves. For now, I did the eyes-on-the-prize thing and simply got the car inspected. The vanishing-brake-fluid-mystery will again have to wait.

Next was “Bertha,” the heavily patinated, massively modified ’75 2002 that my wife and I drove off from our wedding. Even with the negative terminal disconnected, its battery was drained down to 10.5 volts, so the starter solenoid didn’t even click until I connected the jump pack. As I thought about it, I realized I hadn’t rotated Bertha out of Monson and brought it back to my house in a couple of years, so the car didn’t have the benefit of a highway drive to recharge the battery, just an annual run to the CT border and back, so the dead battery didn’t surprise me.

The low brake-fluid reservoir, however, did. This one was down just slightly below the clutch line, indicating that the leak was likely in the clutch hydraulics.

As with Louie, I didn’t see any evidence of fluid beneath the car, so the issue wasn’t acute. It was probably coming from the clutch master and going into the pedal box, but post-1974 2002s like Bertha have a one-piece carpet, so peeling it back to check isn’t trivial. So, as with Louie, I left the mystery for another day. I filled the reservoir, made sure the car wasn’t peeing fluid, and got it inspected. The inspector had warmed to me to the point that he was kind enough to leave Bertha running during the inspection so I wouldn’t need to re-jump the car. Then I tried to take it for the same five-mile-to-the-CT-border run I did with the Lotus, but I quickly found that it ran absolutely horribly. Whenever I bring Bertha home, I may need to do so on a rented U-Haul auto transporter, which would be good in that it’ll help justify the existence of the Nissan Armada.

That left just the ’73 BMW Bavaria. Its battery was the deadest of the bunch, discharged down to a damaging 9 volts. Like Bertha, this was due to the car not having been driven further than to the CT border and back last year. The Bav has typically been hard to start after a winter-long sit, as the original mechanical fuel pump takes a while to fill the Webers’ float bowls. I usually go out there with an electric fuel pump I use to prime the bowls, but I’d forgotten it. No matter, I thought—I keep a can of starting fluid in the trunk for just this purpose. Unfortunately, when I tried squirting it down the throats, I found that the can had no propellant left in it.

I could’ve run to the AutoZone one town over for starting fluid, but I elected instead to put the time into changing the DampRid in all five cars. This process—bringing the two containers from each car outside the warehouse, dumping the water and the desiccant, cleaning the containers, and refilling them—is surprisingly time-consuming. By the time I was done, it was almost 3 p.m., and any window I had for driving the Lotus home before rush hour had vanished (hey, you drive a car with all the crashworthiness of a Pringles can in stop-and-go traffic and see how you feel).

So the Bavaria’s inspection and Lolita’s long journey back home would need to wait until next week, during which I could do some serious thinking about why I continue to own these cars that I’m not driving further than to the inspection station and a 5-mile romp into Connecticut and back.

Of course, it doesn’t mean I’m going to do anything about it.

***

Rob’s latest book, The Best Of The Hack Mechanic: 35 years of hacks, kluges, and assorted automotive mayhem is available on Amazon here. His other seven books are available here on Amazon, or you can order personally-inscribed copies from Rob’s website, www.robsiegel.com.

Check out the Hagerty Media homepage so you don’t miss a single story, or better yet, bookmark it. To get our best stories delivered right to your inbox, subscribe to our newsletters.

The post My Cars in Storage Are Revolting (Part I) appeared first on Hagerty Media.

The reference probably dates me, but back in earlier decades, Buicks were known as doctor’s cars: Nice enough that one wouldn’t feel uncomfortable at a nice dinner, wedding, or country club but not so ostentatious that passersby might think you gauche or possibly connected to criminals. Yep, a Buick was just the ticket.

Of course, this was back when Buick made actual cars, not various and sundry crossovers and SUVs. I long for a 2024 Park Avenue! But never mind … Today, let’s go back to when Buick made cars—lush, large, imposing, comfortable cars, like this 1977 Electra.

At the time of this writing, it was owned by my friend Robert Reed, but it was going up on the online auction block at the time. You may recall my earlier columns on his 1985 Fleetwood Brougham Coupe and 1978 LeSabre Custom Coupe. Reed still has the LeSabre, but the Fleetwood has gone on to a happy new home.

Anyway, the ’77 Electra is one of those special cars that never had a rough day in its life and was always loved—as is apparent from the pictures. I see these models less and less frequently, though I remember seeing quite a few of them well into the late ’90s and early 2000s. They were robust cars.

As Reed relates: “This particular example has been a one family–owned car up until 2023. The original owners were BCA (Buick Club of America) members and this car went to quite a few shows. I believe the paint to be original as well as the top. The light blue metallic paint has a nice gloss and the car is extremely straight.

“Vinyl top contrasts the paint nicely and the interior is in near flawless condition. Right rear filler panel was missing so I am including a new replacement which can be seen in the trunk picture. This Electra Limited has the very peppy and smooth-running 5.7-liter 350 Buick V-8 engine. No vibrations from this motor even when in gear with the air-conditioning on max. It was/is kept in a climate-controlled garage under a car cover and has never been a daily driver since new.”

These were such nice, smooth cars. But ’77 was a big year for both Buick and GM, as all the big cars, including this Electra, were shrunken. The only land yachts that escaped the carnage were the Cadillac Eldorado and Oldsmobile Toronado, which lasted to 1978 in their previous parade-float glamour.

As the ’77 deluxe brochure relates: “The 1977 Electra. An Electra with a new brace of talents that make it a car of today, the future, instead of a tribute to the past. Its new silhouette is lean, aerodynamic.” And it was, for 1977. Some today may scoff at the prose Buick published, but these were revolutionary cars at the time, a country mile away from the previous Nimitz-class Electras from 1976 and earlier.

Buick made sure the prospect was aware of the new size too. “You’ll also discover a new fun-to-drive aspect to Electra. Thanks to the fact that it possesses the same supple coil-spring ride, the same smoothness in motion, that have become Electra’s special trademark…a beautiful reflection of a sophisticated day and age.”

Four Electra models were available. The $6673 Electra 225 coupe, $6866 Electra 225 sedan, $7033 Electra Limited coupe, and finally, the $7226 Electra Limited sedan. There was also a Park Avenue package, but it was included in the totals for the Electra Limited sedan, as far as I could tell. It was not available on Limited two-doors.

The Limited sedan, like our featured example, was far and away the most popular ’77 Electra, with 82,361 built. In comparison, the 225 sedan sold only 25,633 copies. But back then, if you were splurging for a new Buick, why not get the top model? And the Limited seats were definitely more impressive than the 225’s.

In 1977, the Electra Limited had plenty of competition, even within GM. If you decided you didn’t want a Buick, you could go across the street to your friendly Oldsmobile dealer and pick up a new Ninety-Eight Regency for $7133. It had an arguably plusher interior, despite its slightly lower MSRP, with cushy floating-pillow thrones.

Or if you wanted full-size luxury but didn’t want quite so much Broughamage (or quite so high a car note), the $5992 Pontiac Bonneville Brougham sedan and $5357 Chevrolet Caprice Classic sedan were fine cars in their own rights. Although they were on the ever-so-slightly smaller B-body chassis instead of the C-body, shared between the top Buick, Olds, and Cadillac models.

Oh, and also, if you fancied a Caddy instead of a Buick, the ’77 Sedan de Ville had a base price of $10,020. Quite a bump up from the Electra Limited, price-wise!

While LeSabres came standard with a six-cylinder engine, the Electras all came with a V-8. Standard power plant was the 5.7-liter, 350 V8, but you could order a 6.6-liter 403 if you wanted a little extra passing power. Of course, all Electras came with Turbo Hydra-matic automatic transmission, power steering, power front disc/rear drum brakes, wide, bright rocker-trim moldings, a handsome quartz clock, Custom steering wheel, and cut-pile carpeting.

They were handsome cars, and survived through the ’79 model year with only minor comfort and appearance changes. A major facelift occurred in 1980 and carried on until 1985, when an all-new, totally different C-body Electra replaced it, with front-wheel drive and a transverse-mounted 3.8-liter V-6 engine. In many ways, it would be an even greater departure to Buick fans than the ’77 was.

***

Check out the Hagerty Media homepage so you don’t miss a single story, or better yet, bookmark it. To get our best stories delivered right to your inbox, subscribe to our newsletters.

The post 1977 Buick Electra Limited: Just What the Doctor Ordered! appeared first on Hagerty Media.

“For the Suprematist, the proper means is the one that provides the fullest expression of pure feeling and ignores the habitually accepted object.”

– Kazimir Malevich

The perfection of bare geometry popularized by Russian avant-garde artist Kazimir Malevich has arguably created some of the most controversial paintings of all time. Take, for example, the one that looks like he painted a white square on a white canvas.

People often revile such minimalism, especially when it comes with a similarly radical price tag: I’ve lost count of how many people think they can replicate suprematism with a can of white paint, display it in a gallery, and get chumps to buy it for insane prices. Except these haters (as it were) never woulda considered doing it in the first place had it not been for artists like Malevich. And I reckon they weren’t already immersed in abstractionist theory, ensuring art remains unbounded and unrestricted by human constructs.

Automotive design is significantly different, as it can only take a pure form so far before things like safety regulations, functional requirements, and manufacturing constraints come into play. The suprematist design of the Tesla Cybertruck threaded that needle shockingly well, much to the beholder’s delight/dismay. So let’s run it over the vellum and see what conclusions come to the surface.

Tesla’s design team and their controversial CEO likely didn’t have Russian suprematism on their minds when fashioning the low-resolution Cybertruck. The front end has a unique stainless-steel face and light signature that resembles the mask of a superhero, with a strong neck (bumper) below and a monolithic mane of glass shooting back from an impossibly flat hood.

Headlights lie between the “mask” and the neck below, and searching for them is almost unnecessary. It takes away from the sheer joy of the hard lines of the fenders and windscreen, which share a vanishing point that is easier to explain than on any other automobile in production.

I am terrible with sci-fi references, but this cloistered space for sensors and cameras reminds me of some spaceship’s appendage from a Star Wars movie.

The perfectly flat, trapezoidal shape of the Cybertruck’s windscreen is part of the vehicle’s radical signature, as it blends seamlessly with the hood. It’s reminiscent of design studies from Italian studios in the 1970s, or Trevor Fiore’s Citroën Karin from 1980.

Part of the windscreen’s appeal comes from the lack of a cowl to house the wiper blades and fresh air ducting for the HVAC system. Here, the only functional element of the cowl is the oddly shaped footprint for the base of the Cybertruck’s massive wiper arm mounted at the lower right. Singular, because the other side is just unadulterated glass.

Just below the seemingly non-existent cowl is one of the most understated, distraction free hoods ever to grace a pickup truck.

The only issue is how the stainless steel fenders and hood butt up against each other. Looking more like unfinished construction than a mass-produced machine is almost part of the equation, however: A case can be made that these are akin to blade fenders on older luxury vehicles. That case may be poppycock, but it’s convincing in person.

Appalling panel gaps aside, the superhero mask makes more sense from this angle. The front fascia, fender, hood, and lighting strip all look like items you’d see on a “normal” vehicle, but they’ve been reduced to their most basic forms, like a full-face helmet on a motorcyclist.

But when you step back and admire (as it were) the whole design, you see how Malevich’s suprematism is contorted into cyberpunk transport for elitists escaping a dystopian future: There’s a cab-forward cabin, angry angles and slashes, a squinty light bar under a furrowed brow, and headlights that are forced out of the equation.

That squinty light bar took a fair bit of surfacing to come to fruition. While the hood is close to flat, its outer contour makes the lights’ general shape. Below is the front fascia in stainless steel and a black plastic(?) textured filler panel. That filler panel allows the radically angled light bar to make sense with the far flatter stainless steel face (with only two bends on its profile). Panel fitment between the light, filler panel, and fascia is surprisingly good.

The Cybertruck takes to the next level the modern designer’s mantra of hiding headlights in places normally reserved for understated fog lights. This is pure architectural excellence, worthy of an office building or a high-end living space.

Below the front license plate bracket lies a rather ordinary, almost HVAC contractor–grade grille. Which is a nice throwback in an era of overdone grilles on modern vehicles, and there’s even a shutter mechanism to seal off the system and reduce aerodynamic drag.

The civil engineering references continue elsewhere on the bumper, as the plastic trimmed tow hook and its garage door–like background remind me of a loading dock in some Robocop-ian action scene. To the right of the hook is a front valance with clever angles that make the light dance on its body.

The Cybertruck’s frunk is nothing to sneeze at, but the hexagonal washer fluid reservoir cap and the contrast of the stainless steel hood against its aluminum substructure are fascinating in their presentation of geometric supremacy.

The transition to the side view is challenging. The vertical fender looks uncomfortably static against the downward slope of the wheel arch, but it makes more sense when stepping back and seeing the A-pillar blend with that arch.

And what an A-pillar this truly is. It’s intentions are fully realized by the hood and front fender, much like on a Ford Aerostar. Except Ford’s minivan wasn’t clad in stainless steel, with this material’s minimal surfacing requirements. The harsh angles and semi-reflective finish make the sunlight and shadow absolutely dance on the Cybertruck’s profile.

But the rest of the body doesn’t necessarily appreciate or believe in the A-pillar’s sleek overtones. There is conflict at every point below the A-pillar, and that challenge continues down the body side. In fact, this is a vehicle that challenges you from almost every angle, and that isn’t necessarily a good thing.

But geometric surprise and delight lie in the details, especially how the angular fender arches complement the harsh bends present in the Cybertruck’s stainless-steel cladding. And the triangular carve-out for the camera is abstractionism worthy of an art gallery.

The wheel arch bends in harmony with the crease in the stainless steel, but it makes no such effort to do the same with the charcoal-colored rocker cover below it. The intersection feels like a primitive cave, or the lair of a Batman-like hero.

A big problem with this design stems from the wheel arches and the bespoke Goodyear tires each being designed with geometric flair in mind, but the structural wheel doesn’t want to abide. Tesla made an angular wheel cover that fit into the recesses of the tire’s sidewall, but it quickly proved to dig into the rubber in real-world driving. We are left with this unfinished wheel design instead.

Goodyear likely worked hard to make a sidewall worthy of a Tesla wheelcover, to the point of adding its Wingfoot logo where the cover ended at the sidewall. There are talks of a new wheel cover in the works, with spokes that won’t not extend into the sidewall. And with those covers comes a far more conventional tire, allegedly.

If true, that has the potential to make this Goodyear the rarest of rare tire designs on the planet.

Above the wheel arch is where the Cybertruck’s remarkable look has more merit: The body-side crease turns into a sharp, angry triangle thanks to the A-pillar and a daylight opening (DLO) that extends far ahead of the front door.

You don’t necessarily remember that the Cybertruck’s minimalist cowl area lacks a VIN plate. So it’s instead placed on the A-pillar, behind the windscreen.

The intersection of tinted glass and brilliant stainless steel feels right, but the weatherstripping’s fade-away action at the top of the A-pillar is a bit disconcerting. (The vehicle was dead slient at speed during my time with it.)

This is such a strange combination of black trim, glass, rubber, and metal (stainless steel) in an automobile. It feels more like interior design for a high-end dressing room, not an automobile.

That’s just the start of automotive design intersecting with architecture and interior design. A pyramid-shaped truck with stainless-steel cladding worthy of the poured concrete aesthetic of brutalism does not make for a conventional assessment normally found here at Vellum Venom.

Tesla wisely stuck with a front DLO made entirely of glass, leading to a side-view mirror mounted to the door. But since this is the Cybertruck, the mirror body is also pyramid-like, with a base that varies in thickness to keep the design from looking static at any angle.

The front door glass is as terrifyingly triangular as the side-view mirror, sporting a steep rake at the A-pillar, a modest amount of tumblehome, and an awkward door aperture with a rounded weatherstrip seal. Not having any section of the roofline parallel to the ground is beyond unconventional for a truck, but this application works: Most folks will be able to enter the Cybertruck without their heads getting anywhere near this pyramid-shaped top.

The B-pillar is remarkably conventional, as even a pyramidal roof needs an upright support. The verticality is complemented by the strong bends in the sheetmetal, complete with a door cut line that adds a forward-thrusting element to the design.

The rear door is a bit more conventional, with a radical downward slope but a more conventional-looking four-sided polygon as a sheet of glass. The shape cheats your eye at a quick glance, as the stainless steel roof cuts off at a different point than does the window’s glass. Tesla added a black plastic insert (with electronic door release) after the window glass, but for some reason this DLO FAIL makes sense as a functional door release and not just a fake vent window.

No such complications when looking south of the Cybertruck’s belt line, as there’s a single crease in the sheetmetal, with an almost conventional rocker cover underneath.

The rear wheel arches suffer from the same incongruity as the front (thanks to a lack of blocky wheel covers) but make for a great place for a battery-charging door. The angularity also allows for a logical transition to an integral flap at the base of the rocker panel.

If only the wheel design was as angular as the rest of the body, as this C-pillar takes what we saw with the Chevrolet Avalanche (i.e. flying buttress) and turns it into a razor-sharp arrowhead that loves to play with sunlight and reflections.

From a lower, more head-on view, the Cybertruck loses its arrowhead levels of sharpness. The tall, upright cladding becomes far more like a conventional truck.

But there’s nothing conventional about this truck, as no truck has ever considered the boldness of just a few lines run across its entire body. The most obvious example is the crease that runs from the top of the front end’s light bar, to the top of the rear lighting assembly.

While the pyramidal roof has more initial bite, the Cybertruck’s flavor profile comes into full view while digesting this endlessly long crease.

Much like the front end’s negative space reserved for headlights and turn signals, the space between the bed and the bumper is perfect for a side marker light.

Like a large shop window facing a street, the red lense extends around the side and to the rear, where it’s greeted by a minimalist bumper that looks like a deconstructed Ranch Hand bumper.

And much like a brutalist building that faces a main street, the Cybertruck’s bed (and tailgate) sliced off the bottom right angle to reduce the visual weight above the red “shop window” in the bumper.

That massive array of quadrangles comprising the bumper make plenty of sense with a flat, rectangular rear tailgate that fully extends to the Cybertruck’s corners.

Due north of that stainless-steel tailgate is one of the Cybertruck’s more impressive design features, a smoked panel with parking and brake lights. Both it and the stainless steel have chamfers to add visual tension to an otherwise flat and boring posterior. Add in the blade fenders (as seen in the front) and you have a posterior that accentuates this lighting feature.

The only fly in the ointment is that the minimalism promised here isn’t present when you tap the brakes and realize very little of it illuminates. It’s best to leave the parking lights on (the whole thing illuminates) and never touch the brakes. Well, in theory.

The entire panel might not be a brake light, but building a triangular footprint for the rear camera integrates well with the rest of the Cybertruck’s angular theme. The triangle’s 3-D shape also makes it easier to aim the camera correctly, without the need for amoebic tumors used on other vehicles for correct camera orientation.

Open the Cybertruck’s bed and you’re rewarded with a redundant red reflector, a deep storage well à la Honda Ridgeline, and handy power outlets, both hidden from view until needed. The onboard power is certainly appreciated but falls functionally flat compared to the plethora of outlets available in the bed/cabin/frunk of the Ford Lightning EV. The Ford also has more ergonomic outlet covers, but ergonomics were clearly not paramount in the Cybertruck’s design. (Remember, this vehicle lacks a functional rearview mirror when the tonneau cover is unfurled.)

Speaking of that tonneau cover, it operates quickly and effortlessly behind all this easily stained plastic cladding. Considering how well this stuff aged on the Pontiac Aztek and aforementioned Avalanche, the Cybertruck is going to be an automotive detailer’s nightmare. This could be just as bad as the stain-creating steel chosen for the body, but it’s certainly an exciting piece of industrial design when in perfect condition.

With the tonneau cover closed, the Cybertruck has an impressive contrast of plastic, glass and stainless steel, all meeting up like an edgeless infinity pool. The details (i.e. weatherstripping) aren’t necessarilty as elegant or weathertight as one would hope, but this isn’t a mass market vehicle.

Never forget, this contrived and polarizing design cannot appeal to everyone like a functional/practical Ford or Chevy truck, no matter what Tesla said back in 2019.

Although the build quality on this example was better than what the Internet might lead you to believe, the gaps around this panel between the tonneau cover and the glass roof clearly leave something to be desired.

Which is truly a shame, because the transition between bed and roof is otherwise perfect. It looks expensive. It even feels expensive, because nobody else would have the nerve to make truck with a one-piece glass roof.

Nor would anyone else dare craft a bumper of brutalist, concrete-looking blocks arranged to both play with light and mask its functionality (center step, receiver hitch cover) so effortlessly.

Even the backup lights are recessed deep within the rear bumper, much like many an iconic brutalist building.

But sadly, the Cybertruck as a whole cannot delight like the individual details do when examined up close. The overall design lacks refinement, something normally resulting from months of surfacing treatments by car design teams within a manufacturer. This design was meant for quick consumption on par with a meme or shitpost, not for a loving embrace with longform content in a video or a white paper.

Nothing brings this lack of detail home like a Tesla dealership that uses packaging tape to install a paper tag. Yes really: Above, that is packaging tape on the back of a luxury vehicle that someone spent/financed $102,000 to purchase. This adds a new wrinkle to retailing concerns seen elsewhere at this company.

Never before have I come across a design that so delights in details, yet ultimately fails in the fundamentals. These feel like the mistakes a freshman design student will make once, and only once.

The minimalist cyberpunk theme has validity to some, though it brings about equal parts excitement and cringe to yours truly. The Tesla Cybertruck is a luxury good for a unique audience, likely a demographic that mirrors those who sided with Kazimir Malevich and his artistic suprematist followers back in the day.

But this is a product made in volume, not a controversial work of art. All vehicles (especially trucks) are primarily designed to be appealing in function and form. Even a Lamborghini Urus or Porsche Cayenne can be a soccer-mom SUV, but the Cybertruck doesn’t exist in the world of fleet managers, off-roaders, or family-oriented crew cab trucks with normal things like metal roofs and durable exterior finishes.

Instead, it feasts on the social media buzz that is so important to this company’s controversial CEO. Perhaps functionality is overrated, as its worked quite well up to this point. (Just don’t tell that to some Wall Street types.) The Cybertruck is the unobtainum minimalist wedge that was the Lamborghini Countach’s exclusive territory a few decades ago. Except it’s even more polarizing, and not necessarily for the best reasons. Thank you for reading, I hope you have a lovely day.

***

Check out the Hagerty Media homepage so you don’t miss a single story, or better yet, bookmark it. To get our best stories delivered right to your inbox, subscribe to our newsletters.

The post Vellum Venom: 2024 Tesla Cybertruck appeared first on Hagerty Media.

Valve guides are a very hardworking part of internal combustion engines. These small bearings keep the poppet valves moving freely and center them in their seats. Valve guides play a large part in the impressive longevity of valves and cylinder heads in modern, high-rpm engines. Perhaps due to their relatively low rate of failure, valve guides are not brought up much in discussions between mechanics. This might have been why I decided to replace the valve guides on my Honda XR250R motorcycle engines at home. It did not go smoothly.

How Hard Can It Be?

In the simplest terms, a valve guide is not much more than the precisely sized sleeve that holds the intake or exhaust valve in the cylinder head. To make manufacturing easier, guides are often made from a material different than that of the cylinder head and pressed into place within it. That press-fit often means that the final inside diameter of the guide needs to be machined to a proper slip fit of the valve after the guide is pressed into the head. Valves, guides, and cylinder heads are each manufactured to a range of tolerances, and those tiny variations can add up to be problematic; machining the guides with those pieces assembled essentially allows you to correct for those flaws when they would potentially be at their worst.

In the aluminum cylinder heads on my Honda XR250Rs, the valve guides are machined from bronze. For the last two engines built on my bench, I had the cylinder heads done by in outside shop but selected C63000 bronze valve guides for their durability. The C63000 formula includes bronze, nickel, and aluminum, a combination that makes the material very stable at higher temperatures, such as those that the cylinder head of an air-cooled dirt bike sees during slow-speed, low-airflow trail slogs.

All that is fine and dandy, but this alloy is also really difficult to machine. The same traits that make this metal hold up well in an engine make it difficult to make the small cuts that bring the inside diameter of the valve guide to that perfect fit with the valve stem. We are getting ahead of ourselves, though; before we make things the right size, we have to get things assembled.

Installing the Guides

This is actually the easiest step in the process on these heads; it only requires a little patience. The first step with anything related to building an engine is cleanliness, so I kicked things off with a deep scrub after putting the valve guides into the freezer on Friday night. After breakfast on Saturday I popped the bare cylinder head in the toaster oven for a little pre-heating. The temperature differential made the guides shrink ever so slightly in outside diameter while the bores in the cylinder head expanded ever so slightly to make the job of driving the guides into place just a little easier. For all the precision work that happens as part of this process, this step requires nothing but brute force, a big hammer, and a special driver to prevent damaging the guides.

First Attempt at Reaming

One of the things that is virtually always free and saves so much stress in doing projects like this is simply finding, reading, understanding, and following the instructions that come with the products you are using. There is something addictive about the feeling of successfully reverse-engineering the thing without needing the instructions, but as fun as that is, reading the instructions also keeps you from making ignorant moves. I’ll let you guess which route I took when it came to my high-speed reamer.

A high-speed steel reamer is the cheapest way to size valve guides, because reamers are single-size, but a fluted reamer is not the correct tool to size the C63000 guides I purchased: The manufacturer tells you as much if you take the time to find the information on their website. I didn’t, and on my first attempt, the guide dulled the reamer, got hot, and grabbed the reamer in a hug like your grandma used to give you—tight, and potentially inseparable.

Separating the two was not even worth the effort. The reamer was a total loss and so was the guide. They will live on as an artistic reminder to do the damn research. After consulting the valve guide manufacturer with an inquiry regarding the method or process they recommend, I learned that my plan to save any money on this project was gone. Learning costs money sometimes, but the $2200 in tooling that the manufacturer suggested was a tough pill to swallow. Two grand would have been about the total cost to have a pro handle these heads completely—not just the guides, but everything—and the project would have been done four weeks ago.

With my tail between my legs, I set these two cylinder heads on the oily front desk of the local machine shop. Joey, the man behind the counter, took one look at them and said, “Nope.” He denied the work not because he didn’t want to do it, or because I wouldn’t pay his price, but because his shop didn’t have the tooling for the teeny, tiny valve guides used in the XR250R. Most of the engines this machine shop sees are traditional V-8s which have valve stems significantly larger than the 5.5-mm toothpicks in these Hondas.

I was in a bind. Luckily, Joey’s advice was free, and the machine shop did have a solution, or at least part of one., It wasn’t going to come easily or cheaply, though. Joey and I put a replacement valve guide on order, along with a new tool. When the mail truck drops it all off, it’ll be time to try again… this time, significantly more prepared. You know, like I should have been the first time. Even the tasks that appear the simplest—remember, all of this was to make eight 0.216-inch holes for valves to slide into—are rarely what they seem, and occasionally we need to be reminded of that.

***

Check out the Hagerty Media homepage so you don’t miss a single story, or better yet, bookmark it. To get our best stories delivered right to your inbox, subscribe to our newsletters.

The post When Ignorance Costs You Both Money and Time appeared first on Hagerty Media.

So far in this series, we’ve seen discarded cars from the United States, Germany, Japan, the United Kingdom, and Sweden, but no trucks (unless you count a Volkswagen Transporter, which I don’t). We’ll remedy that imbalance today with a serious truck, an IHC L-Series that spent its working years in northern Illinois and now resides in a car graveyard near Denver, Colorado.

The Chicago-based International Harvester Corporation sold its first light trucks in 1907 and continued to build them until the final Scout Terras left the factory as 1980 models. You can still buy new International-badged trucks today, though their parent company is owned by Volkswagen.

This is an L-Series truck, the successor to the prewar KB design. The L-Series was built from the 1950 through 1952 model years and featured a modern, one-piece windshield.

This one appears to have toiled as a tow truck in Spring Valley, Illinois, for its entire career. That’s about 900 miles to the east of its current location in Colorado.

The truck is very weathered, and the 1975 Illinois license plate indicates that it has been sitting outdoors for close to a half-century.

How many stranded cars did this rig pull out of ditches and snowbanks during its career?

All the equipment appears to be genuine 1950s–1970s hardware.

At some point, an Oldsmobile transistor radio of the late CONELRAD era was installed in the dash.

The original engine was a 220-cubic-inch “Silver Diamond” IHC pushrod straight-six rated at 101 brake horsepower, and that may well be the engine still in the truck today (you have to be more of an IHC expert than I am to identify these engines at a glance).

The transmission is a three-on-the-floor manual, with a grind-free synchronized first gear.

This thick steel bumper must have been just the ticket for pushing dead cars, which would have been plentiful in the era of six-volt electrical systems, points ignition, and primitive tire technology.

As the theoretical owner of a 1947 GMC tow truck (which has been sitting in a field just south of Minneapolis since I was five years old), I understand why most of us are reluctant to restore such machines.

***

Check out the Hagerty Media homepage so you don’t miss a single story, or better yet, bookmark it. To get our best stories delivered right to your inbox, subscribe to our newsletters.

The post Final Parking Space: 1952 International L-130 Tow Truck appeared first on Hagerty Media.

Snow-wise, it was an exceedingly mild winter here in Boston. A few weeks ago, I put away the snow blower and rid myself of the winter wheels and rubber. Doing so on both my and my wife’s daily drivers (my 2003 BMW E39 530i manual and her 2013 Honda Fit manual, respectively) is always a joy because the winter rubber just kills the handling on both cars. The BMW, in particular, is wearing a set of used brand X snows that make it feel like it’s cornering on water balloons. Once the three-season rubber is on, it feels like we’re both driving slot cars again.

As I’ve said before, a side benefit to the seasonal wheel swap is that you can give the car a well checkup, particularly under the engine. After all, with the nose in the air, you can skooch under and see what fluids are amassing. In particular, I always look for the tell-tale drips of antifreeze doing the canary-in-a-coal-mine thing, before a water pump or a thermostat grenades.

The other big part of the front-end checkup is to look for play in the steering and wheel bearings. Sit in front of the wheel and grab the tire at 6 and 12 o’clock and pull with one hand while you push with the other. Any play pretty much has to be coming from the wheel bearings. Then do the same at 3 and 9 o’clock. If there was no wheel bearing play, then play here is from the steering, which includes the outer and inner tie rods and whatever other steering components there are. On a car with a steering rack, the play can be internal. On an older car with a steering box, play can be coming from the box, from the center link, or from the idler.

Having said that, it’s rare I find steering or suspension issues during one of these checkups that I wasn’t already aware of by driving the car. I’m usually pretty attuned to wandering steering or thunks and clunks. Of course, as the guy who found two broken springs in the front end of his Armada, I may not have my credibility jar topped off.

Enter the steering check of the 2003 E39 530i, where the 3-and-9-o’clock test revealed substantial play that was easily isolated to the right outer tie rod. When I found it, I recalled that the car did have a bit of a mild clunking sound from the front end, but whether I’d been in denial or whether it was a case of the frog in the slowly heating water pot, it just hadn’t crept onto my radar. I’ve long made a distinction between ball joints and tie rods in terms of urgency of repair, because ball joints sit at the bottom of the struts or wishbone assemblies and thus take all the pothole pounding, whereas tie rods are steering components rather than suspension components and thus are spared much of the violence. On modern cars with camber-maintaining front suspensions, however, the line between the two is blurred. Nonetheless, having found a clearly worn-out tie rod, the thing to do was change it posthaste. I put the E39 up on the mid-rise lift so I wouldn’t be tempted to drive it.

Next, I went inside, sat at the laptop, searched for parts, and put a pair of Lemforder tie-rod assemblies on order. Why Lemforder? I’m virtually certain they’re the manufacturer of most of the original equipment (OE) steering and suspension components in the car, and thus buying the original equipment manufacturer (OEM) Lemforder-branded parts rather than the “genuine” BMW parts saves money while, in theory, preserving quality.

Actually, let me expound on this. As with many repairs, you can allow a job like this to mushroom or contract in both scope and expense. From the scope end, if you so desire, you can take this opportunity to rebuild the entire front end—struts, top bearings, upper and lower control arms, tie rods, sway bar links. Or you can go as minimal as possible and replace only the bad component, which was the right-side outer tie rod. On my previous E39, I took the systemic approach, only to have the car continually break and bleed me, so on this car I’ve been more circumspect about fixing things that aren’t broken. I will replace suspension and steering components in pairs, but I won’t necessarily mission-creep my way into other components. To that end, I replaced the lower control arms years back when one was obviously worn, and I left the upper ones alone until they showed wear three years later.

And expense-wise, how deep are your pockets? Replacing all normal-wear-and-tear suspension and steering components with genuine BMW parts might set you back two or three grand. A Lemforder steering-only kit is about a thousand bucks. Two OE BMW tie-rod assemblies cost about $300. The Lemforder kit with tie rods boots and clamps was $90; that was the right scope and the right amount of scratch to throw at it. But I could’ve gone even cheaper—a single unbranded outer tie rod on eBay is about $17. This is another advantage of finding something like a loose tie rod in your own garage during a well checkup—you can make the choice of which approach to take and not get goaded, guilted, or arm-twisted into a choice you don’t want by a dealer or repair shop.

With the new parts’ arrival slated for the next day, I began removing the old parts. Surprisingly, I’d never replaced tie rods on a car with a steering rack; I’d only done it on old-school steering-box cars where the tie-rod assembly consists of inner and outer tie rods that are identical or nearly so, connected with a threaded metal tube. On cars with steering racks, the outer tie rod may be a conventional one just like on a vintage car with a tapered end that passes through the steering knuckle and a nut threaded onto it, but the inner tie rod lives inside the rubber boot at the end of the steering rack. It has a ball, but there’s no taper—it threads directly into the reciprocating steering rack instead.

OK, outer one first. The impact wrench made short work out of the nut pulling the tapered shaft into the knuckle, so on to the extraction. One of the nice things about working on cars for 45 years and buying tools rather than renting them is that you eventually accumulate a milk crate full of assorted pullers. I found one that fit around E39’s outer tie rods, figured out that I needed to crank the steering all the way to one side to optimally orient things for the puller, tightened it down, and waited for the BANG! when the tapered end released its 21-year grip in the hole.

The inner tie rod came off even easier. I cut off the crimped-on clamps securing the boot, pulled it back, and figured out that I needed to nudge the steering wheel so the inner tie rod’s attachment nut was just clear of the rack housing. Initially I thought that I was seeing both a nut and a lock nut, like there is on the toe adjuster, but it’s just a place to grab it with a thin 32-mm wrench, which fortunately is the same size as the viscous fan clutch on these cars, so I had the exact tool needed.

On a 220K-mile lifelong New England car like this one, the whole “you’re always one broken bolt away from a five-minute repair being a three-day ordeal” thing is particularly true. Fortunately, the fact that the inner tie rod is shielded from the elements by the rubber boot made the 32-mm nut give it up without incident.

As is often the case, having done one side, the other side went a little quicker. The next day, when the parts arrived, I set about the installation. One also similarly expects installation to go quicker than removal (no rusted fasteners and all that). That, however, proved not to be the case.

The problem was threading the inner tie rods into the steering rack. In this situation, getting new threads started during installation was far more difficult than unscrewing old threads during removal. The reason is a combination of angle and tightness.

The movable part of the inner tie rod is the cup of the ball-and-cup assembly with a threaded tip. When the components are well-used, the inner tie rod cup moves on the ball easily. But new components are very stiff, you can barely move them with your hands. You’d think the thing to do is orient everything so the inner end sticks straight out and then use the whole assembly like the handle of a screwdriver to thread the inner end into the steering rack, but you can’t, because the other end (the outer tie rod) hits the strut assembly. So instead, you need to do it sort of like a ratchet wrench, at a 45° angle. However, the inner tie rod is so stiff on the ball that it won’t stay with its threads facing those it needs to mate with in the rack. Oh, and while you’re doing this, you need to hold the rubber boot back from the inner tie rod. As you can imagine, it was maddening.

First, I twisted and rotated the inner tie rod with the wrench until it loosened up enough to be able to move it for installation. Then I used two techniques: On the right side, I employed the wrench to orient the inner tie rod and turn it and get the threads started, but on the right side, I used the turn-the-whole-assembly method. I think it was the difference in strength between my right and left arms that made them different.

Lastly, alignment. If you’re replacing only the outer tie rods, people talk about counting threads, or the number of turns until the old outer one comes off, to install the new one in the same location as the old one. But even a quarter of a turn makes a significant difference in toe-in, so there’s really no question that after tie rod replacement the car needs an alignment. Nonetheless, to get it in the ball park, I tried to get the new assemblies as close as possible to the same length as the old ones by putting them side-by-side, with one end against a wall and the other against a convenient straightedge (what’s shown is actually a shelf bracket), then measuring both sides with a tape measure.

I’ve been doing my own alignment for years, but mostly on vintage cars with skinnier tires. I’d never tried it on a car like this with wide meat. But it worked well enough that I could drive the car, feel that it was toed slightly out, and tweak it until the darty feeling went away. The steering is now tight as a drum, and thunk-and-clunk free.

And, as far as finding that well-checkup coolant drip, funny story …

***

Rob’s latest book, The Best Of The Hack Mechanic: 35 years of hacks, kluges, and assorted automotive mayhem is available on Amazon here. His other seven books are available here on Amazon, or you can order personally-inscribed copies from Rob’s website, www.robsiegel.com.

Check out the Hagerty Media homepage so you don’t miss a single story, or better yet, bookmark it. To get our best stories delivered right to your inbox, subscribe to our newsletters.

The post The Daily Driver Needs Tie Rods appeared first on Hagerty Media.

There are some cars out there that, despite being out of production for many decades, are polarizing if mentioned amongst those who remember them. Pinto. Vega. Maverick (no, not the current popular trucklet). Gremlin. Hornet. And Pacer. Oh yes, the AMC Pacer, who could ever forget it?! “Party on, Wayne! Party on, Garth!” But wait, I’m getting ahead of myself. So buckle up, we’re diving into AMC history today!

AMC, for those of you just joining us, was a result of Nash and Hudson merging in 1954. Initially both marques were offered, but the last real Hudsons were built in 1954, and the ’55–57 versions were “Hashes,” basically Nashes with different sheetmetal and interiors. Rambler was what really saved the new company’s bacon in the ’50s; by 1957 the last Nashes and Hudsons were built and Rambler was the primary focus.

As time went by, however, the plucky Wisconsin corporation started trying to more closely match its lineup with the Big Three, which resulted in myriad Classics, Ambassadors and Matadors appearing in showrooms. The Rambler name itself was retired for good after 1969 (the cars themselves became known as AMCs instead of Ramblers, starting in 1966); its replacement would be the all-new 1970 AMC Hornet—which, ironically, would be the foundation of most future AMC cars, all the way to the final 1988 AMC Eagle 4×4 station wagons.

By the early ’70s, the personal luxury car market was booming, but the all-new ’74 Matador Coupe failed to ignite, sales-wise. Perhaps it just wasn’t formal enough—though in later years it was offered with opera windows and tony Barcelona and Barcelona II luxury trim packages. So in 1975 AMC tried a different tack, with the “wide small car,” the Pacer.

It looked like nothing else on the road. And that more or less remains true today. The main selling factor was that although it was a small car, it was wide, thus providing “big car” room in a tidier package. It was appropriately quirky. Ample glass area was featured, and the passenger side door was four inches longer than the driver’s door. This was carried over to the Pacer wagons, which joined the two-door hatchback in the 1977 model year.

Sales of the 100-inch wheelbase hatchback was initially encouraging, as 72,158 were built. Many trim and decor options and packages were available, including the “X” package, which, like the Gremlin X, provided a sportier appearance designed to appeal to the younger set. Base price in 1975 was $3299 (about $19,152 today).

But here’s the rub: Most any new car will initially sell like gangbusters—at first. Only time will tell if any new model will carve out a niche for itself, or fall flat. With the Pacer, there was a lot of initial interest, but then it faded away. Just not right out of the gate.

In fact, sales increased in 1976 to the tune of 117,244 cars built. Base price bumped up slightly, to $3499 ($19,207). This healthy bump in its second year likely encouraged AMC to add the station wagon version, which appeared in 1977. Its base price was $3799 ($19,580); the hatchback now had an MSRP of $3649 ($18,807). But this was the year sales started to tank, despite the addition of the wagon. Only 20,265 hatchbacks and 37,999 wagons were sold for the year.

The 1978s had a new look up front with a more ornate grille and taller hood with a “power bulge.” This was done to make the AMC 304-cubic-inch V-8 available. It was an intriguing development. There were now four distinct models, the hatchback and the wagon, either with the venerable 258 six or 304 V-8, your choice.

But the availability of more oomph under the hood didn’t seem to help one whit. Sales that year were arguably catastrophic, with only 18,717 six-cylinder Pacers and 2514 V-8 models produced. I could find no individual breakouts by model or body style.  By this time the cheapest model was the six-cylinder hatchback at $4048 ($20,863). Priciest was the V-8 wagon, to the tune of $4443 ($22,900).

In 1979, AMC seemingly went full-zoot luxury on most of its models, including the Pacer. A New Limited model was added, surpassing even the previous top of the line DL version in comfort and convenience features and gadgets.

A most unusual model was the Pacer Limited Wagon. It was near Cadillac-like in its interior, with really snazzy leather and corduroy seating. As the ’79 brochure related, “The new Pacer Limited wagon offers even higher levels of appointments and conveniences. Standard are genuine leather seats with corduroy accents, luxury woodgrain steering wheel, and a host of power extras … an unmatched combination of big car room, ride, and comfort with excellent maneuverability.”

When I first spotted our featured car, I thought it could be a Limited—until I saw the non-leather interior. Though it too is pretty snazzy for a late-1970s small car. DLs had Caberfae corduroy seats in 1979, in ’80 it was Rochelle velour. But Limiteds added extra ribbed bright trim on the rocker panels, color-keyed styled wheel covers, and other niceties. But even the DL interior was a very nice place to be.

In the end, the Pacer just was not selling. Despite all the new extras and models, the bright, cheery pictures in the brochures, sales continued their drop. In 1979 only, 9201 six-cylinder models and 1014 V-8s were built. A Limited V-8 wagon, the most expensive model, was now up to $6589 ($28,347).

The 1980 model year was the end of the road for the Pacer. After Renault got a controlling interest in AMC starting in 1978, much of the model lineup was discontinued, starting with the Matador coupe, sedan, and wagon in 1978. The Gremlin disappeared after ’78, as well, but it returned in a fashion as the updated Spirit; the “Spirit Sedan” was basically the old Gremlin, albeit with a new nose and larger, non-triangular rear quarter windows.

As for the Pacer, it was only available as a DL or Limited, hatchback or wagon. Just 405 DL sedans and 1341 DL wagons were built. I could not find figures for the two Limited models. DL wagons like today’s featured example started at $5558 ($21,067).

I spotted this one in October, 2023—it was for sale in Boise, Idaho. As the ad relayed, “1980 AMC Pacer Wagon · DL · Wagon · Driven 27,900 miles Very nice original survivor 1980 AMC Pacer DL Wagon. A/C blows cold, radio, heat, defrost, windows, all work. Brand new old stock (NOS) front glass windshield just installed! I’m buying a truck so selling to help pay for the truck. I’m going to have it fully detailed soon and can get other pictures after that is completed.”

Hopefully, it went to a good home. Love them or hate them, surviving Pacers are seldom seen. And while I’d slightly prefer a Limited due to the extra-Broughamy features—especially those leather and corduroy seats—this was still a really nice car!

***

Check out the Hagerty Media homepage so you don’t miss a single story, or better yet, bookmark it. To get our best stories delivered right to your inbox, subscribe to our newsletters.

The post 1980 AMC Pacer DL Wagon: Last Call appeared first on Hagerty Media.

Nearly 20 years ago, I was in high school and riding to Thunderhill Raceway Park with Bruce Trenery, a vintage car dealer. During our trip, he articulated his predictions for the future of enthusiasm for cars. In addition to his concerns about the regulatory environment, he was most disquieted by his perception that young people just weren’t interested in cars any more. As a young person who was (and remains) immensely passionate about cars, I was initially put off that the latter idea could even be possible, but after reflecting on the interests of my contemporaries, it alarmed me because I could see a lot of truth to it.

While car enthusiasm today isn’t ubiquitous the way it might have been in the era of Grease or when the Beach Boys released “409,” Trenery’s foreboding apprehension remains mercifully unfulfilled. In fact, I have been delighted to observe what almost feels like a resurgence in passion for cars among young people in the past two decades. Attending events today, especially more approachable ones like Radwood, I’m always struck by the number of obviously enthusiastic teenagers and twenty-somethings, especially given that the cars concerned are often older than they are.

The emergence of social media has doubtless played a big role in spreading enthusiasm: The dynamic and sensory nature of cars (i.e. they move, they’re shiny, and they make loud noises) means that they lend themselves perfectly to the mediums of photo and video. Teenaged “spotters” wandering events, camera in hand, become the purveyors of beautiful media that portrays our cars in fresh, original ways. While it is gratifying for us to look at pretty images, the rise of spotters does something essential for young people, too—it gives them a meaningful way to interact with cars (and often their owners, too) that they couldn’t otherwise do, regardless of whether that’s in person or on their phones.

That’s particularly fortunate since the barriers to entering this space as a participant—that is, as a car owner rather than an observer—are higher than they have been since at least the end of World War II. This is tragic but incontrovertible based on three interrelated factors, all of which converge to make things tough for young enthusiasts. These are, in order from broadest to most granular: 1) macroeconomic shifts 2) their consequences on the new car market 3) the resulting impact on secondhand enthusiast cars ranging from lightly used late model cars to full-fledged classics.

The core of the macroeconomics discussion as relates to young people is disposable income. Simply put, young folks have a lot less of it than youths did in previous decades. This is the result of too many things to discuss in detail here, but the rising costs of real estate, education, and healthcare at rates that exceed the growth of wages are major drivers. These affect people of all ages of course, but for young people who do not yet own any real estate to help their net worth grow, and for whom the ever-increasing cost of education (and the near necessity of student debt) is greater and a larger share of their liabilities, these economic realities are far more restrictive. This means that even if car prices were stable (they’re not), young folks would be less able to participate in the market because they simply don’t have the disposable income to enter it.

Real wages have been stagnating for decades and the consequences of this long-standing trend have been manifesting themselves in the new car market since at least the 1990s. In short, as people have less disposable income, they buy fewer fun cars and manufacturers respond by killing them off because they sell poorly.

Let’s take a journey back 30 years to 1994, when there was a whole host of enthusiast cars available at both entry and higher price points. Effectively the entire sport compact genre, including: Honda Prelude and Del Sol, Nissan Sentra SE-R and 240 SX, Toyota MR2 and Celica, the Mitsubishi Eclipse (and Eagle Talon and Plymouth Laser) and 3000 GT (and Dodge Stealth), the Ford Probe, the Mazda MX-3 and MX-6. Go back another 20 or 30 years and the story is similar: Fiat 124, Alfa Spider, Datsun Roadster, Triumph TR, MGB, and big Healeys. This to say nothing of pony cars and muscle cars from the ‘60s and early ‘70s.

Today, these cars and their ilk are nearly gone from manufacturer lineups. There are precious few reasonably priced sporting survivors: the Mini (which recently lost its manual for the US market, as has Volkswagen’s GTI), the Subaru WRX, the Mazda MX-5, and the Toyota GT-86 (and BRZ), which is most realistically the spiritual descendent of the 240SX. This is not part of some draconian plot on the part of manufacturers to deprive us of driving enjoyment and modernity in the same package, but rather their response to market forces. One needs only look at MX-5 sales in 1991 (63,000 units) vs 2018 (27,000 units) to see that consumers aren’t buying sporting cars the way they once could, despite today’s Miata costing less than it did in 1991 when adjusted for inflation and there being fewer other enthusiast choices at comparable prices now.

This lack of appealing new affordable options for the driving enthusiast has predictably disheartening consequences for secondhand cars of the same ethos, whether they’re four years old or 40 years old. The decreasing sales of these cars when new in recent years means that supply for used options is tight and thus depreciation is low. This, coupled with the fact that 30-year-old cars are pretty usable in modern traffic, means that more and more enthusiasts are turning to Radwood era (1980-99) cars.

In 1994, driving a 30-year-old enthusiast car meant giving up a lot of usability and performance. You’d have to deal with carburetors, marginal brakes, tires, suspension, and acceleration, catastrophic rust, poor weather sealing and ventilation, and a host of other unpleasantries that we don’t generally have to contend with in a 30-year-old car today. Similarly, cars of the Radwood era are easier to live with than more modern ones, albeit for completely different reasons. They’re much simpler than newer cars, lacking most of the sensors and computers that handle everything from HVAC to the powertrain to radar cruise control. Even something as simple as replacing headlights has been completely transformed: compare the 5.25” and 7” sealed beams in a BMW E30 or NA Miata to a $1500 Xenon assembly in a car from 10 years ago.

The result is that cars of this era are sought not only by Generation X and millennials who lusted after them in their youths, but by Generation Z too, who are pushed toward them by the dearth of affordable and appealing newer options and pulled toward them by the intrinsically appealing characteristics such as the experience of interacting with them and the variety of options, along with their simplicity and accordingly sensible running costs. The tragic result of this growing demand is that cars of this era have appreciated in value, making it even more difficult for young folks to buy into the market.

The silver lining (for us car nuts anyway) is that car enthusiasm is still very much alive and well, even if it takes a bit more diligence. For young enthusiasts, there are many interesting options at reasonable prices if they’re willing to go off the beaten path a bit. Mainstream enthusiast cars like M3s and air-cooled 911s are prohibitively expensive, but plenty of other options do still exist like non-M BMW E36s, early Boxsters, or several generations of the Mustang. For those less concerned about sporting intent, a host of other Radwood attendees remain attainable, from a Toyota Century to the world’s cleanest 1989 Oldsmobile Toronado Trofeo. 

This may be feeble consolation in the face of larger economic forces, and young enthusiasts approach the hobby through different literal and figurative vehicles than in years past, but there’s no question that they remain highly engaged. I for one am delighted to see their passion and look forward to seeing how the resilience of the human spirit inspires them to express that passion in ways that generations before them never considered.

***

Check out the Hagerty Media homepage so you don’t miss a single story, or better yet, bookmark it. To get our best stories delivered right to your inbox, subscribe to our newsletters.

The post Is It a Bad Time to Be a Young Car Enthusiast? appeared first on Hagerty Media.

My friend Connor and I are cut from the same weird, cheap, and often French cloth. (Regular readers of this column may remember him from Against All Oddities adventures as the Renault Rescue.) We met first over Peugeots—he had a 604 and I had a 405. Conner bought my Daihatsu Charade and kept my Ami mostly safe while I was in Germany. We are part of a group text chat, populated with a handful of other automotive dirtbags, that brings nothing but trouble.

Our latest endeavor: We have formed an investment conglomerate. Our business model? Listen up, Sharks. Here’s our pitch:

About a week ago, Connor sent me a listing he knew would be delectable kryptonite: an exceedingly rare French car, at a low price, in a far-off location. When people hear “beautiful and rare car” they think it will cost megabucks, which is, in this case, patently untrue. Between you and me, the values of neglected Gallic trashboxes are creeping up around here but not yet too far out of my humble reach.

Alright, no more delay: What is it and why would I want such a thing?

The car in question is a ’66 Simca 1000S Bertone Coupe, listed at a farm auction in Nebraska. The Simca Bertone Coupe was exceptionally beautiful, slow, and rare (in that order). Based on a budget-friendly three-box, rear-engined Mille sedan, the coupe was a mildly quicker yet infinitely sexier, special-bodied version that was nevertheless available at your local Chrysler dealer. And, of course, nostalgia has value—it had been over a decade since I daily drove a Simca!

Neither Connor nor I could possibly accommodate another whole car in our lives… but halves? We could manage that. We decided to invest equally in this disintegrating promising asset. We agreed that Connor would handle all manner of deal brokering and negotiations, whether that being flying to Nebraska for financial discussions or waiting for said farm auction site, seemingly designed to run on Netscape Navigator, to reload and register his bid during a work meeting. Connor’s strengths include logistical acumen and the ability to facilitate transportation, be it by sea, air, or by lowballing some energy drink addict to tow the thing for a sum of under-the-table cash.

My contributions would include a 50 percent financial stake, paid incrementally in small PayPal deposits whenever financially feasible. Additionally, I would be in charge of all governmental and regulatory aspects of the deal (waiting in line at the DMV, for instance). Furthermore, I could offer secure storage of said asset and added value via maintenance USPs—replacing fuel lines and stuff.

Together, Sharks, our Multi-State Conglomerate will merge our commercial and technical skills to maximize our KPIs: obscurity, beauty, and impossibility of locating spare parts. Once relocated to an area with a higher density of Simca connoisseurs and brought to a running condition, we could stand to make literally dozens of dollars.

End of pitch.

We won the auction with a $1001 bid.

Connor hopped to it with the shipping and payment planning, while I calculated the potential savings of eating nothing but fresh eggs and items from my spring garden for the next two months. I paid him as I could and noodled about where to store the thing. I determined the best place for it was next to my other French asset (in similar bad condition and blue-ish color), in my recently acquired ex-foundry storage facility.

The auction fees were paid ($1100), a shipper was booked, and now all we could do was wait for the car to arrive in Statesville. The interlude was fortunately brief—just a few short days later, I got a call informing me that the car would arrive… now-ish. I headed down to the foundry expecting to see a hot-shot rig full of luxury cars, with the diminutive Simca hanging off the end. Instead, an F-150 with Texas plates and a beat-all-to-hell 18-foot dovetail trailer with New York plates had ridden all the way from the Lone Star State, to Nebraska, and finally to North Carolina with only the Bertone coupe on board.

I crunched some numbers and couldn’t rationalize such a low shipping bill for this type of service. But alas, it wasn’t my job to understand. The nice man, who hailed from Tbilisi, reversed painlessly into the compound and helped me shove the Simca into a bay. As we rolled towards the Moskvich 407 sedan, he shrieked “Moskvitchka!” surely having seen many growing up in the former Soviet republic. I aired up his ailing trailer tires and off he went, leaving me with the little blue French car and the hope that he remembered to factor in a profit margin on his bid.

Buying any car sight unseen obviously carries risk. Buying 40-year dormant, special-bodied French cars constructed of unobtainable parts and made from low-quality steel? Welcome to the summit of the risk pyramid.

I FaceTimed Connor to include him as I poked around the car for the first time. To our conglomerate’s unbelievable shock, the car was exactly as advertised. We had known about a rotten driver’s side floor from the auction photos, but closer inspection revealed no rot around any seams. That’ll be easy to patch.

My wife, Dana, found the owner’s manual detailing the many delicate switches and their intricacies. The temptation to try them all was simply too high for me to resist. I grabbed my great Balkan Wohnmobil battery and hooked it up with some jumper cables. When no smoke billowed from behind the dash, I determined that the 1000’s first test had been passed. While Dana read aloud each knob’s function, I attempted its function, with Connor observing via video chat. Now that the lights and wipers seemed to work at least somewhat, why not see how the starter motor responds to some voltage?

The engine rolled over by hand, which, given the car was last plated in 1982, I didn’t really expect. Despite the great results on the grab-the-fanbelt-and-pull test, the starter still refused to move the engine. I suspect bad hot and ground connections throughout the starting circuit.

So, now what? Well, as a good first step, the Nebraska title arrived in the mail to Connor, so we’re officially owners of a—let me double check what it says on the paper—”Beretone.” Does a full restoration make sense? Not for this venture. The idea is to get it back on the road for as little financial investment as possible. Given our dreams of wheezing down the Charleston battery with the windows down for not much more than a couple grand, the ROI will be tough to match.

The post Can I Interest You in A Foreign Investment Opportunity? appeared first on Hagerty Media.

During the 1970s, American car shoppers looking to commute in a two-seat European roadster at a reasonable price had two obvious choices: the Fiat 124 Sport Spider and the MG MGB. I see plenty of discarded examples of both types during my junkyard travels, but genuine chrome-bumper MGBs are much harder to find in car graveyards than the later “rubber-bumper” cars and any Fiat 124 Spiders. Today we’ve got one of those cars, spotted in a Pull-A-Part in Columbia, South Carolina recently.

One of the first cars we saw in this series was an MG, but it was a U.K.-market 2005 ZT 190 from the final days of pre-Chinese-ownership MG. You can buy a new MG in many parts of the world right now (in fact, MG’s 100th anniversary just took place last year), but the final model year for new Morris Garage products in the United States was 1980. That was when the final MGBs were sold here, a year after we got our last Midgets.

MG was part of the mighty British Leyland empire from 1968 through 1986, and many BL products received these badges for a time during the early 1970s.

The MGB was the successor to the MGA, and one of the best-selling British cars ever offered in the United States. Sales of the MGB began here in the 1963 model year and continued through 1980.

At first, all MGBs were two-seat roadsters. A Pininfarina-styled fastback coupe called the MGB GT first appeared in the United States as a 1966 model.

I owned a British Racing Green 1973 MGB-GT as my daily driver while I was in college during the late 1980s, and that car— which I loved, most of the time— made me a much better mechanic.

Like this car, my B had a 1.8-liter pushrod BMC B engine rated at 78.5 horsepower (yes, British Leyland claimed that half-horse in marketing materials). These cars aren’t at all fast with the stock running gear, but they are fun.

In theory, some MGBs were built with Borg-Warner automatic transmissions, but every example I’ve ever seen had a four-speed manual. An electrically-actuated overdrive unit was a much-sought-after option in these cars.

This car has the optional wire wheels, which would have been bought within days of showing up in a U-Pull junkyard 30 years ago. Nowadays, though, most MGB owners who want wire wheels have them already.

In 1973, the MSRP for a new MGB roadster was $3545 (about $25,991 in 2024 dollars). Meanwhile, its Fiat 124 Sport Spider rival listed at $3816 ($27,978 after inflation).

The 124 Sport Spider for ’73 came with a more modern 1.6-liter DOHC straight-four rated at 90 horsepower. That was quite a bit more than the MGB, but the Fiat also scaled in at 200 more pounds than its English rival. The MGB was sturdier, while both cars had similarly character-building electrical systems.

British Leyland also offered the Triumph TR6 and its 106 horsepower for 1973, with a $3980 price tag ($29,180 now). If you wanted a genuinely quick European convertible that year, your best bet was to spend $4948 ($36,277 in today’s money) for a new Alfa Romeo Spider Veloce… which took you into the same price range as a new Chevrolet Corvette.

This car is reasonably complete and not particularly rusty. Why is it here, just a few rows away from a Toyota Avalon that came within a hair of hitting the million-mile mark on its odometer?

Project MGBs are still fairly easy to find, so cars like this often sit in driveways or yards for decades before being sent on that final, sad tow-truck ride.

Still, the 1973 and early 1974 MGBs are the final models before federal crash-bumper and headlight-height regulations resulted in MGBs with big black rubber bumpers and lifted suspensions. This car should have been worth enough to avoid such a junkyardy fate, but perhaps South Carolina isn’t much of a hotbed for MGB enthusiasts nowadays.

***

Check out the Hagerty Media homepage so you don’t miss a single story, or better yet, bookmark it. To get our best stories delivered right to your inbox, subscribe to our newsletters.

The post Final Parking Space: 1973 MG MGB appeared first on Hagerty Media.

My readers will certainly recall The Case of the Mouse-Infested Truck—the 2008 Silverado I bought from my ex-employer for a song because mice had used it as both a bathroom and a casket (Google “Rob Siegel Hagerty mouse infested truck,” but be sure you don’t have a weak stomach).

So imagine how I felt when I had to admit to myself that my recently-purchased 2008 Nissan Armada—ostensibly the replacement for the Silverado—had a rodent contamination issue.

When I bought the Armada, it had been sitting on the owner’s property for a few months. As I explained here, it had a number of problems that I was aware of and several more that I wasn’t. During the short test drive, I thought I caught a rodent-tinged whiff, but it was nothing close to the gag-inducing stench from the Silverado. There was, however, an obvious climate control issue—a clicking sound emanating from the heater box. This is the characteristic mating call of worn-out plastic gears on the actuator controlling one of the blend doors. But with all the truck’s needs, these two issues didn’t even make it onto the punch list.

Once the Armada was largely sorted out and I began driving it, however, the slightly acrid, rodent-infused background smell was like a thistle thorn in a sock—annoying as hell for short periods. However, when my wife accompanied me on a short errand, she of the exquisitely sensitive sense of smell said that nothing jumped out at her. So I went to my backup position—denial. There is no smell. There. I dealt with it. Done.

Until one night. I had a gig, my daily-driver E39 BMW was sidelined in the garage, and my wife needed her Honda Fit, so I drove the Armada 40 miles in the rain each way. The combination of the closed cabin and the need to run the blower fan with fresh air to defrost the windshield made the eau-de-mouse smell jump to the foreground. My state of denial crumbled.

Damn.

The mouse-infested Silverado had been a nightmare scenario, as mice had crawled up the A-pillars into the headliner, urinated and defecated and died there, and did the same inside the heater box. To deal with it, I removed the headliner, threw it in the garbage, cleaned every metal surface on the roof and pillars with enzyme-based cleaner, and installed a new headliner. Unfortunately, I read that removing and reinstalling the heater box was something like a 12-hour job, and I wasn’t willing to do that, so instead I snaked an inspection camera down the vents and into the box, located the mouse nest, drilled an opening with a hole saw, pulled out the nest and the body of a dead mouse, and tried to clean the box using multiple treatments of pressurized disinfectant that washed out through the drip hole for the A/C condenser. It worked well enough for me to be able to use the truck (and for my wife to even ride in it with me, if necessary), but it also made me think that I would never knowingly buy another mouse-infested vehicle unless it was something I really REALLY wanted and was a smoking-good deal. The Armada was neither of these things, so the fact that I had to admit that I was facing the possibility of going through all this again really frosted my behind.

And then I had a thought: Maybe this time I’d get lucky. Yeah, let’s go with that.

Any vehicle built in the past 30 years has cabin air filters. It’s not uncommon for them to be a poster child for lack of maintenance—that is, for the filters to never be changed, and for all sort of nasty stuff to accumulate on them. Including mouse nests.

So, I said to myself, “Self, don’t panic. Check the cabin air filters.”

The location of cabin air filters varies car-to-car, but they’re usually up high on the inside of the cowl. Thus, it’s not unusual for them, or for one of them, to be above or behind the glove box. That’s where they are in the Armada. On many cars, you can reach the filter with the glovebox installed. On some, you need to unclip the glovebox so it drops further down than it normally does. But in the Armada, you actually need to unscrew and remove the entire glove box assembly, including the frame the glovebox pivots on. It was surprising, but not too bad

Once the glovebox assembly is removed, the filters are accessible. The filter cover is held in place by a single 10mm bolt.

I withdrew the two filters. They were, as we used to say in junior high, grody to the max. If they were ever replaced, it certainly wasn’t recently.

In case you need a close-up, here it is. No wonder the cabin air smelled like rodent. I became very hopeful that this was “it,” and ran inside to the laptop and put a $12 pair of filters on order for next-day delivery.

As Ron Popeil used to say, “But wait! There’s more!” Once the filters were removed, I looked back at the fresh air vent above them.

Jackpot.

This mouse nest appeared to have been completely above the filters, giving me hope that, unlike the situation in the Silverado, contamination hadn’t extended into the heater box. My iPhone inspection camera had stopped working for some reason, so instead I pulled out the blower fan to gain inspection access to the heater box. This was fairly straightforward, as it’s only held in place by three 5.5mm bolts. With the blower fan out, I could stick my phone inside the heater box and photograph it, or at least the core that the fan blows through. I saw a few stray leaves and stems, but no evidence of rodent contamination—no nests, no pellets.

Once I’d confirmed the apparently limited scope of the contamination, instead of doing the full-on pressure-washing with enzyme-based cleaner approach I did with the Silverado, I simply reached in and wiped every surface I could reach with Clorox disinfecting wipes. I also sprayed and wiped each blade of the squirrel cage of the blower fan.

Although I hate the smell of Lysol, this was good time to use it in moderation. Let me be clear about this: If there is a mouse nest, or piles of dung, or an actual carcass inside, unloading a can of Lysol into the vents as some people propose online is never going to make the smell go away. Unless you’ve located and removed the bulk source of the smell, all that spray disinfectant is likely to do is mask it. However, using a bit of spray disinfectant to chase down residual reengage molecules either above or below the actual contamination isn’t unreasonable. I reinstalled the blower fan and the filter cover but didn’t install the filters yet. I then turned the fan on high, set the climate control to fresh air, gave a blast of Lysol into the fresh air inlet in the windshield cowl, and let the blower fan suck it directly into the heater box without the filters blocking it. I let it run in my driveway for 15 minutes. Then I installed the filters and let it run for another 15.

Finally, with trepidation, I took the Armada for a drive. Windows up, fresh air selected, blower on full.

The smell was gone.

It took me a while to notice that something else was gone too—the clicking sound. Either it’s an utter coincidence, or what was happening was that the sound was coming from the fresh air vent being unable to close because it was hitting the mouse nest on top of the filter, and with it gone, it now could move unimpeded.

As I said, sometimes you get lucky.

Next, I need to look at the air conditioning. Maybe I’ll get lucky with that too.

***

Rob’s latest book, The Best Of The Hack Mechanic: 35 years of hacks, kluges, and assorted automotive mayhem is available on Amazon here. His other seven books are available here on Amazon, or you can order personally-inscribed copies from Rob’s website, www.robsiegel.com.

Check out the Hagerty Media homepage so you don’t miss a single story, or better yet, bookmark it. To get our best stories delivered right to your inbox, subscribe to our newsletters.

The post Déjà Vu: The Mouse-Infested Armada appeared first on Hagerty Media.

For years, Chrysler Corporation’s best and biggest station wagon was the Town & Country. Usually in the New Yorker trim level, they spent the 1950s, ’60s and ’70s sitting loftily looking down from their pricey perch at the less luxurious fare. But a big change came in 1978. For the massive Town & Country was gone, replaced with this trim new version.

It was based on the new LeBaron, which was Chrysler’s response to the sheer-styled 1976 Cadillac Seville, though it was not quite so highly priced. Initially it was thought it would be the new Imperial, but in the 11th hour it became a Chrysler instead. It was still nice, but, you know, not uber expensive.

It was offered midway through 1977 as a sedan and coupe only. A total of 54,851 LeBarons were sold that year. But the full-size 1977 Town & Country was still available. The wagon came a year later. It was the first major change since the late ’40s/early ’50s in what a Chrysler Town & Country was—as those familiar with the harmonica-grilled, wood-sided convertibles and sedans of the early postwar years will attest. And by 1990, the T&C would become a minivan! But I’m getting way ahead of myself.

As for today’s featured wagon, I spent some time trying to track down the pictures. I knew I saw it at the Blackhawk College show, held annually the last weekend in September, but I couldn’t remember the year; I’ve been attending this show since the late ’90s. Turns out it was the 2017 event (September 24). I do recall I got there late, and a lot of cars were leaving—including our featured subject. Fortunately, I got a fair amount of shots of it before it disappeared.

It was really nice. And as the headline above states, it was painted in Sable Tan Sunfire Metallic, according to my 1978 LeBaron brochure. It was a very dark color, but pretty. When I finally located my photo file for it, I initially thought it was black. Those were the days for color options, both inside and outside. The deep metallic brown goes beautifully with the saddle tan leather. Other exterior colors included Cadet Blue Metallic, Mint Green Metallic, Formal Black (I’d choose bright red leather with that choice), Classic Cream, and Tapestry Red Sunfire Metallic.

These may have been smaller than the Town & Countrys of yore, but they were no less luxurious, provided you selected enough options. A lot of things were now extra, unusually so for a Chrysler—including power windows. The optional leather interior was something that hadn’t been available before ’78, as far as I’m aware. The lush interiors and rampant woodgrain trim communicated luxury to any passerby in 1978. It wasn’t like today where it’s hard to tell a Cadillac XT4 from a Honda CR-V.

The ’78 LeBaron Town & Country started at $5724 ($27,420 today) with the six-cylinder engine (yes, a V-8 was optional, possibly for the first time ever?) and $5910 ($28,311) with the V-8. A total of 22,256 wagons were built for the model year—I was unable to find a breakout on how many were sixes and how many were V-8s. Wheelbase was 112.7 inches; overall length was 202.8 inches. In addition to the 225-cubic-inch Slant Six, you could get 318 and 360 V-8s. If a Town & Country with a six-cylinder engine wasn’t shocking enough, it also appears from my brochure that a four-speed floor-shifted manual with overdrive was also standard. Though I can’t believe many, if any, Town & Countrys were so equipped. You’d have to be a real skinflint to put up with that, and the frugal types would likely just get a plain-Jane Volaré wagon instead.

As for the LeBaron T&C, few changes were made for 1979, the most noticeable difference being a new grille. Inflation bumped prices to $6331 ($27,237) for the six and $6642 $28,575) for the V-8 model; 19,932 were built. Come 1980, all LeBarons got a moderate restyling, with “upside down” parking/signal lights situated over the headlights, a more formal grille, and other styling fillips. Production kept dropping, however. While 11,100 were sold in 1980, a mere 3987 were built for ’81, and that was the end of the line. Lee Iacocca was betting the house on K cars, and come 1982 the T&C would shrink yet again—as a front-wheel-drive luxury K car wagon.

***

Check out the Hagerty Media homepage so you don’t miss a single story, or better yet, bookmark it. To get our best stories delivered right to your inbox, subscribe to our newsletters.

The post 1978 Chrysler LeBaron Town & Country: Sleek in Sable Tan Sunfire appeared first on Hagerty Media.

There are a lot of projects in my garage at any point in time. Often my celebration upon walking into my shop on a Friday evening is sullied when I am forced to pick from the options—and especially when I realize that there is a project sitting in the back corner, covered in dust, a sad hulk of what it once was. For the last year, the saddest machine in my garage has been the 1989 Honda XR250R. It’s the machine that somehow survived a lot of racing before losing compression and becoming hard to start. Now is the time to deal with it. 

Any project like this starts with diagnostics—or, if you’re lazy, parts replacement. I threw a head gasket at this engine last fall thinking that would address the problem, but I did no checks prior to tearing off the cylinder head, scraping the surfaces clean, and reassembling everything. In a tale of true karmic beauty, this evening of work fixed nothing. I knew better but apparently needed the reminder to walk through the steps rather than skipping straight to the fun part. 

Lack of compression and hard starts can be due to a number of problems. To rule out a few, I checked the adjustment of the valves, along with the camshaft timing, before going out and buying new tools. Somehow, up until this spring I’ve managed to get by without owning a compression or leak-down tester. A few weeks ago, I took the plunge.  

The gauges on the leak-down tester told a bad story. Over 30 percent of the air that should have been trapped inside the cylinder with the piston at top dead center of the compression stroke was whistling right out into the exhaust pipe. The leak drained my little pancake air compressor faster than I could understand what was happening. When I hooked the tester to my friend’s heavier-duty compressor, I realized I was asking a doctor to diagnose a stab wound that was spurting blood across the exam room. 

One or both of the exhaust valves were no longer valves but restrictions. Disassembling the top end of the engine—a simple enough process—hurt a bit: The engine had only run for a few minutes since I assembled it last fall, before the snow flew. The snow is barely gone and the cylinder head is again on the bench. Once I had compressed the valve springs, pulled the keepers, and removed the valves, I became impressed that the engine ran at all: The valves were the picture of burned, and carbon build-up on both the seats and valves was preventing them from sealing properly. Thanks to some parts-ordering for a future project, I had two brand-new exhaust valves on hand, along with the tooling to refresh the valve seats: A perfect trial run for the future project. 

I used a Neway Manufacturing valve seat-cutting kit that allowed me to put a fresh, three-angle valve job on both exhaust seats in the time between leaving the office and eating dinner. I’m going to dive into the nitty-gritty of this tool and of the process in a few weeks; for now, I will say this challenge was both slightly intimidating and exciting, a perfect trial run for the two cylinder heads waiting for full rebuilds and installation onto two freshly rebuilt engines.

I could have left the XR250R sitting in the corner, finished up the two engines, then put one in the bike (as I had initially planned). Doing so would both fix the hard-start problem and allow me the chance to dig deeper into a damaged engine that was out of the bike. However, when the weather got nice this spring, and a friend called me to go riding, the idea of leaving the bike out of commission much longer just felt icky. I knew if I shuffled off the project one more time, the Honda would be buried forever. 

The decision to do the bare minimum—for once—and just get the engine running again felt forced, and the thought of not indulging a single “while I’m in there” inclination patently absurd. But who was I to turn down a challenge? 

Since I’ve had the top end off an XR250R about six times in the last four years, the whole process took about five hours over Friday evening and Saturday afternoon. By dinner time on Saturday, I was puttering around the yard on an XR250R that ran as well as the day it went together the first time back in 2021. The bike didn’t need a new engine; it didn’t need anything more than the bare minimum. (Well, proper diagnostics and the bare minimum.) Leaving well enough alone is not always a bad decision, and realizing just how little is required to fix something is helpful from time to time. This XR250R project only got six new parts: two valves, two valve seals, two gaskets. Not too shabby.

I’m still excited to get a fresh engine into this bike, but between here and there are some real interesting experiences: The last step of the engine-rebuild process is machine work on the cylinder heads. Machining new valve guides, installing new valves, and fitting up the whole works are tasks I intend to do 100% at home in the next couple weeks. Part two comes next week with a dive into the process of installing and preparing valve guides. Let’s just say, I’ve learned a lot in the process.

***

Check out the Hagerty Media homepage so you don’t miss a single story, or better yet, bookmark it. To get our best stories delivered right to your inbox, subscribe to our newsletters.

The post Attempting a Bare-Minimum Repair appeared first on Hagerty Media.

April 17 marked sixty years since the Ford Mustang’s public debut at the 1964 New York World’s Fair. The original pony car immediately became a pop-culture and automotive phenom, and it remains one of the most impactful cars in history. We’re celebrating with stories of the events surrounding the Mustang’s launch, the history of the early cars, and tales from owners. Click here to follow along with our multi-week 60 Years of Mustang coverage. -Ed.

We know how big of a splash the 1965 Ford Mustang made upon its introduction, from its debut at the New York World’s Fair to 22,000 units sold in its first day on the market. The Mustang created the formula for the pony car genre, offering the classic long hood, short deck proportioning of a grand touring car from Europe for the approachable asking price of $2368.00. The base models weren’t outstanding performers, and that’s why many of us know the options that made this pony a real sweetheart.

There were V-8 engines, four-speed manual transmissions, a special handling package, and preferred equipment groupings like the “GT Equipment Group” that added the right amount of flash to go with that hardware. But the Mustang’s interior has an interesting story to tell, one that you likely haven’t heard yet.

This first “pony” car was accessible to many drivers, and its style was crucial to the vehicle’s success. Credit some of the Mustang’s instant popularity with its ability to provide more rungs on its ladder, appealing to Ford Falcon buyers and well-heeled shoppers alike. Going upscale with unique sheetmetal and structural underpinnings is difficult, but the move is quite easy to accomplish with interior trappings. Take the optional floor console, from the Mustang’s extensive options list.

Nobody needs a console, but Mustang owners with bucket seats had an opportunity to add more storage, an ashtray for rear seat occupants, and a ton of flash in a space normally reserved for a carpeted driveshaft tunnel.

For a reasonable(ish) $51.50, this courtesy-light-equipped console gives the affordable pony car a sense of luxury in the Thunderbird tradition. Just look at how it integrates the offset floor shifter while complementing the dash’s chrome accents. But the coolest feature is the “edgeless” rear courtesy light, and how it interfaces with the carpet on the transmission tunnel. It’s like sitting in an infinity pool that merges concrete ground with a stunning backdrop with water as its visual glue. (Or light, in the case of the Mustang.)

Making the Mustang’s interior look like that of a Thunderbird—a vehicle that was twice the asking price of the Mustang—is an impressive transformation for the equivalent of $506.33 in today’s dollars. But we haven’t covered (as it were) the optional wood veneer for these consoles, as that’s where our story kicks into high gear.

While Ford referred to it as the “Interior Decor Group,” the upgrade presented above is colloquially referred to as the Pony Package. The name comes from the horses embossed on the package’s uniquely crafted two-toned seats. While the console was a standalone option, the simulated wood trim on the Pony Package’s console was designed to blend with the wood-effect bits on the steering wheel and dashboard.

Unique door panel inserts with Thunderbird-style handles and courtesy lights were also part of the deal, as was the Mustang GT’s fancy gauge package. Unique kick- and quarter-panel covers with carpet/vinyl coverings and stainless steel trimmings rounded out the Pony Package’s preferred equipment. This is a fair bit of equipment at any price, for any vehicle.

While the Pony Package was a not insignificant $107 hit to your wallet, that $1051.98 spent today can’t even buy the blackout wheels/trim/spoiler combo in the 2024 Mustang’s Night Pony Package. Is black paint and plastic really worth more than all this wood, chrome, ornate trim, and pressed-on ponies?

Very few interior upgrades for a modern Ford can match the bang for the buck of the Pony Package; A Mustang so equipped is more akin to a Black Label Lincoln Continental. The original Mustang might not be crafted like a Jaguar of the era, but that didn’t stop around 27,000 customers (out of 559,451) from choosing this upscale splash of style back in 1965. Clearly, there was a market for a premium Pony Car, and the Mustang’s future competition was foaming at the mouth for a piece of that action.

The Pony Package’s attainable luxury offerings were also part of Pontiac and Mercury’s plan for their pony cars, as those upscale brands traditionally offered more than a mere Ford. Take the Jaguar-esque Cougar XR-7 for 1967, a vehicle which took the now-defunct Pony Package’s game to the next level with extra functionality (more lights and switches), acres of faux burl trim, and decadent leather seating surfaces.

So, consider the oft-overlooked Pony Package to have an enduring legacy on par with that of the Mustang GT: the package had an impact far beyond its two-year lifespan as a factory interior upgrade. This option package gave the masses a shot at personal luxury before the genre even existed, giving the pony-car class an even broader appeal.

Back in 1965, you could get a mere car for $2368.00, or you could have a Mustang. You could also spend $4500 to $6000 for sleek two-doors like a Thunderbird or a Jaguar XKE, or you could have the nicest Mustang in town and save a ton of cash to go with all that flash. (I’d recommend purchasing some of those wild Eames Chairs and a HiFi system for your living room with that extra scratch.)

The purchase scenarios above are brilliant moves at market segmentation, and the Pony Interior shows how important enlightened interior design can be for an entire class of car.

***

Check out the Hagerty Media homepage so you don’t miss a single story, or better yet, bookmark it. To get our best stories delivered right to your inbox, subscribe to our newsletters.

The post Vellum Venom Vignette: The 1965 Mustang’s “Interior” Motives appeared first on Hagerty Media.

Last week, we admired a majestic 1984 Mercedes-Benz S-Class in a Colorado car graveyard, adding to a collection of Final Parking Space machines from (West) Germany that includes BMW, Volkswagen, and Ford-Werke. Plenty of lesser-known German manufacturers have sold cars in the United States, of course, and today we’ve got a discarded example of one of the best-looking cars to come out of Bremen: a Borgward Isabella Coupé, photographed in a self-service yard just south of Denver, Colorado.

Carl Borgward came up in the Bremen car industry, rising through the ranks at Hansa-Lloyd and selling cars badged with his own name starting in 1924. After World War II, he began building Lloyds, Goliaths, and Borgwards, with the Borgward Hansa his first postwar model.

In 1954, the Isabella replaced the Hansa, though Hansa Isabella badging was used for a while.

The Isabella sedan came first, followed by convertible and wagon versions in 1955. The Isabella Coupé appeared in 1957, and production continued in West Germany until the company went (controversially) broke in 1961. Borgward production using the old tooling from the Bremen plant resumed in Monterrey, Mexico, in 1967 and continued through 1970.

The Isabella sold reasonably well in the United States, considering the obscurity of the Borgward brand here. For the 1959 model year, just over 7500 cars were sold out of American Borgward dealerships.

The U.S.-market MSRP for a 1959 Isabella Coupé was $3750, or about $40,388 in 2024 dollars. The base 1959 Porsche 356 coupe listed at $3665 ($39,472 after inflation), while a new 1959 Jaguar XK150 coupe cost $4500 ($48,465 in today’s money).

Meanwhile, GM’s Chevrolet division offered a new 1959 Corvette for just $3,875 ($41,734). The Isabella Coupé faced some serious competition in its price range.

These cars haven’t held their value quite as well as the 356 or Corvette (though nice ones do change hands for real money) and restoration parts are tougher to source, so there are affordable project Isabella Coupés out there for the adventurous. A 24 Hours of Lemons team found this ’59 and raced it several times with the original drivetrain, winning the coveted Index of Effluency award in the process.

Not bad for a race car with 66 horsepower under the hood… 60 years earlier.

The Fistful of Cotter Pins team members were kind enough to give me the MotoMeter dash clock out of their race Borgward. The mechanism is bad but the face still looks good when illuminated in my garage.

The clock in this car has experienced too many decades outdoors in the harsh climate of High Plains Colorado to be worth harvesting for my collection.

The engine in this car is a 1.5-liter overhead-valve straight-four with a distinctive carburetor location atop the valve cover.

The transmission is a four-speed column-shift manual.

The odometer shows 55,215 miles, and that may well be the actual final total.

This car was in the Colorado Auto & Parts “private reserve” yard, off-limits to customers for many years. Then that lot was sold, and many of its former inhabitants were moved to the regular U-Pull section. We’ve seen some of those cars in earlier episodes of this series, including a 1958 Edsel Citation, a 1963 Chevrolet Corvair Monza, and a 1963 Chrysler Newport sedan.

The good news about this car is that CAP will sell you the whole thing, being a non-corporate yard owned by the Corns family since the late 1950s. You’ll be able to check out the famous radial-engine-powered 1939 Plymouth, built on the premises, in the office when you visit.

This car appears to be a bit too rough to be economically viable as a restoration, but there are still plenty of good parts to help fix up nicer Isabellas. Or you could make a race car out of it, which we recommend.

I like to use ancient film cameras to shoot junkyard vehicles, and I took a few photographs of this car (and many others) with a 1920s Ansco Memo.

This double exposure (always a hazard with century-old cameras) came out looking interesting, and the Isabella was an appropriate subject.

***

Check out the Hagerty Media homepage so you don’t miss a single story, or better yet, bookmark it. To get our best stories delivered right to your inbox, subscribe to our newsletters.

The post Final Parking Space: 1959 Borgward Isabella Coupé appeared first on Hagerty Media.

Back in February, I wrote about troubleshooting a no-start condition. It was, I thought, a useful piece that walked you down the decision tree that delineates car-won’t-crank, car-cranks-slowly, and car-cranks-quickly-but-won’t-start problems, and tells you how to test for each and which component is likely bad.

However, I didn’t delve deeply enough into the issue that a weak battery and a weak starter motor can mimic one another. How do I know? Because I just got bitten by it.

Here’s the deal. As I said in the no-start story, what cranks the engine is the battery, the starter, the cables connecting the two, and the ignition switch that feeds 12 volts to the starter solenoid. If you turn the key and hear weak cranking or nothing at all, the first thing to do is check the voltage at the battery with a voltmeter—that’s exactly what AAA will do if you make a service call. A fully-charged battery should read 12.6 volts, and for every 0.2 volts it drops, it loses about 25 percent of its capacity, so by the time it reaches 12 volts, it’s fully discharged. So if you check the battery voltage and find it’s 12 volts or lower, you’ve definitely found the problem. Or at least you’ve found a problem; you still need to find out why the battery is discharged. If it’s winter, the battery is five years old, and the terminals are badly corroded, replace it. Done. If it was drained because you left the dome light on, recharge it, see if it’s OK, and don’t do that again. But if it’s drained because the alternator wasn’t keeping it charged, the charging system needs to be repaired or the same thing will happen to the new battery.

However, if the battery is fully charged but the engine cranks slowly, the problem is a little harder to diagnose, as it can be caused by the battery (it’s possible for an old battery with sulfated plates to take a full charge but not be able to deliver sustained cranking) or by the starter motor going bad. In my first story, I wrote:

“If the battery posts are clean and the ground paths are good but, even once the battery is recharged, it still won’t crank the car, or only does so for a short amount of time, you can use a battery analyzer that uses resistance as a measure of battery health. I’ve found they work pretty well. But really, the gold-standard test is to remove the old battery, clean the clamps, and install a new or a known-good battery. If the car then cranks and starts, the battery was the problem. Note that, particularly in winter, due to low temperatures sapping battery strength and corrosion on the battery terminals causing high resistance in the contact with the jaws on the jumper cables, the failure of a car to crank with a jump-start can be highly misleading. Time after time I’ve experienced no-crank conditions that vanished immediately when a good battery was dropped directly into the car.”

Later in the piece, I added: “If you’re certain that the battery and the current paths are good, and the starter won’t spin or sounds labored, and it’s hot to the touch, odds are that the starter has reached the end of the line.”

The idea here is that it’s waaaay easier to replace a battery—or at least to drop in a known good one—than it is to replace a starter, so first you rule out the battery and cables, and if slow-cranking persists, then you look at the starter.

I just was faced with this. And I got it wrong. Here’s how.

My 49,000-mile survivor 1973 BMW 2002—the one I call “Hampton”—has had a longstanding hard-starting problem. Whenever I think I’ve solved it, a few weeks later the problem rears its ugly head and laughs in my face. Cranks-but-won’t-start problems are tough on batteries, especially when the battery in the car is some off-brand “EconoPower” battery that’s sat all winter—disconnected, but not on a trickle charger (too many cars, not enough chargers). So it didn’t surprise me when, during trouble-shooting the hard-starting problem, I cranked long enough to hear the characteristic sound of slower and slower cranking that’s characteristic of running the battery down.

I recharged the battery overnight, came back in the morning, and the car fired right up. This had little to do with the battery and more to do with the intermittent nature of the hard-starting problem, which I still haven’t gotten to the bottom of. But a few days later, the hard-starting was back, and repeated cranking again became slower and slower. I again recharged the battery overnight, and in the morning still had the same set of problems.

As I mentioned previously, I have one of those resistance-based battery testers—a CenTech that I bought at Harbor Freight about 10 years ago. My experience with the tester has been positive—charge the battery, put the tester on it, and if it shows that the resistance across the terminals is less than 5 milliohms, the battery is fine. If it’s over 10 milliohms, the battery is bad, meaning its ability to hold a charge is severely diminished. If it’s somewhere between 5 and 10 milliohms, it’s a gray area, as was the case when I was testing the battery on my 95-year-old neighbor’s car last winter.

I used the CenTech tester on Hampton’s battery, and the reading was below 5 milliohms, indicating that the battery was good. However, it seemed to me that the battery was clearly not holding a charge, and besides, it was a five-year-old value-priced battery, so my conclusion was that my 10-year-old moderately-priced Harbor Freight battery tester had gone bad (shocking, I know).

BMW 2002s take a group 42 or group 47 battery, both of which are on the small side by modern standards, but the 2002tii has less room for the battery due to its larger brake booster, so it takes a tiny little group 26R battery. Since I own three 2002s, one of which is a tii and one of which is a modified car with a tii braking system, and since the Group 26R also fits the Lotus, using 26R batteries in all of them makes sense to me. An EverStart Value Group 26R battery was only $69 at WalMart, so I picked one up. (True story: The guy behind me in line asked me how long that little battery lasted for my trolling motor. He seriously didn’t believe me when I told him that it was the correct battery for an early ’70s German sports car.) Since it had been sitting on the rack for an unknown amount of time, I put it on charge in my garage overnight.

That morning, I yanked out the old battery and dropped in the new one. Imagine my surprise when I found that the same thing happened—the car cranked but didn’t start, and with each turn of the key it cranked slower and slower.

What the?

As you’ve undoubtedly guessed, the problem was the starter motor, not the battery. I hadn’t ever checked the starter by putting my hand on it because it seemed so obvious to me that the battery was the problem. And I hadn’t done the “drop a known-good battery into the car” test because neither of the other 2002s nor the Lotus, with their little Group 26R batteries, are here at the house. I would’ve had to have muscled the larger battery from either of the two other cars in the garage (my 3.0CSi or M Coupe), and with my back issues, I really avoid lifting batteries out of their recessed trays unless they’re dead and need to be replaced. The irony was obvious—by not thoroughly testing, I yanked a still-good battery and muscled an unneeded new one off the rack, into my trunk, into the garage, and into place. Really, it’s a wonder y’all believe anything I say.

So. Bad starter. OK. Fortunately, I had a brand-new starter motor in the garage, one of the smaller, lighter, inexpensive Chinese-made gear-reduction starters that became all the rage for installing into vintage BMWs a number of years back. I installed it, and Hampton’s engine spun like the dickens.

And then I remembered why I had this new starter sitting in a box in the garage. Years back, when I thought that Hampton’s 49,000-mile, one-owner survivor vibe was going to rain money on Bring a Trailer, in preparation for listing the car I did a compression test and found that the repeated cranking caused the starter to slow, which resulted in lower compression readings. Of course, when you’re selling a car, low compression readings are bad, so I bought the $90 gear-reduction starter, installed it, did the compression test, photographed the readings, and then reinstalled the original starter, as I thought it better fit the car’s original survivor vibe. I never interpreted the symptoms as the starter slowly dying. It was just old and a little slow, like me. And then I completely forgot about this little episode.

I’d tell the larger story of Hampton’s hard-starting problem, but it’s still a work in progress. On the positive side, I’m almost positive that it’s not the battery or the starter.

***

Rob’s latest book, The Best Of The Hack Mechanic: 35 years of hacks, kluges, and assorted automotive mayhem is available on Amazon here. His other seven books are available here on Amazon, or you can order personally-inscribed copies from Rob’s website, www.robsiegel.com.

Check out the Hagerty Media homepage so you don’t miss a single story, or better yet, bookmark it. To get our best stories delivered right to your inbox, subscribe to our newsletters.

The post Getting a No-Start Diagnosis Wrong appeared first on Hagerty Media.

In September 1968, BMW unveiled its first luxury class car in a long time, a direct competitor to the then-new Mercedes-Benz 250S and 250SE. It would eventually become the 7 Series that we all know today, but it was initially known as the 2500 and the 2800, and it ushered in a new era of six-cylinder-powered BMWs.

Of course, it wasn’t the first six-cylinder BMW, nor the first luxury BMW. Not by a long shot. But it was the first one in quite some time. BMW had a rough time of it for a while, subsisting on mini cars like the Isetta and 700 to keep the lights on, but then the “New Class” BMW 1800 and 2000 started to turn the tide and began what became the “Ultimate Driving Machine” era by the 1980s and ’90s.

The new car clearly had a similar look to the 2000 and smaller 1800/2002 models, but it was all new, stem to stern. Styling was a bit more “mature” in keeping with the car’s higher-end intended clientele. It is also my favorite era of BMW sedan. Weight was below 2900 pounds, it was 185 inches long with a 106-inch wheelbase. Of course, the biggest difference between the 2500 and the 2800 was the slightly larger displacement, but the 2800 also had a few extra niceties over the 2500, including Nivomat self-leveling rear shocks.

In its home market, the 1969 2500 had an MSRP of 14,485 marks (or $3680, which adjusted for inflation is about $31,318 today). The 2800 was 17,250 marks ($4400 / $37,446). Despite the imposing ask, over 36,000 were sold in its inaugural model year. The 2500 had 150 horsepower at 6000 rpm and 156 lb-ft of torque, while the 2800 had 170 horses with 174 lb-ft of torque. When the 2500 landed in the United States, it had a base price of $5284 (nearly $45K today).

The initial 2.5-liter six was designed for displacement increases, and so BMW followed suit in April 1971 with the introduction of the 3.0. Two versions were offered, the 3.0S with twin carburetors and 180 horsepower, and the 3.0Si with Bosch D-Jetronic fuel injection and 200 horses.

Also in 1971 came the Bavaria, like our featured car today. It was essentially a slightly de-trimmed 2500/2800. Apparently the big six BMW sedans’ pricing in the States was a bit daunting, and this new model was offered in response. The initial ’71 model had an MSRP of $4987 ($38,459), which was $1200 less than the 2500 and $2000 cheaper than the 2800. Sales did see an increase, so it must have tempted more buyers than the previous model year.

The 3.0S and 3.0Si, unlike the Bavaria, were fully loaded cars with leather interior and full power assists, but, of course, they had a healthy bump price-wise as well. The ultimate version of the 1969-77 big BMWs, however, was the 3.3 L, which gained not only a bigger engine, but an extra four inches of wheelbase.

Top speed of the Broughamiest BMW, the 3.3 L could achieve 127 mph. The initial 3.3 L had 190 hp at 5500 rpm, but in 1975 came the 3.3 Li, which replaced the carbs with the aforementioned Bosch fuel injection, which bumped power to 197 hp.

Automatic transmission was standard on the 3.3L/Li, but a manual was available on special order for the more sporting captain of industry.

The end of the road for these graceful German sedans came in 1977. All told, 208,305 were built. The next year the car would be redesigned and become the 733i. I like those a lot too, but I like the 1969-77 generation a little bit more. As luck would have it, I spotted a like-new 733i in the classic color combo of silver with red leather interior in downtown Davenport, Iowa, last summer. Expect a column on that one, one of these days!

As for our featured car, I saw it at the very first Des Moines Concours d’Elegance I attended, back in 2016. BMW was one of the featured marques that year, and so there were several very fine classic examples on display, including this one and the ’70 3.0 CS that I wrote about some time back. In both cases, I loved the metallic jade green paint with the saddle tan interiors. They made for a great matched set!

***

Check out the Hagerty Media homepage so you don’t miss a single story, or better yet, bookmark it. To get our best stories delivered right to your inbox, subscribe to our newsletters.

The post 1972 BMW Bavaria: S-Class Challenger appeared first on Hagerty Media.

The elation of acquiring the garbage car warehouse of my dreams has since come and gone. Now, *gulp* it’s really mine. In my pre-ownership dreams, I envisioned signing the documents and then leaving the closing attorney’s office in a parade through downtown Statesville, North Carolina. In this exhaust-fume hallucination, my horde of terrible vehicles would ascend into clean and dry sh**box heaven. There, my friends and neighbors would be waiting to celebrate with a keg of Red Buffalo brew.

As you may have guessed, the reality was somewhat more mundane.

Just prior to closing, I was busy with a few things at the ex-foundry. The big ones: restore power and do a massive cleanout of the place. In preparation for the sale, the owner, his scrappy crew of one, my real estate agent, my wife, and I all roamed the grounds in a conga line to decide the fate of every item in the place. We recorded our verdicts in a notebook. My logical flowchart for what would be allowed to live depended on intrinsic value, scrap value, story value, and difficulty of moving. Some items of questionable functionality and considerable bulk—a very dirty industrial deep freezer comes to mind—were marked with an ignominious X.

• Piles of trash and White Claw cans … X
• Paint booth made of tarps … X
• Clawfoot tub …✓
• Air compressor …✓
• Multiple disassembled shop vacs … reluctant X.
• A Chevrolet Stovebolt Six…obvious ✓
• Former cannabis growing room… X. No, wait, ✓. I could turn it into a garden!

Did I mention this activity took place in the dark?

Let’s back up. About three days before the papers were to be signed, the building’s electrical service still hadn’t been activated. Why the complexity? Well, a few months back, in order to snuff out the marijuana-growing operation, the owner got the police and city involved to physically cut power to the building.

The city of Statesville runs the utilities in the area and neither its officials nor I were particularly keen on switching everything back on until the building passed code inspection. Luckily, I had written a small note in my purchase offer stipulating that “three-phase power must be restored in addition to all outlets and lighting with work performed to code.” In the meantime, the city passed an ordinance dictating that all power needed to be run underground for new services. This netted me a new shutoff, panel, sub-panels, and a few thousand linear feet of Romex—all free of charge.

Not satisfied with this shift in my favor, the universe decided to even the score the moment the lights turned on. In perfect light, I could now see a rather large roof leak. Nice one, universe. I guess I better start cleaning up and fundraising.

We signed the papers, and with the keys now in hand, my wife and I let ourselves into the foundry for the first time. I was overcome with dread and remorse. Maybe the junk removal exercise wasn’t as thorough as I imagined it would be. Perhaps I was daunted by the lake around the base of the smelter. Or was I disappointed that I couldn’t immediately empty my backyard of cars into this place?

I shoved those feelings and questions deep inside of me, until they died, replacing them with a furious energy to fill each of the five city trash cans I found hiding in the building. I had friends drop by to help with other stuff, too. Jon sprayed the side of the building with a 40-ouncer to ward off evil spirits, and Johnnie came bearing a homemade shelf and a bourbon bottle to sit atop it. Bring on the productivity!

As the cleanup continued, I remembered how much I love a good scrap run. Every stray car door or bent chain link fence rail cha-ching’ed my internal register, and I mentally subtracted dollars from my first mortgage payment or roof repair bill. I borrowed “Fuggles,” my buddy’s Dodge D-100, and filled it to the brim for multiple drives across the weigh bridge at Gordon’s Iron and Metal. Included in the scrappage scheme were two busted floor sweepers, several very smelly burn barrels, a significant percentage of a Dodge Charger, loads of conduit and electrical breakage, multiple hoods, and fenders, a fridge … the list could continue. What’s important is that I netted $465.32 and cleared some car space.

Something that didn’t get red Xs during that pre-sale inventory: a sad pair of Chevrolet trucks. I initially thought that the remnants of the 1950 Chevy 3100 could be some kind of ratty project and the ’87 1500 would make a workable shop rig. But I had enough to deal with, so I immediately listed them for sale online. I must’ve let my desperate cleanout streak shine through in the form of bargain basement prices, because both cars were someone else’s problem in less than 24 hours. In my pocket was even more roof money and parking space for my own crapcan cars.

Just as I was jamming out to Tanya Tucker and feeling pretty good about starting to pull in cars, my wife hinted that I may still be overlooking something: she held up a large, bent nail between her fingertips.

The delusional parade would have to be delayed yet again.

At Harbor Freight I picked up a sizeable rolling magnet. Over the next two days, we took turns pulling roughly 50 pounds (or $4 if you’re me) of hardware off the floor. Points for the wife: That was a great idea.

In other, more boring news, a long string of inspections by fire, insurance, water utilities, and so on have kept me on my toes for weeks. Aside from the shock of seeing my first bill, I think I’m finally at the end of the truly hard parts.

So am I ready to start filling the place with cars? Almost. Roof repair starts in just a couple of weeks. Then, the final step will be donning a Tyvex suit and respiration gear so I can leaf blow the foundry sand, wood debris, and Bondo dust into a pile.

I’m feeling hope, not regret. It won’t be long before you hear me scream, “Let the sh**tbox parade begin!”

The post Car Storage Part 4: Sh**box Heaven in an Empty Foundry appeared first on Hagerty Media.

For what seemed like generations (but was really just 20 model years), the Ford Motor Company sold a Police Interceptor version of the Crown Victoria sedan. The final Crown Victoria was built in September of 2011, and today’s Final Parking Space subject was built in August of that year. That’s history!

Most sources seem to indicate that the very last Crown Victoria Police Interceptor rolled off the St. Thomas assembly line in August of 2011, so this car is one of the final handful built. Sharp-eyed readers may note that the PI’s characteristic “P71” sequence is lacking from the VIN here, but that’s just because Ford changed the code to “P7B” for the last two model years.

I have spent many years looking in car graveyards and elsewhere for a P7B Crown Vic built during the summer of 2011; prior to now, the newest example I’d found was this 24 Hours of Lemons race car in Colorado with a May 2011 build date.

Last year, I ran across this 2011 P7B in Denver with a January 2011 build date, which seemed impressive at the time. Locating an example of such an important vehicle from the final month of production is the kind of thing we junkyard historians shoot for.

I found this car on Opening Day at LKQ Pick Your Part’s brand-new Denver yard, when all the inventory was at its freshest.

I have a soft spot for the P71/P7B Crown Victoria, because I had one as a daily driver for the second half of the 2000s. In 2004, I bought a 1997 P71 that had been a San Joaquin County (California) parole officer’s unmarked car. No arrestees had ever leaked bodily fluids in the back seat (a problem with ex-police cars driven on patrol for years) and there were no spotlight holes in the A pillars. I put tens of thousands of miles on that car and enjoyed its excellent handling and powerful air conditioning.

It even came with a bunch of evidence Polaroids and urine test kits in the trunk. I wonder what the perp in that red Toyota MR2 did.

This car is the only ex-police car I’ve ever found in a junkyard that still had the pee-proof fiberglass back seat and protective screen in place; normally, police departments remove them to use in their other cars, but the remaining Crown Vic Police Interceptors are nearly gone and whatever agency owned this car must have decided it wasn’t worth the hassle to salvage this stuff before disposing of it.

The push bumper is still here, too.

The electronic odometer means I couldn’t check the final mileage total without powering up the car’s ECU. Most discarded P71s with mechanical odometers that I’ve found have had between 100,000 and 200,000 miles showing, though I have spotted one ’02 P71 that worked as a taxi after its law-enforcement duties were done and racked up better than 400,000 miles during its career.

All of the 1992-2011 Crown Victoria Police Interceptors got the 4.6 Modular SOHC V8 engine under their hoods. This one was rated at 250 horsepower and 297 pound-feet; since the car scaled in at just over two tons, it wasn’t especially quick off the line.

While the P71/P7B wasn’t particularly quick, it was equipped with an extra-heavy-duty cooling system that could keep the engine alive under far more punitive conditions that ordinary civilian cars ever experience. Idling for hours with the A/C blasting in Phoenix in August? No problem!

On top of that, these cars can achieve real-world highway fuel economy approaching 25 miles per gallon.

The cop suspension, cop tires, and cop shocks made the ride a bit firmer than what Grandma got in her floating-on-a-cloud Crown Victoria LX, but they also gave the Police Interceptor impressively nimble handling for a car this size.

This car, along with its Mercury Grand Marquis and Lincoln Town Car siblings, was one of the last built on Ford’s versatile Panther platform. The first Panthers were 1979 models, so Ford certainly got its money’s worth out of that chassis design.

At some point near the end, this car slid into dirt hard enough to embed vegetation and soil between the tire bead and the wheel. Perhaps there was sufficient suspension damage to make its final owner give up on it.

***

Check out the Hagerty Media homepage so you don’t miss a single story, or better yet, bookmark it. To get our best stories delivered right to your inbox, subscribe to our newsletters.

The post Final Parking Space: 2011 Ford Crown Victoria Police Interceptor appeared first on Hagerty Media.

With all the chop in the water about whether buying my needy 183,000-mile 2008 Nissan Armada was a good move or an awful one, I thought I’d tell a story that shows that I am, in fact, capable of making rational automotive decisions.

In 1990, BMW’s follow-up to its successful, big two-door 6 Series coupe (the 635CSi) was a new model—the E31 8 Series. The new coupe, badged as the 850i through 1992 and the 850ci 1993 through 1997, was intended to be BMW’s new tour de force flagship, featuring its new V-12 engine, electronic throttle, multilink rear end, stability control, and other state-of-the-art features. Not surprisingly, these changes made the car heavy, complex, and expensive. When it debuted, the 850i was stickered at roughly $77,000 base price, rising to about $94,000 by 1997. [As if those figures don’t sound high enough, adjusting for inflation pushes them to more than $180K today.]

The coupe was received by the press and enthusiasts the way the Porsche 928 was viewed: at best, a touring car; at worst, a boulevard cruiser—but not a sports car. The fact that the car is sharp, with its pointy shark nose and hide-away headlamps, and looked a bit like what was then the current Toyota Celica Supra (second-generation A60), didn’t help matters. A less-expensive V-8-powered 840i was offered 1993–95, but it didn’t sell well either. A total of only 6920 E31 8 Series cars were sold in the United States before BMW pulled the plug.

As used vehicles, the 12-cylinder 8 Series cars were viewed as troublesome money pits with no financial upside. The car’s V-12 engine (the 850i’s M70 and its successor, the M73 in the ci) was designed as two M20 inline sixes mated together, and this design included using two of everything—two ECUs, two air flow meters, two throttle bodies, two fuel pumps, etc. If something went wrong, the car went into limp-home mode. Most of E31 8 Series production was before 1996, which is important because that’s when all cars sold in America received the standard OBD-II connector, so it’s not like you could plug a $50 scan tool into an 850i to find out the limp-mode problem—diagnosis generally required an expensive trip to the dealer. Like the V-12-equipped E32 750i sedan of the same era, you couldn’t give a needy 850i away; running cars needing work routinely sold for two- or three-thousand dollars. Dead ones were even less.

However, time and perspective are funny things. With age, the E31 8 Series looks better and better. It’s a true coupe with no B-pillar; roll down the front and rear windows and there’s an unbroken expanse of space, just like in my ’73 E9 3.0CSi coupe. The rear end of the car has that glorious fat planted look that’s all the rage. And no one remembers the whole Celica thing anymore, just like no one remembers how the 10th-generation Ford Thunderbird looked like a 635CSi.

With the size of BMW’s signature double kidneys increasing over the years to the point where they threaten to devour small countries, most classic BMWs with reasonable-sized kidneys look vintage-correct and unencumbered by marketing run rampant, and the kidneys on the 850i are especially thin for a car built in the last 30 years. And, complexity-wise, the V-12’s dual control system notwithstanding, these days any production vehicle is more complicated than an E31 8 Series.

And—here’s the kicker—the 850i was available with a six-speed manual gearbox. According to Wikipedia, it was “the first V-12 engine mated to a six-speed manual transmission on a road car.” [I suspect someone will sculpt a definition of “road car” to allow some Italian exotic to challenge this.] Only 847 V-12 stick cars were imported to the United States, so they’re certainly not common. Worse, the transmission isn’t the Getrag 420G used by V-8 stick BMWs of that era, but a Getrag 560G whose only other application I’m aware of is a Maserati Shamal, so it’s not like there’s a ready supply of them to press into service to convert an automatic car.

(Note that in addition to 850i six-speeds, there is the über-rare M-prepared 850CSi, basically an M8 without the M badge. There were only 225 of these imported, and their value has skyrocketed.)

With all that in mind, in 2015, when gas was two dollars a gallon, I became fixated on the idea of finding a cheap six-speed 850i. It had additional resonance with me because I already owned both an E9 3.0CSi and an E24 635CSi, so the 850i would make for a set of BMW’s big two-door coupe triplets, one of each generation. (Well, yeah, there are other older and newer coupes, but humor me.)

It didn’t take long before I found the following Craigslist ad:

“BMW 850i V-12 six-speed for sale. I’ve owned the car for about 16 years. It has 150K on her. It needs exhaust work. This summer I took it out of storage and it developed an erratic idle when in neutral. Drives fine. Bavarian in Winchester believes it’s a combination of changing manifold gaskets, exhaust leak and/or O2 sensor. Needs shocks, driver’s side door only opens from inside. Eye turner but you need to put some money into her to be perfect. I’m selling for $5000 or best offer.” The photos weren’t great, but the car looked whole and intact. It was white, so in addition to being a unicorn, every white whale and great white shark joke was in bounds. And it was only 30 minutes away.

I spoke with the seller, and he gave me added information about the car’s condition. “Needs shocks” meant that a broken front strut mount was actually smacking the underside of the hood, so it couldn’t be driven far. He added that the exhaust was loud and there was visible oil burning. He said he’d already taken a deposit on the car but had the feeling the buyer wouldn’t complete the deal.

We stayed in touch. About a week later the seller contacted me and offered the car to me for $4000. I contacted a friend who owned an 850i six-speed and asked him what would be the walk-away criteria. He immediately responded, “Buy it. The transmission alone, if it doesn’t munch synchros, is worth that price.” I lightly protested that I already owned too many cars, and his response was a virtual slap: “Name the V-12 six-speed manual coupes on the planet … 850i, 850CSi, Ferrari something, Lamborghini something, Aston Martin Vanquish. That’s pretty much the entire list. [It’s a] $100,000 running V-12 manual unicorn that you will pick up for $4000. These won’t be around a decade from now. Buy the damned car, sir!”

Well, OK then. I made the appointment to see the running 850i six-speed and withdrew $4000 from the bank. Wouldn’t you?

Two nights later I drove up to Woburn, Massachusetts, to see the car. At a first walk-around it looked pretty good. I didn’t see any obvious rust or dents. There was a barely visible dimple where the strut had hit the underside of the hood. The engine compartment was far from immaculate, but it didn’t look like a dumpster fire either. White wasn’t a lust color for me, but fishers in the muddy end of the pond can’t be choosers.

“Can I drive it?” I asked.

“It needs to be jumped,” the seller said. “850s have two batteries. I replaced one, but the other one is dead.” He pulled another car into position, fiddled with jumper cables, and started the big white coupe.

And that’s when I abruptly came face-to-face with the car’s loud exhaust and oil burning. This wasn’t a minor hole in the exhaust like the ones I recently patched in the Armada. This sounded like straight pipes on a dragster. I immediately thought that if I bought the car and started it like this in my driveway, my then-troublesome longtime neighbor would call the cops on me. And the oil burning cast a blue-white fog around the car like something out of a Mad Max film. (“In 2015, when society isn’t crumbling and gas is $2 a gallon, one man considers doing something really stupid.”) As I walked around the car, I noticed that all the smoke was emanating from the V-12’s right tailpipe, indicating that one bank of the V-12 was far worse than the other.

As the car warmed up, it settled into the oscillating idle that was mentioned in the ad. I got in and surveyed the interior. The 8 Series dashboard with its overlapping gauges is quite a break from previous BMWs. It’s not my cup of tea, but it’s part of the landscape. The interior was generally intact apart from an aftermarket stereo that stuck out too far.

Then I found a problem that sounds trivial but was anything but: The electric seat wouldn’t budge. The seller was probably 6-foot-5, and I’m 5-8 in shoes. I had to slouch so far down to reach the pedals that, like the caricatures of “silver-helmeted” elderly drivers, my head barely cleared the steering wheel. So while I did take it for a test drive, the combination of all these factors—the banging front strut, the deafening exhaust, the James Bond-like oil fog, and the seat—made the drive consist of four very careful right turns that brought me back to the house. It was the antithesis of the get-it-on-the-highway-mash-the-pedal experience for which you’d buy a car like this.

It was a Thursday. The seller said he had other people coming to look at the car on Saturday. My window was right now, but I needed to think about it. The seller was my kind of a word-is-your-bond guy—“Just call me and tell me that you want it, and for four grand it’s yours”—but he’d need to know by Friday night so he could cancel the Saturday appointments.

I went home and did what I do—deliberated in front of an Excel spreadsheet. The pros were the lure of the V-12 6-speed 850i, the bragging rights of snagging one for four grand, and the silly business of owning “coupe triplets.” But the cons—the obvious engine work needed to stanch the oil-burning, the broken front strut, the likely-expensive exhaust repair, the rough idle, the car’s general money-pit nature, plus the omnipresent constraints of space, time, and money and the murky issues of “opportunity costs”—that is, if you commit to this car, you pass on something else—made me think that this was a clear “no.”

My incredibly understanding wife, who had heard the peaks and valleys of my excitement and disappointment, weighted in. “So, you’d buy this, drive it for a while, write about it, then sell it?” she asked.

It was, of course, a very good question.

While I am somewhat strategic in terms of buying needy cars that generate content for these pieces that keep y’all entertained, I do pride myself on being fiscally responsible enough to not cause financial harm to my family. The cars I buy need to make sense to both the left and right hemispheres of my brain. That is, I have to both want them and be able to rationally justify them. At this point (in late 2015), I’d recently published my first book, was gainfully employed at Bentley Publishers, and was writing my second book. I was feeling pretty confident having made the jump from engineer to full-time automotive writer, and I’d gone on a bit of a spree—I’d recently bought the Lotus Europa, the BMW Bavaria, the Euro 635CSi, an E30 325is, and two 2002tiis, all of which nudged the car count up to a then-unprecedented 12. My left brain looked at all this, deemed it the excessive behavior that it clearly was, and gave me an edict: You can buy the 850i only if you can make the case that you won’t lose money on it.

And how did that case go? Thrown out before it even came to trial.

Nowadays, you’d be unlikely to find any bargain 850i six-speed, but in 2015, I checked eBay for completed listings and found a well-sorted attractive example with 200K that sold for $10,500, one with minor issues that sold for $8500, and a needy but drivable car that went for $6500. So if I paid $4000 for the white one, I’d need to make the case that I could make it whole and drivable for $2500, and it wasn’t even close. I sent a detailed email to the seller backing away from the purchase. I’d reasoned it through. I was happy with the decision. And that was that.

Until the following night. My wife and I were out to dinner with a friend. I had a few beers in me. I was telling him the story about the Great White Six-Speed Shark. Suddenly, like Hugh Grant in Notting Hill, I realized that I was an idiot. I’d made the wrong decision. Screw my left brain—my right brain wanted the car! [“I’m just a boy … standing before a Shark … asking it to love me.”] When I got home, I contacted the seller and literally sent him a photograph of the stack of hundred-dollar bills that I had not yet re-deposited in the bank. He said that if the fellow coming up from New York didn’t buy the car, it was mine. However, a day later, he texted me a pic of the car loaded on a trailer.

And that really was that.

Interestingly, a few months later, a cheap, needy, black 850i six-speed showed up in New Hampshire. This one was more drivable than the white one, but it munched second and third gear, and the front end shuddered over 40 mph like it was going to fly apart. Recalling what my friend had said about the unavailability of the 560G gearbox, I made the same decision. The Great White Six-Speed Shark and this black one kind of swirled together in my mind as an 850i six-speed yin-yang Zen-like “this is never going to be your fate” symbol.

A few years later I made one more try. As I wrote about in a piece called “The Rules of Attraction,” if you love the exterior lines of a car, love the look of the interior, and love the way it drives, then you’re hooked. I loved the 850i’s exterior look, but the fact was that I was lukewarm about the interior and had still never driven one at highway speeds to see if I’d actually enjoy it. So I contacted a guy who had an 850i automatic for sale and candidly explained that I really wanted a six-speed but offered to pay him for a decent test-drive in his car. To my surprise, he said, “Actually I have a white six-speed that I’m working on, but it’s not yet drivable.”

Somewhere off in the ether, I felt one side of the yin-yang symbol vibrate. “When you bought it,” I asked, “did it have a broken front strut and burn oil out one tail pipe?”

“How could you possibly know that?” the guy asked. I told him the whole story. He’d bought the car from the guy who came up from New York, who bailed out of it, and he’d never fixed it either. We had a good laugh over it. I never wound up driving his automatic and never followed up on the white car. Things sometimes just run their natural course.

The days of the cheap 850i are over—E31 cars, both stick and slush box, have rebounded from their bargain-basement prices. The days of my lying in a dark room, thinking about an 850i V-12 six-speed and waiting for the pain to pass, have ended as well. But whenever I see one at a BMW event, I walk around behind it and think, “Damn, that’s a nice fat planted-looking rear end that looks NOTHING like an A60 Supra.”

***

Rob’s latest book, The Best Of The Hack Mechanic: 35 years of hacks, kluges, and assorted automotive mayhem is available on Amazon here. His other seven books are available here on Amazon, or you can order personally-inscribed copies from Rob’s website, www.robsiegel.com.

Check out the Hagerty Media homepage so you don’t miss a single story, or better yet, bookmark it. To get our best stories delivered right to your inbox, subscribe to our newsletters.

The post The Great White Six-Speed Shark appeared first on Hagerty Media.

I have a history with these.

A long history that goes back to me being a very little kid in the early 1980s, when my Grandma Ruby Klockau had one. For years, I wanted it to be my first car when I turned 16.

You see, my paternal grandparents were Ford people. Well, actually, so were my maternal grandparents. But while Fred and Mae Stamp preferred Galaxies and LTD IIs, Bob and Ruby Klockau had Thunderbirds and Continentals.

Ruby’s first T-Bird was a navy blue ’65 convertible with white interior and navy blue dash and carpeting. She loved that car. So much, that she kept it all the way to 1977, when she finally wanted a new car. And ordered another T-Bird.

This time it was black, with white bucket-seat interior and center console, and red instrument panel, carpeting and seat belts. Plus a factory AM/FM/Stereo with CB, back vinyl roof, and red pinstripes. It was a gorgeous combo. And Grandma Ruby kept it a long time, too.

Back then, oftentimes during summer vacation, she would pick me up and we would go to lunch, then Toys R Us (I would always pick out a diecast car—sometimes a Corgi, sometimes a Matchbox Models of Yesteryear), and then we would go to Sexton Ford and South Park Lincoln-Mercury, where I would gawk at the new cars and collect brochures to take home and study. I still have some of those brochures.

And so it went into my early junior-high years. But then in 1991 or so, she sold the T-Bird. My grandfather had passed away by then, she had been driving his 1987 Lincoln Continental 90 percent of the time, and someone made her an offer. And then it was gone.

But wait! My mom’s sister, Candy Symmonds, got a ’78 Thunderbird. My uncle, Don Symmonds, was a master mechanic and could fix anything. So when the old Blackhawk Foundry down the street from the Symmonds pretty much ruined her ’76 Cutlass Supreme’s paint and glass after several years, he found the T-Bird.

As I recall, Candy telling me long ago, it had been a kind of root-beer-brown color, but it was pretty faded. So Don painted it nonmetallic navy blue and spruced it up with other new parts and trim. And it had the same road wheels and Chamois interior as today’s featured car, owned by my friend Justin Landwehr.

I have many fond memories of riding in that car, too! And like Ruby’s car, it had the bucket seats and center console. It was not until many years later I realized how rare that setup was. By 1977–79, most T-Birds had the bench seat, even the flossier Town Landau models. Technically, you could get it all that time, but not many plumped for it.

The ’77 T-Bird was all-new. Well, for most intents and purposes. The 1972–76 T-Bird had been much larger and was based on the Continental Mark IV. But that all changed in 1977, and the T-Bird shrunk. But it still wasn’t small.

It was now riding the same chassis as the also-mostly-new 1977 Ford LTD II, which was essentially a 1972–76 Ford Gran Torino with an all-new body. Styling was much crisper and razor edged. And while the new Thunderbird looked a lot like the LTD II coupe at first blush, it had exclusive hidden headlamps and a “basket handle” roofline with inset opera windows between the front door and rear quarter glass.

It was a massive success despite the shrinkage. A total of 318,140 Thunderbirds were sold for 1977, riding a 114-inch wheelbase. The pool table-sized hood was standard. A base model started at $5063 ($26,095 today), the tony Town Landau at $7990 ($41,180).

As the 1978 brochure relayed, “Express yourself boldly this year. With one of nine exciting color combinations—yours when you order the optional Sports Decor Group … In this Decor Group, you also get deck lid stripes, dual accent paint stripes, fender louver and hood stripes color-coordinated with the vinyl roof, and styled road wheels with Chamois accents.

“Body side moldings have color-keyed vinyl inserts. Remote control, dual-sport mirrors, and blacked-out vertical grille bars are also included.”

Despite all the extra comfort and appearance items of the Sports Decor Group package, certain things were still optional, including whitewall tires and deluxe bumpers. Because, after all, in 1978 it was still Detroit (or rather, Dearborn), and many things taken for granted in 2023 were a la carte back then.

However, it did have some nice, basic standard equipment; after all, this wasn’t a Pinto or a Maverick. All ’78 T-Birds came standard with a 302-cubic-inch V-8, SelectShift automatic transmission, power steering, power brakes, steel-belted radial tires, 10-ounce cut-pile carpeting, simulated burled walnut interior and instrument panel trim, power ventilation, hidden headlights, full-width taillights, and the all-important opera windows.

Some Monday-morning quarterbacks like to pooh-pooh these cars, saying they were nothing like previous Thunderbirds and a cheap cash grab by Ford. Such folks likely never owned, drove, or got within 50 feet of one. There seems to be an unfair bias against ’70s cars, which is kind of funny when you see all the questionable, sometimes willfully ugly cars and trucks made since then.

And they sold. The final, extra-large 1976 Thunderbird, sharing much of its components with the cosmopolitan Continental Mark IV, sold 42,685 examples. However, that went way, way, wayyy up the following year, with the new downsized T-Bird: 318,140 in 1977, 333,757 in 1978, and 284,141 in 1979. That includes the base-trim Thunderbirds, the Town Landaus, and the extra-flossy 1978 Diamond Jubilee Edition Thunderbird, which was available in only Diamond Blue Metallic or Ember Metallic, and was even more luxurious than the already-Broughamy Town Landau.

And it had a price to match. The base ’78 Thunderbird was $5411 ($25,921), the Town Landau was $8420 ($40,335), but the Diamond Jubilee Thunderbird (so-named to celebrate Ford’s 75th Anniversary; a Diamond Jubilee Continental Mark V was also offered) was a princely $10,106 ($48,411). But pretty much everything was standard, including special blanked-out rear sail panels, aluminum wheels, color-keyed bumper rub strips, extra-sumptuous seating and interior trim, and more.

While I couldn’t break down 1978 T-Bird production between the standard model and the Town Landaus, I did find that 18,994 Diamond Jubilee models were built. The DJ Thunderbird would essentially return for 1979 but would be re-named the Heritage. As in ’78, it was a step above the Town Landau—with a price to match.

By the way, if you ever run across one in the wild, it’s really easy to identify the year: 1977s have the checkerboard grille and full-width taillamps, ’78s added the Thunderbird ‘bird’ emblems to the hidden headlight doors, and ’79s got the new grille with fewer bars and the taillights with a central backup light between them. It’s that easy.

***

Check out the Hagerty Media homepage so you don’t miss a single story, or better yet, bookmark it. To get our best stories delivered right to your inbox, subscribe to our newsletters.

The post 1978 Ford Thunderbird with Sports Decor Group: “Basket Handle” Brougham appeared first on Hagerty Media.

During a recent garage chat with a friend about tools, I finally talked myself into purchasing a Milwaukee M12 right-angle die grinder. It’s a great upgrade to my current shop: I really enjoy the handiness of a die grinder with Roloc discs for cleaning and the small amount of fabrication that pops up in my projects, but I am too cheap to make space or budget for the air compressor it would take to run hungry tools like a die grinder. While air tools absolutely have their place—I’ll still make trips over to a friend’s shop to do the next porting job—this little battery-powered tool has been a wonderful stopgap. Compromise when understood and expected rarely feels like such.

Adding this die grinder to my tool set forced me to rearrange a few drawers in my toolbox. In them I found the evolution of my capability to cut, sand, and grind: a set of mismatched files from an estate sale, bent and scraggly wire brushes, wire-wheel attachments for a drill, a corded angle grinder, a cordless angle grinder, and now a tidy little die grinder—all added in that order.

At some point, as you develop the skills to use the tools you have, a set of cascading switches trip in your brain. You want to do the job a little cleaner next time, or for the components to fit up better—in short, you want less evidence that a repair was done at all. When rebuilding my 1989 Honda XR250R during the year that I raced it, I took an odd amount of care to make it appear as though I hadn’t taken the thing apart seven times in as many months. Keeping hardware from rounding off doesn’t really require some crazy amount of care, but we have likely all been under a hood where the last person there certainly didn’t take the time.

The evolution of my toolbox’s contents happened incrementally rather than in big steps. Over 15 years passed between my first project car and when I bought a set of digital calipers. For a good number of years I worked with a single hammer, basic socket set, and some screw drivers; I did full motorcycle rebuilds with not much more. The most noticeable changes were not those in tool count but in quality: Tools that allowed me to perform more delicate work.

Each addition improved my ability to remove or address flaws or problems with increasing power and speed—and most importantly, with increasing precision. I could focus more and more on the process of creating a higher-quality finished product. I used my time more efficiently because the tool was helping me, not holding me back. Rather than putting a ceiling on my capability, the right tools enabled the more advanced ideas and plans in my brain to come to reality.

If you can measure something, you can usually perfect it. Years ago a tape measure was appropriate for the work I did; now, the projects on my bench require the ability to read a Vernier scale on a micrometer. While it is possible to work on vintage machines without being slowly strung out to a line of atoms entering the black hole that is true precision, there will always be a ceiling to what you can do with basic tools. It is possible to assembling an engine that lasts a long time using only rusty tools you found on the side of the highway; but that rebuild will involve a lot of luck.

Anything worth doing requires some level of effort and carries at least a little risk. The strange thing is that measuring is the most likely place for human error to enter and wreak havoc on your project. Transposing a few numbers in my head led to throwing out a couple chunks of aluminum and about an hour of work last time I was standing in front of a lathe.

Working on projects can be frustrating for any number of reasons, but occasionally that frustration reflects a standard of quality we happily imposed upon ourselves. Working on project cars is like running on a treadmill. It is possible to quantify how far you have come by the hours spent, the distance traveled, or the average pace per mile, and measuring and quantifying that progress made can be rewarding at the right times; but so often we forget to look back at how we have improved—and how much smarter we’ve become along the way. After all, now I can measure my project progress down to the thousandth of an inch.

***

Check out the Hagerty Media homepage so you don’t miss a single story, or better yet, bookmark it. To get our best stories delivered right to your inbox, subscribe to our newsletters.

The post The Blessing and Curse of Precision appeared first on Hagerty Media.

Four months into this series, we have seen three discarded vehicles built in (West) Germany: a 1974 Ford Capri, a 1981 Volkswagen Vanagon, and a 1984 BMW 325e. Conspicuously missing from that lineup is a vehicle made by the manufacturer that built the very first car 136 years ago, so today we’ll take a look at an example of the most legendary of all the Mercedes-Benz S-Classes, a 380 SE recently found in a Denver self-service yard.

This car is a W126, which fits in the S-Class pantheon between the W116 and the W140 and was sold in the United States for the 1980 through 1991 model years. In my opinion, the W126 was the best-built Mercedes-Benz of all time and probably one of the best-built motor vehicles of all time, period (the Toyota Century beats the W126 in that department).

Most W126 models were quite a bit more expensive (in inflation-adjusted dollars) than the current S-Classes. This one had an MSRP of $43,030, or about $131,043 in 2024 dollars. If you wanted the king of the W126s in 1984 (the 500 SEC coupe), the list price was $57,100, or $173,892 in today’s money.

Because those prices were so steep and the Deutschmark was so weak against the dollar during the early-to-middle 1980s, tens of thousands of American car shoppers bought W126s in West Germany and imported them via the gray market, saving plenty of money but enraging American Mercedes-Benz dealers (who eventually succeeded in lobbying that loophole closed). This car was imported via legitimate dealership channels, but I’ve found quite a few gray-market Mercedes-Benzes of this era during my junkyard travels, including a 1980 280, a 1980 500 SE, a 1981 380 SEL, and a 1983 500 SEC.

Because these cars held together so well, they still show up regularly in car graveyards around the country. This 380 SE has low miles for a thrown-out W126, but I’ve found a couple of these cars showing better than a half-million miles on their odometers.

This one looks to have had a solid body and nice interior when it arrived here, but even a W126 is going to have the occasional mechanical problem and repairs tend to be costly.

This car had a stack of parking tickets from Longmont, Colorado, under its wipers, though, so it may have been a good runner that got towed away and auctioned off due to unpaid fines.

This being a 380, its engine is a 3.8-liter gasoline-fueled SOHC V-8 rated at 155 horsepower and 196 pound-feet of torque. For 1984, American Mercedes-Benz W126 shoppers could also get a 300 SD powered by a straight-five turbodiesel with 123 horses and 184 lb-ft of torque or a 500 SEL/SEC boasting 184 hp with 247 lb-ft.

Because 1984 S-Classes weighed between 3685 to 3870 pounds—featherweight stuff by the standards of 2024—even the oil-burners were tolerably quick (the current C-Class is hundreds of pounds heavier than this 380 SE, while the ’24 S-Class outweighs it by more than a half-ton).

In Europe, the 1979–84 S-Classes with non-V-8 engines could be purchased with manual transmissions, but all U.S-market W126s came with mandatory four-speed automatics.

This 380 SE will be crushed, but we can hope that many of its parts will live on in other W126s.

***

Check out the Hagerty Media homepage so you don’t miss a single story, or better yet, bookmark it. To get our best stories delivered right to your inbox, subscribe to our newsletters.

The post Final Parking Space: 1984 Mercedes-Benz 380 SE appeared first on Hagerty Media.

I’ve made many references over the past 18 months to my back issues. It’s nothing acute—no smoking-gun bulged discs showing up on the MRI—just the usual 65-year-old-man-stuff of easily-triggered low back pain and sciatica. But it’s annoying as hell.

A four-month-long stint of physical therapy to strengthen my core has helped enormously, allowing me to reach the point where I was able to do all that wrenching on the recently-purchased Nissan Armada without reinjuring myself. However, I feel like I’m always one bad decision away from a relapse, so I try not to make those bad decisions. I lift very little without help (as difficult as that is when you’re used to being a lone wolf working by yourself in the garage), and I don’t yank on things when I’m in a bent or crouched position.

The winter/summer wheel swap has become a bellwether for me—e.g., if I can’t do this, I can’t do anything. When my back issues reemerged in 2022, the combination of rolling a floor jack, skooching down to properly position it under the car, working the jack handle to raise it, cracking the lug nuts, dismounting and mounting the wheels, and using a torque wrench in a bent-over position was difficult enough that I was beginning to think that this part of my life might be over. Fortunately, there are back-saving tricks that allow me to cruise through wheel-swapping. Yeah, I know, this sounds like that “one weird trick” online clickbait. But trust me.

First, let me offer a warning that is crucially important. My college physics professor was killed when the car he was working on fell on him. That’s all the more tragic considering he was my mechanics professor, which, in addition to “mechanics” applying to both the physics as well as to working on cars, has the unbearable irony that mechanics is the study of how physical objects move in response to forces on them, and part of mechanics is “statics,” which analyzes the forces on stationary objects that keep them from moving. Ever since that horrible tragedy, I have been assiduously careful never to work under a car that isn’t properly supported by jack stands and a floor jack as backup. Swapping wheels is a gray area where many folks argue that they’re not technically under the car, so they feel that they can jack up one wheel without taking the time to set that corner of the car on jack stands. I see garages and tire-change shops do this all the time. I’ll admit that there have been times when I’ve done it myself, but in what I describe below, it’s absolutely imperative that you support the car on stands, because there’s no question that part of you is under the car, and you don’t want to get your legs crushed if the jack slips.

I’ve identified four aspects of wheel-swapping that are problematic in my AARP years. I’ll address them each below.

Moving the wheels

I keep the off-season wheels for both my and my wife’s daily driver under the back porch, which is on the opposite side of the house from the garage. Both are slightly downhill from street level. So wheel-swapping both cars requires rolling eight wheels up and down the path a total of 16 times. This bending-while-rolling effort eventually triggers back pain. For a while I was asking my kids to do it for me while I grumbled, “You mean I can’t even do this?” but I found that by keeping my back straight and doing a Groucho-Marx-like duck walk (for those old enough to know the reference), I can keep my dignity and move them myself.

Jacking up the car

I have a mid-rise lift, but it’s usually not worth using it for a simple wheel swap. In the first place, there’s always another car parked over it, often in mid-project. Plus, it takes time to position a car on the mid-rise. The vintage cars get lifted by their frames, which allows a lot of slop in their placement, but it’s difficult to lift my daily-driver 2003 5 Series BMW by anything but the jacking points on the rocker panels, and there’s perhaps two inches of positioning leeway for the lift’s arms and sliding jack pads to be able to reach all four. Plus, as I’ll get to below, the low-back-pain key to all this is keeping the car as close to the floor as possible, so the added height capability of the lift is a detriment, not an advantage.

That means that I swap wheels the old-school way—on the garage floor with a floor jack. In the past, I’d raise the nose of the car by putting the jack in the middle of the front subframe, swap both front wheels, then do the same in the back, but for back-pain reasons, it’s easier for me to do one wheel at a time and use the jack points at the corners. That way I don’t need to crouch down to get eyeballs on where the floor jack is contacting a point deep under the car.

Using the jacking points on the corners of the wheel wells has the added advantage that the lever arm of the floor jack is well-clear of the body of the car, which lets me pump it up and down using my foot. This is another big wear-and-tear savings on my back. I can also do this if I use my long-reach floor jack on the middle of the front subframe, but it probably weighs four times as much as my small aluminum jack.

The back-saving key is to raise the wheel just enough to set the corner of the car on a jack stand and swap it. Don’t put the car up any higher than it needs to be.

Loosening the lug nuts

Before you jack up the wheel, if you don’t have an impact wrench, you need to crack the lug nuts the old-fashioned way with a breaker bar. By all means, save your back by putting one foot on the end of the breaker bar and standing on it, but be careful not to lose your balance and twist funny when it lets go. An air-driven or electric impact wrench is a major back-saver, as you can position yourself directly in front of the wheel and zip the nuts off. Leave one nut on finger-tight.

Finally, the “one weird trick.” When you mount or dismount the wheel, don’t ever lift it with your hands, arms, and back—lift it instead with your knees and legs. With the corner of the car safely supported by a jack stand, sit directly in front of the wheel and slide your legs around it. Then slide your feet toward you and raise your knees until some part of your legs contact the tire. It could be your shins, knees, or thighs. Whatever feels comfortable to you. Loosen the last lug nut and tip the wheel onto your legs. Then slide your feet forward, lower your knees, and roll the wheel onto the floor.

Removal is easy because you have gravity working for you. “The trick” is far more important on installation—roll the wheel onto your legs and pull your feet toward you to raise your knees to get it onto the hub. If the hub has studs, rotate the hub or the wheel to get them through the holes. It’s a little tricker if the hub has threaded holes and the studs are part of the lug nuts. Most hubs have a raised ring in the center that the bore in the wheel sits on. You need to use your knees to maneuver the wheel onto it, then rotate it to line up the holes and spin the nuts on.

Use your foot on the torque wrench

Get the lug nuts seated with a ratchet wrench. If you have an impact wrench, you can put it on its lowest setting and give a quick blip of the trigger to snug each nut down. Then lower the car, set a torque wrench to the appropriate setting, and use your foot instead of your back to torque the nuts down. You can hear and feel the click of the torque wrench just as easily as if it’s in your hands. You still need to bend down to move the torque wrench from lug nut to lug nut, and with five per wheel, four wheels, two cars, even this needs to be done with care if your back is sensitive, but it’s still way less wear-and-tear than forcing your upper body to crank the torque wrench.

Although I didn’t have to swap seasonal wheels on the Armada, I did have to pull the front wheels off and put them back on to do the front struts. They’re 20-inch wheels, a full three inches bigger than anything else I’ve ever owned. Using these steps, I got them off and on again without so much as a sidelong glance from my back.

I hope some of you find this as helpful as I have.

Dealing with those four transmissions under the porch, though, is another matter.

***

Rob’s latest book, The Best Of The Hack Mechanic: 35 years of hacks, kluges, and assorted automotive mayhem is available on Amazon here. His other seven books are available here on Amazon, or you can order personally-inscribed copies from Rob’s website, www.robsiegel.com.

Check out the Hagerty Media homepage so you don’t miss a single story, or better yet, bookmark it. To get our best stories delivered right to your inbox, subscribe to our newsletters.

The post How to Swap Your Wheels Without Wrenching Your Back appeared first on Hagerty Media.

Let’s get one thing straight: I only have a rudimentary knowledge of Opel. My introduction to its existence was probably circa 1991 when, as an avid watcher of the Nick at Nite cable-TV channel, I was introduced to the classic show, Get Smart. Of course, Max’s Sunbeam Tiger is better known, but the last couple of seasons he traded it in for a gold Opel GT, Germany’s Mini-Me 1968 Corvette Stingray. Oh, and my friend Bryan Saunders owned a Manta and used it as his daily driver for a few years in the ’90s, believe it or not. He loved that car and would be thrilled to find another one! Funny thing, I remember seeing it in traffic a few times, but had no idea then that it was his car.

For those not in the know, Opel was GM’s German division for many decades until it was ultimately sold to Fiat in 2021. Opel typically had a lot in common with Vauxhall in England—another GM division, as I’m sure most would guess. While Opel was a part of GM, the marque had no equivalents to Caprice Classic convertibles, Fleetwood Talismans, or the like.

But Opel did have some pretty Broughamy offerings, such as the Diplomat and Kapitan. Those larger models, however, never were sold in the U.S.

The Manta was the sporty, affordable coupe in the lineup, and like American offerings of the time (like the Cougar and Firebird), it was available with myriad options, from plain to fancy. Its closest competitor in the home market was likely the Ford Capri, a similarly sporty coupe.

If I may digress a moment, my dad had a Capri, a bright yellow ’74 with a terra cotta-colored interior, a V-6 engine, and a stick shift. When he got a new company car, my mom drove it for a while, but she wasn’t thrilled with the manual transmission (she preferred an automatic), so it was traded in on a near-new ’73 Volvo 1800ES sports wagon.

Now, where was I? Oh, yes, Opels. The Manta first came out in late 1970. Like the Ford Capri, it was based on a family sedan beneath the swoopy sheet metal—in this case, the Opel Ascona. I’m not sure of all the variants in Germany, but based on my 1972 Opel brochure, available U.S. models were the Rallye and Sport Coupe. As you’d expect, the Rallye had a blacked-out hood, side stripes, sport wheels with bright trim rings and side stripes, and other extras.

Interestingly, at least in 1972, these cars were not badged Manta but as “1900 Sport Coupe” or “1900 Rallye.” In the same vein, the Ascona was simply called the 1900 in the States.

For ’73, the U.S. Opel line was reshuffled a bit. The “baby Corvette” Opel GT made its last appearance. And the 1900 Sport Coupes became Mantas, just like their siblings sold in Germany. The Manta and Manta Rally reprised their places, but there was a new model: the Manta Luxus.

And as you’d guess, the Luxus was the fancy-schmancy version. As the brochure relayed, “Manta Luxus … an inexpensive, plush European luxury car at a very practical price. And a brand new idea of what a luxury car should be.

“With the same advanced mechanical features that have won it acclaim from the world’s automotive experts. But inside its roomy interior you’ll find a velvety soft upholstery that doesn’t look at all like a little economy car.

“If you’ve always wanted the comfort and luxury you only seem to be able to find in big cars, but like the economy and handling of a small sporty car … we’re happy we found you.”

To me, it seemed like the Luxus was kind of a baby Cutlass Supreme, with velour seats, wood (or at least, wood-toned) trim, and additional bright trim on the exterior. Per the brochure, other features included an electric clock, custom headliner, carpeted trunk, sport steering wheel, and a chrome exhaust tip.

A vinyl top was available but optional, as were a sun roof, automatic transmission, air conditioning, and whitewall tires. A 1.9-liter four-cylinder was the sole engine option, with a standard four-speed manual. Overall length was 171 inches with a 95.7-inch wheelbase—at least on the ’73 models.

The 1974 Mantas were largely the same, but gained—as many other new cars did—much bigger bumpers, front and rear. Overall length was bumped (pun intended) to 176.1 inches. Horsepower was 75 at 4800 rpm, breathing through a two-barrel carburetor. Yes, it was the ’70s, with all that “fun” early emissions equipment! The ’72s had still had 90 horses.

The Luxus continued as the top Manta, along with the base sport coupe and Rallye, and it got top billing on page two and three of the ’74 brochure. The previous year’s velvet/velour cloth was replaced with corduroy, and as seen on our featured car, vinyl upholstery was also available. The styled road wheels also carried on. And Luxuses were available in four exclusive colors: dark blue, bright metallic blue, silver, and burgundy.

I discovered our featured car several years ago in the small town of Nauvoo, Illinois. I had driven down for the excellent Grape Festival Car Show, held every Labor Day weekend, and did a major double take when I saw this car parked at a disused gas station. My uncle said he’d seen the car on and off for years. But now it was just sitting. It looked to be in very nice, albeit dusty, shape. I loved the burgundy/burgundy color combination too. You just don’t see Opels of this vintage. I have seen maybe three ’70s examples in Iowa and Illinois since I was a kid. So, of course, I took plenty of photos.

German Opels appeared in U.S. Buick-Opel dealerships for the last time in 1975. The biggest news was fuel injection. But it was the last time you could get a Manta here. Due to the exchange rates, starting in ’76 the “Opel Isuzu” was the sole offering. Too bad; the Manta was a pretty car.

[As for German Mantas, a totally new, rather futuristic-looking car replaced this body style.]

***

Check out the Hagerty Media homepage so you don’t miss a single story, or better yet, bookmark it. To get our best stories delivered right to your inbox, subscribe to our newsletters.

The post 1974 Opel Manta Luxus: German Cutlass Supreme or Munich Mustang? appeared first on Hagerty Media.

This article first appeared in Hagerty Drivers Club magazine. Click here to subscribe and join the club.

David Zenlea’s story about whether we are in the waning days of affordable sports cars that go very fast reminded me of a recent driving adventure in which I drove a car that goes very slow.

The car: a 1903 Knox made in Springfield, Massachusetts. Top speed: about 26 mph if I gunned it and was going downhill. With a tailwind. The occasion: the 2023 London to Brighton Veteran Car Run, the oldest car rally in the world, dating back to 1896.

I participated in this glorious slow-motion tradition for the first time in 2007, but my steed—a borrowed 1904 Rambler—wasn’t up to the task of chugging 54 miles from Hyde Park in central London to the coastal town of Brighton. Instead, to my great disappointment, it broke down outside Westminster Abbey. Twelve years later, I completed the journey aboard the Knox. We finished again last November, along with hundreds of other Veteran cars, some of which have completed the Run 60 or 70 times. Think about that. Vehicles over 120 years old still driving on public roads—albeit early on a Sunday morning. These were among the first cars ever built, and yet all these decades later, they haven’t lost their ability to transport both our bodies and our souls, mine included. It’s an amazing experience, and it gives me hope for the next century of motoring fun.

Which brings me back to David’s splendid think-and-drive piece, which tests out five fantastic new sports cars—with, key point, manual gearboxes—that you can buy right now for $50,000 or under: the Acura Integra Type S, the Mazda Miata, the Subaru BRZ, the Toyota GR Corolla, and the recently refreshed Mustang. I’m sure you’ll agree that these are all inspiring machines in an era when many cars barely get our attention. I would love to drive all of them on a twisty road like the ones our editors found in southeast Ohio, and I bet you would, too.

That alone tells me that we aren’t in the end times of affordable sports cars at all. To the contrary, I think it’s proof that we are living in—and have been for some time now—a golden age of motoring performance. I’m quite serious. I’ve been a sports car fanatic since I can remember, and I can’t think of a time when there were more sports cars—foreign and domestic—with today’s combination of drivability, dependability, affordability, and raw power. Can you?

There are those who will say, “Yes, but it’s all going to end soon!” Car people are the best people in the world, but we do like to worry. The concern, of course, is that EVs will ruin everything. But what if they change nothing? Or very little? Porsche has already said it will keep producing gas-powered 911s for as long as it can. They get it. Others do, too, I suspect. I personally know many of the executives running our car companies, and I can tell you they bleed high-octane fuel and are committed to serving enthusiasts.

Maybe there will come a day when no one makes gas-powered sports cars anymore, but even so, that doesn’t mean the fun is over. I’ve driven some of the best EVs out there, and they are truly a blast. The torque alone wins you over. They add to the sports car world, not detract from it, in my view. The more, the merrier. EVs will be an ever-increasing part of the mix, but it’s not a zero-sum game. The sports car market is likely going to be a hybrid environment—a mix of electric and gasoline engines—for the foreseeable future. Let’s also not forget that the millions of cool, fast internal-combustion cars that are already out there aren’t going to disappear overnight. Like my Knox, a lot of them will be on the road and in our garages for a long time to come.

Love endures. So do great cars.

I would love to hear what you think. Please be sure to leave a comment below.

***

Check out the Hagerty Media homepage so you don’t miss a single story, or better yet, bookmark it. To get our best stories delivered right to your inbox, subscribe to our newsletters.

The post These Are the Days, My Friends appeared first on Hagerty Media.

Simply sitting behind the wheel of my newly repurchased ’64 GT Hawk, it turns out, wasn’t going to make it roadworthy. In order to properly rekindle my fondest high school memories, I’d have to break out the elbow grease. So what had been done to it in the last 20-odd years since I last owned it? Very little, it seems. The pesky exhaust leaks at the manifold had been rectified, and an electric fuel pump and generic voltmeter were installed. Other than that it was preserved in full, a rolling monument to my dumb teenage self. Follow along as I remedy my own juvenile hackery. (Hawkery, maybe? I dunno.)

The first task at hand: mount up a set of late-’60s Crestline Mark II wheels, already shod in new tires. These were last installed on an old Concord, then an AMX. I figured they’d add a nice, period-correct hot rod vibe to the Stude. Indeed, they looked good mounted. Then I arrived at the car’s front right corner, noticing where a massive chunk had been bitten out of the front drum—large enough for one to catch a glimpse of the brake shoe on each rotation. I recalled the precise moment that the Hawk collapsed upon losing a wheel, sending an array of sparks from the scraping metal that is, I imagine, still sprinkled across the right northbound lane of US-1 near Sanford, North Carolina. Due to my previous missteps, I’ll be finding a new brake drum or better yet, discs. At least for now, I broke two hub pullers, threw on some rear shoes, bled everything (with help), and adjusted the spur wheels to their satisfactory, unassisted standard of performance.

Once tired of addressing problems that made my car neither faster nor louder, I moved on to the fuel system. Yikes. In my defense, I had no part in this horrific fuel pump installation. Breaking out my terminal kit, ratcheting crimpers, and heat gun, I reworked the wiring into something more presentable. The Edelbrock carb still wasn’t having it: the accelerator pump circuit seemed entirely non-functional, and the mixture and idle screws were in complete disagreement.

I suspect the younger Matt Anderson, unfamiliar with the arcane mysteries of the vacuum gauge, is to blame here. Knowing better now, I pulled apart the carb into its smallest pieces, cleaned its nooks and crannies, and reassembled it with components from a fresh kit. Using the assortment of tools now at my adult disposal, I dialed in the carburetor to my satisfaction.

In the spirit of rectifying past sins, I turned my attention to the hose clamps on the rotten fuel lines, as well as the doubled-up fuel filters that looked like they came off a radiator hose. Without admitting to being directly responsible, I can say it possesses my former hallmarks: foraged parts and obvious impatience. Needless to say, I went ahead with all-new hoses, clamps, and a singular filter. I made sure to pump the fouled gasoline into lawnmower cans for my Wheel Horse to consume.

Alas, I knew in my heart that I wouldn’t be able to avoid the wiring department for long. None of the turn signals worked, nor did the brake lights, horn, or reverse lights. (Memories of sailing through state inspections on cool-factor alone came back to me.)

I got started on the most safety-critical functions. For starts, the brake light switch had only one wire on it, and my strategy of propping up my iPhone to shoot video from a fence post indicated that only the left lamp was functioning. While I was replacing the bulb (to no avail), I noticed that the reverse light bulbs had been removed. In their place were permanently illuminated reverse lamps. Then it dawned on me: When I swapped the Powershift auto to Borg-Warner overdrive in the heat of summer in 2002, I had committed crimes of the reverse-light-switch variety and bailed myself out by removing the bulbs. Stupid kids. Someone after me must have come up with the “fix.”

After lots of probing with a multimeter and alligator leads, I determined that the real problem with the brake light was the turn signal switch! Off came the steering wheel, exposing an indicator and canceling mechanism that appeared to be installed either by a thumbless animal or, more likely, by me after school. With a heat gun and pliers, I managed to straighten out the whole mess, bringing the signal switch contacts into their correct positions and the blinkers and brake lights into working order. At the same time, I noted that the wheel had been torqued down on top of the horn wire, which seemed to explain the non-functional horn.

Oh, how naïve to think that a self-generated wiring problem was going to be that simple!

Upon testing the horn, I found it to be non-functional. Replacing the horn and fixing the steering wheel wiring did nothing. I traced the hots and grounds back to their origins, which wasn’t easy given my past wiring misadventures that involved changing the wire color no fewer than three times. More 11th-grade than automotive-grade work. The ground to the relay, which should be switched by the switch at the wheel, was permanently grounded to the bolt holding the voltage regulator down. My mistake. So, with the circuit doubly earthed, why didn’t the horn blow all the time? Beats me.

In laying recumbent beneath the dash, I also sussed out why the speedometer wasn’t working and why the mileage looked eerily … familiar. I do vaguely remember getting annoyed at the rodent-esque racket it was making, which led to disconnecting it at a rest stop on the way to Wrightsville Beach. I decided to just leave it for now.

With my past transgressions acknowledged and somewhat addressed, why not drive it to work tomorrow? The next morning, I made sure my wife was available to rescue me just in case. She agreed but saw fit to remind me that I am, mentally, still a high schooler. 

Loaded up with my lunch, laptop, access badge, and tools, I hit the road. My first hint that things might not be right? Total lack of power immediately upon exiting the driveway. As we’ve established, I’m still the same idiot from 2004, so I continued along anyway. Maybe it was just cold, I rationalized. It didn’t take long—about 0.75 miles—before the universe caught up to my false confidence. The Hawk sputtered to a halt in the parking lot of a fried fish joint. I popped the hood to begin diagnostics, at which point the radiator core urinated on my khakis and dumped a quart of coolant on the ground. I picked up the phone and dialed.

“Hi love … whatcha doin’?” 

I made sure to ask my wife to please grab a gas can, just in case. As you may remember, all of my jerry vessels were recently filled with stale sludge. Five gallons of it didn’t help. I gave up after it blew backward through the fuel filter and limped the car home to my foundry storage, with my wife following in her 4Runner. I grabbed another car and went to work, sad.

Following my day at the office, Dana and I took a stab at bringing the Hawk the half-mile home. The failure had all the telltales of a fuel sludge problem—likely due to the elimination of fuel filter #2 and its rejected particles sitting on top of fuel filter #1—so I pulled the needle valve filter assembly on the side of the road. “Ok, turn the ignition on,” I asked my wife. Exceeding the call of duty, she fired the 289 right up. With fuel gushing everywhere at a steady idle, I did the most productive thing I could think of; with needle valve and filter assembly in my left hand and my thumb over the 5/16-inch garden hose on the right, I pressure-washed the cruddy parts clean and jammed the fuel hose down the carb while I reinstalled the filter assembly. Dangerous, yes, but I did have a fire extinguisher and precious few cranking amps left. 

It was enough to get the car home. Now, with the Stude in my driveway and the radiator off for a re-core, I felt an odd sort of nostalgia amid the thrill of a real breakdown on the way to somewhere important. It really does bring back memories!

The post Hawking for My High School Studebaker: Part 3 appeared first on Hagerty Media.

An interesting way to look at automotive history through a junkyard lens is to follow the evolution of a model over time. This is fairly easy with a model that sold well decade after decade, like the Chevrolet Malibu or Honda Civic, but how about a model that was built sporadically from 1940 through 1981 and went through roller-coaster sales highs and lows during that time? The Chrysler Newport is such a car, and today we’ll follow up the 1963 Newport sedan we admired a few months ago with one of its hardtop successors from the following decade.

Chrysler redesigned its full-sized C-Body cars for the 1969 model year, giving them what was known as the “Fuselage” look.

The Newport was the most affordable of the big Chryslers for 1971, slotted beneath the 300 and New Yorker in the prestige pyramid. The Imperial also lived on the C platform at that time, but it was its own more exclusive marque and not given Chrysler badging until the 1984 model year.

This car is also a platform sibling to more affordable Dodge- and Plymouth-badged machines, the Monaco, Polara and Fury.

The Custom trim level was one step above the base 1971 Newport, with an MSRP of $4990 for the four-door hardtop (about $38,908 in 2024 dollars). The base Newport’s price tag was $4709 for the four-door post sedan ($36,717 in today’s money).

There was quite a bit of overlap involving the prices of the various C-Body cars for 1971, and a heavy hand with options could result in a lowly Fury that cost more than a Newport or even a 300. For example, the mechanically nearly identical 1971 Dodge Monaco four-door hardtop started at $4362 ($34,011 after inflation). This same sort of prestige line-blurring was taking place at Ford and GM, too.

That said, the 1971 Newport was a lot of luxury machine for the money. The problem for Chrysler Corporation, then as well as now, was that the Chrysler brand itself didn’t come with a huge amount of snob appeal.

The ’71 Newport Custom came with a high-torque 383-cubic inch big-block V-8 (that’s 6.3 liters to those of you laboring under the cruel lash of the metric system) rated at 275 horsepower as standard equipment. Pay an extra 208 bucks (1622 bucks today) and you’d get a Newport with a 440-cubic-inch (7.2-liter) V-8 rated at 335 horses.

Now let’s talk about what you didn’t get as standard equipment in your new 1971 Newport. First of all, even a single-speaker AM-only radio cost $92 ($717 now). Air conditioning started at $426 ($3322 today), and an automatic transmission set you back $241 ($1879 in 2024 dollars), although late-model-year 1971 Newports got the slushbox instead of the base three-on-the-tree manual at no extra cost. Even power steering was $125 ($975 after inflation). We’re all spoiled by the standard features we get nowadays!

The build tag says this car was built at the Jefferson Avenue plant in Detroit, where Chalmers and Maxwell cars were built starting in 1908.

It appears to have been sold new in Dallas, Texas.

Early in its driving career, this Chrysler moved to Denver. It now resides in a self-service yard across town from the long-defunct shop on the southeastern side of the city where its service was performed.

Just about every receipt affiliated with this car going back to the middle 1970s was still inside. It appears to have had one owner since at least 1978 and maybe earlier.

There were handwritten notes about maintenance and parts purchases spanning more than 35 years.

High Plains Colorado has a climate that kills padded vinyl roofs in a hurry, but the rest of the car is very solid. It could have been put back on the road without too much trouble, but that didn’t happen.

***

Check out the Hagerty Media homepage so you don’t miss a single story, or better yet, bookmark it. To get our best stories delivered right to your inbox, subscribe to our newsletters.

The post Final Parking Space: 1971 Chrysler Newport Custom 4-Door Hardtop appeared first on Hagerty Media.

It was early February that I bought the 2008 Nissan Armada with 183,000 miles on it, along with a bunch of known problems—and several unknown ones. If my intent was to buy something that would generate a solid six weeks of content for these columns, it was successful beyond measure. But although I may be strategic, I’m not actively masochistic. Now that I’m through with the big slug of wrenching and I’ve largely gotten the Armada on its feet, I thought I’d step out of the garage and write something a bit more philosophical.

In a world full of inexpensive needy cars, I do have standards. I either buy things that my right brain craves or that my left brain convinces me that I need. This one was squarely in the latter camp. My rationale for buying the Armada was that last September I sold my giant, low-mileage 2008 Chevy Silverado 3500 Duramax duallie because: a) it was way more truck than I ever needed, b) in the 2 ½ years I owned it, I hadn’t used it to drag a single car home anyway, and c) I’d rather have the money than the truck. That all made sense, and I didn’t regret selling it one iota, but as soon as it was gone, I felt that my style had been cramped. So I decided to look at other vehicles capable of towing a car and dragging home other stuff (I did need a workbench). Given the choice between a pickup and a large SUV, I settled on the latter.

I’ve owned six Suburbans, and for a number of reasons, didn’t want a seventh. I was attracted by Toyota Sequoias’ excellent repair record, but the first-generation ones had frame-rot issues, and the second-gen ones were way more than I wanted to spend. I certainly never craved an Armada, but I came to them as the other full-sized Japanese tow-capable SUV, sort of the Pepsi-Burger-King to Toyota’s Coke-McDonalds, and I was thrilled to find that there were a fair number of them in my $4000-ish budget.

I don’t know about you, but when I buy a car, there’s an internal calculus that occurs regarding the asking price, what I paid, and what it took me, time-and-money-wise, to sort the thing out and get it road-worthy. The proportions of these variables depends on whether it’s an enthusiast car or more of a commodity-like daily driver. With enthusiast cars, the older I get, the less I feel like haggling. It’s not that I don’t have the energy. It’s more that, for example, everyone knows that a dead but rust-free, round-taillight BMW 2002 has a lot of value, so do I want to be the person who knows and respects that fact, or do I want to be another time-wasting lowballing jerk? But with daily drivers, most 15-year-old high-mileage needy cars—particularly those with rust (which is ALL OF THEM here in the Northeast)—don’t have a lot of value, and thus it’s reasonable to expect flexibility from the seller to come up with a reasonable price if they really want to move the thing out of their driveway.

Let me zoom in a bit more on that point. In a high winter-salt environment like New England, at some point, most cars that are daily-driven through the winter simply turn into pieces of junk. Some makes and models are better about it, some are worse, but the tin worm catches up with most. Even if there’s no visible rust on the outer body, and the frame and floor pans are solid, every other bit of undercarriage metal—springs, shocks, trailing arms, brake line fittings, and everything down to the hose clamps—rusts, presenting a continuum from minor surface rust, to deeper scale, to full-on rot. Having to replace a single component, like a trailing arm, due to rust-through isn’t that big of a deal, but when there’s an upper and a lower trailing arm on each side, front and back, deciding to go all-in on a project like that on a car that isn’t worth much becomes prohibitive.

So in looking for a vehicle like I was at a $4000 price point, there’s a threshold for rust beyond which, even if the rust itself isn’t catastrophic, the effect it has on the value of the car is. That is, if a vehicle not only has a rust hole in the outer body but also has, say, rotted trailing arms, unless there’s some other big compelling feature about it like a rare color or option package, it probably isn’t worth buying even if the seller drops the price to $800. When you’re looking for a vehicle and are confronted with these things, the choices are to keep looking and hope you get lucky, or raise your budget to find something with fewer rusty miles—or settle.

The Armada was initially listed on Facebook Marketplace for $4500. I liked the look of its black-on-black-leather and the fact that it was an LE with the tow package and wood accent trim. When the seller dropped the listed price to $4000, I went and had a look. The truck was off the road (his family had bought a new Tahoe), so I could only drive it slowly on back roads. This less-than-thorough test drive added a measure of risk, but it ran and drove well, other than banging in the front end likely due to bad struts and less-than-reassuring brakes likely due to rusty rotors, though they did begin to bite more as I stomped on them. I also found an exhaust leak, though I couldn’t tell from where, and plugging in the code reader revealed catalytic converter-based codes from both banks, but when cleared they didn’t immediately re-light. It did have one rust hole in the outer body (you can’t see it unless you open the right rear door), but the truck was only about 40 minutes from my house, and it was big and comfortable and had a small turning radius. I had the feeling that I could end my search by simply buying it and then, rather than continuing to look, I’d have the tow-and-stuff-hauling vehicle I said I wanted, as well as something my wife would drive if the weather turned sour. In other words, it was never about wanting the truck—it was wanting what the truck was for. So I asked the seller my favorite “What do you need to get for it” question. He said $3500, I went home and thought about it, offered him three, and we quickly settled on $3250.

With that in mind, you can see why, after I bought the truck, I felt like I had $750 to play with to get it to the point where I felt comfortable driving it a few hours to tow a car home, or loaning it to my wife if a lot of snow was predicted.

So, how’d I do?

I got out of the leaky exhaust for $46 worth of parts needed to splice a woefully-botched weld joining the muffler to the tailpipe (and I really don’t understand why some of y’all gave me grief for using steel adapters, big U-clamps, and muffler cement to seal it up and pass the second-most-stringent vehicle inspection in the country).

A whining/rumbling serpentine belt tensioner pulley resulted in my replacing the whole tensioner system (belt, tensioner with pulley, and idler pulley) for $115. Rumbling from the power steering pump made me think that it was bad too. I bought a low-mileage used OEM one for $81, but the noise went away after I replaced the tensioner and stanched a power steering fluid leak.

The original radiator’s upper and lower plastic tanks were both leaking. A new aluminum radiator was sourced for $172, which, by the time I added new upper and lower radiator hoses, coolant, and clamps, rose to $248.

I didn’t try to cheap out on the front struts at all, using Bilsteins and replacing every rubber bushing and spacer, setting me back $305. Finding out that both front springs were broken added another $115, for a total of $420.

Added up, the parts bill came to $910—slightly higher than my meaningless mental budget of $750. I could’ve easily kept it in line had I dialed back my choices with the front struts, or replaced only the noisy tensioner pulley instead of the whole tensioner system, but I’m comfortable with those choices, as I am with the repairing the exhaust as opposed to replacing it.

I’ve long said that I don’t know how anyone affords to own a vintage car if they have to pay someone else to do the work, but the same holds true for high-mileage daily drivers. Although doing all of the above tasks took time, none were really that big of a deal (it wasn’t, for example, drivetrain replacement), plaus my labor is free and I enjoy doing it. But it certainly made sense for the previous owner to sell it when he did—if you had to pay someone to do everything I did, it would’ve substantially exceeded the value of the truck.

There still are, of course, some unresolved issues. I haven’t yet looked at the car’s self-leveling rear suspension to see if I can get the back level with the front. There’s an asymptomatic P0011 engine code (“camshaft position timing over-advanced, or system performance bank 1”) that comes back every 40 or so miles. You can generally look up codes on a user forum and get a crowdsourced diagnosis (e.g., “that one’s usually the MAF sensor”), but this appears to be an odd one. I’m not certain whether the car’s A/C is working or not—I haven’t yet hooked up a manifold gauge set or fed 12V directly to the compressor—and there’s a clicking sound that I assume is the blend door inside the climate control box trying to move. And—dare I say it with my history with the mouse-infested truck—I’ve noticed that the car has a faint rodent smell.

Regarding having a 4WD beast that I could give to my wife if she was going on one of her quilting retreats up in New Hampshire, it’s been such a mild winter that that was a complete non-issue.

But, you’re thinking, with it road and tow-worthy, I must’ve hauled home some right-brain-satisfying passion car that’s really worth my wrenching time, right?

Yeah, about that.

I’m sure the Armada’s towing hour will come, but it hasn’t come yet. So far, the only thing I’ve hauled with it has been a free office desk I’m now using as that long-desired workbench in my basement. I suppose you could say that the free workbench cost me $4160. And, in truth, I grabbed it right after I bought the Armada, before I’d done a single repair on it.

But I do feel better having the Armada in the driveway, knowing that if I need to drop everything and take a look some right-priced TVR or Avanti or Fiat 124 Sport Coupe, and need to show up with a truck, trailer, and money and make it go away, I can make a beeline to U-Haul, grab an auto transporter, and hit the road.

Or begin thinking of a place to put another work bench.

***

Rob’s latest book, The Best Of The Hack Mechanic: 35 years of hacks, kluges, and assorted automotive mayhem is available on Amazon here. His other seven books are available here on Amazon, or you can order personally-inscribed copies from Rob’s website, www.robsiegel.com.

Check out the Hagerty Media homepage so you don’t miss a single story, or better yet, bookmark it. To get our best stories delivered right to your inbox, subscribe to our newsletters.

The post Wrapping Up the Armada appeared first on Hagerty Media.

One of the cars I most miss in today’s lineup of mostly trucklike new vehicles is the Lincoln Town Car. For most of my life, they were there—as personal cars, as limos, as the bad guys’ cars on TV and in movies. I’ve always loved Lincolns. My Grandpa Bob drove them for decades before I was born, and as a kid I well remember riding in the back seat of his navy blue ’77 Mark V and peering through the oval opera window in the C-pillar. One might say I was preordained to love them.

And it always seemed a given that the big, luxurious Town Car sedans would always be available. I remember about 15 years ago having a discussion with my Uncle Dave about how there really were only three truly distinctive new cars at that time: Volkswagen’s New Beetle, the Jeep Wrangler, and the Lincoln Town Car. Most everything else faded into the background.

Today, all that’s left is the Wrangler! No more Beetles and no more Town Cars. And the world is just a little more drab as a result. Indeed, Lincoln has since deleted ALL sedans from its line, despite having two excellent choices in modern luxury in the now-departed MKZ and Continental. But I’m digressing. Time to get back on track.

The 1989 Town Car was the end of a lot of traditional cues, though the redesigned 1990 model was a fine car in its own right. Indeed, if I didn’t already have my 2004 Town Car Ultimate, I’d love to find a nice 1995–97 Cartier to keep forever, having driven many as lightly used, late-model cars. But 1989 was the last year for the landau top—or “coach roof,” as Lincoln called it—complete with opera lamps on the B-pillar, the last year for genuine wire wheels, and all those cool little chrome accents and details, inside and out. And the bladed front fenders!

Just doing a casual walkaround of these cars, you will note all manner of Lincoln ornamentation: stand-up hood ornament, crests in the opera windows, embroidered on the seats, accenting the headlamp bezels. There was also a factory full carriage roof option, turbine alloy wheels, lacy-spoke alloy wheels, and wire wheel cover options. Plus a power moonroof.

And these were big cars for their time, though they are eclipsed by the previous 1975–79 Town Cars and Continentals. But today, next to Malibus, Camrys, and such, they look big. Overall length was 219.2 inches, with a 117.3-inch wheelbase. It was available as a sedan only, the coupe having disappeared after the 1981 model year.

The 1989s were much the same as the ’85s, when the original new-for-1980 bodyshell got a mild “aero” facelift, with more flush front and rear bumpers, a new grille, and revised, sloped rear tail treatment.

The ’89s can be identified by the new “Lincoln” logos on the lower right side of the grille and the trunk lid, replacing the block-style font that had been seen on ’88s, and indeed, on Lincolns going back at least to the mid-’70s.

A total of 128,533 were built for the year. Three trim levels were offered: the Town Car for $25,205 (about $63,079 today); the Signature Series, which added the floating-pillow style seating as seen here, among other finery, for $28,206 ($70,589); and the top-of-the-line Cartier Designer Series, available only in Silver Frost Clearcoat Metallic over Pewter Clearcoat Metallic, for $29,352 ($73,457).

All Town Cars, regardless of trim or equipment level, had the tried and true 302-cubic-inch V-8 under the hood, with a 4.00 x 3.00 bore and stroke and 150 horsepower. Other Lincoln models available in ’89 were the Mark VII luxury coupe, available in Bill Blass and LSC versions, and the V-6, front-wheel-drive Continental.

But the Town Car reigned supreme in sheer size.—and popularity, as total production of Mark VIIs and Continentals that year were 29,658 and 57,775, respectively.

There were lots of color choices too, as in 1989 people actually bought cars in colors other than black, gray, and silver. Selected choices included Bright Currant Red, Sandstone, Rose Quartz, Pastel Adobe, Twilight Blue, Cinnabar, and Arctic White, as seen on today’s featured car.

Speaking of, this car was seen at the LCOC Mid America meet in Springfield, Illinois, last fall. It was a great show, and I took far more pictures than strictly needed. I’ve already written about the ’83 Mark VI Pucci Designer Edition that was also at this show, and I’ll almost certainly be writing up others from this event in the future.

This car wasn’t strictly in the show, as it was in the general parking and not on the show field, but it immediately caught my eye with its triple-white color scheme (with the fantastic red dash and carpeting matching the white leather inside) and factory optional, genuine wire wheels. It even had the moonroof.

Another reason I’m attached to these cars, and the ’89s in particular, is I remember my grandmother taking me to South Park Lincoln-Mercury back and my getting brochures on the Town Car and Continental. I still have both brochures today. In fact, I used the very same brochure I got in ’89 while writing this article.

My grandparents never did get a Town Car of this generation, but they did have a Rose Quartz Metallic 1987 Continental—the one with the bustle-back styling. And a family friend, Dick McCarthy, had one of these, an ’86 Signature in silver-blue metallic with a navy coach roof and interior. He drove it for years, until he finally replaced it with a gunmetal gray ’95 Town Car Executive in about 1997. I even drove that car once, at a company event in Springfield.

It was about 20 years ago, and I was helping Jerry Morescki with the ICC booth at the trade show. Dick came down too (he was involved with the company as well; indeed, he and my grandfather got it started), and one night we all went out to Gallagher’s, a supper club not far from downtown. And the hotel? The Crowne Plaza, where the LCOC meet was held! It was de ja vu! In a great way!

***

Check out the Hagerty Media homepage so you don’t miss a single story, or better yet, bookmark it. To get our best stories delivered right to your inbox, subscribe to our newsletters.

The post 1989 Lincoln Town Car Signature Series: Last Call for Opulence appeared first on Hagerty Media.

Two weeks ago, sitting on the couch enjoying the tremendous warmth of a late-season fire in the wood stove, I found myself annoyed. On my knees was a laptop, the browser open to eBay, cursor poised over the “complete purchase” button. Its delightful blue color just invited the light tap of an index finger. That finger was making a quick scroll of my bank’s app, which displayed payment due dates in bold and account balances with a discouraging lack of commas. “Complete purchase” would have to wait. I closed the laptop, locked the phone, and left both on the couch while I walked into the garage to stare at something that might bring some joy rather than frustration. It didn’t really work.

So often a project only moves forward with investment: In the world of old cars, either time or money. Many projects require both, though the slider can be moved to and fro between them to balance the requirements of calendar, budget, or skill. 

While working overtime in the Hagerty call center a few years ago, I asked a friend why he was picking up extra shifts; it wasn’t regular behavior for him. He outlined that he wanted new flooring in his bathroom, and when he had priced it out, he realized he could make about the same amount of money in eight hours of OT, taking insurance renewal payments, as it would cost him to pay a pro to install the floor. Why should he learn to do a job he’s never done, and get a result to match, when he could do something he is good at and buy a professional-grade result? The interaction shook a little something in me about the perception of value. 

Sitting on my workbench are two bare Honda XR250R cylinder heads. Both represent the last steps in a pair of engine builds that have been stretching on for about a year now. A few months ago, the people at my local machine shop let me know they were starting to wind down their work on smaller engines. The setup time wasn’t paying enough anymore, and, rather than charge customers crazy amounts to make the work worthwhile, the shop had decided to focus on more profitable projects, many of which were already keeping its staff busy. I don’t blame them. 

Into the receipt pile I went on an archeological dig to find the paperwork for the last cylinder head I had done. It was for the Six Ways to Sunday project, and that engine has been rock-solid. I could mail off this pair of heads to the same shop that rebuilt the one for Six Ways, but that one had also needed a fair amount of TIG welding and CNC work to re-shape a combustion chamber that had been battered by a broken valve: a four-digit bill when all was said and done. Worth it, but these two cylinder heads don’t need such major work. I could get away with pressing out and replacing the guides, reaming them to size, installing valves, cutting seats, and putting in new springs. A couple of those tasks are advanced DIY, but the entire process is outlined step by step in the factory service manual. After finding an affordable option for seat cutting (more on that later), all I had to do was ream the valve guides to size. It couldn’t be that hard to make round holes that were the proper diameter, could it? 

High-speed steel and even carbide reamers can be purchased easily. There are even versions specific to valve-guide reaming that have nice, long cutting flutes and a generous pilot area ground on the lead-in to ensure the reamer is started straight down the bore. A flurry of packages arrived at my house, adding a dozen lines to my to-do list. Each step required me to use a new tool, from driving out the valve guides to reaming the guides to fit the valve stems. I know those two steps are next to each other and not the entire process, but that’s as far as I got.

In the attempt to ream the valve guides, I learned my first lesson: Material matters. This high-speed steel cutter made it about halfway through the first guide and then bound up. The bath of cutting oil couldn’t keep the abrasive relationship from heating up and the C630 bronze reached out and took hold of the steel by the collar. I had prepared to machine bronze guides. I had failed to prepare to machine nickel-aluminum bronze guides. 

We don’t know what we don’t know—and it’s impossible to know everything—but when choosing to slide the knob towards DIY rather than pay-a-pro, we have to somehow get ourselves to roughly the same skill level as the pro, at least in a few specific aspects. That takes time investment. I thought I could be cheap on both fronts by not investing the time to do proper research, which would have led me to purchase a diamond hone or different guides, and also by not investing the money to pay the pros. I thought I could get by with a little luck.  

The slider between investing time vs. money doesn’t always move in a straight line. It instead slides on a rollercoaster manipulated by a multitude of factors from weather to workspace to tooling. Each job is its own rollercoaster; some are relatively gentle wood coasters, and others require tolerance for very rapid changes in direction. Reading the measurements of a roller coaster cannot tell you what the experience will be from the seat.

I haven’t even got to the exciting part of my cylinder head work, and I’m a little nervous. That’s probably a good thing, though. Learning often requires bumping up against our own ignorance in some way, shape, or form. I got cocky with my skills and the job checked me. Now my to-do list includes a a trip to the machine shop.

While I love the idea of purchasing a rigid hone and adding some seriously cool capability to my garage, the four-digit price tag would take a long time to pay me back. Instead I’ll be swallowing my pride and dropping by the machine shop with the hope of bribing them to ream the valve guides to size for me. I still plan to do the valve seats at home, so this rollercoaster ride isn’t over yet. The first drop might have spooked me, but the allure of the upcoming twists, turns, and potential loops are why we get in and lock down the proverbial lap bar. There is a certain fun in experiencing a familiar thrill, but there is also the intoxicating feeling of doing something new and figuring out that it really isn’t that big of a deal—or, maybe, that it is.

***

Check out the Hagerty Media homepage so you don’t miss a single story, or better yet, bookmark it. To get our best stories delivered right to your inbox, subscribe to our newsletters.

The post Does My Project Need More Time or More Money? If Only It Were Simple appeared first on Hagerty Media.

Jack Swansey holds a degree in anthropology with a focus on car culture, and he is the world’s leading ethnographic authority (by default, if you must know) on NASCAR fandom. His love of the automobile fuels him to discover what cars mean to the people who own, drive, and love them. —EW

After seeing Michael Mann’s Ferrari in theaters, what stuck with me the most was the gore.

Mind you, the motorsport history from which the film was adapted is familiar to me. I knew that Alfonso de Portago’s tragic crash in the 1957 Mille Miglia claimed the lives of 12 people—ten of them spectators, five of them children. Knowing it was coming, I still felt sick to my stomach as the red 355 blew a tire and launched into a telephone pole. The film did not cut away before the rubber projectile ricocheted into a nearby crowd. In the next scene, as the camera panned slowly along the visceral devastation, I wanted to look away but felt like I shouldn’t.

Francois Truffaut, theorist and filmmaker of the French New Wave, once wrote: “Every film about war ends up being pro-war. To show something is to ennoble it.” To Truffaut, even a critique of violence or immorality, by virtue of showcasing it on a screen, deems it worthy of the audience’s attention. Put simply: Movies make violence look cool.

That fateful, gut-wrenching scene in Ferrari begins with the family watching the Mille Miglia live on television. By the end, they’re all dead, killed by the very same race that made for exciting dining-room-table viewing just minutes before. Mann’s critique of auto racing doesn’t spare the spectators who represent its 1950s popularity, but that same violence provides an element of thrill to captivate us, the audience in the 2020s. Truffaut would argue that their real-life death is rendered somehow noble, in service of our entertainment.

In the modern era of halos, fire suppression, and HANS devices, danger means something very different in motorsports. You’re not likely to hear FOX Sports commentator Mike Joy remind viewers of the risks that NASCAR drivers take every time they strap in on any given Sunday. It is far more likely, as the feed plays a high-resolution, slow-motion replay of a crash, for Joy to draw viewers’ attention to the roof flaps and SAFER barriers working as they should to reduce the risk of harm.

Most of the auto racing audience follows the sport on TV or social media. Because fans overall visit the track at most a few times a year, broadcasters and hosts play a powerful role in initiating new fans into the sport and keeping veterans abreast of its evolving tenor. Their words have power, and their choice to emphasize safety advancements rather than valorizing the danger of days long gone is conscious. 

James Hunt, 1976 Formula 1 World Champion and icon of perhaps the most dangerous era of racing, said: “There’s a lie that all drivers tell themselves. Death is something that happens to other people and that’s how you find the courage to get in the car in the first place.”

We don’t talk about death in motor racing because it’s less common these days, but we also don’t want to think about it. We talk of racing tragedies—Dan Wheldon, Jules Bianchi, Justin Wilson—in terms of the safety innovations they brought about: the DW12 chassis, the Halo, the Aeroscreen. These are innovations meant to ensure that no driver ever suffers the ultimate fate again. Death is something we can beat with research, something that happened to people in the past. In some sense, this is true, but the risk remains. Many fans decry those who watch NASCAR races only for the crashes.

In anthropology, the word “taboo” is a linguistic relic born from an 18th-century mistranslation of a Polynesian word (tapu) and further misinterpreted by everyone from Captain Cook to Sigmund Freud. It most commonly describes anything that a community rejects so thoroughly that it becomes offensive to even discuss. (Freud is rich with examples on the subject.) 

Taboo reveals a culture’s morals. What do people consider so bad that they can’t even talk about it? Often, it’s tied to base biological functions like digestion, reproduction, disease, and death—basically, anything that reminds us we’re not so different from animals.

Niki Lauda was uncommonly forthright on the subject, quantifying the risk of death he was willing to accept at 20 percent. That candor contrasted starkly with other drivers of his era, who, both in real life and as depicted on screen in Ron Howard’s Rush, shied away from such blunt discussion. It’s an uncomfortably high figure. Hard to face. Better to lie, even to yourself, or say nothing at all. 

Which brings us back to Truffaut’s critique of violence in cinema. Merely by advocating for caution in the face of potential death, as Lauda did in Rush when he urged his competitors to cancel the 1976 German Grand Prix at the Nürburgring over safety concerns, all the more “ennobles” the other drivers, like Hunt, who vote to go ahead anyway in pursuit of victory.

Maybe it isn’t surprising that YouTube’s algorithm continually serves me crash compilation videos. NASCAR’s own TV ads rely heavily on crash footage. And while there’s a more-or-less unspoken rule to not use fatal crashes in this manner, people outside the racing fan community don’t know the difference. A high-speed car wreck threatens violence, injury, and death—that much is clear. 

Death is taboo, but danger sells. And here’s a fun wrinkle: The Polynesian word tapu doesn’t mean “forbidden.” It translates as “sacred.”

British anthropologist Victor Turner is best known for his work on rites of passage. He identifies the in-between stage of a ritual: the literal or metaphorical liminal space on the very edge of social structure. By passing through it, participants of a ritual break down old social structures before adopting new ones. And there’s no better way to pull back from social norms than by facing base, biological functions—like death—that would otherwise be taboo. Think about the horror stories you’ve heard from fraternity pledge weeks; this stage is generally defined by “ordeals and humiliations” of a “grossly physiological” nature. 

Liminal spaces are edgy. Their absence of societal order gives people a sense of permission to break taboos in a temporary, controlled manner. Edgar Alan Poe called it the “imp of the perverse.” Looney Tunes figures it as the devil on Bugs Bunny’s shoulder. Smokey Yunick called it innovation. Whoever you are, human beings have a strange fascination with doing things we know we’re not supposed to do. It’s neurological as much as sociological—the hit of dopamine you get while you’re waiting for the dealer to turn over the next card, temporarily straddling the line between winning big and losing everything. Checkers or wreckers. 

To see a driver like Kyle Larson hold a stock car an inch from the outside wall at 170 miles per hour—“on the edge of out of control,” in the words of Days of Thunder’s Harry Hogge—is riveting. It’s spectacular. And it’s that edge that makes the difference, turning Larson from just another guy on the street to a special kind of person whose signature we call an autograph, whose face we want to wear on a t-shirt.

That edge is racing’s liminal space. There lives the power to compel, to thrill, to transform, and it requires risk. As much respect as I have for the skill required of professional sim racers and the Indy Autonomous Challenge, only real cars with real drivers get my blood pumping. Deep down in our animal brains, we know that big fiery crashes are scary, and we’re impressed by the people willing and able to face that danger and come out on top. It could be a NASCAR driver, an F1 pilot, or that guy at the go-kart track who always finds an extra tenth. 

Ultimately, I don’t have an answer for how to reconcile the mix of fascination and horror I felt watching Michael Mann’s Ferrari. Yes, it’s a good thing that sanctioning bodies have prioritized safety as much as they have over the last half-century. And I’ll always be in favor of erring on the side of caution when it comes to deciding when to wave that yellow flag. We should keep designing safer race cars. Make that line between life and death, crossed in every crash, as close to symbolic as possible.

That’s my rationalization, anyway. Hunt and his ilk surely had theirs, despite knowing the risks. Human beings are complex, imperfect, and often inexplicable; the societies and governments we’ve made are no different. Yet we always make room on the edges for liminal spaces, where we break taboos. Where the forbidden takes on an air of the sacred.

Confronting the reality of these spaces can mean accepting something immoral about them. Or something amoral, at least. For better and worse, that’s where that deep-down appeal of racing lies. 

The edge.

***

Check out the Hagerty Media homepage so you don’t miss a single story, or better yet, bookmark it. To get our best stories delivered right to your inbox, subscribe to our newsletters. 

The post Auto Anthro: Racing Crashes, Taboo, and the Edge appeared first on Hagerty Media.

This article first appeared in Hagerty Drivers Club magazine. Click here to subscribe and join the club.

When I started driving, I admired all kinds of cars, although I was most attracted to the ones that offered serious performance, like the Corvette, the Camaro Z/28, or the Shelby GT350, not to mention the Ferraris that were sent to my father’s shop for repair. In fact, the ’65 GT350 really opened my eyes to high-performance cars. I still think it is one of the best cars ever.

As a teen, I was lucky to have an inexpensive VW Beetle or Mini that ran most of the time. New cars were not an option, and if used cars were good enough for my dad, they were good enough for me.

Even when I could afford a new car in the late ’80s and into the ’90s, I didn’t think the cars being built were particularly good, and they certainly didn’t perform very well. After the early 2000s, that all changed as cars got better and better in what can only be called a renaissance for high-performance cars. We went from less than 200 horsepower in a Corvette to a mind-blowing 670 horsepower in a new Corvette Z06.

All of a sudden, there were quite a few powerful cars, many of which came from the Big Three automakers. There were Hemi-powered Dodge Challengers, base Corvettes with more than 400 horsepower, and Mustangs with all kinds of power. In fact, I went nuts for a 2020 Ford Shelby Mustang GT500, with its aggressive styling and 760 horsepower from a supercharged 5.2-liter V-8.

I couldn’t stop there, grabbing up a GT350R in 2021. They were just a small part of my new-car buying spree. I was also attracted to the Hellcat and the Demon, cars with tremendous power on tap. They offered more performance than the hottest ZL1 Camaro or Hemi Cuda from back in the day. Unlike ’60s and ’70s muscle, they go around corners and stop quickly. The icing on the cake is that they come with a new-car warranty, and they usually start on the first turn of the key. Finally, there were new cars that I truly wanted to buy.

This may sound strange coming from a guy who has worked in the old-car world for 50 years, but I really like a lot of modern performance cars. Although the core of my collection consists of old cars, these days it always includes modern cars. I may like a marque enough to have a couple of examples: My tastes range from a Citroën 2CV to my one-off Moal Speedway hot rod, and on to a Bentley 3-Litre, and a Demon.

Whether I’m buying a 100-year-old Stutz barn find or a new Corvette straight out of the showroom, I’m buying cars I like. With the old cars, the motivation could be looks, performance, or historical significance, although high performance is typically the motivator when I buy something new.

Thanks to my television show Chasing Classic Cars and my magazine columns, the New England Motor Press Association sends me press cars to sample. That means that I get weeklong test drives of the latest cars. I also get to decide which ones I can’t live with and those that I can’t live without.

Having sold the GT500 and the Demon, these days, I am totally content with my 2020 GT350R, 2024 Audi RS6 Avant, and 2024 Corvette Z06. The Corvette is a modern-day supercar. I could have three or four of them for the price of a new Ferrari. Then there is the RS6 Avant. I’ve long found fast station wagons—like my Cadillac CTS-V wagon—to be very cool. My goal with the new Audi is to load it up with four adults and their luggage and be timed at 200 mph on a racetrack. That will be one for the record books.

As for the GT350R, I chose to keep that one because it has a flat-plane crank, revs to a mind-bending 8250 rpm, and pumps out 526 horsepower. Ever since I saw the Sunoco commercials with Mark Donohue shifting a Z/28 at revs that would destroy most V-8s, I’ve always had a thing for high-revving American engines.

If anyone asks me why I own these new cars, the simple answer is that they’re fast and I like going fast. Just don’t ask me to choose between my ’65 GT350 and my 2020 GT350R. You might be surprised by my answer, but then again, I once found myself having to choose between a Dino 246 and a European honeymoon. After 40 years of marriage, I think we made the right decision.

***

Check out the Hagerty Media homepage so you don’t miss a single story, or better yet, bookmark it. To get our best stories delivered right to your inbox, subscribe to our newsletters.

The post Carini: When Modern Cars Made Me Eat My Words appeared first on Hagerty Media.

We’ve looked at a couple of controversial General Motors classics in this series so far (the Chevrolet Corvair and the Pontiac Fiero) but just a single Ford product that stirs up heated debate among enthusiasts (the Mustang II). Today we’re going to restore GM/Ford balance by taking a look at a discarded example of the most polarizing Ford Motor Company product ever built: the Edsel!

The Edsel brand was created after exhaustive market research and consultation with focus groups, with plenty of futuristic statistical analysis and—more significantly—office politics stirring the pot. Sadly, the car itself didn’t get put in front of consumer focus groups before its unveiling.

The general idea was that Dearborn needed a mid-priced brand to squeeze in between aspirational Mercury and wealth-flaunting Lincoln, in order for Ford to better compete with GM and its “Ladder of Success” model (in which a customer would get a Chevrolet as his first car, then climb the rungs of increasingly prestigious Pontiac, Oldsmobile, Buick, and Cadillac as he became more successful).

After much heated debate, the new brand was named after Henry Ford’s eldest son. Edsel Ford was a creative visionary with good business sense who spent his life butting heads with his stubborn old man and died young while fighting to save the company from Henry the First’s obsession with building ever-cheaper Model Ts forever.

As we all know, the Edsel Division flopped hard. After much pre-launch hype before the “E-Day” launch in September of 1957, the seven Edsel models went on sale as 1958 models. The final Edsels were built as 1960 models.

Sales for the ’58s were solid at first, though the radical styling put off some potential buyers. A bigger problem was the fact that Edsel pricing had the new division competing directly against Mercury, whose Montclair and Monterey shared their platform with the Edsel Corsair and Citation. Meanwhile, the cheaper Edsel Ranger’s price tag was uncomfortably similar to that of the Ford Fairlane 500. To make matters worse, the very cheapest 1958 Lincoln was still priced well above the most expensive Edsel.

Then, wouldn’t you know, the Eisenhower Recession hit new-car sales hard in 1958 and 1959. American car shoppers began paying increasingly strong attention to list prices and fuel economy, and the flashy, thirsty Edsels sat on dealership lots while American Motors cashed in with Rambler sales and Volkswagen of America moved more Beetles than ever before. Even Renault prospered here with the Dauphine for a couple of years.

The Edsel Division got merged into Lincoln-Mercury (there was never any such thing as a “Ford Edsel”) while resources were poured into the compact car that became the 1960 Ford Falcon. Robert McNamara, future architect of the Vietnam War, became president of Ford in 1960, and Edsel zealots enthusiasts often cast him as the villain who killed the Edsel in favor of the Falcon.

Who or what really killed Edsel? It’s hard to get angry about the Falcon, which was a stunning sales success in its own right and whose chassis design underpinned everything from the 1964–73 Mustang to the 1980 Granada. The recession? Changing consumer tastes? Communist agents? In any case, I’m glad that I was able to find this first-year Citation to write about.

Look, it even has a Continental kit! I found this car at Colorado Auto & Parts, just south of Denver. It’s got more than 100 Detroit vehicles from the ’40s through the ’70s in its inventory right now, including another 1958 Edsel Citation.

The engine is a 410-cubic-inch MEL V-8, rated at 345 gross horsepower.

The base transmission was a column-shift three-speed manual, but this car has the optional automatic with pushbutton shifter on the steering wheel hub.

The Citation was at the top of the Edsel pyramid for 1958, so most buyers wouldn’t have tolerated a lowly manual transmission in one.

***

Check out the Hagerty Media homepage so you don’t miss a single story, or better yet, bookmark it. To get our best stories delivered right to your inbox, subscribe to our newsletters.

The post Final Parking Space: 1958 Edsel Citation 4-Door Hardtop appeared first on Hagerty Media.

After sealing up my recently purchased 182,000-mile 2008 Nissan Armada’s exhaust, dealing with a noisy serpentine belt tensioner pulley, squelching power steering leaks, and replacing a leaking radiator, it was time to deal with the banging in the front end and the ox-cart-like ride, both of which were likely caused by worn-out front struts.

First, a quick class in Suspension 101. Basically, a shock absorber is a simple, easily-replaceable damper held in place by a long bolt that goes through a hole at the bottom. The top can be secured by the same kind of eye-bolt or with a threaded stud that protrudes through a shock tower. The main thing to note is that shocks don’t hold up the weight of the car—there’s always a separate spring nearby that does that.

In contrast, a strut assembly is a suspension component that has a spring with a damper going through the center of it, together which bear the weight of the vehicle. A MacPherson strut is a particular type of strut assembly that’s also part of the steering (turning the steering wheel causes the front struts to rotate, and the wheels are mounted to the bottom of the struts). The MacPherson design is more complicated because the front hubs, wheel bearings, rotors, calipers, steering knuckles, and ball joints are all attached to the strut.

The MacPherson struts in my vintage BMWs have a housing that lasts the life of the car and use an integrated stub axle on the bottom, and when you buy “front struts,” you’re buying cartridges that slide into the housings. On later cars, however, the MacPherson strut housings and cartridges are a single unit to which the other components attach.

Struts always have a spring perch to hold the bottom of the spring. During assembly, the spring is placed in the perch, then a variety of rubber bushings, bump-stops, and metal sleeves and spacers slide over the that extends from the strut cartridge. The very tip of the piston is threaded, and some sort of upper-perch “hat” is slid over it and held in place with a nut. On a MacPherson strut, because the whole assembly needs to rotate for steering, the “hat” has a bearing in it, but in a non-MacPherson strut, it’s just a fixed upper perch. With either design, the problem is that during assembly, a spring compressor is needed to compress the spring while the hat is slid over the threaded tip of the piston and the nut is tightened.

The Armada doesn’t have MacPhersons—it has a double-wishbone front suspension, so the front strut assemblies are each held in by three 14mm nuts at the top and one beefy bolt and nut at the bottom. But still, to replace the struts, the whole assembly needs to be removed on both sides, then the springs have to be compressed to remove the tension on the hats, and then the springs, metal spacers and sleeves, and the rubber bushings have to be removed and and transferred onto the new struts.

Because of the supposed difficulty of compressing springs, and the ubiquitous urban legends about people who have had terrible accidents with springs or hats being launched into their face, many DIY mechanics and even some purported pros are afraid to do it. It’s really not a big deal unless you’re an idiot and try to do it using hose clamps. Just buy or rent a spring compressor.

But it’s for these reasons that “quick-struts”—pre-assembled units combining the strut, spring, hat, and all spacers, sleeves, and bushings—have become popular. The appeal is that you remove the old ones, throw them in the recycle bin, and install the new ones without ever having to deal with a spring compressor. A search on eBay shows that a pair of unbranded quick-struts for the Armada can be had for about a hundred bucks shipped. Man, that’s cheap.

One of the interesting things about becoming interested in a new vehicle is that you get to check out a new user forum and see if it, like the car, fits you. I live mainly in forums for vintage BMWs, but also interact quite a bit with the Lotus Europa and Winnebago Rialta forums, all of which are made of my sort of people—kind, patient, and thrifty but not to the point where the go-to position is installing the cheapest-possible parts in the car. So it was interesting to read that the hive-mind opinion on ClubArmada was not to cheap out and buy quick-struts but instead to purchase a proper set of Bilsteins. The Armada has a common problem with bump-steer, and the Bilsteins reportedly solve it. Inexpensive quick-struts reportedly don’t, and you get what you pay for in terms of performance and longevity. I did find some branded quick-struts on eBay and RockAuto—Monroe, Gabriel, and KYB—but several folks on ClubArmada said that after they installed the KYBs, their Armada was several inches higher in the front and looked like a boat on plane.

Now, I’m firmly in the “real men compress their own springs” camp. I own three different spring compressors, I don’t regard it as in the least unsafe, it’s not a back-breaker, the time it takes to swap the springs over onto the new struts isn’t a big deal, and there was a ringing endorsement of Bilsteins (which I use on all my BMWs when it’s suspension-refresh time) from ClubArmada. Comparing that with the low opinion of low-cost unbranded parts in general and the lack of any consensus opinion vis a vis “buy these quick-struts” on the Armada forum made it an easy choice to buy the Bilsteins.

The next choice was between Bilstein 4600s with a fixed lower perch or the more-expensive adjustable 5100s meant for lifted applications. I had zero interest in lifting the Armada, but I found a set of open-box 5100s on Amazon for a great price, even less than the 4600s. I confirmed with the Armada forum that the lowest setting on the 5100s puts the truck at the same height as the 4600s, and ordered them. I also ordered new upper hats and all the rubber bushings, sleeves, and spacers, as the odds of them being reusable in a 183K New England vehicle were slim. All-in, it was about $300, which felt great.

With parts on the way, I positioned the truck in the garage to begin removing the strut assemblies. As I explained in the article on the exhaust work, there’s no way to fit the Armada completely in the garage and jack up the nose without kicking out not one but two cars. I checked the forecast, found a stretch of several days of 40°+ degree snow-free weather, and pulled the Armada inside and canted to the left so I had clearance against the right-hand garage wall.

I jacked up the truck, set it on stands, pulled the left front wheel, began eyeballing the scene, and noticed something that stopped me cold.

The spring was broken and the bottom coil was missing.

I reflexively moved to the right side of the truck to check the other spring. It was broken, too. The banging I was hearing wasn’t due to blown struts. It was from the two broken springs. A simple look would’ve told me that before I ordered parts. Idiot! Idiot! Idiot!

The strut assemblies needed to come out regardless, but I was faced with an immediate choice of whether to buy a pair of springs, or return what I’d bought and go the quick-strut route, which was suddenly had some appeal. Had there been a well-reviewed option on the Armada forum, I probably would’ve done it. However, I found a set of Moog springs on Amazon for $88 for the pair, confirmed on ClubArmada that they’re OEM-equivalent and not lifting springs, and put them on order for next-day delivery.

So, on with the repair itself. The non-MacPherson strut configuration with the big nut and bolt at the bottom and the three 14mm nuts at the top made removal look trivial, but I immediately ran into trouble, as one of the top nuts on each side was seized, and despite soaking them in SiliKroil penetrating oil overnight, putting an impact wrench on them rounded off the corners.

In my first book, I have a chapter on “stuckness,” in which I describe a variety of techniques including heating the nut with a MAPP gas torch and applying wax to the threads, really heating the nut with an oxy-acetylene torch, hammering a smaller-sized hex or Torx socket onto the nut, and cutting off or drilling out bolts. But over and above that, over the years I’ve developed a philosophy where I look at fasteners, think “How deep will the doo-doo be if I snap this off or round its head,” and then act accordingly, and didn’t do that here, as I’d never had anything remotely like this happen to a nut that size on a strut stud. After several oxy-acetylene torchings, the nut on one side came off by hammering a smaller socket onto it, and for the other side, I had to use the trick of carefully positioning a chisel on its circumference and smacking it with a hammer to apply a tangential impact force.

Although I was basically assembling my own not-so-quick struts and didn’t need anything off the old ones, I was curious if the old struts actually were bad, so I disassembled them to check. Because both springs were broken, there was no tension on the hats, so I didn’t need to use a compressor; I could just put the impact wrench on the strut top nut and spin it off. One strut was fine, but the other one was completely blown.

Assembly of the new struts with all-new parts was very satisfying. There were numerous reports on the Armada forum of front-end banging after installation of new Bilsteins due to people misunderstanding the assembly instructions, so I triple-checked the location of all the bushings, sleeves, and washers, and made absolutely certain that I had the adjustable spring perches at their lowest setting.

Installation was a bit challenging. Though there were no stuck fasteners to deal with, the combination of the new stiff springs and the new stiff struts made the strut assemblies difficult to get into position. Even unbolting the sway bar and having one of my kids stand on the lower wishbone, things didn’t want to line up. It took some persuasion with a big lever and smacking the lower bolts with a hammer to get them in place.

With everything buttoned up, I took the Armada for a short drive on a nearby torture-track back road that I use to diagnose rattles, thunks, and clunks. The front-end noise was gone, the truck was blissfully quiet, and it rode and steered great. But when I got back home, parked the truck, and looked at it, there was no ignoring the fact that the space above the front tires was abnormally large, and the nose was high.

I checked the photos I took before the repair, and it definitely wasn’t my imagination.

Now, there’s likely a few things going on. The Armada did have two broken front springs, so it definitely was sitting lower on the nose than it should’ve. Gas-pressurized shocks and struts like Bilsteins do exert an upward force on the body of a vehicle and can make it sit slightly higher than when it’s on fluid-filled shocks and struts. I’m hopeful that it’ll settle down a bit with time and mileage. Of course, the opinion on the Armada forum about both the zero setting of the Bilstein 5100s and the Moog springs being equivalent to stock could simply be wrong. And had I gone with quick-struts, I would’ve likely selected the KYBs, and as folks reported those raised the front, it might have been even worse.

Another possibility involves the truck’s rear suspension. When I was looking at Armadas, friends on social media who do a lot more towing than I do advised me to try to find one with the tow package, as it has a shorter-geared differential, a transmission tow-mode setting, and a pneumatic suspension with air-pressurized shocks that self-levels the rear to deal with the weight of a trailer sitting on the hitch. The one I bought has all that, so imagine my surprise when, now that I own it, I find that most of the talk on the Armada forum about the self-leveling rear suspension is in regards to removing it. I guess that shouldn’t surprise me, as my BMW E39 528i sport wagon had the same dynamic. When I start up the truck, I hear the compressor running to pressurize the rear shocks, but it’s unclear to me whether it’s actually doing anything, so the shocks might be bad or a line might be leaking. I’m going to live with it for a while, then trouble-shoot it to see if anything is wrong. If it’s working, I believe you can adjust the sensor to raise the back a bit.

So we’re now close to the Armada exiting the sort-out phase of our relationship and entering the “let’s do stuff” phase. We’ll see how it goes.

***

Check out the Hagerty Media homepage so you don’t miss a single story, or better yet, bookmark it. To get our best stories delivered right to your inbox, subscribe to our newsletters.

The post The Not-So-Quick Strut appeared first on Hagerty Media.

Will 1970s cars ever shake the negativity from the public at large? Oh sure, plenty of folks love them—I’m one of them!—but even in this day and age, Pintos, Nimitz-class Caprices, Granadas, and more get disdain from many quarters. And I will certainly not dispute the quality control issues seen on many cars of the era. But what variety. What choices, not only in color and upholstery but in body styles. And the F-body 1976–80 Plymouth Volaré and Dodge Aspen were amongst one of the tidiest, good-looking compact wagons of the era.

These new compact Chrysler Corporation vehicles were meant to replace the venerable, robust, plain vanilla but-oh-so reliable A-body Dodge Darts and Plymouth Valiants. But for one final hurrah, in 1976, the outgoing cars shared showrooms with the all new models.

For one last year, you could get a stone-reliable, if somewhat staid, conveyance. But the new cars were pretty nice looking for their time, fresh and attractive, right in line with the recently introduced Ford Granadas and Mercury Monarchs. But as an added fillip, station wagons were available.

There hadn’t been any compact Mopar wagons since the ’66 versions. And in the mid-70s, with suburbia being the oasis from the big city, wagons ruled. Country Squires, Caprice Estates, Malibu Estates, Catalina Safaris, and many others were popular and prevalent.

Trouble was, the new compacts had some teething issues. The most visible was prematurely—VERY prematurely—rusting front fenders. A recall was issued, and complainants were able to get new fenders at no charge, but it was a major black eye to Chrysler and soured many new owners into Granadas, Cressidas, and other makes.

Eventually, Mopar got its act together though, and ’78 and up models were much more robust and reliable. And through it all, the wagon was a notable perk. It’s my favorite body style amongst these cars. Unless we get into the ’80s and start talking M-body Fifth Avenues with pillow-top velour and coach roofs.

The Volarés came in three flavors: plain, mid-range, and fancy. The top of the line was the Premier, and it was available as a coupe, sedan, and wagon. Of course, Premier wagons got simulated wood on the sides and lift-up tailgate.

A ’77 Premier wagon had a base price of $4271 (about $22,656 today), weighed in at 3505 pounds unloaded, and a total of 76,756 were produced. Premier sedans were $4354 ($23,097) and 31,443 were built. The wagon was very popular, in all trim levels.

In fact, the tony Premier wagon was the second most popular ’76 model. Most popular? The base station wagon, which retailed for $3,941 ($21,996), and of which 80,180 were sold.

Today’s featured car was seen several years back on Marketplace. From my 1977 brochure, it appears to be in oh-so-period-correct Spanish Gold Metallic. Unfortunately, I have no recollection of where it was or what it was priced at, but I saved the pictures because it was the nicest one I had seen in years. These lasted until 1980. The final ’80 wagons sold had a base price of $3540 ($14,120); 19,910 were made. But that’s for all trim levels, as by that time the Premier extras were considered an option package and production figures reflected that.

One final note: For those in the know, the “Hamtramck Hummingbird” refers to that unique starter sound Chrysler products had back then. My mom’s ’92 Grand Caravan ES made the same sound! I’m not sure when the design was finally changed and that distinctive sound went away, but I would guess sometime in the mid ’90s. A little bit of that Chrysler Corporation uniqueness went with it.

***

Check out the Hagerty Media homepage so you don’t miss a single story, or better yet, bookmark it. To get our best stories delivered right to your inbox, subscribe to our newsletters.

The post 1977 Plymouth Volaré Premier Wagon: Hamtramck Hummingbird Hauler appeared first on Hagerty Media.

If you’ve been reading this column regularly, you know that I recently struck a deal to buy my old high school ride, a 1964 Studebaker Gran Turismo Hawk. After 19 years away, mere hours stood between me and the car. When Sunday morning finally came, my wife and I hit the road for Johnston County, North Carolina. With some cash and a U-Haul on hand, I set out certain that this whole transaction would be a breeze. After all, the ad said it ran great!

As we approached the seller’s provided address, the Google Maps lady said “You have arrived!” a bit prematurely. Or so it seemed, anyway; there was no house in sight. Just a tight, sandy trail. So, down I went, not entirely sure I was in the right place.

The trail ended at a dam holding back a two-acre pond. Past that was a pasture at which, according to my correspondence with the seller, the Studebaker should have been parked. It was not there. I did spot a narrow two-track path, which I followed until I spotted an old man in overalls. The remainder of the path led down a steep berm. The whole situation had an uncertain vibe. Overalls Man waved at me.

“You might want to stay here,” I told my wife, as I started off towards the gesticulating figure. The rain was starting to pick up. I started thinking of all the things I didn’t bring, a tow strap and dry clothes chief among them.

I followed the ol’ fella through the gate, across the stream. Up the hill and sharply to the right, to the left, between two fenceposts. Up another hill, past a woodpile, a brush pile, to the left of a garden, to the left 90 degrees, between a house and a dog pen, and, finally, to the backside of the Hawk.

Through that whole maze, we passed not one convenient place to turn around; I shuddered at the thought of backing the trailer through the gate, across the stream, up the … well, you get the idea. The only thing left to do was get the Studebaker running, so I walked back to the car to get my jump battery. (That much I did bring.)

Upon laying eyes on the Hawk for the first time in nearly two decades, it looked nearly identical to when I had last seen it. Only one thing caught my eye: a patch of Bondo in front of the left rear wheel. The rest? Straight out of the Leesville High School parking lot. Was my counterfeit off-campus lunch pass still in the glovebox?

Further nostalgizing would have to wait. I had to get the thing running well enough to back it between the house and the dog pen, and then forward out into the pasture.

I popped the hood, noticing that someone had wired a wooden pull handle to the massive piece of metal’s safety catch. A nice touch—I have no idea how many times I cut the backside of my hand trying to address the breakdown du jour.

I began by positioning my massive motorhome battery (the one my wife convinced me to buy on the way to Albania) over the battery tray, valve cover, and starter solenoid. Overalls Man sprayed starter fluid in the carb and around the air filter (I don’t usually do that) and the mighty four-barrel 289 lit off. And then, with a backfire, it lit up. The flames were surprisingly high, given the volume of ether soaking the paper filter element. (Usually, “down East,” my cohort and I would worry about starting a forest fire via scorched pine needles, but everything on this property was saturated in water from recent rain.) I did the only thing I know to do in such situations: floor it and keep cranking!

Overalls Man, unaware and thus surprised by my method of making cars run while on fire, let out a yelp and fell backward into a bush. In retrospect, I should have warned him, but I was a little busy. Eventually, the fire went out, squashed with a combination of vacuum and smacks from a wet rag.

With one hurdle crossed, I turned my head over my shoulder to inspect my trailer’s reverse route.

At the time I sold my Hawk, I was just entering my 200-level engineering classes. Almost twenty years later, I was facing a graduate-level trailer backing exam. “This will go fine as long as you don’t watch me,” I told the man as I walked all the way back to my 4Runner.

For this final exam, I used every tool at my disposal. I rolled down the back glass of the 4Runner, lowered the side windows, pointed the mirrors down, and made sure my backup camera was turned on. 4WD locked in Low, plus differential lock. Amid a montage of hand movements and neck straining, along with a lot of false moves, the trailer made its way… up the hill and sharply to the right, to the left, between two fenceposts. Up another hill, past a woodpile, a brush pile, to the left of a garden, to the left 90 degrees, between a house and a dog pen … and, finally, landed at the Hawk’s rear end.

Using the aforementioned (massive) battery, plus my strong desire to immediately leave this place and never return, I backed the Stude onto the trailer using its built-in winch, i.e. the starter motor. This is abusive behavior, yes, but it was pouring rain and I was getting mildly annoyed at the stench of stale gas; shockingly, the 289-cubic-inch V-8 didn’t “run great,” as the ad stated. Given that the trailer was loaded with a backward-facing car with a 700-pound engine sitting beyond the trailer’s rear axles, we planned for this to be a short trip to the nearest parking lot. There, we’d flip the Hawk around and head on our way home. Don’t fail me now, Hobby 600 battery!

We were a few, terrifying miles down the road when we spotted a Lowe’s off the highway. On the exit ramp to the store’s large parking lot, there was a Mazda Tribute completely engulfed in flames. The driver was nonchalantly chatting on the phone while walking toward Smithfield’s BBQ (worth a stop even if your car’s not ablaze!) while the fire department approached the scene. “Well,” I figured, “if my car happens to self-immolate due to fouled gasoline bathing an overheated starter, at least I won’t have to worry about response time.”

We navigated around the flaming Mazda and parked in the Lowe’s lot, directly downwind of the Tribute/Smithfield-flavored smoke.

Just for giggles, I tried firing up the Hawk. The electric fuel pump ran spastically and never stopped. I tried once, to no avail, and realized that I had neglectd to bring a fire extinguisher of my own. Leaning, once again, on my miraculous Balkan camper battery, I motored the Hawk down the trailer ramps and then back up again, this time with the heavy side forward. I was just half an hour from my parents’ house, so I popped over there to share my spoils, eat some snacks, and pick up a set of Crestline Mark II mag wheels that I knew I had been saving. After stuffing my face with cheese and crackers and doing a quick wheel mock-up with the old man, we were back home Statesville in no time.

Well, now what? I have the car back, and that’s what matters. Nothing could really prepare me for what it felt like to sit in the driver’s seat after all this time. I haven’t yet found the words for it, except to say that something in my bizarre universe feels more right than it did yesterday.

***

Check out the Hagerty Media homepage so you don’t miss a single story, or better yet, bookmark it. To get our best stories delivered right to your inbox, subscribe to our newsletters.

The post Hawking for My High School Studebaker: Part 2 appeared first on Hagerty Media.

This past summer, with supply chain issues resolving and factories once again humming, electric vehicles started piling up on dealer lots. Between January and July 2023, reports the trade paper Automotive News, the “days’ supply” (an industry metric used to measure unsold inventory) jumped for EVs, rocketing from a brisk 59 days to a worrisome 111 days. Meanwhile, the inventory of internal-combustion vehicles remained relatively flat in the mid-50s, proving that there were buyers out there, just not for electrics. (As of December 2023, EV days’ supply was 114 days, versus 71 days for the total market.)

An industry that only 18 months ago was rushing head-long to expand battery manufacturing and race to market with full electric product lines suddenly nailed the brakes. Ford, simultaneously reeling from a costly UAW strike, said it will slow-roll an earmarked $12 billion in electrification spending, delaying product launches, cutting production of its Mustang Mach-E electric crossover and F-150 Lightning, and pushing back construction on one of two planned battery plants. GM and Honda likewise said they are scrapping an agreement to jointly produce compact electric crossovers.

On the front lines, Mercedes-Benz dealers were in open revolt over the factory’s unwillingness to put incentives on its slow-moving EQ line of pricey electrics, saying they are losing customers to rivals. Meanwhile, back in 2020, GM offered its Buick and Cadillac dealers a choice: Either invest upward of $200,000 in electric infrastructure for their dealerships or sell their franchises back to GM for cash. Almost half of Buick dealers and one-third of Cadillac dealers took the buyout.

Is the EV transition over before it ever really began? Probably not. The hasty 180 on EV investments likely says less about the long-term viability of electrics and more about present dilemmas. The industry is nursing fresh wounds from strikes and previous bad bets, including Ford’s write-off of $1 billion following the implosion of Argo AI and GM’s staggering $8.2 billion loss (and counting) on its Cruise autonomy division. Add in the turbulence caused by the 2022 Inflation Reduction Act, which places restrictions on EV tax credits so that they apply only to American-made vehicles with U.S.-sourced components, and it’s easy to see why the industry is unsettled.

The ride into an electric future was bound to be bumpy. Now that early adopters have rushed out and purchased electric vehicles, sales growth was certain to slow as the industry gets on with the laborious task of convincing a wider (and more cautious) buying population that EVs are for them. The timing could be better; the market is currently suffering from high interest rates that make new-car purchases more expensive, and there’s a surplus of high-end EV offerings costing $70,000 and up.

Currently the pricing gap between EVs and internal-combustion-engine (ICE) offerings in the hot compact SUV segment is almost $20,000, with electrics retailing above $50,000 while comparable ICE crossovers are $35,000. Sure, tax rebates help close the gap, but the numbers look daunting to buyers watching their dollars. At the same time, older, more affordable EV options, like the Chevrolet Bolt and VW e-Golf, have been taken off the market and their replacements are still on the drawing boards.

Richard Shaw, a retired airline captain in Los Angeles, is an example of the disconnect between consumer demand and industry supply. Four years ago, he bought his first electric car, a new Volkswagen e-Golf, for $19,000 after rebates and incentives. “If you have two cars in the household, you’d be crazy not to have one be electric,” says the EV convert. “They are much cheaper to operate and perfect for local trips, and we find we take the electric way more than the other car.” However, the e-Golf has since gone out of production, as has the similarly priced Chevy Bolt, leaving the base Nissan Leaf as the lone sub-$30,000 electric.

Some buyers may have deferred their purchases in 2023 owing to changes in the Clean Vehicle Credit, the $7500 federal tax credit that, as of this year, allows buyers to use the credit directly as a down payment.

EV sales growth has slackened, but electric cars are still selling—at a rate of about 1 million per year. If EV sales aren’t proving to be a tidal wave, they are definitely still a rising tide.

***

Check out the Hagerty Media homepage so you don’t miss a single story, or better yet, bookmark it. To get our best stories delivered right to your inbox, subscribe to our newsletters.

The post EV Sales Growth Has Slowed. Does It Mean Anything? appeared first on Hagerty Media.

In Colorado, where I live, four-wheel-drive Subarus have been beloved ever since the first 4WD Leone-based models appeared in showrooms in the mid-’70s. Because of their popularity in the Centennial State for nearly 50 years, the car graveyards along the I-25 corridor amount to museums of the history of the Pleiades-badged brand in America. Today we’ll take a look at an absolutely loaded Subaru wagon, found in a boneyard just outside of Denver.

When we talk about U.S.-market Subarus of the 1970s and 1980s, we need to first discuss the way that Fuji Heavy Industries named their cars on this side of the Pacific. The Leone, as it was known in Pacific markets, debuted in the United States as a 1972 model, but that name was never used here. At first, they were designated by their engine displacements, but soon each model was pitched as, simply, “the Subaru” with the trim levels (DL and GL were the best-known) used as de facto model names. The exception to this system was the Brat pickup, which first showed up as a 1978 model. Things in the American Subaru naming world became even more confusing when the non-Leone-derived XT appeared as a 1985 model followed by the Justy two years later, and the Leone finally became the Loyale here for its final years (1990-1994).

The Leone began its American career as a seriously cheap economy car, mocked in popular culture for its small size (but still getting a shout-out from Debbie Harry). Sponsorship of the U.S. Olympic Ski Team and gradual addition of size and features allowed Subaru to sell the higher-end Leone models for decent money as the 1980s went on.

In 1987, the absolute cheapest member of the Leone family in the United States was the base front-wheel-drive three-door-hatchback, coming in at an MSRP of $5857 (about $16,345 in 2024 dollars). Known to Subaru dealers as the STD, it was disappointingly never badged as such.

At the very top of the 1987 U.S.-market Leone ziggurat stood today’s Final Parking Space subject: the GL-10 Turbo 4WD Wagon. Its price started at an impressive $14,688, which comes to a cool $40,990 after inflation. A naturally-aspirated 1987 GL 4WD Wagon could be had for $10,767 ($30,047 in today’s money). In fact, the only way to spend more on a new 1987 Subaru (before options) was to forget about the Leone and buy an XT GL-10 Turbo 4WD at $15,648 ($43,669 now).

There weren’t many options you’d need on the feature-stuffed GL-10, but this car’s original buyer decided it was worth paying an additional $955 ($2665 in today’s bucks) for the automatic transmission. That pushed its out-the-door cost to within spitting distance of the price of admission for a new Volkswagen Quantum Syncro Wagon and its $17,320 ($48,335 in 2024) price.

Subaru was an early adopter of turbocharging for U.S.-market cars, with the first turbocharged Leone coupes and wagons appearing here in 1983. This car has a 1.8-liter SOHC boxer-four rated at 115 horsepower and 134 pound-feet, pretty good power in its time for a vehicle that scaled in at just 2,530 pounds (that’s about 700 fewer pounds than a new Impreza hatchback, to give you a sense of how much bulkier the current crop of new “small” cars is).

Subaru was just in the process of introducing a true all-wheel-drive system as we understand the term today in its U.S.-market vehicles when this car was built, and both 4WD and AWD systems were installed in Subarus sold here from the 1987 through 1994 model years. (Beginning with the 1996 model year, all new Subarus sold in the United States were equipped with AWD.) Subaru fudged the definition on its badging for a while by using a character that could be read as either a 4 or an A, as seen in the photo above.

I’ve documented a discarded 1987 GL-10 Turbo 4WD Coupe that had genuine AWD (called “full-time four-wheel-drive” by Subaru and some other manufacturers at the time), and it had prominent “FULL-TIME 4WD” badging and a differential-lock switch. This car just has the 4WD switch on the gearshift lever, like earlier 4WD Subarus with automatics, so I am reasonably sure that it has a 4WD system that requires the driver to switch to front-wheel-drive on dry pavement in order to avoid damage to tires or worse. But even as the current owner of two Subarus and a longtime chronicler of junked Fuji Heavy Equipment hardware, I cannot say for certain about the weird 1987 model year. Please help us out in the comments if you know for sure!

This car has the sort of science-fiction-grade digital dash that was so popular among manufacturers (particularly Japanese ones) during the middle 1980s.

It also has what a 1987 car shopper would have considered a serious factory audio system, with cassette track detection and a trip computer thrown in for good measure. This stuff was standard on the GL-10 that year, and you needed that righteous radio to fully appreciate the popular music of the time.

The odometer shows just over 120,000 miles, and the interior wasn’t too thrashed, so why was one of the coolest Subaru wagons of the 1980s residing in this place? First of all, there’s a glut of project Leones available in Colorado’s Front Range at any given moment. Second, all of the most devoted enthusiasts of these cars in this region already have hoards stables of a dozen with no space for more; I let my many friends who love these cars know about this one and they plucked at least a few parts from it before it got crushed (sorry, I shot these photos last summer and this car has already had its date with the crusher).

So, if you’re a vintage Subaru aficionado living where the Rust Monster stands 100 feet tall, head to the region between Cheyenne and Colorado Springs and find yourself a project Leone to bring home. We’ve got plenty here!

***

Check out the Hagerty Media homepage so you don’t miss a single story, or better yet, bookmark it. To get our best stories delivered right to your inbox, subscribe to our newsletters.

The post Final Parking Space: 1987 Subaru GL-10 Turbo 4WD Wagon appeared first on Hagerty Media.

Los Angeles is a town with a well-earned reputation for a short attention span. You’re only as good as your last 90 minutes, goes the old saying in the movie business, and the hook is always waiting to yank off stage anything or anyone who isn’t killing it. That rule applies to race tracks, too. The Los Angeles Motordrome, a board track erected in 1910, lasted just three years, and Beverly Hills Speedway, which opened in 1920, only four years until the real estate developers got it. Riverside Raceway managed an unforgettable 32-year run before it was plowed under to make way for a shopping mall. Perhaps the ghost of Ken Miles still haunts the place; after years of decline, the mall boasts hundreds of thousands of vacant square feet.

Given the long odds, Auto Club Speedway, aka California Speedway, did pretty well—26 years from the day the 2.0-mile D-shaped banked oval opened to host 240-mph Indy-car laps to the day the wrecking ball arrived. Drone videos surfaced in November of chomping excavators tearing away at grandstands. In posterity, it joins the “Indianapolis of the West,” the short-lived Ontario Speedway (10 years, ending in 1980) which was just up the freeway. Its land now hosts a CarMax, a Benihana, and an El Torito, among its other pearls of suburban banality.

Auto Club’s demise leaves a metro area of nearly 13 million with only one circular track within its environs: Irwindale Speedway, a strictly amateur venue, which somehow has dodged decade-old plans to convert it into a mall. Likely because the mall business, thanks to Amazon, etc., is in even worse shape than the racing business. Vows by NASCAR to eventually replace Auto Club with a half-mile oval on what remains of acreage that has mostly been sold off to a developer intent on building logistics warehouses (for Amazon, etc.) have no firm timetable.

It’s a sad fact that in places, racing struggles to pay the bills for the increasingly expensive land that it occupies, and the forces of redevelopment never sleep. To the north, Monterey County, the deed holder of Laguna Seca, was in December sued by locals aiming to curtail or eliminate the famed track. You can shout until you are blue in the face that the circuit, opened in 1957, predates all of the surrounding McMansions. But those people don’t care who was first, they really don’t. They have money and lawyers and they are game to try their luck in court.

It’s a challenge that race tracks share with local municipal airports. The airport where I keep my Cessna is a former U.S. Army Air Corps training base built in 1939, now under attack from a small but vocal clique of residents who wish it gone. They have already tasted blood in nearby Santa Monica, where an airfield that opened in 1923 and supplied thousands of Douglas Aircraft during World War II is set to close in 2028 so that developers can dine on its bones.

Once upon a time, a bolder America accepted and even celebrated these facilities as proof that the world’s greatest economy produced vital and thrilling pursuits that enriched our lives and supplied a creative outlet to our energy and industry. Now, a more flaccid nation that prefers to sit at home streaming and shopping foreign-made junk online sees nothing in these venues but noise, pollution, and risk. They are unwittingly being stoked by gimlet-eyed developers who are salivating over the land and willing to fund legal teams and sympathetic council candidates. Replacing a track or an airport with warehouses or 20 to 30 high-density housing units per acre will line the pockets of the developers, but it won’t do much for noise and pollution in the community. Everyone is bound to be disappointed—except the developers of course.

But the relentless demand for more housing drives cities to flatten anything in their path that appeals only to a minority. And like it or not, we are a minority. Unless we fight, unless we write letters and go to council meetings and support candidates who believe there should be recreational room for everyone, we will end up like the misfits in medieval times, hounded out the city gates and banished to the countryside so that we can continue enjoying activities that were once popular in an earlier, more energetic age. At least, until the city inevitably sprawls in our direction.

***

Check out the Hagerty Media homepage so you don’t miss a single story, or better yet, bookmark it. To get our best stories delivered right to your inbox, subscribe to our newsletters.

The post When We Lose a Race Track, Everyone Loses appeared first on Hagerty Media.

After sealing up the exhaust in my recently-purchased 183K-mile 2008 Nissan Armada well enough to get it through the second-most stringent state inspection in the country, I dealt with noise from the serpentine belt. The problem turned out to be bad bearings on the timing chain tensioner, but there was also noise from the power steering pump, which led me to fix a leak from one of the PS hoses by replacing the constant-tension spring clamp with a worm-screw type clamp that could be tightened. That wound up slippery-sloping into fixing other under-engine leaks (the power steering uses automatic transmission fluid, so I needed to be certain the leaks were from the PS and not from the transmission), and that led me to a place I didn’t expect to go.

Fluid leaks should be looked at in terms of both substance and severity. That is, for lubricants, you can grossly triage them into drips, patches, puddles, and gushes. Drips are isolated “marking their territory” dots. Patches are fried-egg-sized stains on the garage floor. Puddles are things that have enough depth that you can swipe a finger through them and actually move fluid like Moses parting the red sea. Gushes are where you actually see fluid streaming out of the car and can follow it directly back to its source. Obviously you’d be foolish to drive a car that’s gushing any fluid further than down the driveway and into the garage, but the others are more of a judgement call. Anyone who owns a vintage car knows that it’s in their nature to leak engine oil, gear oil, and transmission fluid, and enforcing a zero-leak policy may not be possible. My Lotus Europa leaks fluid from the transaxle in quantities between a patch and a puddle, and I’ve replaced the transaxle seals twice in a misguided attempt to squelch it, only to learn in the forums that, basically, they all do that, and loving the car means living with its incontinence, placing a drip pan under it, and topping it up with a frequency usually reserved for engine oil.

But substance—which fluid is dripping—is critical. There should be a zero-leak policy with gasoline. Weeping a little gas isn’t acceptable. Any fuel leak should be found and fixed immediately, otherwise you risk your vehicle burning and you dying.

I regard coolant leaks as a big notch back from fuel leaks, but they’re still unacceptable. If coolant is leaking, even dripping, something is failing, and you can be certain that it’ll get worse over time. It won’t kill you, but it can kill your car by depleting the engine of coolant to the point where it overheats and warps or cracks the head. Driving a car that you know is leaking any amount of coolant any more than around town isn’t dangerous, but it’s dumb. Don’t do it. In my BMW-centric world, where I road-trip 50-year-old cars thousands of miles and daily-drive 20-year-old cars with plastic-laten cooling systems that crack at any moment and dump the coolant, I’m hyper-vigilant about cooling leaks. The cause could be a loose hose clamp, or corrosion on a metal coolant neck not allowing a hose to seal, or a bad water pump seal, or an actual hole in the radiator or heater core, or, in a modern car, failure of a plastic component. Visual inspection with the engine running usually reveals the source. Pressure testers that screw in in place of the radiator cap can also be helpful if the leak only occurs at operating temperature.

So, back to the Armada. There were two other places where the rubber PS hoses were leaking where they’re pushed over metal lines and secured with spring clamps. The worst of them was where two lines ran through the engine compartment on top of the left frame leg. It was the lower one that was leaking, and the upper one blocked the access to getting vise grips on the spring clamp. I wound up having to remove the inner fender liner in order to get at it from the side. As with the first PS leak, installing tighten-able worm clamps stanched the leak.

The remaining PS leak took me a while to find. A drip kept forming below the steering rack on the frame. To find the source, I had to lie under the car with the engine running and watch. Unfortunately, it’s coming from where the input shaft goes into the top of the steering rack, and replacement of the seal likely requires removal of the rack, which in turn requires removal of the front differential. Further, the seal is in the middle of—get this—a seven-sided nut for which I’ve yet to locate any reference to a removal tool. Fortunately, it’s a small leak, so for now I’m going to let it go.

But while I was under the Armada’s nose, I found, to my surprise, drops of coolant at the bottom of the radiator and stray ones higher up. When I bought it, I knew about the wetness that was likely from the power steering, but the coolant leak was not something I was aware of.

It turned out to be leaking from two places. The first was from below the radiator cap, where a thin hose attaches that feeds the overflow tank. Like the PS hoses, it was leaking from the spring clamp, so I replaced it with a worm clamp, but it continued to leak from the brass fitting to which the hose was attached. At first, I didn’t understand what I was seeing—the fitting seemed like it swiveled. Then I realized that there had originally been a little plastic coolant neck there, it had snapped off (a very common problem on plastic radiators), someone had jury-rigged it with a screwed-in brass fitting and sealed it with Teflon tape, and it was now loose and leaking.

I first tried Permatex Thread Locker. That leaked, so I went to Gorilla Glue. That leaked too, so I was prepared to go nuclear with J-B Weld when I discovered a second leak.

This one was from someplace more serious—where one of the automatic transmission lines went into the plastic tank at the bottom (the radiator also acts as a transmission cooler, as it does on many vehicles). It wasn’t leaking from the hose, so replacing the spring clamp as I’d done elsewhere wouldn’t matter. It looked like the leak might be coming from a seal behind the fitting that ran through the plastic tank, but my attempt to loosen or tighten the nut only caused the plastic to flex and the leak to increase.

In addition, one of the things I read about the Armada is that the radiator’s internal transmission-cooling plumbing eventually cracks, allowing ATF and coolant to intermix. This creates the dreaded “strawberry milkshake” that causes the transmission to fail. I checked the date code on the radiator, and it was original to the car. Taking these three things together, I would’ve been an idiot to not replace the radiator, and as I often say, I try not to be an idiot. Seriously—it’s one thing for something to break with no warning, and quite another to be stranded and sit there thinking, “Yeah, I should’ve replaced that.”

As with everything I do, I looked at the cost. Folks who routinely tow big trailers install a separate heavy-duty transmission cooler. Others replace the radiator, either with the original Nissan part, or a less-expensive aftermarket choice, or an aluminum one. RockAuto has several cheap radiators, but these things are big, and with shipping they came to about $150. The correct Nissan radiator with its known shortcomings could be had on eBay for as low as $180. These days the world is full of decently-priced Chinese-made aluminum radiators. I’ve used them in a variety of cars. The weld quality varies from decent to cringe-worthy, but I’ve never had one leak. Whether or not to use one is a question of fit and vibe. I think they look completely out of place in my beloved BMW 2002s, and besides, they’re too thick to use without deleting the original cooling fan, which I refuse to do, but I have one in my Lotus Europa and use them in some of the later BMWs. The Armada forum said that there’s plenty of room for a three-row or even a four-row aluminum radiator, but fit-wise, the fan shroud needs to be fettled with.

I would’ve preferred to buy an aluminum radiator on Amazon so that I could return it cost-free if it wouldn’t fit, but the cost there was $250 for the same radiator that was $185 on eBay. Then I found a new eBay vendor with zero feedback selling the same radiator for $165 (drop-shipped from the same port in Perth Amboy, New Jersey, as nearly every other seller). There was the risk that the vendor wasn’t real, or the radiator was damaged or open-box, but I clicked and bought, and I was relieved when an intact new radiator arrived two days later in a sealed box.

As the box sat in my kitchen, I thought, “Damn, this thing is big.”

Replacing a radiator on a vintage car consists of draining it, removing the upper and lower hoses, removing the four bolts holding it to the nose, and done in 15 minutes, tops. But on newer cars, it’s typically far more complicated. On the modern BMWs that I’m familiar with, it’s like one of those interlocking rope-and-ring Chinese puzzles, where an odd dance needs to be done with the fan, the shroud, and the expansion tank. On the Armada, the fan and shroud were straightforward, but it turns out that the power steering fluid cooler and the A/C condenser are attached to the front of the radiator, so the dance involves unbolting the condenser, then tilting the radiator forward so you can unbolt the PS cooler.

Despite its size, I expected the original plastic-tanked radiator to be fairly light, but a combination of fluid remaining in it and it sticking to its rubber mounts made it a “don’t do that” to my 65-year-old back, so I elicited help from one of my kids to muscle it up and out. I test-fit the shroud on the new radiator and did some cutting to get it to seat around its upper tank.

When you replace a radiator, there’s the question of how much of the rest of the cooling system you should prophylactically replace, even if there’s nothing wrong with it. If the water pump or the thermostat or the fan clutch go south on me, I’m certainly going to be pissed that I didn’t just replace them while they were all accessible, but the fan clutch feels fine, there’s no play or leakage in the water pump pulley, and the car warms up perfectly. I did, however, inspect the hoses at the front of the engine and found that the aluminum neck to which the upper radiator hose is attached was badly corroded. I replaced the hose and cleaned the neck. The lower radiator hose looked OK, but for symmetry I replaced it at the same time.

Dropping the new radiator in wasn’t nearly as bad as removing the old one, as I had gravity on my side, but getting the cooler and condenser reattached was challenging. I dropped the condenser attachment bolts down into the nose multiple times and had to fish them out with a magnetic wand.

When the radiator, shroud, and fan were all installed, I spun the fan by hand and heard it hitting the shroud due to lack of clearance on the left side. I could’ve pulled it back out and trimmed that side, but the only bolt-on attachments are at the top, so even if I created clearance, there was nothing to hold it in place. So in true Hack Mechanic fashion, I installed a very stout zip tie at the bottom corner that pulled it where it needed to be.

I did the drive-park-check cycle a few times to be absolutely certain no coolant was leaking and the only remaining leak was the trickle from the steering rack’s input shaft, then deemed it roadworthy.

So in terms of the Armada’s punch list, that leaves the front struts. I’ll get to that next week.

***

Rob’s latest book, The Best Of The Hack Mechanic: 35 years of hacks, kluges, and assorted automotive mayhem is available on Amazon here. His other seven books are available here on Amazon, or you can order personally-inscribed copies from Rob’s website, www.robsiegel.com.

Check out the Hagerty Media homepage so you don’t miss a single story, or better yet, bookmark it. To get our best stories delivered right to your inbox, subscribe to our newsletters.

The post The Armada Springs a Leak appeared first on Hagerty Media.

I’ve always loved Volvos, because they’re what I grew up with, what are among my earliest car-related childhood memories. Most of those cars were safe, solid 240 sedans and wagons, but at that same time, my mom owned a 1973 Volvo 1800ES.

When I first arrived home from the hospital, my parents had a 1979 Pontiac Bonneville sedan and a 1977 Volvo 245DL station wagon. Those were Dad’s and Mom’s primary vehicles, but the 1800ES was a fair-weather car, and it shared the 1929-era garage with Dad’s ’51 Porsche 356 Cabriolet.

It only came out on nice days. I remember Dad driving me to my friend Brian Macomber’s house for a birthday party in this car. It must have been 1985 or so; I was probably in kindergarten. We also took it for runs to Mr. Fresh, which was a drive-thru convenience store only a few blocks from home. We’d zip up, get some bread or milk, and zip back to the house. It was a five-minute ride, max, but I always wanted to go. I loved that car.

In late ’85, however, the 1977 245 wagon was sold to a family friend, and the ’73 1800ES was traded in to Lundahl Volvo, as my mom had special-ordered a new ’86 240 DL wagon in Cream Yellow with brown interior. I was sad, but we just didn’t really need that ES, and the new car needed to go in the garage, so that was that.

I held onto fond memories of that car. Since 1800s weren’t very common in the Quad Cities, I didn’t see any for years, save for one at a show in the late ’90s and a ’71 1800E that popped up at Lundahl Volvo circa 2004.

I did see a couple more, including a mildly customized one in Iowa City, but I hadn’t seen any relatively recently until I spied a white ES for sale in Davenport in 2014. It wasn’t perfect, but it was pretty nice (I wrote about it here). I took many photos and showed them to Dad, thinking maybe he’d want to get it. But no dice, unfortunately.

He already owned a ’60 Porsche, and my mom had a Jag XJS convertible—both used as summer drivers—so I understood. But lo and behold, in July 2018, he showed up with our featured car, a ’67 1800S, resplendent in British racing green over saddle tan leather.

I was so thrilled! It was like being beamed back to my childhood a bit, even though this was a coupe and not an ES wagon. It had been completely restored by a classic Volvo specialist in Schaumburg, and it needed nothing but to be driven.

But what of the “Souped-down Ferrari” itself, as Volvo called it in a classic ’60s ad? It goes back to the early postwar years, European cars, and the rise and embracing of exporting.

That was the watchword: Export. Volvo, in the ’50s, believed in it dearly, and it was thought that a ‘halo’ car was needed to draw interested parties into Volvo showrooms in other countries—especially the United States.

Its first attempt was the Volvo Sports, officially designated the P1900, a two-seat fiberglass roadster in the Corvette manner … but it didn’t take off and had some teething issues, so it only lasted through 1956–57. It was pretty though! I’ve never seen one, but I have a Robeddie white metal 1/43-scale example on my desk at home.

So, Plan B. Which was the P1800. After the P1900 exited stage left, in early ’57 the decision was made to base a new sporty model on the upcoming Amazon/120 series. Prototypes were built by Italian coachbuilder Frua, and while there were several differences detail-wise, the overall look would be familiar to P1800 owners today.

The first official pictures were released in May 1959. The Company stated at the time that the car would begin production towards the end of 1960, but as it turned out it would be delayed. It was displayed for the first time at the Brussels international show in January 1960; one was shown the following April at the New York Auto Show.

The new 1800 was equipped with the then-new B18B inline four, not the B16B from the PV544 as originally planned. So in keeping with its character, the P1800 had the oomph to go with its sporty, svelte looks. Eventually the same engine would be available on the 544 and P120/Amazon. But the 1800 had it first.

Power on the early versions was 100 horsepower at 5000 rpm. The first production cars appeared in Swedish showrooms in May 1961. These first P1800s were built and finished by Jensen, but issues arose, resulting in the cars being built in Sweden starting in April 1963. At the same time, the designation changed from P1800 to 1800S. The ‘S’ was for Sweden.

The initial 1800S had a mildly updated engine as well, bumping power to 108 hp. But the biggest win the P1800/1800S had was due to Sir Roger Moore and a classic TV show, The Saint.

As the story went, the producers of the show initially wanted the then-new Jaguar E-Type as the hero’s car. But Jaguar was apparently unhelpful. As Moore told magazine Teknikens Varld at the time, he saw an 1800, fell in love with it, Volvo was called, and the show had a car in five days. The rest, as they say, is history.

By 1967, the year of our featured car, the B18B engine was 1780 cc, breathed through twin SU carbs, and produced 115 hp at 6000 rpm and 108 lb-ft of torque at 4000 rpm. The bump to 115 hp had been achieved in 1966 via revised exhaust ports.

Also new was the straight-across side molding, replacing the earlier trim that curved upward into the top of the door, near the handle. A handsome new grille was also apparent, replacing the somewhat more plain stamped checkerboard version.

The 1967 1800S was the “M Series,” and the chassis numbers for the model year ran from 21000 to 25499. And one of those is today’s featured cars, owned by my dad. He brought it home on July 30, 2018—a total surprise to me.

It instantly brought back memories of the ’73 1800ES. It even had the same classic scent of leather, rubber, gas, and oil that I remembered. And it was very pretty in British Racing Green with saddle tan interior. I know, I mentioned that before, but what a great combo.

While researching for this story, I read the original paperwork that came with the car, and it was very detailed. It was, believe it or not, sold new by Budd Volvo in Riverside, California, to a Jerry Stotlar. And it was originally red with black leather, according to the records. But wait, there’s more. Apparently that was entered in error, as after I initially started this column, my dad got an 1800 book and decoded the data plate—and it was originally green with saddle tan.

The first plate it had was California VXE 144, and it had its 3000-mile service on November 2, 1968. This leads me to believe it may have been a leftover and sold for a healthy discount, though I can only speculate. Finding all this out was really interesting. You don’t always know the life your car lived before you got it.

Come 1968, a padded three-spoke safety steering wheel was added, albeit less gorgeous than the two-spoke version on this ’67, with its drilled twin metal spokes. American 1800Ss also got the dreaded tacked-on side marker lamps, which slightly spoiled the svelte, sleek lines.

As you can see in some of the pictures, my dad made some slight changes to the car. The 1800ES had the bright chrome lug nuts with the small center cap, and he liked that look, so the “V” hubcaps were removed.

He also added the driving lights to the bumper. But other than that (and a couple reproduction decals), it has pretty much stayed the same, and it’s being driven and enjoyed.

I had been meaning to write about the car earlier, but as it is usually in storage away from the house, I had to time it right. Fortunately, just before it started getting cold, in early October 2023, my father had it out for the weekend, and I managed to talk him into driving it down by the river for most of the pics you see here. While the coupe lasted through 1972 and fuel injection was added in 1970, the 1800ES “Sportwagon” took over in ’72.

The last one was built on June 27, 1973, the end of an era in Volvo history. Fortunately, there are many loving owners today who appreciate these special cars and keep them running to enjoy.

***

Check out the Hagerty Media homepage so you don’t miss a single story, or better yet, bookmark it. To get our best stories delivered right to your inbox, subscribe to our newsletters.

The post 1967 Volvo 1800S: Practical Sports Car and a Klockau Favorite appeared first on Hagerty Media.

There are multiple ways to interpret the word “bearings.” In the midst of a recent garage work session, it became clear I was maintaining not one set of bearings, but two.

The task at hand was a mock-up of the rear wheel assembly on my Honda XR600R project. The bike I purchased is a 1988 model year, which was factory-equipped with a drum rear brake. There was nothing wrong with the drum setup. It functioned and was certainly restorable. The wheel and hub were fine as well. I just wanted to “upgrade” to a disc brake.

For the type of riding I do, a restored and well-adjusted drum brake is perfectly suitable. It’s relatively sealed, low-maintenance, and extremely durable. By comparison, a disc brake setup is quite a pain. The caliper needs a guard, the rotor requires protection on the underside, and the whole operation is exposed to the weather, allowing it to be coated in a constantly refreshed, abrasive slurry of dirt and water.

But the heat management is worth the trouble. That large rotor happily hands off heat to the atmosphere in a manner so true it’s a law that long predates brakes of any kind. A disc setup produces consistent stops, and the increase in effectiveness far outweighs any decrease in durability. So, of course, I decided it was high time I had a trail bike with this newfangled technology. I’d also been wanting to do a project that involved a little more fabrication, and the conversion from drum to disc brake seemed perfectly designed to teach me a few new things.

So after checking a few fitment details between the first-generation, drum-brake XR600R and the second-generation, disc-brake bikes, I began pillaging the halls of eBay, slashing at the buy-it-now button with a plastic sword 16 numbers long. The spoils arrived at my doorstep in a handful of boxes. The largest of the treasures was a swingarm from a 1994 XR600R, followed by a rear caliper and mount from a 1992 XR600R and a rear brake master cylinder from a Honda CRF450X.

The hardest part of the process would be hanging the master cylinder, so I started with the easy bit. The swingarm bolted right into place and even included the linkage that connects the shock to the swingarm. This was a nice bonus, because the linkage is comprised of the same parts as the ones coming off with the drum brake swingarm. Having a second linkage allows me to rebuild one while the other is still bolted to the bike, allowing me to test the fitment of other parts. Plus, spares. Everyone loves spares.

The needle roller bearings in a linkage pivot are some of the humblest parts of a motorcycle. They take a tremendous amount of force while being subjected to the brutal environment that is the bottom of an off-road motorcycle. The linkage gets bounced off rocks and roots while being pelted with everything flung off the front tire.

These bearings always put up a fight coming out. Always. The hardened steel shells, which reluctantly joined the links on their high-pressure first date, become nearly inseparable from the cast aluminum with time. The union is so strong that I had to use my bench vise as a press to break the two free, adding heat and tension until the aluminum expanded and allowed the bonds, formed over decades, to break. Only then could a new relationship begin, with new bearings.

Items like bearings are not meant to last forever. They are consumable things, meant to be changed when the time is right. Just like our personal, figurative bearings. Desires and directions shift and evolve. It is best to take a step back, reassess, and reorient ourselves with where we are going—and if that is indeed what we want.

The idea of doing a fair amount of extra work just to fit a disc brake to an aging motorcycle is slightly absurd, and as I mock up the assembly and measure for the spacers I’ll be making, I reminded myself that the whole disc-brake project is irrational. However, while none of it makes any real sense, we are granted the freedom to be absurd. That freedom includes making the decision to solve problems that don’t exist. I didn’t lose my way and wander off into the weeds. No, my bearings are well-maintained, even if one type is leading me down the more difficult path.

***

Check out the Hagerty Media homepage so you don’t miss a single story, or better yet, bookmark it. To get our best stories delivered right to your inbox, subscribe to our newsletters.

The post Maintaining One’s Bearings appeared first on Hagerty Media.

Pontiac went from being the affordable-yet-stodgy GM division to the youth-centric division with brilliant marketing and engineering under John Z. DeLorean during the 1960s, and enough of that spirit survived into the 1980s to allow for the development of a radical, mid-engined Pontiac two-seater. That car was the Fiero, and I’ve found this loaded ’85 GT in a self-service boneyard just south of Denver.

The Fiero debuted as a 1984 model, the same year as the groundbreaking C4 Corvette. I was in my senior year of high school at the time, and I don’t recall nearly as much excitement among my peers over Pontiac’s new two-seater as for the first Corvette to handle like a true sports car.

Pontiac was denied a two-seat sports car in the 1960s, though Pontiac’s XP-833 Banshee prototype went on to contribute design elements to the C3 Corvette and the Opel GT. By the late 1970s, though, times seemed right for a lightweight, mid-engined sports car from Pontiac that could help GM meet Corporate Average Fuel Economy standards.

During a very lengthy and not-so-well-funded development period, the Fiero ended up being based on a unibody spaceframe onto which plastic body panels were bolted. This resulted in a very sturdy structure and a rustproof body, but the combination weighed hundreds of pounds more than the designers would have preferred.

There was no way GM was going to kick loose the funds to develop a new engine just for one low-volume affordable car, and the same ended up being true for the transaxle and suspension.

For its debut year, the only engine available in the Fiero was the 2.5-liter Iron Duke pushrod straight-four, known as the Tech IV when equipped with throttle-body fuel injection (as was the case with the Fiero). It was cheap to build—thanks to sharing much tooling with the Pontiac 301 V-8—and reliable, but it didn’t like to spin and it generated just 92 horsepower and 132 pound-feet of torque. Not exactly ideal for a sporty car, especially one that had to compete against two-seat competition that included the Honda Civic CRX, Toyota MR2, and Ford EXP/Mercury LN7.

For 1985, a 2.8-liter pushrod V-6 became available in the Fiero. It was rated at 130 horsepower and 160 pound-feet, and it resulted in a respectably quick car. This is a GT (or a regular Fiero with GT parts swapped in; the build tag was scraped off), so it came with the V-6 as standard equipment.

The reason that the Tech IV and 2.8 V-6 were the only two Fiero engine choices is a simple one: the transaxle and rear suspension in the Fiero were borrowed from the front of the GM X-body, best known as the platform beneath the Chevrolet Citation, and those are the engines used in the X family. The front suspension for the 1984–87 Fiero came from the Chevrolet Chevette, because it was cheap and available.

For the 1988 model year, the Fiero got a bespoke new suspension that ditched the Citation and Chevette stuff and improved the car’s handling. The change didn’t help sales much, as the American car-buying public remembered the widely publicized engine fires and recalls of the 1984 and 1985 cars. 1988 was the final year for the Fiero.

This one is loaded with expensive options, including the $475 three-speed automatic transmission ($1389 in 2024 dollars) and the $750 air conditioning ($2193 after inflation). The MSRP for the 1985 Fiero GT was $11,795, or $34,481 in today’s money; the entry-level 1985 Fiero started at $8495 ($24,834 now).

The Fiero wasn’t what you’d call a success story for GM, but the good news today is that the Fiero has long been an affordable and versatile enthusiast machine. In my role as wise and dignified Chief Justice of the 24 Hours of Lemons Supreme Court, I’ve seen plenty of Fieros on road-race courses and they can be fast if set up properly and well-driven. In fact, 1984–87 models with ordinary 2.8s get around the track just as well as the 1988s, and they’re reliable once you sort out the X-body axle/hub bugs.

The removable plastic body panels mean that you can convert a Fiero into a “Fierrari” or a “Fieroborghini” if you so choose, and an entire universe of GM engines can be swapped in without too much difficulty.

***

Check out the Hagerty Media homepage so you don’t miss a single story, or better yet, bookmark it. To get our best stories delivered right to your inbox, subscribe to our newsletters.

The post Final Parking Space: 1985 Pontiac Fiero GT appeared first on Hagerty Media.

Chrysler designer Tom Gale once said in an interview that taller tires were key to the success of the original Chrysler 300. He then inadvertently let the cat out of the bag, going into detail as to how the wildly popular sedan had the presence of a Bentley because “the 300 is deceptively tall, and we disguised that with larger wheel openings and larger tires. But we also raised the beltline so that the roof looked chopped. The cars always looked relatively low even though they were deceptively tall.”

Deceptively tall is right, and the Chrysler 300 is one of many reasons we now have a dying crop of sedans with worse outward visibility and significantly less utility than crossover SUVs. It appears the sins of 2005 are revisited in 2023’s final run of this iconic family sedan, so let’s run the vellum over a 6.4-liter example of the breed.

To some extent, the Chrysler 300 lost its trademark swagger once every car sported a nose just as swollen as this. The generic texture of the grille doesn’t help the inability of the 2023 model to stand out in a crowd, either. This honeycomb is in stark contrast to the massive egg-crate texture of the original, which also benefited from the lack of a similarly textured hole below the grille.

Stand up and behold the 300C from an elevated position and the redesigned fascia of the 2011+ model makes sense. The grille is bold and the headlights are squinty. The front-splitter effect of the bumper draws your eyes up and to the grille, while the reverse mohawk in the hood ensures the space above the grille looks visually lighter.

The retro graphics are a nice throwback to the Chrysler 300 J, but this one is unfortunately tucked away in the upper corner of the grille, unlike yesteryear’s gunsight grille design.

The lack of a bold texture for a Chrysler “letter car” is a bit of a missed opportunity. Much like 1980s American performance cars wearing understated charcoal gray trimmings and Sacco Planks, the 2023 300C might be too understated for its own good.

At least this final example of a bold Chrysler sedan has a grille texture that is never blocked up and eschews artificial texture. The parts that don’t need cooling are blocked off from behind.

And the “seeing eye” of the cruise control sensor is framed by both a thick border of plastic and negative space; designers did not even try to mess with the understated grille texture. Perhaps a design like this would make a great frame for the 300 C logo within a gunsight grille?

The bolder, round fog lights on the flat face of the 2005 Chrysler 300C really helped accentuate the headlights and balance out the radical egg-crate grille. This generic 2010s statement of non-functional performance styling cues on the 2023’s bumper waters down the original vision and leaves a bland aftertaste.

It’s refreshing to see a grille that doesn’t try to incorporate technology like proximity sensors for parking, as their omission keeps the texture from getting murky and complex.

While the 2005 model had design elements (like headlights) conforming to a flat-faced bumper, the redesign has headlights that try to become a more evolved surface. That might sound like a word salad, but bear with me …

Here on the inner contouring of the headlight, the Chrysler 300’s bumper extends from the headlight to the face of the grille. It’s a refinement that’s light years ahead of the 2005 model, which had a crude stair step in the same location and a bumper shelf that slowed down the visual speed of the front end. The elegant surfacing looks great on this monochrome 300C, but the lack of a shelf hurt other 300s that still had chrome trim where the shelf once lived.

The outer contouring of the headlight is met with sympathetic rounded forms in the bumper. The integral side-mount reflector has a hard contour, which becomes the genesis of a strong fender crease.

While the subtle transition from the round headlight projector to its chrome bezel is pretty clever, the pattern doesn’t match that of the ribbed turn-signal lights next to it. Another complementary bezel of black plastic that matches the chrome one is clever, but it’s too subtle: the jeweled lights of the 2005 Chrysler 300C, deeply set into the car’s bumper, were more memorable.

And the panel gap where the fender, headlight, and hood meet is clumsy. This is far less elegant relative to the previous generation Chrysler 300.

But it is hard to argue with the cool factor present in a fender crease that’s almost as aggressive as that iconic grille design.

That fender crease does accentuate the strong power bulge in the hood, more so than same feature in the previous generation, with its softer curves.

The one perk to all this extra surfacing over the original is that the current 300 looks far more sinister. And not just the 300C; even a Pentastar V-6–equipped model looks this good. (The same can’t necessarily be said about V-6 versions back in 2005.)

And like most modern vehicles, the 300C has creases that awkwardly disappear into nothing. I reckon it is because vehicles are too tall, too much like rolling billboards: Extending the lines here and there gets your point across. To some extent, this feature would improve the original, 2005 model, as it looked boring and unfinished from many angles.

From the side you can see the redesigned 300 has a much smaller face than the outgoing model, but with similarly large fender flares. This makes the 300 look more aggressive than it really is, or just the right amount of aggressive, when you consider the 6.4-liter engine powering this 300C.

Perhaps that smaller face also accentuates the 300’s long dash-to-axle, which is clearly a million times cooler than that of any other sedan in its class. (Dodge Charger stablemate excluded.)

Adding to the decadent dash-to-axle is that long, sweeping fender crease. It goes from the headlight to the base of the A-pillar in one fell swoop.

The wheels, while beautiful in their organic simplicity, prove the Chrysler 300 was an entry-level luxury car on its best days and a rental-car special at its worst. These particular forgings have the requisite depth (the hub is sunken relative to the spokes) to be the former, but it isn’t priced like a BMW M3 for ample reason.

The wiper/cowl area is short and harder to spot at a glance, as you’d expect with a cab backward, long dash-to-axle design. The steep rake from the (higher) hood to the (lower) windshield suggests this area was crafted with pedestrian-friendly design in mind.

The rear-wheel-drive (i.e. long dash-to-axle) proportioning really shines in the 300’s pillars, as that impossibly thin A-pillar belongs to anything but a space-efficient crossover utility. The sideview mirror has assertive angles and a bold repeater indicator light but tucks away perfectly in a black plastic triangle within the DLO.

The front door is almost exaggerated in length, but this car has more of a coupe flavor than its counterparts from Asia and Europe.

The B-pillar, while static and upright (like all vehicles in this era of head-curtain airbags), has just enough tumblehome to look less like an SUV or CUV, more like a vintage muscle car.

There’s a strong character line a few inches below the DLO, and it’s absolutely needed because the 300 gets even taller in the back (and needs something to break up all that height).

All things considered, Chrysler did a great job keeping the 300 (looking) as trim and low to the ground with its use of horizontal lines and modest surfacing. While not technically a shoulder line, the crease in the C-pillar that turns into the top of the deck lid is absolutely gorgeous and is a nice homage to the 2005 model.

The rear wheel arch is a bit troubling, however. Its thick shape cuts deep into the contours of the rear door, unlike the smooth forms presented in its brother, the Dodge Charger. Perhaps most of the issue is in my head, as I have a particular Avenger haunting my car designer soul.

The minimal contouring of the roof (save for cutlines for a fancy moonroof on this 300C) accentuates the long, luxury-sedan lines of the Chrysler and is a good way to save money. The exposed rain gutter isn’t as pretty as the extra plastic strips of other sedans in its class, but I generally prefer its minimalism in a low-visibility area. Can’t give the same kudos for the lasagna noodle–like rear window seal, however.

The transition from the aforementioned character line and the shoulder line is harsh and angular, which has implications for the taillight. But it is another throwback to 2005, ensuring the Chrysler 300 has a design DNA like so many other American icons of our past.

The redesigned 300 eliminates the smiling rear-end treatment created by the original’s curved rear deck and rotund rear bumper. This is produced by implementing the bends in the quarter panel and rear bumper as design limitations of the rear light. The downward force pictured here gives a contrasting frown to the bumper. It’s a little fussy, in a Malaise Era Chevy Monte Carlo way, but eliminates the under-surfaced issue of the previous generation.

There’s a certain harmony that comes from a bumper that’s directly influenced by the outer contouring of the light, and a trunk emblem that naturally steps down from model name to trim level to reverse light.

The Aston Martin–like emblem Chrysler chose after its bankruptcy never resonated with me, as there was something special about both the Blue Ribbon and the Pentastar before it. All that recognition was lost forever, so that’s probably why I like it better in a morbid-like black finish on the decklid’s otherwise unadorned center section.

Unadorned is right, because Chrysler did a fine job integrating both a push-button trunk release and a rear camera within the CHMSL at the top of the decklid. To some extent, perhaps the designers didn’t leave themselves much of a choice.

Just like the original, Chrysler opted to put the license plate mount in the rear bumper, leaving an acre of underutilized space in the trunk above. It’s a nice change to the usual “trunk plate” seen on today’s Camry and Accord, but it looks unfinished compared to the heckblende-equipped trunks of the Charger, Sonata, and (Kia) K5. I’d personally like to see C-H-R-Y-S-L-E-R spelled out on the back to fill in some space—and to be proud of this once-famous brand, and the founder behind it.

The lower bumper sports a matte plastic insert with arches around the exhaust, sized appropriately to match the wheel arches on the body side. The integration of the reflector lens into the insert’s outer boundary with the painted bumper is a common trick for modern cars, one that is both clever and beautiful.

The ducktail spoiler is a wonderful touch, adding much-needed visual excitement to the 300’s tall and flat-faced posterior. But it’s all relative, because this butt clearly received hundreds of hours more surfacing time from Chrysler designers than the same area of the 2005 original: The decklid is toned and muscular, and the 2022 bumper tries hard not to have a big-faced smile anymore.

It works, as the 300 now has a cocky smirk instead. Be it a Pentastar or 6.4-liter Hemi, anyone who has driven Chrysler 300 knows it’s pretty darn fast. Pick a fight with one and you know that trunk is absolutely giving you a victorious smirk, because it knows who won the race. While it’s a shame that family sedans are an unprofitable genre deemed unworthy for most automakers, at least the Chrysler 300 made a splash in 2005 and went out with a helluva bang last year.

Thank you for reading; I hope you have a lovely day.

***

Check out the Hagerty Media homepage so you don’t miss a single story, or better yet, bookmark it. To get our best stories delivered right to your inbox, subscribe to our newsletters.

The post Vellum Venom: 2023 Chrysler 300C appeared first on Hagerty Media.

One of the coolest parts about being a fighter pilot is getting your name on the side of the jet. Clearly, fighter jets don’t generally have a driver and passenger side, but the pilot’s name goes on the “driver’s side,” in line with the seat, and underneath the canopy rail. Opposite the pilot’s name, on the passenger side of the fuselage, is the plane captain or crew chief’s name (job title varies depending on branch of service, but they maintain and help launch the aircraft).

The process of getting your name on the side of the jet varies a bit from unit to unit, but the basic idea is that your name goes on the waitlist when you arrive at the squadron. As pilots rotate out of the squadron, their names are removed from “their aircraft” and the next pilot’s name on the list replaces the preceding one. It’s not unusual to have to wait a few months after arriving for your name to percolate to the top of the list, and when it actually gets applied to the aircraft depends on when maintenance personnel have the time to do something as relatively trivial as swapping out names.

View this post on Instagram

A post shared by U.S. Navy Blue Angels (@usnavyblueangels)

(Beware: the following paragraph is written by a fighter pilot attempting to explain maintenance procedures in which he’s only been peripherally involved.)

Of note, fighter jets have varying levels of maintenance requirements. The lowest level is the one required before/after a flight to prepare the aircraft for its next mission—this generally involves checking consumables (oil, oxygen, fuel, brakes, etc.), perhaps relatable to your car’s maintenance minder telling you the vehicle just needs an oil change. Every so many flight hours the next level of maintenance is required (inspect ejection seats, fuel system, engine fan blades, hydraulic systems, etc.). This is akin to a 30,000-mile service on your vehicle: nothing too crazy, but takes a bit more time and effort to complete. Finally, depot-level servicing is required every few years. This is comparable (ish) to a 100,000-mile service on your vehicle, though the aircraft can be out for months. I say 100,000 miles, but I’ve seen aircraft in depot that are going through something closer to a total frame-off restoration, wherein the aircraft is nearly disassembled to its individual component parts before being put back together. It’s really impressive to see the work these master craftsmen and women do on these aircraft. A giant stack of technical drawings enables them to do their job perfectly—think of a more-detailed Chilton or Haynes manual, but for an aircraft.

Not long after my name appeared on the side of a fighter jet for the very first time, and before I was able to get a picture of it, “my” jet went to depot for work and was gone for months. It was scheduled to return before I departed for my next assignment, but as it was undergoing a test flight after all the work was completed, an issue was discovered that kept it from returning before I hit the road. Thus, while I know which aircraft it was—each is identifiable by the number on its tail—I don’t have a photo of it bearing my name.

View this post on Instagram

A post shared by Air Force Thunderbirds (@afthunderbirds)

The closest I’ve ever come to putting my name on one of my cars was when I got a custom license plate for my 1969 Jeepster Commando. Granted, it was an abbreviation of my grandfather’s nickname, Kid Kalder, written as KIDKLDR on the plate, and not my name, but it remains the only personalized license plate I’ve ever had. While I still have the Jeepster, I let the plate expire, as too many people read the plate as “Kid Killer”—not exactly my idea of honoring my grandfather!

As I’ve written about several times, our 2006 Lexus LX470 suffered a catastrophic engine failure at the end of our Thanksgiving 2022 off-road trip. The process of attempting to get a rebuilt engine installed in the vehicle failed miserably: The first rebuilt engine failed after about 400 miles of driving (we hadn’t yet picked it up from the mechanic), the second engine wasn’t ever shipped to our mechanic before they found a failure, at which point the engine supplier essentially stopped looking because prices had gone up so much since we purchased an engine (under warranty) and it wasn’t worth it to them to do anything aside from refund our money. At that point, we opted to have our mechanic rebuild our original engine (the engine supplier hadn’t asked our mechanic to ship it to them, so it had been sitting in his shop for months). The mechanic three weeks we’d get it back in three weeks, a turnaround time which stretched on for a couple multiples of his original estimate; though, to his credit, much of that delay was on his engine builder (whose day job was to build race car engines, and he got pretty busy there over the summer) and not on him.

Sso it was, a mere 312 days after the initial rod knock occurred, that my wife and I drove the 90 minutes to his shop and picked up the LX470 and drove it home.

By way of comparison, it takes my wife about 30 fewer days to grow a human than it did to repair our Lexus.

The mechanic put about 450 miles on the truck, and changed the oil, before we picked it up. We drove it around town for a few miles, listening to the motor, feeling how it shifted, and listening for anything that sounded amiss; thankfully, it all looked and sounded good. We paid the balance of the bill (about 1.5x more than I initially paid for the Jeepster Commando) and headed home. As we caravanned the 90 minutes home, I spent much of the drive going through the various systems to ensure everything on the car still worked. It turned out I’d been so enamored by the fact it drove and sounded great that I missed a few non-functioning items. Among them: the stereo, air conditioner, navigation system (not that I used it as the maps are horribly out of date, but still), and rearview camera. As most of those are controlled by the touchscreen I presumed that there was probably just a blown fuse somewhere. After arriving home, I referenced the owner’s manual and checked each fuse that sounded like it had something to do with any of those systems and found the audio system fuse was toast; replacing it fixed all but the A/C issues. 

I was not super excited at the idea of troubleshooting the A/C, but I knew that, if I couldn’t get it to work, I was looking at a three-hour roundtrip, plus time waiting while the mechanic fixed it. Then, I realized I never heard/felt the A/C compressor turn on when I selected it to do so. I then pulled each fuse individually, in case there was one related to the compressor that wasn’t easily identified by its name, but they were all intact. I asked the mechanic if he’d had the A/C lines refilled when he reinstalled the engine, and he had. At that point, since it was late October and I didn’t have much need for A/C, I stopped the troubleshooting and agreed to take it to the mechanic before the weather got hot so he could look at it.

As part of his instructions when we picked up the Lexus, he directed me to change the oil every 500 miles for the next 3000 miles before reverting to a normal oil-change interval. I was to only use Pennzoil Platinum Full Synthetic 5W-30 for those oil changes and I needed to keep the rpm below about 3500 for those first 3000 miles. I asked him why the rpm limitation, especially given that most new cars no longer have any break-in procedures, and those that do have limitations that only extend a few hundred to about 1000 miles. He simply smiled and said that if it was his car, and if I wanted the engine to last a long, long time, that’s what he’d do. So, necessary or not, that’s what I’ve done.

We have now driven the Lexus about 2100 miles and I just did its fourth oil change this past weekend. I am slowly gaining confidence in it, finally taking it on a 300-mile roundtrip excursion shortly before Christmas after 1000+ miles of only in-town driving. I am very happy to report that it sounds good and feels good. I am less happy to report that when I did its first 500-mile oil change I noticed a few drops of oil where the engine and transmission bolt together. I wiped them off and left the skid plates off so I could easily monitor the drips. Every few drives afterwards, I would check for drops and wipe them off when I found them (they were present each time I checked). I sent a picture of the drips to the mechanic with an explanation of what I was seeing. He expressed surprise and dismay and said he’ll check it out when I bring it by to have the A/C worked on. 

Now that he has more to work on now than just the A/C, I’m anticipating dropping off the LX470 and leaving it for a few days as opposed to waiting while he troubleshoots and services the A/C. My expectation is zero leaks and for this to be repaired under warranty; thankfully, while the engine repair certainly took longer than I anticipated, the mechanic has always been straight and responsive with me and I trust him to fix it correctly.

Could the dripping oil portend an ending to this story similar to the one of “my” aircraft coming out of extensive, depot-level repair only to be sidelined again due to a significant issue arising? Perhaps, but I choose to be optimistic.

Plus, I have a recently-acquired 1991 Land Cruiser into which I’m swapping an LS4, a project that is keeping me busy at the moment.

But that story will have to wait for another day.

***

Check out the Hagerty Media homepage so you don’t miss a single story, or better yet, bookmark it. To get our best stories delivered right to your inbox, subscribe to our newsletters.

The post Fighter Pilot Diaries: Jet Maintenance appeared first on Hagerty Media.

The last two weeks, I wrote about repairing the exhaust in my recently-purchased 2008 Nissan Armada and getting the car inspected. With it legal, its intermittent Check Engine Light (CEL) issue faded into the background, and the punch list of needs became: 1) replacement of the front struts (it banged loudly over uneven terrain), 2) diagnosing and addressing a number of minor leaks, and 3) dealing with a loud metallic rattle from the front of the engine, almost certainly associated with the serpentine belt path. As belts are part of my “Big Seven” things likely to strand a car, I addressed this one next.

The so-called serpentine belt on a modern car is a very different beast than the quaint “fan belt” on a vintage car—that old narrow V-profile belt that spins the alternator, water pump, and the pump’s pulley-mounted fan. Unless you own an air-cooled Volkswagen, where belt tension is changed by removing washers to make the groove in the pulley shallower, V-profile fan belts are manually tightened by pivoting the alternator on a tensioning track. Loosen the bolt that holds the ear of the alternator to the track, pivot the alternator to slide it on the track until the belt is snug, tighten the bolt, done. It takes maybe a minute. If the belt snaps, replacing it is trivial. You just need to pass the new belt around the fan, loosen the alternator’s tensioning bolt, put the new belt on the crank, water pump and alternator pulleys, and tension it. If the radiator has a fan shroud, it’s a little more challenging to get the new belt around the fan, but it’s still an easy roadside repair.

Manually-tensioned V-belts are simple, but they do have issues. Both the alternator and the tension track typically have rubber bushings in them, and with age, heat, and oil, they wear out, causing the alternator to cock forward at an angle, which makes it so the belt will never stay tight. At some point the belt may begin to slip, which can cause the water pump to stop spinning and the coolant temperature to head into the red. In addition, cars that had what were then luxury accessories like power steering and air conditioning typically had separate V-belts for each, whose tension needed to be adjusted individually.

In the 1980s, things swung in the direction of cars having a single, wide, automatically-tensioned, grooved serpentine belt—so called because of the snake-like path it takes through all the pulleys. Serpentine belts don’t require tension adjustment. Instead, a spring-loaded or hydraulic tensioner has a pulley that leans against the belt. In addition to the pulley on the tensioner, there may be another idler pulley that routes the belt. Generally, if a car has a serpentine belt, there’s only one and it runs everything, but there are exceptions—my 2003 BMW E39 530i has two, with the second one running the A/C compressor, and each having its own tensioner.

The big advantage of serpentine belts is that they’re maintenance-free (if by maintenance you mean manually adjusting the tension). And, because the alternator doesn’t need to provide the tension adjustment, it mounts rigidly, so it’s far less likely to cock from worn bushings. But as with most things, there’s no free lunch, and a serpentine belt creates several challenges.

The first is that the serp belt, like any belt, is a normal-wear-and-tear part that needs to be replaced, and as is the case with many things on newer cars, that’s far more difficult than with an old-school V-belt due to the tightly-packed nature of components in modern cars and the torturous path the belt often takes. On rear-wheel drive cars with longitudinally-mounted engines, the tight access makes it difficult to even see the belt, much less remove it, without first removing components like the air box.

On front-wheel-drive cars with a transverse-mounted engine, because there isn’t a belt-driven fan aimed at the radiator, electric radiator fans are used. You’d think that would translate to an advantage that the belt isn’t hidden inside a fan shroud, but on our Honda Fit, the belt is so close to the side of the engine compartment that it’s necessary to remove a wheel and the inner fender liner to access the belt and pulleys.

In addition to the belt itself needing to be periodically replaced, the tensioner pulley (and the idler pulley, if there is one) spins on bearings, and over time, they wear out. The indication often starts as a high-pitched whine, transitions into a marbles-whipping-around-a-metal-bowl sound, then settles into a screechy metallic howl as it nears failure. And the tensioner itself can fail, though that’s less common.

The third issue is that replacing the belt requires relieving the tension by rotating the tensioner in the opposite direction it’s using to tension the belt, and that’s often not easy, both because it’s not clear where or how to grab it (some tensioners have a hex-head bolt you put a socket on, others have an Allen key or a Torx socket, and on some you grab the central nut on the pulley itself), and because accessing it and being able to move a long-handled ratchet wrench far enough to de-tension the belt is difficult. You typically need to search an enthusiast forum to find out which technique your car requires.

Another thing to be aware of is that while V-profile belts always sit in the V-groove of a pulley, one of the things that enables serpentine pulleys to be so, uh, serpentine is their ability to wrap around pulleys in either direction. The crankshaft pulley that supply belt power and things that use power (the alternator, power steering pump, A/C compressor) always have a grooved pulley with the belt’s grooves sitting in it, but the tensioner and idler pulley may be grooved or may have a flat surface that presses against the back of the belt, depending on the belt routing that’s required.

I encountered all these issues on the Armada. Something in the belt train was clearly making noise, particularly on cold start. It wasn’t yet at screechy howl; it was more like a hollow metaling ringing. I used my mechanic’s stethoscope and found that both the tensioner pulley and the power steering pump were loud (the steering also groaned when cold, further implicating the PS pump). However, other things in the belt chain—the alternator, the water pump—can certainly make noise as well.

There’s a technique you can use to isolate the problem, or at least get data that corroborates that of the stethoscope. The trick is to de-tension the belt, carefully lay it to the side of one component at a time so you don’t lose the belt routing, and test each component by spinning its pulley by hand as well as grabbing the pulley and checking it for play. I did that and immediately found that the bearing in the tensioner pulley was worn to the point of noise and obvious looseness. Surprisingly, the power steering pump felt fine.

So, what to do?

When you find a bad tensioner pulley, you have several choices. You can replace only the pulley, or you can buy a new tensioner with a new pulley attached, or you can buy a kit with a new belt, tensioner/pulley, and idler pulley if there is one, and do it all. The Armada’s belt looked absolutely fine with no cracks or dry rot, and the idler pulley was quiet. I usually choose the money-saving route, but because there was a break in the weather where I could do the repair, and Amazon could get me a Gates belt-tensioner-idler kit next day for $115 (whereas the a la carte options had longer shipping times), I opted for that.

The only power steering pump I could get next-day was an unbranded Chinese-made one of questionable quality, so even though it made sense to pull the belt off and do the two repairs together, I separated them and ordered a well-priced, low-mileage OEM Hitachi PS pump from a New England recycler, knowing it would take two days to get here.

I’d already figured out how to de-tension the belt to do the component test, so removing it was easy. I first downloaded an image of how the belt routed around all the pulleys, then verified that it was correct for my vehicle. I realized that the Armada is a little unusual in that the mechanical cooling fan (and its viscous clutch) doesn’t ride on the front of the water pump but on its own pulley, essentially creating a second idler pulley, so it wasn’t my imagination that the belt path appeared particularly convoluted. Fortunately, the engine compartment in the Armada is big enough that everything was accessible without having to do anything like removing the fan shroud, so replacing the tensioner assembly and the idler pulley was easy.

What was far more challenging than I expected was getting the new belt on. I foolishly thought that, to thread it onto the pulleys, all I needed to do was pass the belt between the fan and the shroud and pull it over the fan. It took me over an hour to fully understand that the only pulley that’s “inside the fan” is the fan pulley itself, and that the fan pulley was smooth, so it needed to run against the back of the belt, not the grooved part. After several attempts, I learned that the trick to putting the belt on was to take a loop of it oriented with the grooves facing outward, pass it over the fan, then put the flat back of the belt on the fan pulley. Everything else could then be placed on its pulley.

Except, of course, the tensioner. New serpentine belts are typically much tighter than old stretched belts, requiring the tensioner to be rotated much further back than was needed to release the old belt. While I was able to release the old belt using a ratchet placed from the top of the engine compartment, getting enough clearance to put an 18-inch pipe on the end of the ratchet handle required me to do it from beneath the car. I also employed the trick of using strong clothespin-style clamps to hold the belt onto pulleys that it kept sliding off during belt routing.

Getting the belt on was enough work that I didn’t look forward to having to do it again when the replacement power steering pump arrived. Although I was certain that I needed to replace it, I gave the pump a look while I was under the car. I noticed that one of the bolts on the pump bracket was loose, so I tightened it. And, although the whole issue of fluid leaks was a separate task, there was an obvious and non-trivial leak of power steering fluid from where one of the rubber PS hoses mated to a metal line. The Armada uses spring-style, constant-tension clamps for all the coolant and power steering connections. While I understand the theory behind their use, I hate these clamps, as in situations like this, there’s no way to tighten them. I used pliers to loosen the clamp, moved it backward on the hose, took a conventional worm-screw-style clamp, opened it up, slid it over the hose, closed it, and tightened it down.

I then started the Armada. Not only was the ringy rattle from the belt tensioner pulley gone, so was the noise from the power steering pump.

No way!

I thought it was a fluke, so I waited until the following 32°-morning and tried it again.

Quiet as a church mouse.

I’m not certain whether the power steering noise I was hearing through the stethoscope was just a rattle from the bolt loose on the bracket, and whether the groaning on cold turning was due to pressure loss from a little fluid leakage, but for now there’s nothing wrong with it. I need to decide whether to spend the shipping to return the $80 used power steering pump, or put it on the shelf in the garage for when the thing really does fail.

So. Armada exhaust? Done, at least for now. Belt-and-related-accessory noise? Done, at least until the power steering pump rears its head. Next week: fluid leaks.

***

Rob’s latest book, The Best Of The Hack Mechanic: 35 years of hacks, kluges, and assorted automotive mayhem is available on Amazon here. His other seven books are available here on Amazon, or you can order personally-inscribed copies from Rob’s website, www.robsiegel.com.

Check out the Hagerty Media homepage so you don’t miss a single story, or better yet, bookmark it. To get our best stories delivered right to your inbox, subscribe to our newsletters.

The post The Twisted Task of Replacing Serpentine Belts and Tensioners appeared first on Hagerty Media.

It may be hard to believe for car lovers of a certain age, but in the mid-’70s the personal luxury car was king. As popular then as combovers (oops, I meant crossovers) are today. Yes, indeed. As unusual as it may seem today, families with kids bought these midsized coupes—with super long hoods, frequently small back seats, and rampant Broughamage—as normal family cars.

And in 1976 you were spoiled for choice. Except that at General Motors you had four attractive specialty coupes, based on the workaday midsize chassis. But these coupes rode on the 116-inch wheelbase of the normal four-door models, all the more to stretch that hood, Dorothy!

First up was the Chevrolet Monte Carlo, which I fondly nicknamed Monte Cristos. The ’76 Monte added the briefly trendy vertically-stacked quad rectangular headlamps, but otherwise it was pretty similar to the ’75 version.

In fact, ALL of the ’76 PLCs got the quad rectangular headlights; it may seem simple today, but it was a big deal back then. Everyone rushed to add them to their model lineups. And so the Grand Prix also got them, replacing the neoclassically-inspired dual round headlamps that graced the 1973–75 versions.

Further up the GM hierarchy, you could also get the Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme and Supreme Brougham, as well as the Buick Regal. I’ve already waxed nostalgically on the Cutlass—a favorite of my childhood—and will write about a Regal one of these days, but let’s get back to our featured Pontiac, shall we?

The ’76 GP and only slightly facelifted ’77 are among my favorites. I simply love that waterfall grille; it’s so slick! And the “ironing board” hood. It just looks great. And Pontiac personal luxury fans apparently agreed, as a total of 228,091 1976 Grand Prixes (or is that Grandes Prix?) were sold for the model year. Not too shabby!

The 1976 model year was a great one for sheer, unapologetic color choices, too. No, 97 percent of production was not black, silver, or refrigerator white, like today! Oh, no. Among the colors you could choose from were Roman Red, Polaris Blue, Durango Bronze, Alpine Green, Cordovan Maroon, and Metalime Green—my favorite; I’d have ordered either a GP or Bonneville coupe in this color, with white interior and lime green dash and carpet!

But another fine choice, and the color of our featured GP today, was Firethorn Red, a very pretty, red-orange metallic that just glowed in the sunlight. It was a little faded on this car, but you can still see how bright and attractive it was, even with a bit of sun damage.

And it was a very popular color, seen on everything from Cutlasses to Silverados to Coupe de Villes. And this car was especially fetching with a matching interior and white landau vinyl roof. It appeared to be a very well-preserved, original car.

The 1976 Grand Prix came in two models, the $4798 coupe (about $26,007 today) and the $5223 SJ coupe ($28,310). The LJ luxury option added $520 ($2819).

The SJ, as you might surmise, was the sport version. It came with a standard 400-cubic-inch V-8 with 185 horsepower, a bump up from the base GP with its 160-hp, 350 V-8. A 455 V-8 with 200 hp was optional on all models.

And just because I felt like it, here’s a gorgeous, loaded up ’76 Grand Prix LJ I saw more recently at one of the South Park Mall monthly summer cruise nights in Moline, Illinois. It was spectacular.

It had the cushy velour interior, sport steering wheel, Rally II wheels and even cornering lights. Awooga! And for those of you taking notes, this one was painted in Firethorn Red over Cordovan Maroon.

It just goes to show how customizable these cars were back then. Many color choices, wheel choices, and engines. And even our featured car, with minimal options and the base wheel covers, looks pretty good.

As the ’76 brochure advised: “… If you can afford a lot of mid-sized cars, you can afford a new 1976 Grand Prix. You’ll get classic styling. This year highlighted by new dual rectangular headlamps. A bold new grille. A formal roofline. Monogrammed rear quarter windows. A stand-up hood ornament. And more.” Standard equipment was pretty nice too, with the aforementioned 350 V-8, Turbo Hydramatic automatic transmission, power steering, power brakes, and Pontiac Radial Tuned Suspension.

It was sharp, swank, and relatively affordable; no wonder they sold close to 230,000 of them. This survivor was spied at the 2021 Grape Festival car show in Nauvoo, Illinois. It bore a faded dealer sticker on the back, proclaiming it was sold at Carl Motors in Carthage, Illinois. I zeroed in on it and walked past several Corvettes, Camaros, and Mustangs to gawk at it and take many, many more pictures than were necessary. And before I sign off this week, can we bring back whitewall tires and two-tone paint?

***

Check out the Hagerty Media homepage so you don’t miss a single story, or better yet, bookmark it. To get our best stories delivered right to your inbox, subscribe to our newsletters.

The post 1976 Pontiac Grand Prix: Firethorn Flair appeared first on Hagerty Media.

Rivian, the embattled electric automaker behind the R1 truck/SUV and the Amazon EDV van, isn’t going down without a fight. And everyone loves an underdog, especially when their design team is tasked with making smaller, more affordable vehicles that promise the same good vibes of their current crop of aspirational designs.

That’s precisely what happened yesterday, as Rivian announced the R2 SUV and the R3 crossover. Thanks to the thoughtful body surfacing and a headlight signature that resembles a dual USB port, both concepts have the DNA of the original R1T flagship pickup.

The R2 rests on a new architecture, with party tricks like fold-down rear and front seating for camping trips. But it looks a bit derivative and dull, in a light beer served at a franchised restaurant kinda way. Enter the R3: Photos make it look far more delicious than its larger stablemate, like a hoppy craft brew served on an outdoor patio with a food truck parked nearby. While based on the R2’s platform, the R3 has a shorter wheelbase and, presumably, a cheaper asking price.

That’s a value proposition with some legs, and most of the online chatter since yesterday’s introduction is about the R3. That’s likely for good reason, as we currently have a dearth of small, affordable EVs that offer town-and-country substance with aspirational style. (Sorry Nissan Leaf and Chevy Bolt owners.)

Pricing has yet to be released, and that’s always a concern with an EV startup. Hopefully Rivian has learned from their mistakes because the R3 is hitting a chord with folks who want a cheaper vehicle with the requisite CUV dimensions and price point. This little rig does something that even the Ford Bronco Sport can’t do on with its portly, Escape-derived bones. Heck, even the clamshell hood cleans up the front view, giving good vibes on par with the affordable Kia Soul.

The R3 sits so perfectly on its haunches from the rear quarter view. The rear door’s dogleg hugs the wheel arch, evocative of the original Jeep Cherokee (XJ). The compact rear cabin makes for difficult ingress/egress, but there’s a purity to this design when paired with the upright roof pillars, flat cant rail, and aggressive horizontal bodyside creases. In a perfect world, this purity is paired with Chevy Bolt-like affordability.

But most enthusiasts can’t stop talking about the R3 trim with rally-car flair, the R3X. Analogies to the dynastic rule of the Lada Niva is prevalent across social media, and for good reason: both look like workaday passenger cars from a forgotten analog era, right down to the ride heights, upright B/C pillars, strong horizontal lines, and that flattering clamshell hood.

There’s something about the R3X that tugs at your heartstrings, just like a Lada does. (Or like a Subaru Crosstrek in a sea of Camry LEs, if vintage iron isn’t your jam.) Here we have a promise of added practicality via extra ride height, with a footprint suggesting a price point friendly to lending institutions eager to finance the lower rungs of our society. Of course, that’s relative to the $90,000-ish Rivian R1T, which I drove and quite enjoyed.

Slice the baby Riv’s look another way, and I’d suggest there’s a bit of the Group B rally Lancia Delta S4 in its design. The roofline is purposefully boxy, the creases are crispy, there’s a spoiler at the back, and the wheels fill up their arches like a race car. The latter even gives off the same anthracite vibes of the Delta HF Integrale.

The Rivian family of vehicles is starting to look like a full line of modern SUVs and crossovers for modern lifestyles. Yesterday’s unveling of the R2, R3, and R3X have put the rest of the world on notice, and Rivian is clearly serious about reducing the fixed and variable costs that are an albatross around their neck.

The questions we have left are the same for all concepts: how much and when? Rivian says R2 pricing “is expected to start around $45,000, and R3 will be priced below R2.” Deliveries for the R2 are slated for 2026, but Rivian vaguely states that R3 and R3X deliveries will start sometime after that. Fantastic.

Those hoping for an R3/R3X aren’t getting the plausible price and timeline that buyers of the Escape-based Ford Maverick received back in 2021. And that affordable trucklet still suffered from tech-company-worthy production delays and price increases despite coming from a legacy automaker. That says nothing of the concern I have around Rivian’s negative contribution margin impacting its ability to deliver future product.

And if such financial and logistical headwinds feel like bizarre choices to include in a design column like Vellum Venom, just remember the author dropped out of car design school and got himself two business degrees. While I’d love to gush over the product, perhaps it’s wiser to have cautious optimism. As Neil Young said,

“It’s gonna take a ‘Lada’ love to change the way things are.”

***

Check out the Hagerty Media homepage so you don’t miss a single story, or better yet, bookmark it. To get our best stories delivered right to your inbox, subscribe to our newsletters.

The post Vellum Venom Vignette: A Whole Lada Love For The Li’l Rivian appeared first on Hagerty Media.

I must confess that, until recently, if I had to pick an automobile brand as the one least likely to survive the industry’s inexorable pivot toward electrification, it would have been Dodge.

After all, with its reliance on muscle cars powered by hulking V-8 engines, the brand already seemed to live in a bygone era, albeit one still very close to the hearts of many. So it seemed inevitable to me that, sooner rather than later, we would be speaking about Dodge the way we do with the likes of Pontiac and Oldsmobile: in past tense only.

But, understandably, the people in charge at Auburn Hills beg to differ. The new Dodge Charger is out to prove that muscle cars can guzzle electrons or the good ol’ dinosaur juice. That’s no mean feat, and it places a considerable burden on the collective shoulders of Stellantis design chief Ralph Gilles and his team.

That’s because in a world where EVs capable of neck-snapping acceleration are commonplace and Dodge can no longer bank on the raw, primal appeal of its supercharged Hemi V-8, the new Charger’s chances of success will largely depend on its looks. But that’s just as well, because Dodge’s designers knocked this one right out of the park.

Everything has changed under the new Charger’s skin. Yet, Dodge’s designers have chosen to wrap the new technology in the reassuring comfort of nostalgia, drawing heavily on design cues from the beloved 1968–70 models. Of course, this is far from the first time they’ve done so, but never before has the end result been so compelling from all angles.

But let’s break it down, starting from the fundamentals.

Beauty in automobile design is, above all, a matter of proportions, and those who worked on the new Charger clearly got the memo. Dare I say, the new Charger has the proportions its 1968 namesake wishes it had.

Mind you, having grown up watching the Duke boys thrashing Dodge B-bodies on the telly over and over, I love the classic late ’60s Charger as much as everyone else does. Still, to my eye, the old model’s front overhang has always seemed a touch longer than it should have been. And don’t get me started on the size of the wheels and how far inset they were into the fenders!

That’s not the case with the new Charger, though. Its 20-inch wheels neatly fill the arches, and the front overhang has been kept nice and short. On the other hand, the generous length of the rear overhang allows the roofline to gracefully taper into the rear deck as it did on the classic model. So, in typical muscle-car fashion, the cabin’s volume extends rearward on the new Charger to visually “sit” over the rear axle. This helps make the car look purposeful, like a beast ready to pounce.

Once the vehicle’s basic proportions are set, the second ingredient of automobile design is what I like to call the “sculpture,” or the way exterior surfaces are modeled and interplay with one another. And I’m pleased to notice that in this regard, the new Charger is a significant step forward from Dodge’s previous efforts.

To me, the 2008 Challenger and, to a lesser extent, the 2011 Charger have always looked a bit too plump and heavy. They were handsome cars, but they lacked the degree of grace and finesse that separates a good design from an outstanding one.

But while I’ll stop short of declaring the new Charger a masterpiece, the overall execution is on another level compared to its predecessors. The body surfaces are taut, the lines are pin-sharp, and the way the chunky rear pillars merge into the quarter panels appears to have been treated even better than they were on the concept car from two years ago.

Yet perhaps my favorite aspect of the new Charger’s design is what Dodge’s PR calls the “R Wing.” We’ve already seen that feature on the 2022 concept car, but I’m glad it made production. Not only does it make for a gorgeously sculpted bonnet, but through this aerodynamic device, the designers have managed to integrate a key graphic element of the 1968 Charger (its full-width grille) and give it a thoroughly contemporary new function. Well played, Dodge.

Grilles bring us to the third main ingredient of automobile design: graphic elements. This umbrella term includes everything that “cuts” into the vehicle’s main volume, like the windows, the air intakes, the headlights and taillights, right down to and including the shutlines separating the various body panels. Dodge’s designers thankfully chose to keep things clean and functional on this front, and all the better for it.

However, I really wish Dodge went the extra mile and splurged for flush door handles. On the clean, sharp bodysides of the new Charger, those door handle recesses stick out like a sore thumb, especially so on the four-door variant. Curiously, the photo album accompanying Dodge’s press release features the two-door Charger much more prominently than the four-door, even though the latter will invariably take the lion’s share of sales. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if the four-door ends up making the two-door redundant altogether, as it looks just as attractive and is going to be way more practical.

So, the case is closed. I was wrong, and the future of Mopar muscle is bright and safe. Or is it?

Dodge had no trouble selling the outgoing Charger and Challenger models until the very end of their run, despite their age, which shows just how much love there still is for the Hemi V-8.

And that’s something no amount of digital gizmos or a few tenths shaved off a quarter mile can replace. Sure, Dodge is hedging its bets by bringing out a twin-turbo straight-six version of the new Charger next year, but whether that will be enough to keep its fans happy—or bring in new ones to replace them—remains to be seen.

Time will tell us if Mopar muscle still has a place in our electric future, but one thing is clear enough: Dodge has just made one hell of a case for it.

***

Check out the Hagerty Media homepage so you don’t miss a single story, or better yet, bookmark it. To get our best stories delivered right to your inbox, subscribe to our newsletters.

The post Why the New Dodge Charger Looks So Good appeared first on Hagerty Media.

Two funerals are now part of my car’s restoration story, a sad twist I never imagined when I started this project three years ago.

The shadow of death has marked these cars from the outset: Dino was Enzo Ferrari’s short-lived sub-brand that was named after his son. Alfredo Ferrari, nicknamed Dino, worked for his old man until he passed away from muscular dystrophy in 1956. He was just 24 years old.

In January 2021, I paid $25,000 for a 1975 Dino 308 GT4 that spent some 20 years hibernating in a SoCal garage. That 25 large was, I knew, only a down payment on this project car. I’ve had some success with previous machines and realized a long time ago that I enjoy the DIY portions and getting to know the craftspeople I hire for the jobs I can’t do, like painting and interior work. There’s the learning aspect, too—a chance to practice and improve my self-taught mechanical skills.

While the car was with a semi-retired painter in 2022, he unexpectedly passed away. I had known him for about a decade, and I always enjoyed stopping by to catch up on my car and life. One thing that I’ve learned over the years is to look for people who enjoy their craft and cars as much as I do. The shared enthusiasm brings added joy to any project.

Scrambling for another painter revealed years-long waiting lists. Through a friend, I found someone with excellent references and an opening for spring 2023. The week before I brought my car to him last March, a fire destroyed his paint booth.

Meanwhile, I’d identified a similar late-career trimmer to restore the interior. This gentleman had a one-man shop and took jobs he enjoyed rather than ones that merely paid the bills. He saw my 308 as a way to hone new skills and experiment with different interior materials. We debated colors and fabrics with vigor and I usually deferred. He took great joy in a technique he developed to replace the destroyed driver’s-seat foam. Last summer, he unexpectedly passed.

Oh, man. What is it with this car?

I’m not superstitious, but you have to wonder. My wife declared she wouldn’t ride in the car even if I finished it. Her aversion to exhaust fumes suggests, however, that the car’s potential curse might be a convenient excuse.

How does one press on? I’ve now had two painful episodes in which teary-eyed families helped me dig through soon-to-be-empty shops for car parts. How does one be respectful, but also make sure parts weren’t lost? In one instance, a shop landlord locked the doors, imprisoning my seats until the estate was worked out. I know that the GT4’s sun visors are gone. What else?

All this on top of the fact that, as regular readers may remember from my last dispatch, I had to get the engine rebuilt twice due to it burning too much oil—and smoking out my entire neighborhood in the process. Is the GT4 karmic retribution for past sins?

Last summer and fall, I waited for the new painter, who also had some family emergencies, to regroup. A June delivery date was pushed to August and then to November. I wanted to be understanding and felt like I had been, but at the same time, I was eager to get the car back. My car friends all told me to just let it ride, as the waiting is part of the game. By December, I prepared a mental script to inform the painter that I was coming to get the car in January, painted or not. I called, and before I could say anything, he told me he was painting the car next week. The pictures here were shot a week before the end of the year.

I also found another trimmer, who plans to finish the interior this winter. With any luck, I’ll drive the car this summer. Is it misguided to feel hopeful? The evidence suggests, no surprise, that I am probably the fool. My car—and some subsystems—has sat for months at various places despite assurances of reasonable timelines. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve heard, “In two weeks,” only for that time to come and go without even an acknowledgment of the missed deadline. To be clear, I’m not talking about every shop I’ve worked with, but at least half have operated in this way. It’s no secret that the pool of skilled automotive craftspeople is aging. One of the consequences, it seems to me, is that those who remain in the field have lots of power and the paying customer has surprisingly little. More often than not, the deadline is, “When I get to it.”

Am I simply the jerk or pushover who is repeatedly pushed aside for other projects? Possibly. I seek out the small, one-person operations because I get closer to the actual work and talent than I would with a big operation. I usually ask to work alongside for a day or two as a dumb set of hands so I can learn. I cherish those days. The downside, I now know, is that my strategy leaves me vulnerable to life events and capricious schedules.

Since I’ve never worked with larger organizations on a car project, I can’t advise on the difference. These restorations look straightforward, and maybe they are for well-known and popular cars like Corvettes and 911s. Oddballs like the GT4 truly are ventures into the unknown, so it could be that I’m merely a victim of bad luck.

I hope the car’s not cursed. I met another GT4 owner last fall and asked to drive his car, which refreshed my memory that I love the car not only for its controversial design, but also for the driving experience. That short jaunt brought back all the enthusiasm I had in January 2021 and reminded me why I had searched for the right Dino for many years.

For now, my Dino restoration experience offers two seemingly opposing lessons. On the one hand, we don’t know when life will end, so get moving. At the same time, perhaps, it’s a reminder that we should be patient—because sometimes, we just don’t have a choice.

***

Check out the Hagerty Media homepage so you don’t miss a single story, or better yet, bookmark it. To get our best stories delivered right to your inbox, subscribe to our newsletters.

Want more? Be part of the movement and join the Hagerty Drivers Club. 

The post Curse of the Dino: Murphy’s Law Strikes Our Editor’s $25K Ferrari appeared first on Hagerty Media.