My love of performance race cars began at Watkins Glen in 1952. Racing was a passion for my folks’ friends, so that was where we went whenever they were racing. Often, a fender bender in Friday’s time trials would put someone out of the competition for the weekend. 

In the 1950s, there was an avid racer named Bill Devin. He loved Ferraris but couldn’t afford one. Instead, he started making fiberglass bodies that could fit a variety of chassis. More specifically, they could be retrofitted to a crashed car and get it back on the track for racing. That morphed into a kit-car business. 

In July 1959, the cover of Hot Rod magazine promised exclusive cutaway art of Bill Devin’s newest creation, the Devin SS. The car was available in both finished form and as a kit. It had a tubular chassis, four-wheel independent suspension with disc brakes, Chevrolet V-8 power with a four-speed manual transmission, and a fiberglass body. It was far more exotic than any ’59 Corvette.  

Devins enjoyed great racing success, especially in SCCA competition, notching up several class and overall victories between 1958 and 1963. At Pikes Peak, hot rodder Ak Miller raced his Devin, in a variety of configurations, between 1958 and ’66, where he claimed six victories there in the C class. 

I have been fascinated with Devin cars for as long as I can remember. Several years ago, I restored a 1957 Devin S, and while I was scavenging parts I found a Devin SS body, so I bought it and tucked it away for the future.

When the “the future” finally arrived, my idea was to build a high-performance tribute car, which I called the Devin Z—to represent the very last Devin. I described my concepts to automotive custom designer Brian Stupski and hired him to create several renderings of what I was thinking.

Using the old SS body as a base, we re-engineered the wheelbase and track width to provide a slightly larger footprint that would account for greater overall performance afforded by modern components. I then commissioned a custom tube chassis from SRIII Motorsport, with four-wheel independent suspension and disc brakes using Corvette control arms. We added crash bars and rollover hoops for safety and incorporated Viking’s interactive “Berserker” coilover shocks.

Bill Devin was a huge fan of Chevrolet’s small-block V-8 and Muncie four-speed transmission, so it was important to me to retain a GM driveline. I asked Brian Thomson at Thomson Automotive to build me a dry-sump LS7 and fitted it with Harrop’s fuel-injected side-draft intake. Power—697 hp at the crank—goes to the rear wheels through a McLeod dual-disc clutch and a six-speed Getrag transaxle. Ignition and traction control are courtesy of Holley’s Dominator ECU and a Holley Digital Dash sits in front of the passenger seat, with a trick carbon cover when not in use. 

I mocked up the stainless-steel fuel tank using cardboard and repeatedly installed and uninstalled it with the body in place to assure myself it could be done once the car was finished. It sits well protected behind the roll bars and under the down bars. 

Because I had that original SS body as a platform, we were able to build onto it with foam and carve that up to achieve the desired shape. We then gave that sculpture to Motor City Solutions to create a mold for a one-off carbon-fiber body that weighed in at 161 pounds.

Meanwhile, all of the fabrication and assembly of the inner body panels, the wheel wells, the heat extractors, the engine bay, the interior panels, the fuel tank, the exhaust headers, and the side exhaust with protective shrouds were hand-made by Dave Daunheimer at Competition Fabrications. B-Forge supplied the custom wheels, with Billet Specialties helping me develop the custom adaptations to simulate knockoffs. John Hein of Riggs Brothers was responsible for the interior, and D&M Corvettes did the finish bodywork and paint. That color, Devin Z Blue, is a one-off made from discontinued PPG tints. Of course, I have an extra gallon for any misadventures.

Many of the components—the windshield base, the headlight lenses and taillight bezels, the interior escutcheons—are one-off CNC-machined originals. I began each of these components using cosplay plastics, creating an original piece that I then had laser-scanned to be machined out of aluminum. You might think the most challenging bit was the windshield base due to the complex body curves. It was difficult, yes, but the headlight lenses proved to be my nightmare—right up to the car’s debut at the 2022 Detroit Autorama.  

It all came together, however, and we were rewarded at Autorama then the Devin was selected as one of the Great 8 finalists for the Ridler Award. 

I understand that most people think it’s a kit car. It’s not. It’s an authentic, roadworthy, hand-built performance car that took 6000 hours to build. And though it debuted as a show car, it will do its best work on the track. Because it’s a tribute to a not-so-famous guy, Bill Devin. He was no Carroll Shelby, but he made significant contributions to and for the racers of his day. 

The post Not Just a Pretty Face, This Devin Z Was Built for Track Time 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. Click here to follow along with our multi-week 60 Years of Mustang coverage. —Ed.

It was too early for the phone to ring. One of my workers was on the line, out of breath, saying that the Mustang was gone. Stolen!  

I had left my beloved ’65 Mustang GT convertible in the fenced, locked yard at my office. The thieves managed to cut multiple padlocks, moved a 15-foot truck, and got away with my baby.

When I was a teenager growing up in Mexico, I saw the French movie A Man and a Woman and fell in love—with the ’65 Mustang convertible. I told my mom, “I’m going to have that car one day.” Years later, I graduated from college in the U.S. and surprised my mom by showing off El Poni, my Rangoon Red ’65 Mustang GT convertible. She cried.

Fast forward a couple of decades, and El Poni was on blocks in the garage, with vermin living comfortably in the engine compartment. My wife told me I needed to fix it or sell it. I couldn’t part with the car, so I put in the time and money to build it into a show piece. I was rewarded with the biggest surprise of my life when I won the Mayor’s Trophy at the 2019 La Jolla Concours d’Elegance.

A few months later, we were in the middle of the Covid pandemic, and El Poni was gone. I was heartbroken, and so were my friends and family. My wife and I drove around neighborhoods in hopes of finding the car, to no avail. We reported the theft but heard nothing.

Then, a miracle. A year and a half after the theft, I found a listing for a red ’65 Mustang GT convertible on eBay. I stared at the photos and saw that the rear window was glass instead of vinyl. Then I saw the custom armrest. Then the gold-painted air filter painted gold. I knew it was mine.

Amazingly, the people selling on eBay listed their city and included a photo of the car taken in front of their condo. A detective from the Chino Police Department, who happened to own a ’66 Mustang convertible, located the car with the assistance of the California Highway Patrol. The VIN plate on the driver’s side had been punched out. To verify the VIN, the passenger-side fender—held on by 18 bolts—would have to be removed. The detective had a better idea: He asked if there was something specific that would identify the car as mine. I remembered I’d put a red plastic straw in the windshield washer bag to hold it up. And when the detective opened the hood, he exclaimed “Yep, it’s your car! Come and get it.”

I went to church and lit a candle, so grateful to have this beloved car once again.

***

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April 17 marked 60 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.

When the 289 in my 1965 GT Mustang was ready for a rebuild after 15 years of driving, I made a decision not unfamiliar to owners of original Mustangs: If I was going to pull the car’s motor and have it overhauled, why not take the next step and upgrade the driving experience? Rather than opting for a stroker kit, a roller cam, or some other modern engine upgrade, however, I decided to do something a bit more historic: a period-correct conversion of my car’s original 225-hp A-code into a replica of the high-performance, solid-lifter K-code 289. In fact, while my mechanic and I were at it, why not push the replica idea to the next step and give the car a “Cobra 289,” the 306-hp version of the engine Carroll Shelby tweaked for the GT350?

Now, this kind of transformation has been an enthusiast option that goes all the way back to 1965. It’s been the subject plenty of magazine and online articles and videos, and you can buy replica K-code 289s on eBay.

The coupe was far and away the most common body style of those original Mustangs. Ford moved more than a million coupes in the first generation but barely 100,000 fastbacks, and two-thirds of those sold in 1965. After the first year’s novelty, fastback sales plunged drastically.

For those of us who were on the scene then, none of this is a mystery. The coupes were minimally less expensive than the fastback or convertible, but that wasn’t the reason 80 percent of all 1965–66 Mustangs were coupes. Rather, the ’60s generation simply preferred the original, the version Lee Iacocca sprang on the world in the spring of 1964, the car that won the Tiffany Award for Excellence in Design. At a time when many Mustang buyers owned only one car, coupes offered a slight advantage in rear seat headroom and trunk space over fastbacks. They even possessed a slight performance edge as they were the lightest of the three body styles. As dazzling as the sleek fastbacks seem now, as fetching as convertibles are in the market, in the 1960s, it was easy to be smitten with the Mustang coupe. Only after about 1968 did the fastback Mustang begin to replace the coupe in our collective affections.

In high school and college I owned three Mustangs—a pair of Springtime Yellow ’66 coupes and a Candy Apple Red ’68 fastback. But none of those cars approached the special qualities of the car I bought in 2004 to salve my Mustang nostalgia. What I had always swooned over was an original GT, the first performance/cosmetic version of the Mustang. Offered only with the two top engines, Mustang GTs got disc brakes, quicker steering, and stiffer suspensions, along with eye candy like round gauges with 140-mph speedometers, fog lights, trumpet exhausts through the rear body, and racing stripes.

The GT cars were beautiful regardless of body style, but another original Mustang truth is that the majority of factory GT cars were coupes. Most weren’t strippers, though. As period road tests (like the one Motor Trend did of a ’66 GT) and books on Mustang history offer as evidence, a common look for the original GT Mustang was a coupe with a two-tone body, with rocker panel racing stripes matched to a black or cream vinyl top designed to set off a complementary paint color. It was a striking aesthetic combination then, and still is now.

This was the Mustang that had always entranced me. What I found and bought in 2004 was one of the first run of Mustang GTs built. It came out of the San Jose plant in May 1965, the second full month of GT production, as a two-toned coupe with white stripes and cream vinyl top gracing a Silver Blue body. Driven off the truck onto the Al Cheney Ford lot in Santa Cruz, California, the car was absolutely loaded. Beyond the GT package and A-code 289, its options included Cruise-O-Matic, air conditioning, power steering, Rally-Pac gauges, styled-steel wheels, dual red-band tires, an Equalock differential, deluxe two-tone interior, deluxe steering wheel, deluxe seat belts, a console, radio, a vinyl top, banded tinted glass, the convenience group, backup lights, an interior-controlled side mirror, a passenger side mirror, and two-speed wipers. Despite lacking the ultimate option—the Hi-Po engine—with delivery and dealer prep, this car was a $4000 showroom starlet, rare altitude for a factory Mustang.

Then there was its subsequent history. As a loaded GT, it had clearly impressed its early owners enough that when it came to me 40 years down the line, not only were its factory engine and transmission still in place, it still sported all its date-coded tinted glass. Equally indicative of a rare, no-hit lifetime, fore and aft it wore its first set of dealer license plate frames from that initial Santa Cruz sale at Al Cheney Ford. Fingering the patina on its worn ignition key, a friend offered that when that key was bright and new this car would have been cruising California’s Highway 1 with the Beatles’ latest, Rubber Soul, playing on its radio.

The car came to me with a ten-year-old, mostly cosmetic restoration familiar to anyone who watches auto-garage TV. The engine had gotten a rebuild, and the car had been resprayed in its original color and given a new interior. Aesthetically, it was gorgeous. Beneath the skin, as a mechanic who looked at it for me said, it was “bone stock.” I proceeded to replace the woodgrain appliques on the dash with real wood and attended to various faults as they surfaced. But in its new home at the foot of the Rockies in Santa Fe, New Mexico, for its next 20,000 miles I mostly just drove it. Eventually, a tired and protesting suspension, grabbing brakes, faltering compression, and oil smoke on start-up signaled the time for a full mechanical restoration.

In good tune, a 289 Mustang is a lovely road-trip or daily-driver car. Few of us really use collector cars that way, though. I mostly drive my classics on local roads to enjoy their acceleration, their throttle response, and the analog way they react to driver inputs. An A-code 289 is still torquey enough to run light-to-light with modern city traffic, but no one would call it scintillating on an empty road. No one did in the day, for that matter. Motor Trend’s road test of a ’66 GT yielded a 0–60 time of 9.5 seconds and the quarter-mile in 17 seconds, at 81 mph. Riding in the Silver Blue coupe the first time, my wife’s reaction was, “So this is mainly a car that sounds nice, huh?”

So, with a loaded and very sound ’65 GT in need of a mechanical restoration, the time was at hand for whatever upgrades I envisioned for it. Why not impart, then, the kind of performance those GT cosmetics and red-band tires had always implied? Why not give this GT that one option it didn’t get in 1965?

A historical upgrade seemed proper, anyway. This was a car so straight out of the ’60s it begged for a period hop-up. I turned the restoration over to Steve Chiulli of Green Monkey Coachworks in Santa Fe. Operating from my obsessively researched build plans, Chiulli launched a mechanical restoration that took nearly eight months. Saving the replica Cobra 289 engine for the moment, here’s what we created.

An entirely new suspension was part of the work, so we started by mimicking one of the handling tricks Shelby’s shakedown driver, Ken Miles, developed for the GT350: dropping the pivot point for the control arms one inch to keep the wheels upright in fast cornering. This gave the finished car the raked stance of the 1965 GT350. We used another Shelby/Miles trick to get additional stiffness, adding the more robust “export brace” and a “Monte Carlo bar” to the engine bay. As with GT350s, red Koni shocks became a part of the rebuilt suspension. We then traded out the leisurely 3.00:1 A-code final gearing for a much shorter 3.80:1 ring-and-pinion limited-slip differential. With the A-code’s 8-inch differential, that was the closest match to the 3.89:1 Shelby utilized in the 8.75-inch diff of the GT350. Finally, following Ford’s lead when it mated the K-code with Cruise-O-Matic, we gave the transmission a general uprating along with a shift kit.

Converting my A-code 289 into a replica Hi-Po, then Shelbyizing it to GT350 specs, was the heart of this rebuild. And critical to the beating heart of the Ford high-performance 289 was its solid-lifter camshaft. We sourced one for my engine from Comp Cams, whose Nostalgia Plus K-Kit promised a “tight lash with the distinctive sound and character of Ford’s 271-hp 289.” Installing this re-creation Hi-Po cam in my rebuilt 289 block involved machining the A-code heads to accommodate a K-code valvetrain, including recessing the spring seats for the stronger valve springs and machining for screw-in rocker arms. New flat-topped pistons provided the K-code’s high compression. That done, we replaced the cast A-code intake with an aluminum hi-riser, then changed out the 480-cfm Autolite four-barrel for a remanufactured 600-cfm Autolite. Shelby used a 715-cfm Holley on manual GT350s, but his automatic cars retained the 600, so we did, too.

On the exhaust end, Tri-Y headers replaced the A-code manifolds, then fed through MagnaFlow glasspack mufflers to the standard GT trumpet exhausts. Rather than the original dual-point distributor, we added spark with an electronic MSD unit with mechanical advance and a Flamethrower coil. Other additions involved replacing base 289 motor mounts with K-code motor mounts and installing a K-code harmonic balancer and high pressure oil pump with the larger Cobra oil pan. Classic 1965 Cobra valve covers provided the final touch.

The result is a luxury GT Mustang wrapped around the performance drivetrain of a GT350, and it runs and drives like a sports car.

For those who have never driven a Cobra or a Mustang outfitted with the high-performance 289 engine (I hadn’t), it’s a revelation. Whirring solid-lifters and a shorter axle make for a noisier drive than in ordinary Mustangs, but the snarling throttle response, ability to rev beyond 6000 rpm, and strong acceleration pull at any speed are exciting, even half a century later. Rebuilt this way, a Mustang that had been a pretty but sedate commuter now steers, brakes, corners, accelerates, and sounds like a performance sports coupe. I’m a convert.

***

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April 17 marks 60 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.

In 1979, while living in Columbus, Montana, my wife and I purchased our first Mustang, a rust-free ’66, and spent several thousand dollars having it restored to show quality. The car spent many months in and out of various garages for extensive work—an engine and transmission rebuild, new brakes and fuel system, new interior, and a beautiful new paint job.

Five days after picking up the Mustang from the paint shop, our daughter was driving it to meet a bus at school when an oil truck turned left in front of her and she hit the truck broadside. Luckily, our daughter wasn’t seriously injured, but the accident totaled the Mustang.

I wanted another Mustang, so I started searching almost immediately. I looked at several 1965–67 models, and while many looked good from the outside, up on the lift I noted severe problems. I wanted a straight, rust-free original, and after nearly four months of looking, I found a 1965 GT—an original A-code with a 289 V-8 and automatic transmission. The car looked sharp in its original Springtime Yellow paint with black GT stripes.

Over next five years, we drove it periodically on sunny days, but in 1985 we relocated to northern Ohio, and I drove that ’65 across the country with no problems. In 1990, after another move, to southern Ohio, we put the Mustang in storage, driving it 100–200 miles a year just to keep it running. In 1998, those periodic drives stopped and the car sat unused until 2016, when we decided to give the Mustang to our 40-year-old son, who had wanted it for many years.

Over the next 13 months, we had the car completely restored, and today it is again a beautiful GT that looks like it just came off the showroom floor.

***

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April 17 marks 60 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.

This is the story of a “survivor” Mustang that was purchased twice by the same man, my father-in-law, Gene Herring of Belle Plaine, Iowa, almost 40 years apart.

In the late spring of 1964, Gene was in bed recovering from the mumps when he saw a two-page ad in Look magazine for the new Ford Mustang. The car pictured was Prairie Bronze, and in an instant he knew he would have one.

On June 20, he walked into Winders Motor Co. in Bell Plaine and placed his order. “I got to pick out the colors I wanted, the engine, everything,” he told me. And what he wanted was a Prairie Bronze hardtop. The 260-cubic-inch V-8 was only available for order from March 5 to July 31, and that’s what he chose, paired with a three-speed manual, plus the following options: center console, power steering, air conditioning, AM radio, tinted glass, padded visors, and backup lights. He didn’t order the driver’s side mirror, due to its placement, so instead he had the dealership mount a mirror from a 1963 Galaxie farther down the hood.

Gene had a number of other cars in addition to the Mustang, but this one was his pride and joy. Both his daughters came home in it from the hospital when they were born. He loved to take it on trips, and he always drove it in the local 4th of July parades.

By 1978, the family had outgrown the car. “We had two little girls and we figured we needed a station wagon,” he said. After 14 years and 62,000 miles, Gene traded in the car to a friend at Bevins Ford who was also a Mustang admirer. Instead of selling the car, he decided clean up some rust around the rockers (Iowa gravel roads) and keep it in his showroom for 25 years. He took it out on occasion for parades with a “Not for Sale” sign in the window.

This is the part of the story where I come in. I’m the current owner, married to Gene’s eldest daughter. I’m a lover of original cars. Always have been. My wife and I started dating in 1996, and when I first met my future father-in-law that year, he told me the story of his Mustang. I told him if Bevins was to ever offer him his car back to just say yes! We’d come up with the money somehow. I wanted him to have that car back probably as much as he did.

Well, in October 2003, the “Not for Sale” sign finally came off the car, and Bevins asked Gene, “Do you want it?”

Gene was barely able to hold back the tears. “I’d love it!” he told Bevins. “You know, if I was getting delivery of a brand-new Lincoln, I wouldn’t be a bit happier than I am with this car.” The Mustang barely had 500 additional miles on it since he had traded it in 25 years prior.

After that, whenever my wife and I headed out to Iowa, I’d find any excuse to go out to the garage, because all I wanted to do was go through the car. How are the fluids? Are the brakes pulling? What needs attention?

Then, one day in September 2012, Gene and his wife Joan were out visiting us in Colorado. “When is the last time you drove it?” I asked him. “You have to drive it or things will dry out.”

“Oh, whenever the last time you were out. I suppose” Gene said. Which meant it had been more than a year. After giving him an earful, he said, “Why don’t you just take it?”

I am no fool, so of course I took him up on the offer. Two months later I towed it back from Iowa, and over time I paid him what I could, when I could, until finally he said “Stop paying me for that car. I’m sure you’ve paid enough.”

For the last 12 years I have taken care of this original early Mustang. It lives at 8000 feet in the north central Colorado Rockies and runs great. To my knowledge, it is completely original, barring a dual-reservoir brake cylinder (though the original one still works great!) and typical things like tires, belts, and such. The odometer reads 65,543 miles.

Sadly, Gene passed away this past December at 90 years old. I will always be grateful for the time he let me drive his Prairie Bronze Mustang in the 4th of July parade in Belle Plaine while he sat in the passenger seat and waved. And I will never forget when we placed third overall at the esteemed Sauerkraut Days Car Show in Blairstown, Iowa. That’s right. If you’ve never had classic cars with your sauerkraut, you’re missing out, my friend.

***

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March 30, 1974, was a rainy Saturday in Southern California. I spent the afternoon with Joe Van Pelt, the sales manager at Glendale Dodge, to place a Special Factory Order for a new 1974 Dodge Charger SE. We went through the sales catalog while I selected the optional equipment that I wanted: brocade cloth upholstery, plush carpeting, air conditioning, power steering, brakes, and windows, cruise control. Although the Charger was more of a personal luxury car by 1974, I ordered all of the performance and heavy-duty options, like the 440 High Performance engine and 3.21:1 Sure Grip rear axle. Finished, I gave him a check for $150.00 as a deposit and the order was sent off to Chrysler.

My triple-black Charger was built at Chrysler’s St. Louis Assembly at Fenton, Missouri, on April 16. It was delivered to me on May 6; the total price was $5,360.75. I still have my copy of the sales contract, the deposit receipt, loan contract, loan payment stubs, owner’s manual, broadcast sheet, and factory service manuals.  

According to the International Chrysler Collectors Authority, of the 72,376 Dodge Chargers produced in 1974, this Charger is one of only 204 to be built with the sales code E86 440 High Performance engine (VIN code “U”). This engine had the heavy-duty Six Pack connecting rods, a forged crankshaft, 440 Magnum camshaft, and an 850 cfm Carter ThermoQuad carburetor. Even though it’s a smog-era engine with an 8.2:1 compression ratio, it was rated at a healthy 275 horsepower.

My Charger has been a part of our family for 50 years. My wife and I went on our first date in this car. Driving it home from my grandparents’ 50th anniversary celebration, I proposed to her. When our son was born, we drove him home from the hospital in it. 16 years later, I taught him to drive it.

Needless to say, I’ve taken good care of my Charger over the years. The car was repainted in 2019 by Abel Lopez at AutoCraft, the bumpers were re-chromed, and new glass was installed. Also, a new Legendary Interiors upholstery set was just installed.

The original 440 engine (which had been previously rebuilt by Dick Landy Industries) self-destructed at 187,303.9 miles. The number two connecting rod broke, knocking out both sides of the cylinder block. A new engine, bored 0.040 over to 448 cubic inches and with 10.2:1 compression, was built by Shallcross Restorations in Chatsworth, California. The numbers-matching ThermoQuad carburetor was sent to Harms Automotive, in Spokane, Washington, for restoration; the Torqueflite was overhauled by CRC Transmissions here in Thousand Oaks; and the differential by Hoopers Rear Ends in Sun Valley. The power steering pump and steering gearbox were overhauled by Firm Feel in Vancouver, Washington.

My Charger is still going strong. To date it has accumulated more than 188,000 miles.

***

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“If you keep it, Susan, drive it.”

In the beginning, it was his car. The second of two old Porsches. The first was a white 1967 912 with a bit of rust, acquired a year out of undergraduate school. We had known each other for a few years at that point, having met at a student convention in Lincoln, Nebraska. Me? A naive Staten Islander still living with her parents and commuting to college in Brooklyn. Him? An intense, funny, intellectual Jewish boy from New England who could build and fix anything.

Fast-forward to 1991, and we were living in Alabama, married, and still paying off student loans. The new pride and joy was a 1970 911 T in glorious Albert Blue, purchased from the original owner in Birmingham for $7000, a price that made us both gasp. I sold my car, he sold the 912 and his motorcycle, and we sucked it up and signed the note for the balance. I say “we,” but it was most definitely his car. Not that he didn’t share it, but the 911 and Ross were one. I was the extra.

It was still a glorious car in June of 1999 as we sat at our dining room table late one evening. I was fresh out of graduate school in a new job, and our two sons were in bed.

“If you keep it, Susan, drive it.”

He died of a glioblastoma brain tumor two weeks later, 17 months after his initial diagnosis of terminal cancer. I had a 5-year-old and a 5-month-old, no nearby family, two jobs, and was exhausted. All the time.

Beyond that, it wasn’t my car. As much as I loved it, I wouldn’t have chosen it. (I’d have wanted something with air conditioning, for starters.)

Yet I kept the car, a desperate attempt to hold on to as much of him as possible. It felt like guardianship—holding it in trust for my sons. Getting it through inspection that summer took three days in 100-degree heat, my infant son in a car seat in the back, visiting four different dealers and auto shops to get the parts needed and work done. I almost heard him laughing at me.

I powered through the expense and inconvenience for years: storage in winters, waiting for parts on back order, a restoration that cost twice as much as expected. And I did drive the car, even taking it to the track for driver’s ed. Things eventually got easier, with the children growing up (including a daughter from a second marriage), my career established, and more time on my hands.

Last spring, I pulled off the cover and spent hours fiddling with the things needed to wake the car from its winter slumber. In the past, there had always been a soccer game to get to, a lawn to mow, dinners to make, a project due. That spring morning, I settled down to the steady work and the feel of tools in my hand. When I was done, I gave the car a loving wash. I took a shower, got dressed, and put on some lipstick (I always wear lipstick when driving the blue car). I took to spectacular roads through the Green Mountain National Forest in Vermont. The leaves were that bright shade of green that only lasts a moment as they unfurl from their tight buds. Every river and stream was running high, and the sky was a brilliant blue. I lost track of time and forgot to eat lunch and flirted with the men who admired my wheels. I came back late in the day with a car that was, finally, mine.

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The post The Day His Car Became Mine appeared first on Hagerty Media.

Last summer, Mr. Beamer emailed me the following tale. By the second line, I was hooked by his direct but plain language that so eloquently communicated not just the who, what, and where but also the emotions behind the facts—rare, even among professional writers. We endeavor to present Member Stories as they were sent to us, editing only for clarity, length, and style, but we loved Beamer’s original prose so much that we’re presenting it in its entirety. Let me know what you think. — Larry

My father bought this ’38 Chevy when I was one year old. I would call it mine but in my mind it will always be his.

He left the Virginia farm at 17, in 1956, for the Army. When he was discharged in 1959, he had saved enough money to marry my Momma and buy a new Impala. 348 with three deuces, three-speed, and Posi-Traction.

He told me he knew so little about cars, the first time he tried to change the oil, he screwed out the drain plug in the transmission. Pisser. Over the next few years, he sure educated himself. Soon the Impala had a 409 with two fours, a four-speed, and 4.56 gears. Drag racing was his thing. He had a ’59 El Camino he used to tow Impala to the track. Transmission came out of the El Camino one night coming up Fancy Gap Mountain, so he fired the Impala up and with the help of Roby Felts steering pushed it home.

He used to ride around on weekends looking for parts he could use or make a dollar on. Junkyards and garages. One weekend, he saw this ’38 Chevy sitting at Lucky Carson’s garage with no motor. He knew the car from drag strips, probably Farmington or East Bend. Lucky priced it to Daddy for $225. Sounds cheap today, but the man only made a dollar an hour at a local knitting plant that closed about 40 years ago. The car still had its original paint.

He and Momma went back the next week with his money, and some he had borrowed from friends. Lucky said he’d changed his mind and wasn’t interested in selling the car. Daddy said he was there for the car and Lucky was a man of his word so he started writing a receipt. Daddy said he had $200 in what we used to call a trucker’s wallet, which was attached to him with a chain, and the other $25 in a money clip. He gave Lucky the $200 and was reaching for the $25 when he saw Lucky write the price of $200 on the ticket, so he kept the other $25 in his pocket. Money has always been hard to come by. My dad was an honest man, but that’s how he bought the car. He and Lucky were friends and I know had a few laughs about it later.

They towed the coupe home and soon it was hitting the tracks with a 409 and two fours. It evolved to have a 375-hp 396. I was riding shotgun on a warm-up pass when the big block dropped a valve.

That ended its racing career. Daddy had plans and bought a mid-’60s Vette to build a better dragster. The coupe was not ignored. He thought it too nice of a car to ruin on a drag strip, so he went to work making it what I guess we now call a street rod. New 370-hp 350 LT-1 with angle-plug heads, Crane roller valvetrain, and tunnel ram. Interior benefited from the remains of a ’67 SS Chevelle. In its day, for our part of the world, it was showworthy. Then it mostly sat.

I always claimed it as my car. During and after high school, I had some pretty good hot rods, but in the mid-’80s I was lured away by the speed of motorcycles and stayed there for about 20 years. Fast forward and commitments keep me from killing myself having fun, and Daddy thinks what I really have always thought about as my car needs to move. I told him knowing what it might be worth I couldn’t afford to buy it.

One day in the mid-2000s, I was working on the farm and I saw his rollback coming down the road with the coupe riding along. It needed some work and it took a while, but I got it up to spec. He was proud of it. When I had it about right, a few years ago, we went riding around on Father’s Day.

I don’t have my father anymore but I sure understand how he felt as a younger man, and his need for speed.

I need to wipe away a few tears now. I’d been thinking about sending you this but didn’t know how to send you the pictures I wanted you to have. I had an accident and have been broke down for a couple of months.

I’m rolling the dice and hitting send before I sober up.

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The post In My Own Words: Dad’s Memory Lives in This 1938 Chevrolet Master appeared first on Hagerty Media.

Back in 1982, when we had a “gas shortage” and fuel prices went up substantially, many folks switched to diesel cars and trucks. I bought a new 1982 VW Rabbit diesel pickup truck. I kept it for about 20 years as I liked driving it so much, and it got 40 mpg, no matter how I drove it.

When the Dodge Rampage came out in 1982, I liked the looks of it much better than the VW. It also had more power and better carrying capacity than the VW did. And with its longer chassis, the Rampage offered more seat travel a slightly longer cargo box.

The half-ton Rampage was built in Belvidere, Illinois but only for three years, 1982–84, with total production of 37,401. My 1984 Rampage left the factory on September 22, 1984.

Rampages were made on the Dodge Charger chassis and are Charger from the front seats forward. The wheelbase was lengthened from 99 to 104 inches to allow for the pickup box, and the rear springs were heavy duty to accommodate cargo. The base price for 1984 was $6800, or $7300 if you opted for the 96-hp 2.2-liter 4-cylinder. It’s front-wheel-drive, and disc brakes and rack-and-pinion steering were standard, so this little truck really handles like a car. It also gets 30 mpg on the highway.

My Rampage has the 2.2 engine and a three-speed automatic transmission, along with a custom paint design, custom interior, and oversized 15-inch wheels. It’s a rust-free southern truck that was acquired new by NASA and used as a security patrol vehicle at one of its sites. There is still a NASA government sticker on the left door frame.

The agency had two Rampages at this location, both stripped-down models in white with brown interiors and bench seats, and when it was through with them, they were sold to a couple of auto auction companies and then on to a fellow in Nashville. He restored one of them for his wife and started on the other but had to quit working on it after an injury. I bought the unfinished one from him and have slowly restored it as time permitted.

I spent a few winters slowly restoring all the mechanical components as well as replacing the windshield and completely replacing the interior. I had to rebuild the headliner fiberboard with fiberglass and replace many of the electrical components behind the dash and in the engine compartment. I replaced all the brake system and had the rack-and-pinion assembly rebuilt. It has all new ignition system components and a new fuel system, including the tank. As is the case with most small Chrysler products from this era, I had quite a session getting the engine to idle correctly. I rebuilt the Holley carb, which didn’t help, and then sent it out to a Holley specialist to have them go through it. It still didn’t idle right.

After I found metal shavings in the oil pan, I overhauled the engine, and while it was apart I had the it balanced and bored .030 over, but it still didn’t run correctly.

I finally discovered someone that had previously replaced the carburetor with a carb body that had one too many vacuum lines running to it, according to the emissions system diagrams. Once I eliminated one of the vac lines and plugged that extra port, the engine ran just fine. I had spent more than a year and way too many dollars chasing this problem, so needless to say I was very excited when I got it sorted.

Today the Rampage drives really well and turns heads wherever it goes. In its day, the 2.2 engine was advertised as a mini torque monster. It won’t win any races (unless you’re up against a diesel Rabbit), but when you come to a hill it just powers its way up without losing much speed. As far as I’m concerned it doesn’t need any more horsepower to be fun to drive.

“I never knew Chrysler built such a truck,” is the most frequent comment I hear at car shows. Another is, “Why did you restore this thing?” That’s easy: I wanted something different, something you never see anymore. I also get asked if it’s for sale, but I really can’t think of anything I would replace it with.—Richard Pedersen, Tony, Wisconsin

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In 1976, I was 12 years old and really into cars. My friend Tim and I would ride our bicycles all over suburban Boston to scour car dealerships for their point-of-purchase brochures. That summer, Chevrolet unveiled “The New Chevrolet,” a completely redesigned full-sized B-Body Caprice and Impala. I still recall seeing an ad and being so mesmerized by the new design. That feeling stuck with me, simmering on a low flame within my subconscious into adulthood.

I’ve been in music my whole career, and early on I got into the world of high-end audiophile music systems and exotic cars. Eventually I opened a car audio/security shop in Fairfield, Connecticut, called Audio Coupe. One day around town, I happened to see two unmarked 1988 9C1 police-package Caprices being prepped for decommission and auction. One of them, this car, had been primarily used to give out parking tickets at the local train station and had clearly been well maintained, so I decided to buy it. My wife likes to remind me that I went to register the car a few days after our daughter was born in early June, 1996. I paid $2800 for the car.

Even with 90,000 miles on it and worn police-issue Firestone tires, the Caprice lay flat through turns, much more adeptly than you might expect for a sizable sedan. Mind you, this is no BMW M5—but I was surprised how well it performed overall and how reliable the Quadrajet carburetor was.

The police-issue bucket seats over rubber floors were an odd look but I liked it, so I just replaced the flooring with fresh rubber, refreshed other worn parts, and had the seats reconstructed.

The stock 350 small-block was low horsepower/high torque, and the final drive was 3:08, so the car was fun off the line, had a silly top speed, and barely made it up steep hills. The first two things I fixed were the exhaust system and the balky, always-hunting 700R4 automatic with overdrive. For the former, I had a custom dual stainless 2.25-inch system made up, and the latter was replaced with a high-performance 700R4 with manual lockup. I’m a cruiser, not a racer, and it has been marvelous for years.

I chose the best body shop around—they were all hot rod guys—and had the car carefully massaged and sprayed with a slightly modified version of the factory color and many layers of lovingly sanded clear coat. I used factory-new Chevy parts to replace all of the rubber gaskets and chrome trim, the bumpers, and the mirrors, and I ditched all of the glue-on trim, the hood ornament, the AM/FM antenna, and the spotlight in order to get the cleanest possible look.

Regardless of the tortuous task of keeping up with revolving EPA regulations during the 1970s and ’80s, GM most certainly should be ashamed of itself for the mess under the hood that it turned loose on customers throughout the era. When addressing the engine bay, I asked my builder to clean house and start fresh. I wanted something utilitarian and sensible.

I chose a turnkey small-block from Chevy called the Fast Burn 385, which is the venerable ZZ4 with upgraded aluminum heads, a Holley 750 and a serpentine belt system. We put the motor on a dyno and it gave me back just under 400 hp, perfect for my recreational cruising and the occasional charity car show here in my new hometown of St. Petersburg, Florida.

We ditched the ugly fan shroud and installed electric fans, chucked the ugly plastic bottles for the washer fluid and coolant overflow and replaced those with stainless containers tucked out of the way. I then added an aircraft-grade aluminum fresh air intake system reminiscent of the old Ram Air concept, with a snorkel under the bumper on the driver’s side.

The 700R4 transmission has been flawless, spinning my custom-made driveshaft and U-joints back to a Moser Engineering Ford 9-inch limited-slip 3.73:1 rear end. The car sits on Bilstein shocks and new springs, slightly lowered from the factory stance, with new Hotchkiss suspension and sway bars front and rear. The brakes are Wilwood vented discs front and rear. I was super careful in hunting for wheels, seeking to upgrade performance but maintain a retro visual appearance. The offset American Racing 18-inch Rally rims did the trick beautifully, letting me spin down the highway on fat Michelin tires.

Inside, I added a Dakota Digital instrument cluster that gives me an integrated tachometer, and of course I built a music system that sounds great but is not visible in any way. I replaced the 1988 windshield with glass from a 1977 model so I could get the AM/FM antenna in the window and lose the fender-mounted mast.

I have had the Caprice for 27 years now. It has that traditional muscle car rumble at just the right volume, and people seem to appreciate it more as I drive by or pull into a cruise night. They also like to share stories of the four-door family hauler their parents had when they were kids. Some people are puzzled as to why I chose this car, and I totally get that. Building a Caprice is an irrational thing to do—certainly not with the potent resale value of a Corvette or Camaro. But it is my counter-culture hot rod, and that’s perfectly fine with me.

***

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Unless you’re descended from one of the Dodge Brothers, or from Abraham Lincoln, or your parents named you “Tiguan,” then there probably isn’t a car out there with your name on it. My name is Cedric, and I’m one of the lucky ones.

From 1960 to 2015, the upscale Nissan Cedric was sold in the Japanese domestic market as a sedan, a wagon, a van, and a commercial taxi. For one year only, 1964, Nissan exported around a hundred left-hand-drive variants to the U.S. and Canada, but sales were apparently a disaster, and the experiment came to a swift end. Conveniently, I happen to own one of those rare 1964 sedans.

For 43 years, I was a professor of Biomedical Engineering at Tulane University in New Orleans. I retired in early 2020, just as the pandemic was raging, so there was no opportunity for a party or event to commemorate my career at the university. But that summer, one of my former students, Jim Dillard, happened to see a worn but complete, U.S.-market 1964 Nissan Cedric in the RM Sotheby’s catalog for the 2020 Fall Auburn auction. After sharing his plan (secretly) with my wife, Julia, he bought the Cedric for $2750 with an eye toward getting it restored and presenting it to his favorite college professor as a retirement gift, once gatherings were allowed.

Dillard is a well-known collector; he won best in class at the 2020 Amelia Island Concours for his meticulously restored 1958 Ducati 125. He shipped the Cedric to Custom Classics Automobiles in Island Lake, Illinois, where owner Bryan Reehoff and his great team brought it back to as-new condition in a year-long process.

In November 2021, during Tulane’s homecoming weekend, I was on campus for another event when I was lured to an outdoor party where the car was under wraps and many of my colleagues and former students were gathered for the presentation by Dillard. A Tulane news release called it “the gift of a lifetime” and even quoted me after the event: “Every time I sit in the car, I’m reminded of how a professor is so privileged to be able to form lasting connections and friendships with former students like Jim Dillard.”

Cedric (the car) has its original 1900-cc four-cylinder engine, a two-barrel carburetor, and a three-on-the-tree shifter. This export version has a speedometer and odometer calibrated in miles. The name badges on the body all identify it as a Nissan though the VIN plate in the engine compartment says it’s a Datsun. Interestingly, all of the fasteners are SAE-spec rather than metric, because the tooling for production came from Austin in England. The color is not original but is now a beautiful custom tint chosen by Custom Classics.

I enjoy bringing my namesake Nissan to local cars and coffee shows, where it attracts a lot of attention. The car drives easily in traffic and has plenty of pickup on the highway. I’ve been a car guy all of my life, and I still own the 1961 Corvair I used in my driving test the day after my 16th birthday. This Cedric is a testament to 1960s style and engineering, but it is also a lasting tribute to a special friendship between a student and his mentor. I couldn’t have received a more thoughtful gift.

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The post This Nissan Cedric Is Nominative Determinism on Wheels appeared first on Hagerty Media.

Cars were my first love. As a young boy in the 1960s, I spent most days on my grandfather’s used-car lot, the California Car Company, in Green Bay, Wisconsin. My favorite car at that age was a 1948 Chrysler Town and Country Convertible; so much eyeball and style. Accordingly, when I began collecting in the mid-1990s, woodie cars were my focus. The first collector car I acquired was at the 1995 Barrett Jackson Auction, a 1946 Ford Deluxe woodie wagon. For me, it was cabin culture personified and the perfect cabin car for my then-young family of five as we spent our summers on Gull Lake in northern Minnesota. The family woodie was, as I had hoped, the perfect historical addition to the cabin. Fitting, as to know me is to know that history is my territory, and the love of history is fundamental to all my collecting.

My passion for classic mahogany boats goes back, again, to when I was a young boy. I spent summers pulling crab traps on commercial fishing boats on the Eagle River chain of lakes in Wisconsin. Throughout the summer I’d watch the wealthy lake residents speed by in their classic mahogany boats. The seductive lines, the flashing of the brilliant chrome hardware, the deep-throated rumbling of the powerful engines puncturing the Northwoods silence. I was hooked. I told myself that, someday, I would have one.

Fast-forward 30 years, to the summer of 1995, the inaugural summer at our family cabin, Timberstone. The first classic mahogany boats that I had seen in years were those belonging to the Lee Anderson collection. Lee already had an impressive and growing collection of significant classic boats and he would arrive in different boats at the restaurants and functions around the lake. That’s when I really got bitten by the bug and realized classic boats turned my head, spun my youthful memories, and connected me to the essence of what once was.

I didn’t waste much time, quickly purchasing a 1929 28-foot Gar Wood Triple Cockpit. It was in Louisiana, where heat and humidity resulted in the boat needing a complete restoration. The restoration was handled by Mike Mahoney in Clayton, New York, and it turned out beautifully. I still have it in my collection, and while I’m unlikely to ever sell it, I’m also unlikely to return to Louisiana for boat business. These days, I do the bulk of my prospecting in Canada, northern Michigan, New Hampshire, and New York.

Today I own 30 boats, many of which are quite famous in the classic boating world. One of the most notable is Bolo Babe, a 1926 Garwood 33-foot Baby Gar. Baby Gars are considered the “Holy Grail” of classic boats and Bolo Babe is likely the most famous, and certainly most infamous, of the fewer than eight Baby Gars still in existence.

Joining Bolo Babe at Fort Mahogany, my Adirondack-inspired boat museum, are some other boats of note. Miss Algonac, built in 1922, is the oldest existing Chris-Craft in the world; Wyndcrest, a 1931 Purdy racer powered by a Harry Miller Indianapolis 500 straight-eight race engine; and the 2023 ACBS Antique Boat of the Year, restored: Bunky, a 1931 32-foot custom-designed Belle Isle.

Soon to arrive at Fort Mahogany are three new boats. First, Teaser, a 1924 Nevins 39-foot commuter racer, powered by a Curtiss V-1570 Conqueror V-12 aircraft engine. In 1924, Teaser raced the 20th Century Limited train from New York City to Albany in front of millions, beating the train by a significant margin. Second is Horace Dodge’s famous Sister Syn. The 35-foot race boat, powered by a V-12 World War I Wright Typhoon, was built in 1927 for Dodge’s sister Delphine to race, hence the name Sister Syn. And lastly, another Horace Dodge custom build, Lotus, a 1946 40-foot race boat powered by dual World War II Allison aircraft engines capable of delivering 3200 horsepower.

What I love about antique boats is they allow you to experience them exactly as they were experienced a hundred years ago. It feels the same for me as it did for the very first person to ever pilot the boat. When people ask me why I collect, I tell them it’s because few hobbies are so rich in style and stories and history. You can’t travel back in time, but classic boats, whether driving, showing, or simply admiring them, deliver you into years gone by.

The Land O’ Lakes Antique and Classic Boat Society Chapter will host the ACBS International Boat Show, Woods and Water II, at Bar Harbor Supper Club on the shores of Gull Lake in Lake Shore, Minnesota. September 8–15, 2024. For more information, visit https://acbs.org/.

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The post Style, Stories, History: Why I Collect Classic Boats appeared first on Hagerty Media.

Wayne: One of the first memories I have of meeting Miranda’s parents, Jim and Joyce Watterworth, is of a truck cab in Jim’s shop. I had no clue what it’d look like completed. That changed, as Jim had no problem sharing with me (or anyone) his ideas for the ’49 Ford.

His vision slowly took shape: sandblasted and painted frame; Chevy small-block (engines were his specialty); Golden Oak stain for the interior (same color as Joyce’s kitchen cupboards). The truck was all him.

Miranda: Mom passed in 2009. When Dad found his way back from that, the truck was waiting. He was nearly finished when he got sick. Limited physically, he sat at the kitchen table making lists of parts needed.

In 2014, five months after cancer diagnoses, his list turned into ours. The truck moved to storage until a friend of a friend found someone to finish it. Enter Rob Burkholder. If Rob and Dad had ever met, they would’ve talked old cars for hours. Rob lost his battle with cancer in 2017. We are so thankful for the work he did.

Dad had said our son Jesse, who often sat in the cab pretending to drive, should get the first ride. Yet in 2019, Jesse was killed by a drunken driver. His ride was with Wayne and me, leading his funeral procession. The truck lost power outside the cemetery and had just enough momentum to coast through the gates. Jesse and the truck weren’t ready to go there.

As Dad would have, we’ve been driving the truck. Dad meant a lot to people; this truck means a lot too.

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I bought my first car, a powder-blue Mk. I Ford Escort Mexico, before I had a license. I would start the car and listen to the radio, thinking I was the coolest kid in town. I passed my driving test when I was 17 (first attempt). When you live in a small Scottish town, having the ability to escape to other places is immense.

Many years and many Fords later, I moved to Los Angeles and worked as an archivist for Warner Brothers, where I looked after studio artifacts. I drove the Batmobiles, the General Lee, and even the Ford Gran Torino that Clint Eastwood drove in the eponymous movie. A fast Ford, but not really the one I wanted.

The holy grail to Escort fans was an RS2000. I started looking in earnest for one 15 years ago. I wanted left-hand-drive, original as possible, and, if I had a choice, Signal Orange. About a year ago, after placing yet another advert, I was contacted by a man representing the seller of a very original, LHD 1978 RS2000. Signal Orange. Expensive? Yes. Did I want it? You bet.

One of my best friends, based near London, checked it out. He called on his way home. I asked him what it was like. “I’m driving it now!” he replied. He’d bought it and eventually delivered it to the Southampton docks.

I checked the location of that ship dozens of times. Then, it was here, across the Atlantic, a lifelong dream cocooned in my attached garage. My wife’s Toyota Venza sits on the street. She never complains. She knows I love her more than anything—but the Escort is a close second.

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On my birthday in 1985, my first car drove off into the sunset. It was a black-on-black 1965 Pontiac GTO I’d found in the For Sale section of a Tulsa newspaper and bought for $2000 cash—earnings from two years working at a department store. For five years, it was my only car. I drove it, crashed it, had the engine rebuilt by our school shop class, and rebuilt it again over one summer. I even swapped in a 12-bolt, 4.11:1 rear-end (bad idea, but seemed cool at the time). But during college, I had to sell it because I couldn’t afford the gas, tires, oil, and insurance.

I’d always told myself that, someday, I’d get another. In 2020, I was surfing Hemmings for ’65 GTOs and found one in Connecticut: Coupe, factory A/C, four-speed, power steering, and brakes. It was originally painted gold with a gold interior but had since been changed to black on black. I live in Florida now, where that color combination is impractical, but the memory of my first car kept pulling me back. My wife, Alli, added, “You aren’t getting any younger.” After thanking her for reminding me, I also thanked her for being supportive and called the dealer.

The car appeared fully restored and had PHS documentation and a billing history card. A local inspector put it on a rack, drove it, photographed it, measured the paint depth, and provided me with an appraisal. After some haggling, the car was on a transporter.

While awaiting the arrival of my new GTO, I dug out the documentation from my old one, which included a set of taped-together keys and an Oklahoma registration. Comparing VINs, I was pleased to note the numbers were only 50 digits apart—277 for the old one and 227 for the new one. But then I realized the photos of the VIN that the appraiser had provided didn’t match what was in his report. Concerned, I called him. “The VIN on the car has clearly never been tampered with,” he said, apologizing for having made an error in his transcription. “The correct VIN ends in 277, not 227.”

I felt flush. “If the VIN is correct,” I told him, “This is the first car I ever bought!” Neither the inspector nor my wife could believe it. When the car arrived, I cracked the Scotch tape on my old set of keys and stuck one in the ignition switch. It turned.

My Pontiac had changed during our time apart. A big dent I’d put in the rear quarter was gone, as were the steel sheets I’d (clumsily) pop-riveted into the rusted trunk. The car had been treated to options such as Tri-Power carbs. I’ve continued the improvements, including paint color correction and a set of Coker radial redline tires with a bias-ply look. It has trophied twice at the Festivals of Speed in Orlando, and we’ve put on a few thousand miles driving to nearby towns. I could have bought another GTO and would have been perfectly happy reliving my youth with that car. But my actual first car? It’s abundantly clear to me how rare that is.

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I first saw this MG in The Washington Post classifieds, for $750. My parents took me to meet the owner at a Howard Johnson’s in Arlington, Virginia, and I (or, more precisely, my mom) ended up driving it home.

Through two years of high school and then to college, this was my regular car. I would drive it home and back to Clemson—about 12 hours round trip—for the holidays. When I graduated, though, I started not to use it as much. Career. Life. Eventually, the car was placed in a storage unit in southern Delaware. It sat there for close to 20 years.

I got married nine years ago, and our house had a three-car garage. My wife encouraged me to bring the MG back to New Jersey to get it on the road again. I rented a trailer and got the MG. I had this desire to bring it back to life again; I felt guilty that I had pushed it away.

I started slow—small jobs like restoring the steering wheel—but particularly during the early days of the pandemic, I dived deeper. Over time, I replaced everything in the car except the block, the head, and the suspension. After almost two years, the car drove down the street, but the instruments didn’t work. We discovered rain had come through the windscreen seal and had rusted the gauges. A previous owner had chopped up the wiring harness, so now I needed a new electrical harness. I removed the seats to get better access under the dash. I knew I was in trouble when the first fastener I pulled out was a machine screw. I rolled back the carpet, and, lo and behold, I could see the garage floor.

Then, last year, I got Covid. It caused me to suffer a stroke. I was very fortunate to make it through, knowing that so many people had suffered worse than me during the pandemic. Fortunately, finishing the car became part of my therapy—literally. I would video myself moving nuts and bolts, grinding the floor joints, then I’d show it to my physical therapist. She would say, “Get on your knees,” or “Straighten your back.”

Since I’d gone so far as to redo the floor, I figured I might as well upholster it in style. I was obsessed with green carpet—found in early Jaguars. I found a little shop in England that made green wool carpet for MGBs. When the exchange rate hit $1.08 per pound sterling last year in August, I pulled the trigger.

Obviously, this project had snowballed. My idea at first had been simply to get it running. That morphed into redoing the wiring, then replacing the interior. So… why not paint, too? We started with just a few rattle cans for the front clip, which had a ton of rock chips. That looked so good that, well, we decided to do the whole car. Forty-four cans later (20 base coat and 24 clear coat), it turned out amazing. (Check out the end of the article for more detail on the process.)

It might sound as if I did this whole thing myself, but it’s not like that at all. I never could have gotten this far without the car community. First and foremost is Nick O’Donohoe. I had purchased a few parts from him at an MG show, unaware that he is the son of a British Leyland parts director. Lucky for me, he passed down all of his knowledge to Nick! Nick became interested in the fact that I wanted to do the work myself and helped me with some tougher bits, like welding. He also has a wholesale account with Moss Motors, to serve his business, British Car Company of Wayne, New Jersey.

Most important, though, he held me accountable. “Did you get that done? Can I come tomorrow?” He was like a teacher whom I didn’t want to let down. After I got Covid, when I really needed in my own head to see progress on the car, Nick would bring over three or four members of the Eastern New York MGA Club and spend a Saturday on the car. This gentleman spent countless hours helping me—and he refuses to take money.

There were others. Tim McNair, of GP Concours, the preparation specialist, told me exactly how to polish my paint. Sandra McPhillips at the upholstery shop in the U.K., PJM Motors, where I ordered my carpets, was super nice and helpful. And of course, my wife, Karen, who supported the project from start to finish and who works in automotive PR. After I had my stroke, she put the word out through the local Motor Press Guild to stop by our home and help me work on my car. And then there are the people I’ve never actually met but who were indispensable nonetheless: commenters on the MG Experience online forum and YouTubers.

So now the car is just about done, although it does still need a new front suspension, and the rear shocks are probably kind of on their last legs.

There’s always something else, right?

***

I really painted the whole car with rattle cans

The process is dead simple: prime, paint, and clear. The devil is in the details. For the base coat, don’t just grab a color off the shelf, especially if you’re planning to paint only a section (as I originally planned to). Instead, go to a paint-and-body supply shop and have them custom-mix an exact match to your car. They’ll also have the clear coat you need, the kind with hardener (aka 2K clear). It’ll give you a glassy finish. (Note the hardener produces some nasty vapors, so wear a mask.)

To make it shine like a “real” paint job—and remove debris that falls onto the surface as the paint dries—you’re in for a lot of wet sanding, with progressively finer grit: 3000, 4000, 5000. (I used an inexpensive dual-action sander from Harbor Freight.) Think you’re ready for polish? Nope. Sand more. A paint-thickness gauge can keep you from sanding through. Allow the finish to cure in the sun before polishing out the final swirls.

I learned the hard way not to cheap out on primer—it had a reaction with the base coat. Spraying even strokes takes practice. And the final result, admittedly, isn’t concours-ready. If you want that, pay a pro. But for a car painted outside with rattle cans? You won’t believe how good it can look.

***

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“Sold!” Yelled the auctioneer as he pointed directly at me, which I found odd because my paddle wasn’t raised. Matter of fact, I didn’t even have a paddle because I had given it to my mom, Diane, to hold. “Why is he staring at me?” I nervously wondered. I turned in my chair to see if the actual winner was behind me—and instead saw my mom, hand in the air, with a blank expression on her face.

“What did you do? Why did you bid on that?” I whispered through clenched teeth. “The car I came to bid on is the next one.”

And that is the short version of how I came to be the second owner of a 1946 Chevy 3100 ½ ton pickup. A completely original, non-running, one-owner, 44,000-mile mistake of a truck. As the ’68 Mercedes-Benz 280SE that I had come to the auction for in the first place drove onto the stage, I was exiting the hall to write a check and more closely assess the damage my mother had inflicted upon my wallet—and potentially my marriage.

From afar, the truck was attractive. Army green, with its big art deco grille shining in the sun. Upon closer inspection, my enthusiasm began to fade. The block was cracked, the wiring harness was a mess, and the brake lines were no better than window screens. I didn’t want to make my mom any more upset than she already was, so I began looking for the bright side. There was very little rust. The upholstery was in great shape.

Eleven years on, Diane, my mom, has passed away, but Diane the truck soldiers on. I did a full mechanical restoration, but I left her appearance largely untouched. Diane wears her age well, and I can’t imagine her looking more beautiful—scratches, dents, and all.

***

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My husband and I got involved with vintage cars about six years ago with the mostly spontaneous purchase of a 1939 Ford, a Fordor Deluxe. We call it our first grandchild. The rest, as they say, is history. (Or, in my case, herstory.)

Since then, we’ve assembled an eclectic collection of 10 vehicles, from a 1930 Model A Ford to a 1994 Mazda Miata. I simply look for what appeals to me—and that I can drive. I can’t afford a top-tier show car and, although I appreciate them, they’re not my thing.

In the winter of 2018, I saw an ad for a 1924 Dodge Brothers roadster located in Gig Harbor, Washington. I saw it as an opportunity to drive an old car across the country. I bought the car and, after completing upholstery work and other incidentals that summer, I drove it from Oregon all the way back home to Illinois.

Car people, no matter their niche, are some of the nicest, friendliest, most helpful people you’ll ever meet. Many generously opened their homes to me and my traveling companion, Billy, who has old-school mechanical skills and executed numerous MacGyver fixes—several on the side of the road.

As a girl, I wasn’t allowed to take shop class in middle school, but the car community got me back in touch with some of my formative interests. I’ve taken classes in woodworking and metal forging, and I entered a welding program at the Jane Addams Resource Corporation in Chicago and am now a certified MIG welder.

After 25-plus years in higher education administration, I am now working as a metal fabricator and have become interested in encouraging our youth to look at the trades as an alternative to college.

Check out “Jody’s Travel Blog” on Facebook for more details on her 2018 cross-country drive in this Dodge and her work as an ambassador for the RPM Foundation.

***

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I brought home my first classic vehicle back in 2016. It was a 1948 Chevrolet 3600 pickup—my dream vehicle, but not the one you’re looking at here, because later that same year, the lives of my family changed drastically: Our 6-year-old was diagnosed with acute lymphoblastic leukemia. Treatment started right away, and the rest of life took a back seat. I found myself in the garage at nights, working to distract myself while my wife took a leave from work to stay by my son’s hospital bedside. We adjusted to our new normal and got everyone back under one roof, albeit with lots of hospital appointments. About a year after the diagnosis, I had the truck licensed, insured, and was hitting up all the local car shows with my kids squeezed beside me.

This situation encouraged my wife to declare, “We need a vehicle the whole family can fit in.” After countless missed opportunities and “paralysis by analysis,” I found it—a 1977 VW T2 Westfalia, sitting in a farmer’s field seven hours north in Quebec. I rented a trailer and volun-told my dad to help bring it home.

It didn’t take long to realize the old bus needed an engine rebuild to get moving again. I decided to seek the help of a VW mechanic. As it happens, I had already been chatting with one in my search for parts, and he had read my bio, which included some background on my son. He was well versed with such trials from his own family, so he cut me a deal and I loaded the tired engine into his pickup. I worked away at the rest of the bus, my son lending me a hand or just dreaming inside the camper. “We’re taking it out in the spring, right Dad?”

As weeks passed, I found myself apprehensive about that goal. There was so much to do! A week before we were set to camp, I got a call from the engine builder. If I could get the bus to him, he would help me get the engine installed. We spent the weekend working in his driveway. We got home Sunday, passed vehicle inspection on Tuesday, and hit the road Friday. A nailbiter, but nothing felt better than pulling into our spot, setting up camp, and standing back to admire our work. She isn’t pretty, but she’s ours and we’ll have these memories forever.

As for my son, he’s in full remission and already making plans for when the bus (“Herbella”) is his. I can’t wait to see that day myself.

***

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I see cars at shows and on TV that have been really spruced up and chromed and look better than how they came out of the showroom. I like keeping a car the way it was, with all the little nicks and bumps. Anybody with enough money can fix a car up to be 100 percent, but it takes the personality away from the car. It just becomes a piece of hardware. The fact that I can sit down in my Lotus Eleven and hold on to a steering wheel that Colin Chapman, Cliff Allison, Innes Ireland, and Gregor Grant held—that’s special.

This is perhaps the most-read-about Lotus Eleven ever, thanks to that last person—Gregor Grant. He was founder and editor of Autosport, the British racing magazine, and drove this car in the 1957 Mille Miglia in Italy. After the race, he wrote and published “One Man’s Mille Miglia” in his magazine, and his article was also included as a chapter in Ian Smith’s book, The Story of Lotus.

After the 1000-mile race, the Eleven (chassis number 308) was quickly converted to single-seat/headrest configuration and a 1500-cc engine was added. It raced in 1957 as part of Allison’s Team Lotus. Lotus founder Chapman drove it, as did Ireland. It was a consistent first- or second-place finisher and in August, it took ninth place in the 2.0-liter class and 18th place overall in the six-hour Swedish Grand Prix.

In October 1957, Lotus listed it for sale. It wound up in the eastern United States, raced primarily by Warren Rohlfs and Francis “Frank” Macauley (who likely bought the car, although records for this period are thin). Both men were part of the Madison Avenue Sports Car Driving and Chowder Society, formed in early 1957. (Among the early members was a broadcaster named Walter Cronkite—a first-class driver who might very well have gone pro had he not chosen to pursue his other career instead.)

The car raced on East Coast tracks in this period—Thompson, Bridgehampton, Montgomery, and most of all, Lime Rock—but its entry record dries up after 1962. It likely failed to meet tightening SCCA safety requirements (such as a full-width roll bar). The car resurfaced in 1971, when Lotus’ American racing shop, located near Lime Rock, was approached by a woman inquiring how she might sell a Lotus Eleven she received as part of a divorce settlement.

In those days, I lived about an hour and a half from Lime Rock, in Monroe, New York. I was an art director for an advertising agency. I was also a big Lotus fan—I owned a Europa and an Esprit and was doing some work for the local Lotus dealership, including big illustrations that were displayed on their wall. The owner had heard about the fate of the Mille Miglia Eleven and connected me with Lotus Racing East. I went up there and, sure enough, the car was there—in pieces. Sections were hanging on a wall and the frame was sitting on a wooden horse.

For about a year, I kept in contact. Lotus evidently was having financial problems in America, and the shop was dwindling. We finally made a deal and I purchased the car. They promised to put it back together (it’s one thing to put together a car you’ve taken apart yourself, quite another to assemble one that someone else has taken apart) and deliver it to my house.

They came to my house with a flatbed truck that also had several new Lotuses that were being shipped someplace downstate in New York. My wife looked at the truck and asked, “Which one is yours?” I pointed to the old rolling chassis with the pile of boxes.

It took me maybe a year to put everything back together. The hardest part was welding the aluminum—few know how to do it and the panels on this car are very thin, so no one wanted to touch the project. After a long search, I found someone on a dairy farm in the boonies who could do it, because the milk container trucks are aluminum. Then I painted it, piece by piece.

Lotus had been restoring the car, but they understood its history and the importance of keeping it original. The only thing they physically replaced was the bottom panel, which is one big sheet of aluminum.

The first time I drove it was at Lime Rock, on Memorial Day weekend. Coming into Lime Rock, you cross a bridge that goes over one of the straightaways. I heard a tremendous roar underneath me—a bunch of Can-Am cars were practicing for a race the next weekend, huge canary yellow and red monsters that looked like they were a block wide. My insides kind of sank. I got suited up for the next practice session and did a couple of laps with them, and that scared the daylights out of me. I quickly decided to spectate the rest of the day.

I did get back up there, though, and eventually I ended up joining the Vintage Sports Car Club of America. The most exciting races were at Watkins Glen, which is where I met Colin Chapman. Our cars were lined up, because we were the race just before the Formula 1 cars were going on, and Chapman said, “By Jove, that’s my old car!” He recognized her right away.

After more races (and a few more scares, particularly at the Meadowlands Grand Prix, where I drove in a torrential downpour), the car got put away and then moved up with me to Maine. I hold on to cars and don’t let them go. They become part of the family.

My dream was to drive it in the Mille Miglia. I spent months filling out all the paperwork, getting the car certified, and was in the process of getting shipping lined up. After sending in the approved paperwork, I was contacted by the officials: “We noticed from your application that you were born in 1940. We’re sorry, but you’re too old to qualify.” That was upsetting to me, since I’m pretty active—my wife and I have a large sailboat and we go sailing all through Maine for most of the summer. Still, my body would probably have hurt after three days of sitting on a sheetmetal seat.

***

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Some cars just delight you as soon as they come into view. At the 2023 Hagerty Festival of the Unexceptional, which celebrates mundane motoring, Andy Boorman’s Saab 96 spread delight far and wide.

All 96s are a treat for the eyes; the Swedish car’s unusual teardrop shape is impossible to mistake for any other car. And they’re arguably at their best as early V-4s like Boorman’s example. In fact, as we’ll get onto, his is one of the earliest V-4s around.

But one reason for the delight was that trailing behind this 1966 Saab was The Pod—a compact camper whose roofline features surprisingly similar contours to that of its tow car. And despite originating from the mid-twenty-teens, it has enough of a classic look to seem right at home behind the Swedish classic. It has us wondering what other car/camper combinations might look perfect together …

Let’s start with the car, though, as Boorman explains its status as a V-4-engined model from 1966.

“People think the V-4s started in 1967, but Saab made 200 of them in 1966, and this is the only one in the UK. In the summer of 1966, Saab took 200 two-stroke [models], removed their engines, and replaced them with V-4s—and these are the cars that were launched to the press.”

The car does have the longer front that denotes the V-4 models, as well as the grille design that arrived at the same time, but Boorman notes how there are clues under the bonnet as to the car’s halfway-house status—such as the hammer-assisted recess to provide clearance for the alternator.

The in-period switch from the 96’s original two-stroke to the Ford-sourced 1.5-liter V-4 four-stroke brought with it all the improvements you’d expect, such as more power and torque, cleaner and quieter running, and easier maintenance for the average driver. However, as Boorman admits, “Nothing really beats the handling of the two-stroke, as it’s so much lighter. But I’d have the V-4 all day long; it’s more reliable and you can go where you want with it.

Boorman has owned the V-4 for around 27 years. He restored it, including three attempts to get the car painted—finally opting to do it himself—and uses it as often as possible. As the attached camper suggests, it’s not simply babied over local journeys, either. “We did the Isle of Wight last year… albeit not with the caravan attached… and we’ve just done the North Coast 500.”

That’s all the more impressive when you consider there are seven other Saabs vying for Boorman’s driving attention, too, including second- and third-generation Sonnets and a Saab 9000 Aero. “The 9000 Aero is the car that does everything. You can use it as a wedding car, it’s a racing car, you can go down to the tip in it… mine is making about 350 bhp [345 hp].”

The 96 isn’t making quite that, though apparently even with The Pod attached it gets along quite nicely with its 64 horses. With the caravan weighing in at only 300 kilos [661 pounds] or thereabouts, there’s not really a lot to drag. “But without the caravan attached,” he says, “it really whips along.” And 96s are practical, too, though Boorman probably wouldn’t fill his car with nine people, as happened once with his dad’s car back in the late 1960s …

Even without the caravan, and even without the unique aspect of being such an early V-4 car, this Saab 96 was what you might call one of the more exceptional stand-outs at the Festival of the Unexceptional. But we’ll forgive it that many times over, because in a show where almost every car raises a smile, the 96 created bigger grins than most.

***

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Via Hagerty UK

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Back in 1981, if you’d asked Saddam Hussein if he had weapons of mass destruction, he would have told you “yes” and pointed at the stockpile of 12,500 desert-spec’d G-body Malibus just in from Canada.

The government of Iraq ordered 25,000 Malibus in total, which were officially invoiced as taxis. After the first shipment, however, Iraq backed out of the $100 million deal. The government cited massive reliability problems as the reason for canceling the order.

The build sheet was basic but intriguing: Four-door sedan; 3.8-liter V-6; three-speed manual 200-km/h speedometer; cloth bench seats; steel wheels with polished center caps; uprated four-core radiator; heavy-duty suspension; AM/FM radio with cassette; air conditioning (because it’s hot in Iraq); and rear defrost delete (because it’s not cold in Iraq).

Instead of soaking up the sun and sand, however, the remaining Malibus sat for months at the snowy docks in Halifax, Nova Scotia, as General Motors was left pondering what to do with them. Eventually, they were distributed to Canadian Chevrolet dealers and sold off. Cheap.

Despite the criticisms doled out by Saddam’s government, GM workers insisted that the Malibus were well made. In fact, many of those workers tried to purchase the cars. There was such a high demand from GM employees that their union threatened to launch a class action lawsuit against the company for not ensuring a fair allotment of Iraqi Malibus to workers who had already submitted deposits.

Ultimately, the $6500 price point made these desert Chevys appealing workhorses, which, like most cars of that era, were all but run into the ground. The surviving Iraqi-spec Malibus have gained a reputation in Canada and today are affectionately known as “Iraqi Taxis.”

This one belongs to my dad.

His Iraqi Taxi has been souped up, but aside from the lumpy V-8, it still retains the unmistakable feature set of the Iraqi Taxis. At just over 30,000 original kilometers (18,640 miles), it may be one of the cleanest examples out there.

The previous owner and backyard hot-rod mechanic, known locally in southern Ontario as “Malibu Mike,” meticulously restored the car. It had sat for a number of years in storage before Mike got into it and replaced the tired and lethargic V-6 with a 350-cubic-inch V-8 that he modified with a high-lift cam, roller rockers, a 4.56:1 Posi rear end, and a 3000-rpm torque converter. Then, reluctantly, he sold the Malibu to my dad in order focus on other projects.

At every car show Dad and I attend in Ontario, at least one person knows something about these Malibus and their contribution to Canadian automotive history—the car that wasn’t good enough for Saddam. But were these cheap, barebones taxis really that bad?

The short answer is “yes.” It was the Malaise Era and most cars sucked. The Iraqi Taxis came with a 110-horsepower V-6 and a bargain basement three-on-the-floor manual.

The long answer is more complicated, because Saddam Hussein was in the middle of a costly war with Iran, and I’ve got to imagine that fighting the Ayatollah was probably more important than adding another 13,000 taxis to the fleet.

After an Instagram reel of my dad’s Iraqi Taxi went viral, I got connected to a man named Soran Ako—an Iraqi who had previously owned a Malibu taxi in Iraq. Although he now lives in Sweden, Ako was able to provide me with unique Iraqi intel on these “taxis,” which, as it turns out, weren’t actually taxis at all.

During his time as a student in the autonomous Kurdish region of Northern Iraq, Ako acquired his lightly used 1981 Malibu, not from a taxi driver, but from a retired Iraqi sergeant from Saddam’s regime. Despite the invoice submitted to GM Canada listing “Taxi” as the official vehicle classification, it seems these cars were in fact personal gifts for Saddam’s most loyal sergeants.

Although the spec sheet screams “base model,” according to Ako, they were considered Cadillacs compared to the other vehicles patrolling Iraqi streets at the time—mostly worn out military trucks and Soviet-export Ladas. The 3.8-liter V-6 “roared,” Ako said, churning out more than double the torque of anything comparable, and he described the stereo system as “top-notch.” Cranking tunes through the standard four-speaker system was a rare luxury considering most other vehicles in the desert nation had no stereo at all.

In Iraq, these cars were a symbol of the elite. Once sold on from the original sergeants who owned them, they were usually found in the hands of rich kids and local authority figures—and apparently one lucky student. Ako owned his light-blue Malibu for three trouble-free years before fleeing abroad as tensions in Kurdistan escalated to violence. Unfortunately, exporting the Malibu was not an option at the time, and ever since, Ako has been chasing the high that only these utilitarian land yachts could provide. He told me his goal one day would be to get his hands on another Iraqi Malibu—a light blue ’79.

Whether you happen to be in Scandinavia, out on the mean streets of Ontario, or points between, if you encounter a Canadian-made 1981 Malibu with a 200 km/h speedometer, three-speed manual, and no rear defrost, you’ve found a custom Chevrolet built for the henchmen of one of the world’s most notorious dictators. Despite the Iraqi government’s official stance on these cars, the actual owners—Canadians and Iraqis alike—treasure these basic, beefed-up ’Bus.

***

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When’s the right time to drive Route 66 in your 1966 Ford Mustang? When you turn 66, of course.

I live in Alaska, so just getting to the road was a challenge. I didn’t want to drive the Mustang all that way, so I found a trailer and had my 2001 Ford F-250 inspected—twice—to ensure it was roadworthy. Nevertheless, in Rugby, North Dakota, the transmission quit. The tiny town (population: about 2500) had a Ford dealer, but the truck would be out of commission for a while.

I hadn’t come this far not to finish, so I unloaded the Mustang and kept driving. I picked up longtime friends (Kathi Henrickson and Sandra Birdsall, also 66) and met up with my brother and his son, who had come up from Texas. Everyone was excited to be on the Mother Road.

And hot! We drove with the top up most of the time to provide shade and eyed the temperature gauge, worried the heat would overwhelm the 289’s original four-blade fan. Yet the only issues we had over 4500 miles were a leaky hose and, near the end, a loss of taillights.

There’s plenty to see on Route 66, yet for many, we were the point of interest. Folks would approach and tell us about owning a similar Mustang or someone they knew who had. I thought many others would be driving Route 66 in classic cars—evidently not.

***

This article first appeared in Hagerty Drivers Club magazine. Click here to subscribe and join the club.

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I brought this Porsche back from the dead—literally, as it was sitting in the basement of a funeral home for 20 years.

In the early 1990s, I started doing work for a gentleman named Jack, who owned two local funeral homes. Jack bought this 1983 Porsche 944 new and used it for weekend trips to the Hamptons and not much else. It sat covered in his home garage the rest of the time. He got married in 1993 and moved to a house where he could no longer garage the Porsche, so he parked it in the basement garage of one of the funeral homes.

Jack passed away suddenly in 2002, and the car sat. Eventually, it got covered to its roof with foam casket wrappers from patrons on their journey to the great beyond. The funeral home business, which had been taken over by Jack’s wife, closed for good in 2019. I still did work there and asked her what was to become of the Porsche. She told me that out of gratitude for so many years of service, I could have it.

I was blown away. The car needed a lot of work, because everything made of rubber had deteriorated after 35 years. But the paint was flawless, as was the interior, and the recorded mileage was only 17,600. I don’t think there are many 944s out there in this condition, as it barely saw the sun. It’s a great story and a great car, and I feel so lucky to own it.

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I rode in my first Toyota Supra in 1985, when I was 10 years old. The experience fueled an obsession to someday have my very own Supra.

I pass a small car lot on my way to and from work. In 2006, I noticed they had an ’85 Supra for sale. At the time, my friends were into classic cars, and they were always working on theirs, so I was a little envious. After a long and hard debate in my head, I gave in and decided to check out this Supra.

I couldn’t escape the thought that it was 21 years old and probably needed work. But then I walked up to it, circled it a few times, and was impressed. I felt the same way once I checked out the interior, which was all original. A one-owner car with records from day one, it only had 119,000 miles on it. And that one owner turned out to be an older lady who really only used it for grocery shopping. The big question was how did it drive, so I asked to take it for a spin.

Out on the road, my adrenaline kicked in. The Supra was smooth, quiet, and seemed like a new car. The A/C worked, and the original radio worked, too, though the speakers were blown from age. The car felt perfect, and I loved it so much.

The dealership was asking $3500, so I offered $3000 cash, which they accepted. My dream finally had come true; I was the proud owner of a 1985 Supra with a leather interior and every top-of-the-line option of the era.

The car is now 38 years old, with 172,000 miles, and I have kept it as original as possible. In fact, the only upgrades have been new speakers and a stereo that looks period-correct. I have tinted the windows, added some wood grain on the ashtray cover, put on a newer steering wheel cover, and updated the A/C to R134a. I only drive it on sunny California days and to car shows. I get many compliments, and I have had people ask to buy it, but the answer is always no.

I’m thrilled to have such a classic Japanese sports car in original condition, and I plan on keeping it for the rest of my days.

***

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This article first appeared in Hagerty Drivers Club magazine. Click here to subscribe and join the club.

I ’ve always liked finding cars in people’s yards out in the country. I like knocking on doors. That’s how we found cars where I’m from, a little town in North Carolina. Cars with maybe just a hint of the front end showing—that always gets me excited.

There was an old lady who had a Datsun 240Z in her yard. I had always liked the look of those—that long front end and the way they squatted when going through the gears. I’d walk by her place every now and then, and finally I knocked on her door and asked if it was for sale. It wasn’t, but she said it was her husband’s car and had been there forever. I gave her my number in case she ever decided to sell it. Then one day, I got that call. I went over there and we ended up making a deal. I was 14 and a half.

I was always tinkering with it, trying to get those dual carburetors right, but I never could get that thing to run to save my life.

Around that time, I got started in the entertainment industry. I signed on with the Ford Modeling Agency when I was 15, and I was with them for 25 years. I did mostly print ads and campaigns for big fashion houses—Versace, Dolce & Gabbana, Yves Saint Laurent—and I was featured in GQ. As an African American man, that was rare. But I made it, and I got to travel the world.

I lived a very clean life, and all during those years, cars were my high. I sold the Z after a while, but one of the first cars I got that I have held on to is a ’54 Bel Air, which I keep in North Carolina, where most of my family still lives. Today it’s part of my eclectic collection, mostly postwar American stuff.

I love the ’59 Eldorado Biarritz. It’s a lot of car, all [225 inches] of it. So much metal, so elegant, and it’s numbers-matching. And you can eat off it! The ’56 Eldorado isn’t far behind—that’s probably the classic I drive the most. It has the same feel as the ’59 but is easier to park. Driving the ’59 is like driving a bus, you know? When you turn, you better make sure you’re clear, because those fins might hit something. I don’t really drive any of the cars far, though. Mostly around Beverly Hills, or over to Bob’s Big Boy, or to a cars and coffee. Stuff like that.

My two boys are into cars, too. Morris is 18, an up-and-coming pop star, and he’s always driving our cars in his videos. (You can see them on his Instagram, @moneyxmo.) Bronson is 14 and behind the camera—a filmmaker who’s always shooting and producing. They’re both so creative, and both of them love cars. They’re always laying claim to the ones they like. Morris will say, “Well, Dad, you know the ’56 is gonna be mine.” And Bronson will say, “Well, Dad, you know the ’59 is gonna be mine. And the ’56 Lincoln, too. Morris can have the ’63 Lincoln.” Always picking favorites.

I have my own favorites, including my Morgan 3-Wheeler. It’s one of the finest cars I’ve ever owned. A buddy introduced me to them one day and let me take it out. I had such a blast in that thing. It was really something else. I love-love-loved it. I’m good friends with [former football player] Michael Strahan, who is a huge car guy, and he and I actually ended up ordering a pair of them. We take them out on weekends up the Pacific Coast Highway, into the canyons, and have fun with them.

Driving is what I enjoy, and I don’t really show my cars, but one day a couple of years ago, I was at the Original Farmers Market with my ’59 during a car show at the Grove, and I met [collector] Bruce Meyers. He came up to me and asked if it was mine. He said, “I know every car in this town, but I’ve never seen this one.” I’m around, I told him. Then he invited me to his show, the Rodeo Drive Concours, and said he’d love it if I would drive the mayor. I was like, who is this dude? But that’s how we met, and we hit it off. They put me in the concours magazine, and I even won a trophy.

For a while, I thought I was done buying. I’m very happy with what I have. Then I started teetering, you know, so I’ve been on the lookout. Now there are about 10 cars I’m interested in, mostly prewar. I’d really like to make them my own and do some customizing, because most of my cars now are pretty stock.

Now, when I was growing up in North Carolina, Camaros and Chevelles were the cars. My uncle, his friends, or somebody’s daddy always had one. I always said that if I ever made it in life, I’d get the best of both. And that’s what happened. Those cars represent where I’m from. And that I made it. Both are dream cars to the people I knew (and still know) back home.

If I’m being honest, my dream car is the one that runs without me having to crank it up every week to keep it running. But really, there are elements of every car I own that make up my dream car. I love certain things about all of them. It’s a blessing to feel that way.

***

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This article first appeared in Hagerty Drivers Club magazine. Click here to subscribe and join the club.

This Austin-Healey was purchased new in 1963 by my great-uncle, who flew from Minnesota to the U.K. specifically to order the car in person. In 1966, my 18-year-old father bought the car after his father denied him the ability to put his summer work savings toward a Hemi Mopar. The Healey went on to accommodate my dating parents, then took them through college in St. Cloud, MN, through their wedding, and it eventually carried me as an infant.

Years of fairly heavy year-round use in Minnesota took their toll, and the car was stuck in a hangar, then a barn, then a series of barns and storage units as it awaited its ultimate fate.

The car was “given” to me at a young age and sat idle until my college break in 1992, when the grand delusion of restoration directed my evenings and weekends into a rather well-labeled but extensive tear-down. That endeavor was short-lived, and the carcass and appendages returned to their series of revolving storage options.

In 2019, I was somewhat challenged by a friend to see the restoration through. Twenty-plus years older, with deeper pockets and a supportive wife, I dug back in and enlisted the help of an engine builder, Midwest Vee of Saint Paul, and a body man, Metal Dance of Shafer, MN, to do the heavy lifting.

Eighteen months later, I was driving a car that had been torn down as far as possible and rebuilt using as many original parts as possible. The only replacement metal is the trunk floor and the inner doorsills. It’s painted Porsche 356 Aquamarine, and personal touches include loop carpets, the gray-stained flame maple dash, an oil cooler inlet, front tie-downs, side exhaust, a Le Mans–style fuel cap, and a steering wheel that I personally designed and made.

The car drives better than I expected, and the original interior, with its musty smell, evokes so many memories. It’s like wearing a hand-me-down jacket with a new zipper.

***

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The post After more than four decades, my great-uncle’s Austin-Healey 3000 is finally on the road again appeared first on Hagerty Media.

Growing up in Jackson Heights, Queens, I was the neighborhood kid who would always detail all the older kids’ vehicles in the neighborhood. The C3 Corvette was always a lifelong love for me. I really loved the car so much. When I retired in 2010, I could finally fulfill my dream and try to find one.

I searched for a few years, and then I found a 1972 Corvette in Texas. It was just what I was looking for, so I pulled the trigger and purchased it in 2017. It’s been a six-year project; the car spent an entire year in paint. Everything was taken off. Jeff Buchak, the owner of Paradigm Automotive in Sparkill, New York, is a genius. He has done cars for the Pebble Beach Concours d’Elegance and for the SEMA show. Jeff does really high-end work. The paint is flawless, the gaps are flawless. I’m pretty much a perfectionist, and we made it perfect.

I was a fan of all the blues of the ’70s that Corvette did. There was Briar Blue, Targa Blue, Le Mans Blue. We took all the blues that Corvette offered for 1972, and we made one blend. The paint is unbelievable, because depending on the lighting conditions, it can look like Targa Blue, and then if it’s a little lighter, it may look a little bit like Briar Blue.

The engine is the numbers-matching 350 stock block. I like to go fast, so we stroked it out to a 383 and replaced the carburetor with a Holley Terminator EFI. We did all kinds of high-performance work with the trick flow heads and the cam and everything. I did the EFI and certain mods to it because I wanted it to be reliable. I wanted to be able to hop in the car and drive without incident. I take it to a lot of shows in the tri-state area, New York, New Jersey, and Connecticut. I belong to the Rockland Rodders Car Club in Rockland County, New York, and I belong to the All-American Corvette Club in Paramus, New Jersey. I want to try to do my part to get more younger people involved in it, and more involved in the hobby.

When I’m at a show, my car doors are open, I have kids in there, and I don’t care if they get it dirty or if they have ice cream on their hands. The car can always be cleaned. When you get a 12-year-old or a 10-year-old and you say, “Go sit in the car, take some pictures,” their eyes light up, and it means the world to them. They’re hooked at an early age. It’s these simple things that car people can do to get the younger generation into the hobby.

I had a young kid come up to me and say, “Thank you so much.” And I said, “Thank you for what?” He replied, “For preserving history. For giving my generation the opportunity to see what a 1972 Corvette Stingray looks like. And to enjoy it.” I had a tear come to my eye. And I said, “Oh, man. No, it’s my pleasure.” The younger people, they love it, they appreciate it, and hopefully, we can recruit that young generation of gearheads together into the hobby.

***

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This article first appeared in Hagerty Drivers Club magazine. Click here to subscribe and join the club.

My dad bought this 1932 Ford pickup in 1955 for $50. It was an old oil company delivery truck, and on the side of the door, it said Penn Oil Co. It wasn’t in the best shape, so we sanded it and painted it primer brown. It stayed that way for many years.

It was our second car and the vehicle I learned to drive in. I remember telling my dad there was no way I could step on the clutch, step on the brake, shift, arm signal, and turn the steering wheel all at the same time. Well, it turns out I could, because I drove it all through high school in the late 1960s and for several years after graduation. The little four-cylinder could not go over 45 mph. Eventually, a rod gave up, and Dad towed me home.

The truck sat in Dad’s garage for a long time. It became a storage unit, and he kept everything you could think of in the back of it. Every once in a while, I would ask him if I could take it and fix it up. He always had the same answer: “I am going to work on it!”

There it sat until 1997, when Dad passed away. Mom asked me if I wanted it, so I loaded it up, plus a 255 V-8 out of a ’66 Fairlane, and hauled them from California to Texas, where I was living at the time.

When I had it restored back in 2000, the only body modifications I had done were to remove the spare tire holder in the front passenger fender, to relocate the gas tank from under the seat to under the bed, and to push the firewall back so the V-8 would fit. The four-speed is out of an F-100, the rear end is a Ford 9-inch with an air-ride system, and the front end is a dropped straight axle with rack-and-pinion steering and disc brakes.

***

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This article first appeared in Hagerty Drivers Club magazine. Click here to subscribe and join the club.

I grew up on Long Island in a small city called Glen Cove. I’ve loved cars since I was a toddler. I was told by my grandmother that at the age of 4, I would walk down the street and could name the make of just about every car we’d pass. Over the years, I collected Corgi car models, had a large Aurora HO–scale racing set, and built a number of plastic models. I still have most of the Corgis, as well as the first model I ever put together with my dad, a ’40 Ford coupe.

Dad was into American cars. First a Ford or two and then the ones I remember most vividly—a ’68 Toronado, a ’72 Toronado, a Pontiac 6000, a Grand Prix, and then his final car, a 1982 Firebird. I inherited that car when he passed away, but it was stolen from a parking spot a block away from an apartment I had in New York City.

Our driveway was directly beside my neighbor’s driveway, however, and that was the real story, because our neighbors went the German and British route. An MGB, a BMW 2002, several Mercedes-Benz sedans, and then a 450SL in Light Ivory and Palomino. That’s the one I fell in love with.

Many years later, I married, had a dazzling daughter, and bought a 1965 220SEb cabriolet, a four-speed imported from France. It was a terrific car, but then I got divorced and my ex-wife ended up with it. Such is life.

I got remarried to a wonderful woman who truly enjoys cars. We wanted to get a classic Mercedes, but another 220 was not in the cards. We bought an ’84 300CD to fix up and enjoy. While looking through classifieds one evening, I mentioned how much I wanted to get a nice two-seater convertible—maybe some type of SL. My wife looked up and said, “I’ve always liked those cars. Let’s get one.” We spent the next several months looking around the Seattle area and online.

Soon we found what looked like a nice ’86 560SL in California—a clean, two-owner car. The seller seemed a bit reluctant to chat, and we agreed to have a follow-up call. He began the second call by saying he had checked me out. I told him I had done the same, that I had looked him up on LinkedIn. “No,” he said, “I really checked you out.” At the time, he was chief of police in a small town in between LA and San Francisco. I didn’t know what to say. His next words: “I’m happy to sell you my car!” I had passed his test as someone who would look after the car and treat it the way he did.

We had “Rosie” shipped up to Seattle in January 2014. About a year and a half later, we moved east, and the SL is now safely tucked into our two-car garage. We take Rosie out in nice weather as often as we can. My wife ended up with a classic she has always liked, and I ended up with the Mercedes I’d loved since I was a kid. In Light Ivory over Palomino, no less.

***

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This article first appeared in Hagerty Drivers Club magazine. Click here to subscribe and join the club.

Mine is a story about a victory for the little guy—the guy who doesn’t have the resources to have a car restored by professionals.

Growing up, my family always owned Oldsmobiles—a 1956 98, then a ’61 Dynamic 88, and finally a ’66 Toronado. In 1975, while serving in the U.S. Air Force in Southern California, I bought my own, a 1968 Hurst Olds, because I needed to pull a 21-foot ski boat. No surprise this 10-mpg car was on the used-car lot just after the first oil crunch. But it was cool and came with the very reasonable price of $1350.

After my honorable discharge, the Olds and I towed the boat to Colorado, and from there, we trailered a 1926 Model T to Atlanta, where I resided. The Olds was a workhorse in Atlanta, and I towed many yards of concrete for various projects with this car. Finally, after several years as a daily driver, with 51,688 original miles on the odometer, I parked it in my garage, where it sat for over 20 years.

A while back, I started researching the car. I found my Hurst Olds to be a rare one, with only 515 produced and only 146 with air conditioning, which is my case. So I decided to restore the car in my garage. On July 15, 2013, I started the restoration, along with a journal. Five years, three months, and three days later, I finished the restoration and the journal, which contained 45 pages of handwritten documentation, plus a tally of the hours I spent on the job: 1046.

The ’68 Hurst Olds was the first car to carry the Hurst badge. Mine has a numbers-matching four-barrel 455-cubic-inch V-8 with under-bumper scoops, Tic Toc Tach, Hurst dual-gate shifter, front disc brakes, a Turbo 400 transmission, and factory air. I did 90 percent of the restoration myself, with my wife, Susie, and son, Justin, helping along the way. Of course, in anticipation of someday restoring the car, I had been buying parts for over 20 years, including many new-old-stock bits.

My restoration included completely rewiring the car, replacing all the fluid lines, changing the headliner, installing a new gas tank, removing the seats, adding a new air conditioner (from R12 to R134a), installing a new heater core, refurbishing the dash, reinstalling windows, replacing the front end (including new coil springs, tie rods, shock absorbers, and a rebuilt steering column), installing new brakes, mating the rebuilt engine to the rebuilt transmission, installing the driveshaft to the refurbished rear end and axles, installing the front and rear bumpers, and polishing all the exterior trim. Just about everything, in other words.

All of that was child’s play, however, because this project also had a scary part: removing the body of the car from the frame. By myself. With an engine hoist, a floor jack, four sawhorses, and two 8-foot four-by-fours. I accomplished this feat by first lifting the front of the body with the engine hoist and stabilizing it with various sizes of wood and shims. I then lifted the rear of the car using the floor jack and stabilized that with wood and shims. I inched the body high enough to slide in the sawhorses and the four-by-fours for support. Only then could I roll out the frame for a good cleaning and painting.

Then came reassembly, which meant rolling the frame back under the body and the precarious job of lowering the body onto the new body mounts. It was a slow, painstaking, inch-by-inch affair, with plenty of shuffling back and forth from the engine hoist to the floor jack to remove shims and wood blocks along the way. But by some miracle, the body slipped onto the frame like a glove.

The car then spent 14 months in the body and paint shop. The only rust was under the trim pieces of the windshield and the rear window, and once that was addressed, the Olds was primed, sanded, and painted in the correct paint scheme—including pinstripes and clearcoats. The shop finished up by installing the engine and transmission.

Back in my garage, I took a deep breath and began to reassemble the interior—new insulation, new headliner, window mechanisms, door panels, carpet, seat belts, that great Hurst shifter. I rewired the dash with the restored gauges, then put in the front bucket and rear bench seats.

I took it back to the shop to have the experts double-check my work, and on October 18, 2018, at 3:40 p.m., I fired up my ’68 Hurst Olds for the first time in more than 20 years. I was so proud to drive it home.

The next April, I entered it in the Peach Blossom BOPC (Buick-Olds-Pontiac-Cadillac) show. To my surprise and delight—in the first car show I’d ever entered—the Olds took first place. Since then, I’ve taken it to several other shows across the state and gathered another four awards. The Atlanta Concours d’Elegance even invited me to the event because I have the only 1968 Hurst Olds in Georgia.

With the five-plus years of work and restoration finally over, I love driving my Hurst Olds again, attending shows, and telling my story.

Victory, indeed.

***

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(Hagerty Drivers Club member John Nece passed along this heartwarming tale. If you would like to see your car featured on the pages of this website, email editor@hagerty.com . –Ed)

My father, Ray Nece, was the first and only four-time dirt track champion at Mt. Clemens Race Track—a now-defunct bullring just north of Detroit. It was his hometown track and became a personal playground throughout the 1960s and ’70s.

Born in 1934, he started racing by the age of 17. During his career he competed in some of the most prestigious dirt track races of the era including the Pittsburgher 200 at Heidelberg Speedway in Pennsylvania, the World 100 at Ohio’s Eldora Speedway, and the Hillbilly Hundred deep in the woods of West Virginia. He won the latter in 1968.

In 1973, he retired from stock car racing. He couldn’t shake the bug and returned to oval competition, this time driving an Offy-powered midget in the American Midget Racing Association. He finished fifth in points and won Rookie of the Year honors.

My Dad passed away in February of 1985 while vacationing in Daytona Beach during Speedweeks. He is a first-ballot honoree in the Michigan Motor Sports Hall of Fame and was inducted in 1989.

I always wanted to honor my father in some way. I thought that building a replica of his 1957 Ford stock car would be neat way to commemorate the man and his Hall of Fame racing career, so I started searching the internet for a project car.

One day, at lunch, I found a similar stocker on eBay. After I won the auction, I drove out from my home in Michigan to Wisconsin to meet the seller Randy Conner, in the winter of 2006. Conner built and raced the Ford at Rice Lake Speedway in the Cheese State. He wanted to sell it in order to build a 1968 Falcon stock car for the coming season.

The 1957 Ford was an excellent starting point, and much easier than starting the project from scratch. Still, life got in the way, and progress was slow. I had the car for nine years when promoter Bob Larivee, asked in the spring of 2015 I could get it done in time for Detroit Autorama the next year. Larivee is known as one of the founding fathers of Autorama, helping establish Detroit’s premier indoor car show back in the 1950s. He was also a circle track racer and a close friend of my father’s.

I told Larivee I would have the car ready. The clock was ticking.

Luckily, I have a very dedicated and talented group of friends. My buddy Wally VanVyve supplied his pole barn to wrench. We got busy on the car, stripping it down to bare metal and making it look just as my Dad’s car did some fifty years earlier.

It was a lot of fun to match the Ford to its appearance back in the day. As a little kid, I soaked up everything while my dad raced. We would spend three nights a week racing at Mt. Clemens. At first, I tried to replicate everything down to the last nut and bolt, but it started turning into a job. I thought, “That’s not the reason I want to do this project.” I relaxed a little bit on my requirements and people still think it is the actual car.

For example, it says “427 C.I.” on the replica car’s hood. Even though my Dad always ran 427 big-blocks back in the day, I considered a 390-cubic-inch big-block between the car’s frame rails. I asked myself, “Should I spend a lot of money for an authentic 427 race engine, or should I put together a nice 390 to enjoy at car shows and parades?”

We removed the 302 cubic-inch small-block V-8 and C4 automatic transmission that came with the car and replaced it with the 390 FE and a four-speed manual Ford Toploader transmission. The engine was built at John Vermeersch’s (more on him later) Total Performance engine shop in Mt. Clemens, Michigan. The transmission was acquired through retired NASCAR team owner Tex Powell in Ether, North Carolina.

We were able to get close on a lot of things, thanks to a lot of help from fellow Midwesterners. We sourced a 1958 Ford hood to match the original car, as well as a ’58 bumper. (They were taller and could take more abuse than the ’57 bumper.)

Period-correct wheels were fabricated by lifelong-friend and late model stock car champ Larry LaMay, along with VanVyve. Even better, they built the wheels at 1988 ARCA stock car champ Tracy Leslie’s tire shop also in Mt. Clemens. For rubber, we used tires had been used in actual 1960s race competition on a dirt stock car driven by Erv Baumgarten, one of Dad’s biggest rivals. They were sitting in Baumgarten’s garage since he retired from racing in the mid-1970s.

Body and paint were done by Brian Norton, another successful Michigan stock car racer at Flat Rock Speedway. The old-school hand lettering was applied by Dennis Schalm. As a youngster, Schalm hung around Mt. Clemens and developed into a talented sign painter. In the mid-1980s he became known as the guy to see when you needed to have your car lettered. My dad was his favorite driver growing up, but he never had the opportunity to letter one of his cars, so it was cool to have him paint the ’57. Several other very good friends—including Chuck Mack, Terry McKay, Paul D’Lugopolski, Jimmy Gullett, Larry Guzdziol, Tom Tignanelli, and Leo Begu—lent their time and applied their talents throughout the course of the build.

I first met John Vermeersch in 1978. In 2014, while dining with John and a group of friends at a local restaurant, I mentioned how I would love to someday own a C-Series ramp truck like Dad’s to go along with the tribute stocker.

John looked across the table and said, “I’ve got one of those trucks in my pole barn.” He told me to stop by his house the following Saturday so I could take a look and see if I might be interested in it.

When I saw the 1965 Ford C-600 sitting in John’s pole barn I immediately knew that I wanted it. The body and ramp bed were in primer. I crawled under it and slid across the floor, front to back. There wasn’t any rust to even be slightly concerned. We took the truck for a test drive and found it to be in very good mechanical condition.

However, there was one small problem: I was worried that I had showed my hand at dinner. My Dad taught me at a very young age to never look too interested when purchasing a vehicle (of any kind!) so I stalled for as long as I possibly could. After several months, John and I came to an agreement and made a deal.

I drove the truck for about a year before taking it to Brian Borowski’s Premier Finishes collision shop in Roseville, Michigan where his crew massaged, sandblasted, and painted my truck.

We beat my imposed deadline for Autorama by one month and debuted the car at the 50th Anniversary Michigan Auto Racing Fan Club banquet, in January of 2016. Then, we turned heads at Autorama. Since then, my cousin—and “crew chief”—Tony Kline and I have attended approximately forty car shows and events from West Branch, Michigan to Pennsboro, West Virginia.

One of the highlights so far has been pacing the field of Lucas Oil Dirt Late Models for the 50th running of the “Hillbilly Hundred” at the Tyler County Speedway in Middlebourne, West Virginia in September, 2018. Fifty years later, my father’s 1957 Ford was back out in front of the field, all thanks to some late nights and great friends.

***

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Via Imola

The post How I built a ’57 Ford stocker to honor my father’s circle track legacy appeared first on Hagerty Media.

This article first appeared in Hagerty Drivers Club magazine. Click here to subscribe and join the club.

In the mid-1990s, my parents bought a 1968 Ford Mustang California Special. It was the very first Mustang I ever laid eyes on, and I fell in love with it. As most car stories go, however, my young parents were raising three kids (and up to 75 foster kids) and didn’t have room for the car, so they sold it.

My love of Mustangs only grew in the years since, and I always thought I’d try to find the California Special. In mid-2017, I got hold of the VIN and did an online search; I found one record in Ohio. The general public can’t obtain records of vehicles owned by another party, so I found a private investigator in Ohio and asked for a record search on the VIN. About $45 and 40 minutes later, I had the current owner and his address.

I sent him a letter and introduced myself and my family. I shared a picture of all of us and said I was looking for a specific Mustang. To my surprise, a week after I mailed the letter, Jim called me and told me he still owned the California Special. I was forthcoming with him in the way I located the car—he giggled at the thought that a PI was involved—and he was touched by my story. He said he had never thought about selling his Mustang but that he’d be honored to sell it to me if I wanted it.

Last September, I had to go to Baltimore for a conference. At the end of it, I drove through the night to Columbus, Ohio, where I picked up my wife and newborn daughter, then we all drove to meet with Jim and his wife, Luella, who welcomed us into their home. They had cared so well for the gold Mustang for 20 years, racking up 5000 miles on the odometer. The car arrived in California in November, and I unveiled it to my parents on December 15. They were shocked, to say the least, and so happy this show-quality GT/CS had rejoined the Feik family.

***

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Ron Thomas has created one of the greatest Porsche collections (and car collections in general) in the country. When he adds cars he does so with passion and attention to detail, obtaining as much history and memorabilia about each car as possible. One area in particular where the history may surprise even the most hardcore Porsche fan, is his collection of open-wheel race cars. This includes a Porsche Formula One car, and two Porsche IndyCars, including the one I immediately recognized from the last time I saw it on a historic day in 1989.

Ron’s personal collection, mostly stored below his home just north of Columbus, Ohio, could be an amazing car museum in its own right. His open-wheel racers sit in just one small corner of his collection. He personally raced most of these single seaters with many regional and national Formula Continental victory trophies on display. “I decided to create a space where each class of open-wheel racer was displayed – from Volkswagen powered Formula Vee’s all the way up to IndyCar and Formula One.” Ron shared. “Along with each car I try to match it with race programs, paintings, model cars, and as much race history as possible.” His collection is an example of the open-wheel ladder system and includes Formula Ford (typically the first step on the ladder), Formula Vee (VW Bug based), Formula Continental, F2000, Formula Atlantic, IndyCar (CART), and Formula One.

As a Porsche collector, Ron Thomas wanted to find any Porsche open-wheel examples for his collection. Unfortunately, despite their rich history and decades of dominance in sports cars there just isn’t much in the way of success for Porsche in open-wheel racing. They only have one total Formula 1 victory from back in 1962 (though they provided engines for McLaren that won the championships from 1984-1986). Here are three of the most significant pieces of Porsche open-wheel motorsports history that most people have never heard of… all in one personal collection.

IndyCar – 1989 No. 8 Quaker State March 89P-Porsche Indy V8

After the Porsche 962 won the 24 Hours of Le Mans in 1986 (their 6^th in a row) it was time for a new challenge. One thing Porsche had never done was win an IndyCar race. From 1988-1990 they entered a car with the most powerful engine in the series featuring their 720hp 2.65L turbo V8. Seeing the #8 in Quaker State livery in Ron’s basement immediately brought back memories. I remember seeing this car at my first ever motorsports event, the 1989 IndyCar race at Mid-Ohio my dad took me to at 9-years-old. That was the day I became a lifelong motorsports fan.

History was made at Mid-Ohio when Teo Fabi piloting the #8 won that day, marking Porsches first and ONLY IndyCar win. Despite their engine being more powerful than the field of Ilmore Chevys and Cosworth-Fords, it wasn’t enough to overcome an uncompetitive chassis most races. After just over 2 seasons of racing and a combination of struggling to find the handling they needed, dealing with the death of the head of the Porsche North America’s Motorsports Division, and fighting against some questionable political rules made specifically against their cars, Porsche pulled the plug on their IndyCar program after the 1990 season. A total of 44 races, and 1 win.

Porsche hasn’t returned to Indy racing, leaving this the only Porsche to ever win an IndyCar race. It’s quite a sight to see it in person again after over 30 years, unrestored. It still has chips in the paint and the original (read: hard as a hockey puck) Goodyear Eagle Racing Radial 15” tires. Don’t take “unrestored” to mean unloved though. Ron has spent a great deal of time and effort to surround this car with as much original memorabilia and records as possible. He even commissioned Bill Patterson to do a painting of the car, now one of his favorite pieces of memorabilia,  displayed next to the team uniform.

There are also original media kits, team banners, posters, and even Teo Fabi’s actual race used helmet. Ron has done an amazing job preserving this significant piece of Porsche motorsport history. Watching the race online now, as Fabi crosses the finish line announcer Paul Page shouts “Porsche has done it! At Mid-Ohio they have scored their first victory in Indycar! The crowd is loving it, they recognize the significance of this moment.” Pretty epic call, even if we didn’t understand how significant that win would be at the time.

That is a day, and a car, I will never forget. Ron was able to save this part of Porsche history after purchasing it directly from the Porsche Museum in Germany. As it sits in his basement the car still can start and run today.

Formula 1 – 1991 Porsche Footwork FA11C

In 1987 Porsche left F1 racing after supplying motors for McLaren the previous few years. Those motors were never badged as Porsche; instead they were labeled as “TAG”, and helped McLaren win three drivers’ championships and two constructors’ championships.

However, Porsche wanted back in, and they wanted to do it on their own this time. They returned in 1991 using a 3.5L V12. Unfortunately, the car came in overweight and underpowered compared to the competition. Porsche lasted just six races before the Footwork Arrows team withdrew from their partnership saying the German manufacturer had fallen far short of their contractual obligations. They never finished a race.

This #9 example was driven by Michele Alboreto at the Monaco, Canadian, and Mexican Gran Prix’s. Ron shared, “This Porsche Formula One car is the only one left in the world with the original V12 motor. I was able to get this directly from the Porsche Museum. I’m still waiting for the gearbox to arrive, but once that happens this piece of history will be able to drive.” Pretty sure people throughout Columbus will hear when he fires up that V12.

IndyCar – 1980 TSM Interscope Porsche Type 940

Understanding the value of what performing well in the Indy 500 could do for their brand in the states, Porsche reached an agreement with Interscope Racing to enter the 1980 Indianapolis 500. Unfortunately, it was bad timing to be a new team as IndyCar was struggling with fighting between the governing body (USAC) and the teams (CART). Porsche built a car that met all the rules and went testing.

The results were more than impressive with their reported speeds scaring a lot of the traditional team owners. AJ Foyt eventually lobbied USAC for a rule change that would severely limit the turbo power of only the Porsche and threated to quit USAC if they didn’t agree. The Porsche team and driver Danny Ongais were ready to qualify for the 500 and expected to compete for the pole when just one month before the race USAC gave in to Foyt and changed the rules. Despite all the time and money invested in their IndyCar plan, Porsche took the only course of action available and shut down the program. In addition to the car, Ron has collected a lot of the rare marketing materials created to promote what was to be Porsche’s historic Indy 500 debut. “This is one of only 3 that Porsche ever built. I was able to get this on Bring A Trailer without a powerplant and plan to add a correct motor so it can run it in the future.”

Ron also has an extensive Porsche car collection that has proved to be helpful for his business as owner of AASE Sales, an online Porsche parts store. When someone calls with a question about a particular part, his team can literally go look at one of Ron’s 40+ Porsches to find the answer. They feature over 17,000 parts on their website with the majority being “new old stock”, including everything from posters to vintage restoration parts for all Porsche models.

Do any other Hagerty members have unique pieces of automotive history you would like to share? Email us at: HDCcommunity@hagerty.com and share your story.
We would love to feature more stories in future newsletters. You never know, your car may be one that someone else had seen as a child that impacted their life. Like Ron Thomas’ Porsche IndyCar did for me.

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This article first appeared in Hagerty Drivers Club magazine. Click here to subscribe and join the club.

I had heard about Ginettas in high school but had never seen one. Years later, after I had gone through a couple of Triumphs, a Mini, and a right-hand-drive Sunbeam Tiger, Ginetta was back on my radar screen. In 2002, we were living in California, but we didn’t have a fun car, so I went on a hunt—even placing an ad in the LA Times: “Interesting car wanted. RHD a plus. No automatics.”

That ad turned up some interesting cars, all right, but “interesting” in the sense of “May you live in interesting times.”

Meanwhile, through car magazines, the internet, and word of mouth, I found a Ginetta in a barn in East Anglia (in the East of England) in need of a total restoration. Who better to do the work than the Walklett family, founders of Ginetta in 1958? Their shop happened to be in East Anglia, so we struck a deal. Over the next nine months, they produced a new chassis, a modern Ford drivetrain, the body, and an interior.

During spring break, my son and I visited to check on progress, and closer to the end, I visited again. The car then spent three weeks at sea and several weeks clearing U.S. Customs before I was finally able to take possession.

We now drive the Ginetta around 900 miles a year, including to Monterey for Car Week and to informal car shows. With an empty tank, the car weighs 1399 pounds, and with 175 horsepower, Weber fuel injection, headers, four-wheel discs, four-wheel independent suspension, a five-speed transmission, and front/mid-engine layout, it drives like a slot car and sounds great. My son learned a lot about cars by tinkering with this one and is now a mechanical engineer working in chassis dynamics engineering.

The Ginetta is a car that gives us nearly as much pleasure to look at as to drive. And we’re still in touch with the Walkletts for parts and advice. How many people can say they know the actual people who built their car?

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My adventure with the 1959 Chevrolet Bel Air began when I was a boy growing up in the period of the “great race to the moon.” I always admired the “Slimline Design” Bel Air of that year because it somehow reminded me of the pursuit of space.

I purchased my four-door Bel Air on eBay in January 2015 from a vintage dealer in Dothan, Alabama. Sedans often don’t get as much love as coupes and convertibles, but mine was in great shape and was a terrific example of the “everyman’s car.” After I did some research, I discovered my Bel Air was built at the General Motors Janesville Assembly Plant in Wisconsin. I have no information on what happened to the car for the next 49 years. (I am hoping to fill in the details of that time period someday.) By 2008, the car was in Phoenix, and in 2014, it sold at the Barrett-Jackson auction in Jacksonville, Florida, to the dealership.

It took over two months to get the car home, but I was so happy to finally see it sitting in my driveway. I immersed myself fully into the vintage car culture here in Windsor, and I’ve listened to many memorable stories from people who stop on the street to admire the Bel Air when I’m out and about.

I had the car lightly restored, and I’ve since had to repair a few things that were wrong with it, but I kept it as authentic as I could during the process. One of these days, I’ll get to a full restoration to truly make my Bel Air a show car. In the meantime, you can see it in the upcoming movie Vampire Zombies … From Space!

It took a lot of saving and a long 56 years to acquire the car that my younger self desired, and I wouldn’t trade the joy it brings me.

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Hagerty readers and Hagerty Drivers Club members share their cherished collector and enthusiast vehicles with us via our contact email, tips@hagerty.com. We’re showcasing some of our favorite stories among these submissions. To have your car featured, send complete photography and your story of ownership to the above email address.

Michael Tobin’s great-grandfather Walter Cory went all out on the last new car he ever purchased, and his family is still enjoying the 1938 Chevrolet Master Deluxe years after his death.

Michael, who lives in Savannah, Texas, says his great-grandpa bought the car in June of 1938. “The base price for a Master Deluxe was around $700, but Walt had managed, by ordering just about every option available, to boost the price to over $1000,” Tobin says. “It had fender skirts, fog lights, a spotlight, push-button radio, deluxe heater, banjo steering wheel with town and country horns, special chrome fender trim, and a rubber-bladed fan on the dash. He even had his initials added to the hood. The paint—Robin’s Egg Blue—was also special ordered with cream stripes on the body and wheels.

“As Great-Grandpa Walt said, ‘This is the last car I’ll ever buy, and I want it just right.’”

He nailed it. When Cory retired to the small town of Twenty Nine Palms, California, the Chevy—with its 85-horsepower, 216-cubic-inch Stovebolt Six with “knee-action” front end—was soon pressed into service hauling soldiers and supplies from the Marine Corps base to the train station at Whitewater.

“My father, Ron, often rode along on these trips with a full load of soldiers—often pulling a two-wheel trailer full of mail, ice cream, or whatever,” Michael says. “Walt often told him, ‘Someday, when I get too old to drive, I want you to have this car.’”

Walt drove his beloved Chevy until 1967. “When he was in the hospital at nearly 90,” Michael says, “his main concern was to get the pink slip signed over to my father.”

Following Great-Grandpa Walt’s death, the Chevy took up residence at the family cabin in Big Bear Lake, California. “It was our summer car, wintering under a tarp, as we didn’t yet have a garage,” Michael recalls. “As cracks appeared in the old lacquer finish, we covered them with Ricky Ticky stickers, large flower decals popular in the ’60s. Many times, while driving through the village, we would get a vee (peace) sign from the kids. At the time, the car was referred to by many of the locals as the Heavy Chevy.”

In 1985, Michael’s family built a garage exclusively for the Master Deluxe. At last, it was out of the weather. “Thanks to the smogless and salt-free air of the mountains, there was little or no rust on the body or chrome,” Michael says. “Finally, in 1992 my father brought the Chevy to a professional restorer. Thirteen months and a whole lot of money later, it was finished.”

The ’38 Chevy is all-stock except for a Hampton interior kit with synthetic fibers rather than mohair, “because he didn’t want to worry about ice cream cones in the back seat,” Michael says.

The car returned to Big Bear and is driven on weekends and summer vacations. “It always draws a crowd, and we have met a lot of new friends. It seems everyone has had one, ridden in one as a kid, or wanted one.”

Michael says his father always enjoyed taking his grandkids for a ride in the Chevy, just as Walt had driven him. “With his passing (in May 2014), the stewardship of Great-Grandpa’s Chevy has now been transferred to us,” he says. “I take it to various shows in the Dallas area. My dad thought long and hard about whether to leave the car stock or go the restomod route. While not as flashy as some of the ‘new old cars,’ it always gets its share of compliments.”

Add us to the list of admirers.

***

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I didn’t really grow up around classic cars, but I have always admired the combination of design and history that comes with them.

My first love of cars came during high school, when I got into Audis after my father purchased a new A4. The experience of all-wheel drive plus a turbo got me so excited about driving, and I’ve owned Audis ever since, including two S4s, an RS4, and an RS7. They’ve all been engaging driving experiences, but something was missing for me when I got behind the wheel.

Fast-forward to 2019, when my family and I purchased our first home. I finally had a garage, with more space than I needed for daily drivers. Thinking of how I might fill a spot, I started browsing auctions and found a 1958 Auto Union 1000 Sonderklasse for sale from a private museum in California that fall.

I knew that my beloved Audi brand had derived from Auto Union and was aware of its prewar racing pedigree, but I didn’t know the company had built and sold street cars. Through research into the postwar history of Auto Union, I found that the marque was sold in the U.S. in limited quantities through Studebaker dealers; Daimler-Benz, which owned Auto Union at the time, had an agreement with Studebaker-Packard to sell its cars.

I quickly fell in love with the design and obscure history of the 1000, bid on it, and won. I’d never thought of owning a three-cylinder two-stroke before, nor about owning a car with 44 horsepower. However, when it arrived in New York several days later, I realized it had a list of problems, having sat for many years in the museum. Game on.

The biggest challenge was the clutch: This example is equipped with a Saxomat automated manual transmission, which was a rare option. Sourcing parts became a fun challenge, and to date, I’ve built a list of sources from Germany, South Africa, Argentina, and other countries.

Good thing, because my passion for classics had just taken off.

I picked up my second Auto Union, a 1960 1000SP with a tuned two-stroke and a column-mounted four-speed, on Bring a Trailer in March 2020. I loved the look of the pillarless coupe 1000 when I first saw it, but upon laying my eyes on a 1000SP for the first time, my adoration was at another level.

This particular example is one of 5000 coupes built over a seven-year production run, which ended when Auto Union was sold to Volkswagen in 1964. It was delivered in late 1959 to Baden-Baden, Germany, reportedly to a race car driver named Eckhard Schimpf, who raced it at the Nürburgring in ’60 and ’62. It was driven at races around Europe for nearly two decades before being crashed at some point in the late 1970s.

It was imported to Canada, then brought to the U.S. in 2002 and traded in at Sewickley Audi in Pittsburgh on a new A6 in 2007. The dealership displayed it for a while before putting it into storage for more than a decade, and it finally made its way to my garage as a pandemic project.

The SP needed a full restoration. As with the 1000, finding parts and learning its quirks has been an endeavor, but I’ve involved some great local shops (Bob, Leo, and the crew at Briarcliff Classic are magicians!). In addition to its racing provenance, the 1000SP became an award winner at the Radnor Hunt Concours and was displayed at The Amelia this March.

I love finding cars that people don’t see often. I also look for something in a car’s history or design that jumps out at me as unique. The Pennant Blue 1954 Corvette I purchased in 2021 fit the bill perfectly.

The beauty of these cars is apparent from any angle, but this one stood out because it had been owned by a General Motors executive in Germany for 30 years. Plus, it was fully restored and ready to enjoy.

The highlight of my first year of ownership of the car was receiving a Top Flight Award from the National Corvette Restorers Society, meaning that close to 100 percent of the car is as it was when it left the St. Louis factory.

It’s slow and handles like a tank, but it is one of the most beautifully designed American cars ever to have been produced. And it totally got me to go outside of my Audi bubble.

Even further outside that bubble is the 1964 GAZ 69M, a former Soviet military radio-communications vehicle that I acquired last summer. It is fully restored as well, with a flathead four-cylinder mated to a three-speed, and it will drive over anything. It’s super fun. It sits up high. It’s loud. My kids love it.

I am fortunate to have a wife and two young sons who have gotten into classic cars almost as much as I have, with my boys often helping out in the garage. I worry that most kids in their generation won’t learn to drive manual transmissions—or come to appreciate these rolling works of art. They have the bug, though, and it keeps them off screens and hopefully will continue to spark a similar passion within them.

Which brings me to my latest acquisition—a 1947 Lincoln Club Coupe with the remarkable flathead V-12 and a column-mounted three-speed. It’s a stunning design with room for all four of us. It sat for a few years, so I’m still working through some challenges, but it has already been a load of fun.

As I’ve started building my collection, my passion has grown with each new vehicle and piece of history I learn about them. You can feel the soul of a classic car when you drive it, something modern cars simply can’t deliver. Assembling these rolling works of art over the past three years has been a joyous responsibility for me. More important, it has given me the opportunity to share this passion with others, especially my boys as they grow up.

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Bultaco, a long-lost Spanish motorcycle brand, is best remembered for its dirt bikes, racers, and trail bikes, but it also built some well-respected road bikes. The top-of-the-line model was the Metralla, several iterations of which were produced over a 15-year period.

I always wanted a Metralla, and around 2002, I found a nice Mk2, the classic example, on eBay in Canada. It was original and minimally restored. I detailed the heck out of it, and it won several awards.

This satisfied my Metralla fix for several years, though I did restore a few other Bultacos in the interim—a Matador, a Metisse, and a Sammy Miller trials bike among them.

Then in 2015, I spotted an El Tigre for sale at auction. El Tigres were a street-scrambler version of the Metralla. The one at auction didn’t sell, but the seller was desperate, so I made an offer and he relented. This is a beautiful motorcycle and has since won an Antique Motorcycle Club of America senior award, scoring 99.25 points.

The following year, I discovered an early Metralla 62 that had been in a California garage since the late ’70s. It was originally purchased by a U.S. airman in Spain, but the motor had since locked up and it was quite badly corroded. The shipper described it as a “rust bucket.” It took a year of hard work to restore it to its original European spec. When I’d finished, it was selected as best in class at the Riding Into History concours in Florida.

Then I was only missing the late-model six-speed Metralla GTS, of which only six were imported before the EPA shut down all two-strokes. I found a nasty one in South Florida, but the owner wouldn’t sell, so I looked to Spain, where I finally located a decent one and went through the shipping and importing hassle.

Finally, I had an example of each of the Metralla variants. To my knowledge, this is the only complete set in the U.S.

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Years ago, my older brother and his wife took my wife, Donna, and me off-roading in their 1984 Ford Bronco II XLT. That experience and the just-right size of the Bronco II stuck with me. Before long, I started scanning want ads for a used Bronco II until I found a sharp ’89 XLT with low miles.

One spring weekend, I drove it to rural southern Virginia with my family. Eventually, we came upon a new housing development with dirt streets roughed out. As I turned into the unpaved entrance, my wife expressed her trepidation about going off-road with the family in tow—and with such little experience. “I have enough experience,” I said, thinking of that off-roading blast with my brother a few years earlier.

I engaged the hubs, dropped the shifter into 4L, then began to negotiate the muddy terrain. In short order, I got us thoroughly stuck. After many attempts to extricate ourselves using tree branches and floor mats, Donna and I locked glances and she nonverbally communicated the classic spousal, “Really?” with a deep exhale and a slow, eyes-closed nod.

In the distance, we could hear the clinking of a bulldozer, so off I trekked to go plead with the operator for a rescue, and he was happy to oblige. After he’d backed his leviathan up to the rear of my family fun machine, he told me to get my towrope. I didn’t have a towrope. I didn’t have a jack. I didn’t have any off-road survival tools. I did, however, have an enormous Craftsman screwdriver.

The guy handed me the end of a 1-inch wire cable, so I improvised a connection to my bumper using the screwdriver and the eyelet of the cable. He idled the dozer forward, I gunned the Bronco II in reverse, and we popped out of the soft, slimy mud. I jumped out of the Bronco II to unhook the cable only to find my screwdriver bent at a 90-degree angle.

It took hours to clean the mud off, but I learned many valuable lessons from that experience: Don’t trespass in the name of fun; carry proper tools for off-roading; Craftsman stands by its no-questions-asked guarantee; and always be on the same page as your spouse.

I’ve owned three Bronco IIs over the years and now have a low-mileage ’89 Eddie Bauer Edition. It is by far my favorite of the lot. And no, I have not taken it off-road.

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I was 11 years old when my parents purchased a new 1963 Corvair Monza convertible. For the next five years, my mother used it on a daily basis. She began driving me to junior high school, where she also worked. When I turned 16 and obtained a driver’s license, I began dropping her off for work and continuing on to the high school in it. In 1970, my parents gave me the car as a graduation present, and I spent many nights cruising with friends to local hangouts.

In July 1970, I reported for my first day of work with the federal government with my father beside me, as he worked at the same agency. By that time, my Corvair needed a new top and a new paint job, so I began saving money. A few months later, I had it painted metal flake blue at Earl Scheib for $99.99. My parents chipped in for a new black convertible top. I felt so cool!

In 1973, I reluctantly turned my Corvair over to another family member. My father and I went to the local Plymouth dealership and purchased two new Plymouths, one for each of us. Over the next 40 years, I owned several different cars and trucks, but I always thought of one day having another Corvair.

After my retirement from federal service, I started attending car shows. In November 2011, as I was making my way through the flea market area of the Daytona Turkey Run in Florida, I spotted a maroon 1964 Corvair Monza convertible with 80,000 original miles. It was in excellent condition, but it needed some restoration. While I was negotiating the selling price, I learned it had come from the DeLand Naval Air Station Museum, where it had been donated for a fundraiser by a World War II veteran.

After I got it home, I contacted the museum and was able to learn the car’s complete history. Purchased new from Holler Chevrolet in DeLand, Florida, in 1964, the Corvair was used primarily for beach and amusement park trips by the first owner’s family. In the early 1990s, a member of the Antique Automobile Club of America bought it. He and his wife would cruise and attend various auto shows in central Florida. He donated the Corvair to the museum because he had trained on base as a fighter pilot during the war.

After giving the car a brake job and a tune-up, I began ordering parts to restore it. I started with the padded dash, then moved on to trim parts. My husband and I completely replaced the interior and carpet. We also replaced the windshield, the convertible top, and its hydraulic activators. Then we got to the transmission control cable, which also needed replacing. For the final adjustment, we had to open the transmission and utilize a special tool. We’d never seen the inside of a transmission. After the installation, we could not find that tool, so we thought we might have left it in the transmission. We opened it up again, but it was not there. We still have not located that tool …

That hasn’t stopped me from driving my Corvair around town and to local shows, where I have won numerous awards. Most recently, I received the highest award, the Mayor’s Choice Cup, at our town’s annual car show. Wherever I go, people share childhood Corvair memories, all of which make me a very proud owner.

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If they had met sooner, Bob Taylor and Scott Bullis would have undoubtedly been friends a lot longer than the two-and-a-half years they knew each other. Taylor was into cars, became a fighter pilot, and customized his own Dodge in Germany while serving in the U.S. Air Force. Bullis was also an airman, served in Afghanistan, and pursued a career in automotive restoration following his retirement from the USAF.

For years the two men lived as complete strangers, separated by decades and thousands of miles. Then one car changed everything.

Robert H. Taylor Sr. grew up in Albany, New York, and entered the Army Air Corps shortly after graduating from high school. He served as a flight instructor from 1942–45, flying BT-14, T-6, P-40, and P-47 aircraft, and he was assigned to a combat-ready P-47 unit. But the hostilities ended before he could be sent overseas. Following WWII, Taylor entered the New Jersey Air National Guard while earning a living in his family’s cabinetry shop. In the National Guard he transitioned to flying the P-51 Mustang (redesignated as F-51 in 1947) and reentered the active-duty Air Force for the Korean War.

Taylor flew 85 combat missions in Korea and was awarded the Bronze Star for volunteering to take on the additional duty of Group Gunnery Officer, in which he “devised and standardized methods to greatly improve the accuracy of the [18th Fighter Bomber] Group’s striking power.” After the war ended, Taylor remained on active duty and maintained flight status in the T-33 and T-39 Sabreliner.

As any Air Force officer does, Taylor and his family moved on a regular basis, and he served assignments in various locations, including Colorado Springs, Ramstein Air Base Germany, and The Pentagon. While stationed in Colorado Springs in March 1962, then-Major Taylor bought a 1932 Dodge Brothers DK8 Victoria Coupe. When he took it on a duck hunt, the car burned oil so badly that he began looking for a replacement engine. Within months, he purchased a 1953 Dodge Coronet that was powered by a 241-cubic-inch Red Ram Hemi—Dodge’s first V-8 with those famous hemispherical cylinder heads—and decided to swap the engine into the DK8 as part of an overall restoration.

There was just one problem. In April 1963, Taylor was transferred to Ramstein. Not wanting to halt his plans, he had the cars shipped to Germany. During Taylor’s off-duty hours he went to work on his old-made-new-again (“restomod,” in car lingo) project, using the shop facilities and equipment on the air base. Taylor rented garage space nearby, and his then-college-age son, Bob Jr., flew to Germany to help his father work on the car.

After communicating with Chrysler’s history department and design studio and working with it to create the paint scheme, Taylor repainted the fenders chocolate brown, the body light tan with pink pinstriping, and the wheels cream. The chrome and the upholstery were completed by local artisans in and around Ramstein.

“Bob designed the car himself and did most of the engineering, fabrication, machine work, sheetmetal, paint, electrical, and final assembly,” Bullis says. “I have the notebook that he used to create fabrication drawings for the mechanical and electrical systems, document build schedules, and keep other project research and design documentation like upholstery, body, and paint. He was exceptionally detail-oriented.”

The most noteworthy aspect of Taylor’s work was the reengineering he did to transplant the ’53 Coronet’s Hemi engine into the DK8 and add a three-speed gearbox with overdrive. He was so meticulous that the project took two years to complete, but the results were obviously worth the wait.

Chrysler got wind of the Dodge and asked if it could exhibit the car at the 1965 Frankfurt Motor Show. The Taylors—Bob Sr., his wife Val, daughter Susan, and Bob Jr.—and the DK8 made quite an impression.

“The car was greatly admired by all,” Chrysler International district manager Gerald O. Willis wrote to Major Taylor afterward, “and it certainly enhanced the display of more recent Chrysler products shown in the plaza.”

Taylor and Kay used the Dodge as their daily driver and enjoyed it on the autobahn while Bob was stationed in Europe, and it came home with them when Bob accepted a post at The Pentagon. In 1968, now a Lieutenant Colonel, Robert Taylor retired from the USAF and made Colorado Springs his home. He drove the Dodge regularly until about 2008, when it was placed in storage.

Eleven years later, he would bring the car out of storage and back to life … thanks to another Air Force vet.

Scott Bullis was born in Brandon, South Dakota, just outside Sioux Falls, a year after Taylor retired. He too grew up with a love for cars and airplanes, joined the USAF in August 1994, and eventually became an officer. Bullis suffered combat wounds in Afghanistan in September 2011 and retired from the military three years later. Although he had earned a master’s degree in IT, the injuries he received in the 2011 blast made it difficult for him to work with computers, so—through a grant from the Veterans Administration—he was offered an opportunity to go back to school. He knew exactly what he wanted to do.

Having a life-long interest in antique and classic cars, Bullis decided to attend Kansas’ McPherson College, where he received a bachelor’s degree in Antique Automobile Restoration Technology. While at McPherson, Bullis interned with the prestigious Collier and Cunningham Collections at the Revs Institute for Automotive Research in Naples, Florida, as well as for a Porsche shop in Denver. He graduated Summa Cum Laude in December 2016.

“While I enjoyed working with the top tier of collector cars,” Bullis says, “I decided to open my own shop and focus on preserving cars that average people own, keeping them safe and reliable to use, while maintaining their history.”

Bullis’ Golden Age Preservation and Restoration, LLC, opened in August 2018 in Colorado Springs—the same city in which Taylor had settled. Less than a year later, the two would meet.

“I was first introduced to Bob Taylor Sr. around April 2019,” Bullis says. “The ’32 Dodge Brothers DK8 Victoria restomod had been out of service and in storage in Colorado Springs for years. With Bob getting older [approaching 95] and still loving the car, the family decided to investigate what it would take to return it to running condition so he could ride in it again—maybe even attempt to drive it.

“His son, Bob Jr., lives in Wichita, Kansas, and he was aware of the automobile restoration program at McPherson College. On one of his many trips from Wichita to Colorado Springs, he stopped in to see if the school had any recommendations for how to return it to running condition. Luckily for me, he talked with my former advisor, Garrick Greene, who recommended the family contact me.”

The Dodge hadn’t moved from Bob Sr.’s garage since the engine had been accidentally overfilled with oil over a decade earlier, and Bullis was curious about the vehicle’s condition. Since he likes to meet any potential new customer and see how and where their car is being stored, he agreed to meet the family at Bob’s house. After the two chatted for a few minutes and discussed their mutual Air Force histories, Bob Sr. agreed to let Scott see his car.

“It initially appeared as a dusty, preserved, factory-stock 1932 Dodge Brothers DK8 Victoria Coupe, just one of the roughly 1320 built in 1931 and ’32,” Bullis says. “Then Bob Jr. opened the hood to reveal the 1953 Dodge Red Ram Hemi. After a little more talking about the car and its history, I was convinced I wanted to work with them, but Bob Sr. needed more convincing before letting his car go to another garage.”

They made arrangements for both Bobs to visit Bullis’ shop.

“Our facility isn’t huge, but it’s usually clean and bright, and since I fly radio-controlled airplanes for a hobby, it’s decorated in planes and car memorabilia,” Bullis explains. “My preferred airplanes to fly are the kind from WWII, and at any one time several are usually visible hanging on walls and sitting on shelves. Bob Sr. walked in and saw two P-47s and two P-51 models, along with several others, and decided it was the right place to work on his car. He thought I was probably OK too.”

Golden Age Preservation and Restoration spent the next two and a half years working not only to return the Dodge to driving condition but also to store it, preserve it, and keep it ready for events and rides.

“Bob got an opportunity to drive it again in late summer 2019, but COVID limited the amount of time we could spend driving it most of 2020 and ’21,” Bullis remembers. “We were able to take him on several rides, and we were preparing for him to drive it again for his 97th birthday in October 2021 when he became ill.”

Robert H. Taylor Sr. died on November 13, 2021. Amazingly, he left the car to Bullis.

“During the time Bob was with us and I was working with the car, we repeatedly discussed what the future held for it,” Bullis says. “He was really concerned that somebody would buy it and try to ‘improve’ it with new paint, new interior, or updated powertrain, or strip it for the engine. Through our discussions, I think he recognized the respect I had for his history, and that I also recognized the place his car holds in the history of post-WWII American car culture.

“While it’s not based on what many consider a traditional hot-rod platform that was used by many returning lower-ranked WWII and Korean War vets—like the Ford Model T, Ford Model A, and ’32 Ford V-8 coupe—it’s consistent with what you’d expect a fighter pilot and senior military officer of the time to build and drive. The use of a Gen I Dodge Hemi seems to be the first thing that gets people’s attention, followed by the realization of the engineering and design skill it took to make [the ’50s V-8] fit in an early-1930s platform designed for a straight-eight. It really is a 1960s-era restomod.”

Bullis appreciates that the DK8 Victoria Coupe isn’t perfect, “but it’s in great condition for a 91-year-old car and a nearly 60-year-old build. It’s amazing.” The fact that a fellow USAF veteran—a war hero, no less—left it in his care also makes its presence humbling.

“We just connected,” Bullis says. And he isn’t talking about the car.

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The post WWII vet put a Hemi in a ’30s Dodge before V-8 swaps were cool appeared first on Hagerty Media.

In July 1966, I was walking through an MG dealership in Cleveland when I saw a new white MGB with black leather seats. It was parked outside in an overgrown lot, and an impressively large weed was coming up through the battery access door, tickling the inside of the top. Despite the car’s forlorn state, it was love at first sight.

That was the beginning of my devotion to British sports cars. The thrill of driving an MG was addictive, with handling beyond anything I had ever experienced. I drove that car in gymkhanas and road rallies. I drove it in hailstorms and blizzards. I drove it on my honeymoon. Yes, I had all of the usual problems with its electrical system. And yes, the day I sold it, I was miserable.

Years passed and life changed, with family and a career. Shortly after I retired, I decided to rekindle my passion for British cars, so I bought an Austin-Healey 100 M to restore. I was pleased to see that parts were easy to come by. I also spent a decent amount of time on eBay finding the not-so-easy parts. I finished the Healey and won the first of several awards from various events. I was hooked for good, and I completed a succession of concours restorations, including an MG TF 1500 and a Morgan Plus 8. I rarely drove the cars I restored to concours levels. They were perfect, and most seat time was limited to parking them on show fields. I viewed them as objects of beauty, only to behold.

Following a cross-country move to Boise, I bought a Sunbeam Tiger in rough shape. By this point, my age limited my involvement in its restoration, and being more hands-off allowed me to see that car differently. Rather than planning to make it perfect, I started thinking about how to make it better. Thus began my own “restomod” phase.

The passion is deep in my family, and concurrently, my son purchased a 1967 MGB to restore. He, too, wanted to improve the experience and included many suspension parts from aftermarket suppliers. Then it hit me: Why not do a thoroughly modern version of the MGB? I searched for potential partners, knowing that I would not be doing the actual mechanical work. It turned out the company that was rebuilding my Tiger’s V-8, Throttleworks, right here in Boise, was interested, and we entered into a relationship to develop our own version of an MGB.

Throttleworks specializes in tuning, fabrication, and development of vehicles both domestic and foreign. Our personalities were compatible, and Throttleworks was willing to take on the business risk with me. Our shared vision was simple enough: Keep the look of the classic MGB but transform it in all other ways with modern performance, reliability, and creature comforts so it could be fully enjoyed on today’s highways. Our new enterprise, Snake River Classics, began with the purchase of a 1980 MGB, and immediately, we dismantled the entire car.

We did a pencil study to determine which engines would fit in the B, and the GM LTG 2.0-liter turbo emerged as the logical choice because of its availability, tune-ability, serviceability, weight, cost, and fit. It was compatible with two excellent transmissions (a five-speed manual and a six-speed automatic), and the power potential of that engine was more than adequate—no need to shoehorn a V-6 or a V-8 that would change the basic character of the car. Plus, an MG-GM pairing just had a nice feel to it.

It would have been easy to simply select suspension components off the shelf, but we determined that the power generated by the new engine would require a complete redesign of the suspension given the torque generated at low rpm. We used computer modeling to engineer thoroughly modern front- and rear-suspension systems that were not limited by the original geometries of the decades-old setup.

All the other systems (brakes, electrical, etc.) were assessed and redeveloped. The body was reshaped to incorporate flared fenders in order to support the increased tire width. The dash was redesigned to be a variation of the original, younger-looking first-generation MGB. And other details were designed to enhance the look of the new body structure yet remain consistent with the look of the original MGB.

The development process of our 1980 roadster took three years and included fully documenting the transformation for follow-on vehicles. This was a time of great patience as the work started to come together. The old mantra, “Do it once, do it right,” is the only way to go. And yet, my own anticipation grew weekly as we started to put everything together.

The moment of truth for me was the first time I got behind the wheel of the nearly completed car. It had no windshield, so the tears streaming down my face as I accelerated hard were a mix of the wind and my own joy. The raw power and incredible handling of this essentially brand-new MGB were overwhelming. And even in its incomplete state, the build quality was outstanding, and I could tell this was something special. Dyno tuning (260 horsepower/270 lb-ft) and autocross testing took place as the build progressed until, finally, it was ready for an all-important photo shoot so we could get a website up and running. Snake River Classics was now live.

In the meantime, we started transforming a second car, this time a B GT, to test the reproduction process. Our first outing of the prototype and the 385-hp GT (in process) was for the Idaho British Car Club in 2021. I felt incredible pride showing off what we had developed. The Portland All British Field Meet, one of the larger British car shows in the U.S., followed, where we received so much positive response.

Driving the Snake River MGB is a blast, with confident handling and exhilarating acceleration MG never dreamed of. The sensation of disbelief takes me back to my first drive in the white ’66 so many years ago. It would seem my love affair with the MGB has come full circle. And even though I am not physically doing the work anymore, I take great pride in helping other enthusiasts enjoy the rush of a modern, dependable classic sports car. To those who look down on the MGB, we will see you in our rearview mirror!

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The post MG’s buzzing B has always been there for me appeared first on Hagerty Media.

One of the best parts of our jobs here at Hagerty is that we get to share our passion for all things automotive with you. The traffic runs the other direction as well, thanks to all of your submissions sharing the vehicles that mean so much to you, your families, and your towns. (Want to send your car’s story for consideration? Email a description and photos to tips@hagerty.com)

We receive so many tips that it’s impossible to write about them all, but now is a great time to revisit some of our favorite reader-submitted (or inspired) stories from the year that was. Many of these people and their vehicles will be familiar to you from previous Hagerty articles in 2022; others we’re mentioning for the first time. Each one reminds us of why we—all of us—are so deep in this hobby to begin with.

Blind at 58, one man chose to keep loving life—and his 1947 Plymouth

Bill Chapman suffered optic nerve damage and went blind more than a decade ago, yet he still treasures his 1947 Plymouth Special Deluxe four-door sedan, even though he can’t see it—let alone drive it. Bill’s story came to us by happenstance when he called Hagerty to file an insurance claim (which you can read about in the full story linked above) and had a long conversation with a member of our claims team. His heartfelt tale had our comments section buzzing.

“For some reason, reading this made my eyes wet,” Brian Harriman wrote. “Wonder if it’s allergy season.”

Chris Pohlhammer added, “Terrific car and story. I hope I handle future health challenges as gracefully and cheerfully as Bill has. I’m sure it was not easy to come to grips with initially. Shows the power of positive attitude, friendship and love.”

It was an honor to share Bill’s amazing story.

6 of the most rewarding moments in vintage car ownership +1

When our own Kyle Smith wrote a column about what he believes are the six most rewarding moments in vintage car ownership, he focused on a car’s first show or event, the first startup after a repair or restoration, catching a problem before it’s a problem, conquering that first difficult DIY repair, the first time you chauffeur an (appreciative) friend, and taking a road trip or cruise.

Unbeknownst to most of you, Kyle’s story inspired a comment from regular reader DUB6 that added a seventh rewarding moment to the list:

“These are all good, and I’ve experienced most of them. However, in my case, the ABSOLUTE MOST rewarding moment came when I revealed the project car and the plan to build it (alongside her) to our youngest daughter. It had come about as a result of her answer a few years prior when I asked her what her favorite car was. The answer set me upon a quest to get one into her life. It was a bit more of a challenge than I first thought, but the way it happened is something I wouldn’t change for a million bucks. The smiles and hugs I got as we worked our way through the challenges were priceless. Showing her the title and registration with both her and my names on them was the topper, as she then knew without any doubt that one day the car would be all hers.”

Way to go, Dad!

56 years later, husband will never sell the Alpine his wife talked him into buying new

In 1966, teenage newlyweds Alex and Mary Gabbard won a radio mystery contest and were awarded a $1000 prize, and the two used the money to buy a new Sunbeam Alpine. That was Mary’s choice, by the way, not Alex’s. Decades later, however, the car is a beautiful reminder of Alex’s bride, who passed away in 2020. Looking back, he calls the purchase and ownership of the Alpine “the greatest adventure of our lives.” The story was pretty special to us, too.

When I first saw my dream car, I had no idea what it was

Keith Evans spotted a Nissan Figaro on a trip back to his native U.K. in the early 2000s, and was so smitten that he vowed to buy one when he returned to the U.S.

Easier said than done, and not just because the Figaro was never imported to the U.S. and thus fell under the 25-year-wait restriction. He lived in California, which is chock full of restrictive emissions regulations. But he preserved and shared his story with us, for which we are grateful.

Tri-Five Tales: Restoring this 1955 Chevrolet Nomad was worth the effort

Dave Armstrong got the Nomad itch as a kid in Saratoga Springs, New York. Two of his uncle’s buddies owned 1955 Chevrolet Nomad wagons, and he always wanted one for himself. Years ago, Dave’s grandmother was living in a nursing home in Vermont, and on a visit there he saw ad for a ’55 Nomad. A former drag car, it was missing a lot—first and foremost a savior. Dave accepted the challenge, and after a full restoration he’s the proud of owner of a stunning head-turner.

For one reader, Dave Towns, it triggered memories of two cars that got away:

“My first car was a ’56 Pontiac four-door that I bought at 14 years old. At 16, I put it on the road. One cold/slippery winter day here in Canada I damaged the right front fender. I heard about one that was sitting on a farm not far away. Turned out to be not one but two Pontiac Safari wagons, both in decent shape, but interiors were shot. The owner wouldn’t sell one, so I bought the pair for $75. I pulled the parts I needed plus a Mallory dual point distributor and GAVE the two cars away. Would love to have one today.”

The other Dave can probably relate. OK, OK, so can we.

CERV-1 replica pays tribute to one of Zora’s wildest rides

In the 1950s, Tony Briski’s dad landed a job at Chevrolet Engineering, and on one summer day in 1959, the department held an employee open house event. Tony noticed “the neatest little car I’d ever seen: the Chevrolet Engineering Research Vehicle No. 1, or CERV-1, sans body. Dad introduced me to two men standing nearby, Zora Arkus-Duntov and Mauri Rose, then plopped me in the car’s metallic blue driver’s seat. I played with the controls, and at that moment, I became a car guy.” Nearly 60 years later, Tony built a CERV-1 for himself, and his story drew plenty of comments.

“I remember the various press releases of that car (yes, I am over 75),” Michael B. Carson wrote. “That car and growing up in the L.A. area in the ’60s made me a car guy for life. It amazes me how someone can build a car like that (by) using pictures.”

Added hyperv6: “I am often hard to impress, but this more than impresses me. In fact, I am downright envious.”

Welcome to the club.

A century old, my 1922 Ford Model T still turns heads

As a child, Tony Ventrice loved antique cars. As an adult, he noticed fewer and fewer of them at car shows. So, he did his part by buying a 1922 Ford Model T Touring. “At automobile shows, I saw muscle cars and hot rods, but not enough antique cars. I wanted to preserve the history of these cars by keeping them as original as possible, and I put together a display of items associated with the Model T and its time period to show the significance of ‘the car that changed America.’”

A good Samaritan helped my father’s AMX stay in our family

Chris Hook inherited his passion for cars from his dad, “mostly thanks to a 1968 AMX X-code Go Pack 390 that he bought in 1972.” His parents met, dated, and drove away from their wedding in that car, but as often happens, the car was eventually parked and moved the back burner. Chris doesn’t remember it moving under its own power after the family moved in 1990, and since his father rarely spent money on himself, it took a gift from Chris—earmarked for the AMX—before his dad agreed to work on it.

Unfortunately, his father passed away unexpectedly, at the age of 60, before ever starting the car again. Chris couldn’t afford to restore the AMX, so he sold it to someone who would. After a year of mechanical work to get it running, the good Samaritan sold it back to the family just for the cost of the parts that he had replaced. Despite the survivor having less than 20,000 miles on the clock, it no longer sits idle.

“Dad always told me cars were meant to be driven,” Chris says, “so I drive the AMX monthly.” His father would be proud. And since saving driving is always top of mind here, we’re smiling too.

This four-wheelin’ 1971 Jeepster Hurst Commando has been in my family since new

When Denise Coulson was 16, her parents decided they wanted to start off-roading in California’s Anza-Borrego Desert. They just needed a vehicle to do it in. So they sold their 1964 Chevrolet Corvair Monza and bought a new 1971 AMC Jeepster Hurst Commando … mostly because Denise’s mother could see over the steering wheel. Over the years, after Denise married and moved to the East Coast, the Jeepster was used less and less and ended up parked in her parents’ garage.

When Alzheimer’s claimed them both, Denise had the Jeepster shipped home, and she says, “The Jeep has brought me fully into the classic automotive world. Truth be told, I have had this passion since childhood, though I’m not sure where it came from.”

Pretty sure we know where it came from.

Almost six decades ago, I bought this ’48 Ford F-1 for $250

So many of us remember cars or trucks that remain a part of us long after they’re gone. Dennis Wilson hung onto to his. Born in 1944, he grew up a sharecropper’s son in north Alabama, so he knew the importance of taking good care of whatever he could afford. Shortly after getting married in 1964, he worked for $37 a week and managed to buy a a 1948 F-1 pickup for $250. “I was washing the Ford when my wife came home and asked whose truck I was washing. I told her it was ours,” he wrote. “… When I told her I wrote a check, she was curious if I knew how much money we had in the bank. I assumed that since we had checks, it meant we also had money. She then gently explained that in the future, we needed to talk about things before I made big purchases. But the truck stayed.”

For 12 years Dennis used the Ford as a work truck, and to go hunting and fishing, then he parked it for 22 years. Starting in 2000, he spent nine years restoring it. “Today, 58 years after I bought it, I still have my wife and we still have our truck. I enjoy driving it, taking it to shows, and joyriding with the ‘co-owner.’ I plan to pass the truck down and keep it in the family.”

Bought by a teen for $1500, this ’63 Corvette is now priceless

Twin brothers Bruce and Brian Richardson bought and sold Corvettes in northern California to help finance their college education in the 1970s, but Brian could never part with one of them: a 1963 convertible that is the earliest-known second-generation Corvette in existence. When Brian passed away, Bruce and his wife, Lainey, reached out to us and wondered if we’d be interested in the story of the C2. Are you kidding? Of course, we jumped at the opportunity, and once again many of our readers were compelled to comment.

While some debated the legality of locating the through DMV records (at the time it was perfectly legal to search a VIN for $1) and others worried about where the car might end up, two of the comments came from readers with firsthand knowledge of the car.

“This is so cool. I lived down the street from them when they trailered this home,” John Butruce wrote. “I remember one of them telling this 16-year-old that it was s/n 3, which didn’t mean much to me back then.”

Dennis Montalbano added, “Brian and Bruce were good friends (of mine) growing up. I remember us sitting around wondering where the earliest C-2 was located … I was at Brian’s house earlier this year for a car reunion. Tragic end to a great person. The Richardson brothers painted my ’56 Corvette in my garage in 1975. I still have that Corvette.”

To support Brian Richardson’s family, his ’63 Corvette convertible is scheduled to cross the block at Mecum’s Kissimmee Auction on January 14. We appreciate Brian and Lainey for sharing their story with us first.

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The post You shared some phenomenal car stories with us in 2022 appeared first on Hagerty Media.

The deadline is closing fast, but Austin Turnes isn’t worried. He’s put a lot of blood, sweat, and tears—literally—into making sure his once-dilapidated 1956 Little Gem camper trailer is finished in time for Barrett-Jackson’s Scottsdale Auction in January.

“We’re moving along on schedule,” says Turnes, who we originally featured in September. “I’ve sent preliminary information, title, VIN, and other information to Barrett-Jackson. They’ve encouraged me to finish sooner rather than later, since last year they filled up by the end of December. I think we may just pull this off in time.”

Turnes has experienced a couple of minor bumps and bruises since his last update video at the end of October.

“I’ve insulated, hung the (aluminum) skins, and begun buffing the exterior,” he says. “Word to the wise: Make sure exterior light wires are tucked in before you do that. I caught one of them with my buffer and proceeded to whip the hell out of my left arm. That being said, you curse a little—or a lot—and get back to work. Restorations typically demand a little blood sacrifice to go with the sweat and tears. Just another day at the office.”

The restoration is going so well that Turnes’ latest update video already needs an update, since it doesn’t include installation of the skins and the beginning of buffing process.

Turnes, who runs Mr. Vintage Restoration out of his garage in Middleville, Michigan, says he accomplished a lot in November. That included finishing the cabinets, installing the Marmoleum flooring and appliances, and working on the cushions and curtains—with the help of his wife, Elisha—using a 1949 Singer sewing machine that Austin also restored. “I’m not normally an upholsterer, but hey, you do what ya gotta do,” he says, then adds, “Mrs. Vintage is definitely a better sewer than I am.”

The curtains are made of a material called bark cloth, which was ordered from a company in Hawaii. “It has a very unique texture and weave to it,” Austin says. “Very similar to what you would have found in many living rooms and trailers in the 1940s and ’50s.”

Turnes says he wasn’t the only one to suffer an injury along the way; the Little Gem received a gunshot at some point during the last 66 years.

“A huge part of planning for this has been the placement of the appliances so that we can remove defects in the skin, like the original hole for the furnace … or here, on the other side, a gunshot hole,” he says. “It seems that every trailer I’ve ever owned has a bullet hole in it. Just my luck, I guess.”

Among the special touches was adding chrome decal edging to the refrigerator door “to give it more of a vintage appeal,” and creating a beautiful tile inlay at the entrance featuring the Little Gem logo.

“The floor wasn’t easy, but I think it was well worth the effort,” Turnes says. “I found a picture of similar floors in vintage homes and decided I had to have it. The inlay (trim) and entry inlay aren’t original, but I thought it added a certain classy touch. I’d seen a similar touch that a restorer named David Winick had done on an Airstream for the lead singer of the Red Hot Chili Peppers. His said “Welcome.” I decided to take it further.”

The Little Gem cutout was created by Impact Fab, located in Holland, Michigan.

Turnes says 98 percent of the electrical work is done, as well as 90 percent of the plumbing and interior. He still has to make the cabinet doors, install the windows, install the camper door, and, of course, buff (and buff and buff) the aluminum exterior.

As if the Little Gem itself isn’t enough of a project, Turnes plans to trailer the camper 2000 miles from Michigan to Arizona behind a 1954 Oldsmobile Ninety-Eight … possibly in inclement weather. That means the Olds is also going to need some TLC before the road trip.

“I have a little work to do on the Oldsmobile, and parts are coming in,” Turnes says. “I went to Detroit on Monday to get the new springs from Eaton Spring. They’re outstanding, and I can’t recommend them enough.”

Turnes hopes that others will soon be saying the same about him and his work.

“Fingers crossed,” he says at the close of his update video. “Let’s hope we can pull this off.”

We have no doubt.

The post ’50s Little Gem camper is almost ready to shine appeared first on Hagerty Media.

On a trip back home to the U.K. in the early 2000s, I saw this cool, quirky retro car passing by. “What on earth is that?” I asked my sister, who had no idea. But I was smitten, and I went on a mission to find out what this mysterious car was.

I soon discovered it was a Nissan Figaro, and I had to have one. Of course, the Figaro was never sold in the U.S., but cars older than 25 years can now legally be imported, so no problem, I thought.

Wrong! California has the most restrictive emissions regulations in the country, and just because a vehicle is federally legal doesn’t make it so here. Instead, in addition to meeting the 25-year requirement, an imported car must be certified compliant by the California DMV.

In the case of the Figaro, this means modifying the fuel and emissions systems and being inspected by the State Referee—and there’s only one shop in the state certified to do the work. As a result, it takes months and costs a bunch. I was unwilling to endure this bureaucratic process, so I began looking for the rare Figs that were already registered in California.

Earlier this year, someone posted an ad in one of the Figaro Facebook groups for a legal Fig for sale at a reasonable price in Southern California. I wasted no time and called. It was still available, although offers had already been made. I hung up, cogitated for 10 minutes, then called back and offered full asking, which was accepted.

I arranged with the seller to have the Figaro transported to my home, and a few days later, it arrived. I was so thrilled—there’s just nothing like this car! All the stories about the smiles and the joy it brings to all who see it are true. I have other classic cars, but the Figaro gets more attention than any of them. The Figaro Club and the online community are great, too. Viva Figaro!

This article first appeared in Hagerty Drivers Club magazine. Click here to subscribe and join the club.

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Two things I like are my Fords and having something to do. In fall 2012, when my ’67 Galaxie convertible was finished, I had nothing to do.

Eventually someone told me about a ’63 Thunderbird that had been in a garage for a long time. I like those, so I got the phone number and called. The lady said it was her father-in-law’s car and that it had been sitting for 35 years. When I asked her to confirm the year, she said it was a ’66. I thanked her and hung up.

Blah, yuck. I didn’t want a ’66. But my wife reminded me it was only 30 minutes away—and that there was a Coffee Time nearby, so we could look at the T-bird and then get some of the cherry crullers I like so much. I was sold.

When we arrived to look at the car, she opened the garage door and I thought: I can do something with that. The engine and brakes were seized, and the vinyl top was dried and split so much you could pull pieces off. It had some rust issues, too, but we struck a deal. I couldn’t wait to get started.

I filled the cylinders with diesel fuel and transmission fluid and let them sit for a month. Using a large chain wrench, I was able to pull the engine over with little effort. The first time I got it to fire was an awesome feeling—but you’ve never seen so much smoke in your life. The neighbors thought my garage was on fire.

I got the Thunderbird on the road by summer 2014, and I have been repairing it bit by bit. It now has a new vinyl top, fresh carpet, and a new trunk liner. The car still has rattles, some rust, and a few leaks, but like I always say: If a Ford’s not leaking oil, it’s out of oil.

In the meantime, we keep driving it, working on it, and enjoying our Flair bird.

This article first appeared in Hagerty Drivers Club magazine. Click here to subscribe and join the club.

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The post Rescuing a 1966 Ford Thunderbird has been a pleasant surprise appeared first on Hagerty Media.

As companions to Tuesday’s lovely historical feature on the history and legacy of the Tri-Five Chevy, written by the illustrious Aaron Robinson, we are publishing three Hagerty member stories about their own Tri-Fives. Enjoy! -EW

When people ask Teresa Andrews why she would ever move from luminous California to frigid Maine, she says she just needed a change. Thirteen years ago, she arrived in the tiny town of Alfred, Maine, population 3073, where she has since established herself as a professional tattoo artist in the land of moose and maritime. With her rockabilly vibe, ornamented skin, and sassy attitude, it’s no wonder that this West Coast transplant’s first vintage car would be a 1956 Chevy Bel Air Sport Sedan.

Andrews was in the process of saving up for her first classic car five years ago when a colleague came into her shop and said that her dream car was for sale right down the road. With a “Shut the front door!” and 20 minutes to spare before her next client, she headed out to investigate.

Parked out in front of a seasonal campground, the Bel Air possessed all the tell-tale signs of a ’56 that Andrews had always revered: the teardrop wheel arches, the sexy headlamp brows, the gleaming jet eagle hood ornament, and the restyled two-tone body-side treatments that marked its production year.

“I wanted a turquoise-and-white Bel Air, because this style and color had always called out to me. I just didn’t think I’d find it right away. And I couldn’t believe she was right down the street!” She scheduled a test drive.

Although a V-8–powered Bel Air set new endurance and speed records at Pikes Peak in 1956, by today’s performance standards, these beauties are for pageantry only—the straight-six models even more so. On the advice of a friend, during the test drive, Andrews put her foot down hard on the gas to feel the power of its 235.5-cubic-inch Blue Flame inline-six. “It felt like a boat on the high seas,” she says, as all 3280 pounds lurched forward. Nevertheless, she was elated. “There are no bells and whistles under the hood, but so much character throughout that it feels like driving in a Hollywood movie.”

After the drive, Andrews made an offer on the Bel Air, complete with promises of a lifetime of adoration, and scored her dream car.

So far, the eccentricities of an old car haven’t disappointed. From learning to handle the floating jellyfish feel of the steering to pumping the gas a bit before turning the ignition, it has been a hands-on education in vintage car ownership. “Every time I drive her,” Andrews says, “I learn something new. I drive, and I ask those who know about certain issues, so I’m learning as I go.”

The best experiences come from behind the wheel on sunny summer days. Andrews says the bounce of the big bench seats, the way the shallow windows and low roofline feel like a cozy hug, and even the smell from the engine coming through the dash vents like a noxious warm breeze simply feel like a quintessential Bel Air experience.

With the tattoo shop only 15 minutes from her home, Andrews drives her two-toned baby—which she’s named Betsy—to work on clear days, because, she says, “the wipers are pretty much a joke.” She leaves Betsy parked out front like an advertising marquee. “People stop by all summer long. Some take photos, others share a memory,” she explains. Betsy’s fan base is a diverse one—young, old, and everything in between. For Andrews, her Bel Air is far more than a car. It’s a conversation starter, a photo-booth opportunity for passersby, and the only way to go out for ice cream.

This article first appeared in Hagerty Drivers Club magazine. Click here to subscribe and join the club.

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Even in his teenage years, Brian Richardson had an eye for Chevrolet Corvettes. Turns out he also had a nose for buried treasure.

Richardson and his identical twin brother, Bruce, bought and sold Corvettes in northern California to help finance their college education in the 1970s, but Brian could never part with one of them: This 1963 convertible, VIN 30867S100003, the earliest-known second-generation (C2) Corvette in existence and now a priceless collectible.

“My mom worked for the DMV, and Brian wanted a fuel-injected Corvette,” Bruce says of his brother, who died unexpectedly two months ago. “He came up with the brilliant idea to have her run the first 20 serial numbers, and he found #00003 in Los Angeles.”

Since Mom Richardson was traveling to Los Angeles anyway, she drove to the address registered with the DMV and spoke to the owner’s wife, who shared two pieces of important information: 1. The car didn’t run, and 2. Her husband had just lost his job. Those two negatives added up to a positive for young Brian, who recounts the story in Larry M. Galloway’s book, Corvette: 1963–1967.

“I flew down soon thereafter and was able to see the car through a garage window,” he told Galloway. “… Later I made a deal with the owner over the phone for $1500. The next weekend my brother and I drove down and picked it up.”

When there simply isn’t another one like it, a car’s value is impossible to pinpoint—or, in the words of our valuation team, priceless. The deal for the Vette—equipped with a 327-cubic-inch, 360-hp V-8 (L84)—was completed on April 26, 1975. Taking inflation into account, the $1500 price tag is the equivalent of $8300 today. As the earliest-production second-gen Corvette in existence, however, it’s in a league of its own. When verified, as this convertible’s status is, the title of “earliest known” holds great weight in the collector market. Such a vehicle can easily sell for more than its top value in the Hagerty Price Guide: In this Corvette’s case, $180,000.

By any measure, Vette was an amazingly shrewd purchase, especially for a 19-year-old college student, but it probably wasn’t all that surprising to anyone who knows the Richardsons.

“We were always into mechanical things, trying to figure out how they worked, learning how to make them work better,” Bruce says. “Our dad died when we were 15. He was a businessman, and he had served as a tank commander in World War II. Our grandfather worked for Lockheed, and all of his tools went to Dad, so we had a lot of them, and we used them a lot.

“When we were 14 or 15, we bought our first car—a three-cylinder, two-cycle German car called an NSU Prince, which is about the size of a Mini Cooper. We drove it around in the back yard. We had go-carts and gas-powered skateboards and …”

Bruce’s wife, Lainey, interjects: “When they were 10, they took apart their mother’s washing machine, fixed it, and put it all back together. Can you believe that? Ten!”

Brian and Bruce went to the University of California-Berkeley and became mechanical engineers. Between them, they have more than 100 patented inventions; Brian specialized in lighting, Bruce in biotech. Brian was also an Olympic bobsledder who competed in the two-man event at the 1992 Winter Games in Albertville, France. In addition to competing, he came up with an innovative sled design that is still in use today. As for Bruce, he and his son, Perry, run AccelRaceTek, a motorsports business in Los Gatos, California, that specializes in high-performance race car training, tech, and service.

In other words, the Richardson brothers never lacked for brains, and Brian’s purchase of a historically significant C2 provides automotive proof.

“It is a genuinely significant car, likely the earliest existing C2 Corvette,” confirms Hagerty contributor and Corvette expert Don Sherman. “Its original fuel-injected V-8 adds to its value, and the ability to trace the ownership chain helps as well.

“Speaking from experience, C2 frames are susceptible to corrosion [rusting] because they were not painted by the manufacturer. Instead, they received a coating of tar-like stuff which didn’t last forever. Since this car apparently spent its life in California, that’s a plus for longevity.”

Not surprisingly, the brothers’ restoration work on the Sting Ray was meticulous.

“The car looked ugly when I bought it,” Brian told Galloway. “It was originally red on red. One of the previous owners painted both the interior and exterior black. They even painted the carpets. The paint job was poor. In many places red was showing. The good news is they didn’t replace the interior. They only painted it. So, I was able to see how it came from the factory.

“I still have the original interior seats, carpets, and door panel covers [the panel shape is slightly different from later production]. The paint on the body looked horrible. The body had only been damaged slightly in the rear. All of the original panels were on the car. As I said, the engine didn’t run.

“I drove the car for a short time and then took it completely apart. At the time, a lot of parts could be bought from Chevrolet. Things like weather strips, glass, and FI parts were still available.”

Bruce adds that his brother “wanted to make it as close to its original configuration as possible. We worked on it and had it running within about a year, and we later did a frame-off restoration and got it into a real nice position. Brian also did a refresh about 10 years ago.”

In addition to the car’s Riverside Red paint and 327 fuel-injected engine, it has a four-speed transmission, positraction axle, radio, and both hard and convertible tops. Its aluminum knock-off wheels and white wall tires were also undocumented options.

The body trim plate does not have a date code, but the National Corvette Restorers Society (NCRS) confirms that #00003 was shipped on August 29, 1962 with a dealer code indicating it was for General Motors’ use.

Knowing that Brian’s C2 is VIN #00003, and there is no recorded account of what happened to #00001 and #00002, he reached out to Corvette author and historian Noland Adams in 2009, hoping Adams could shed some light on their whereabouts. Adams, who died in 2017, wrote back, sharing a lengthy account of what he knew. He stated, without hesitation, that Brian’s car is “the oldest existing Sting Ray.”

“Why haven’t the first two Sting Rays, numbers 1 and 2, been found? I think I know why,” Adams wrote. “… First of all, why build pre-production prototypes? The answer is obvious—build them about two months before the production run is scheduled [to begin] to check fit and function of all new, never-used-before parts. Soon, production of the new model will begin, and ill-fitting or ill-functioning parts must be replaced …

“Another consideration is how the pre-production prototypes were dispatched. Assuming a coupe and a convertible model for the year in question, one example of each body style was scheduled to be destroyed in a barrier test …”

Adams wrote that, considering the importance that GM placed on these crash tests, “I am certain that 1963 pre-production prototypes 1 and 2 were prepared for such a barrier test as quickly as possible … Apparently the next convertible in line was #00003, and it was used as a design check.”

Adding weight to Adams’ findings, Galloway’s book discusses the differences between #00003 and production 1963 Sting Rays. Some (but not all) of #00003’s unique features include:

• The front fender upper to the lower panel bonding strip on the inside of the front fenders behind the Fuel Injection emblem is a hand lay-up part and does not have a ‘jog’ to clear the emblem studs as all jobs that follow do.
• The headlight mechanisms are sand-cast and appear to be manually machined; scribe lines made by the machinist are visible.
• The door outer panels have a cutout at the top rear … The stainless-steel trim bead along the top of the door trim panel does not extend the full length of the door trim.
• The windshield reveal moldings were handmade, as there is evidence of hammer marks and welds on the backside. They fit noticeably better than production moldings.
• The car (originally) had holes in the body for power windows and a right-side rearview mirror, which were filled with factory bonding adhesive (not bondo).
• The luggage compartment rear carpet under the rear deck was salt and pepper, like 1962 models, while the rest of the carpet was red.

Considering what similar Corvettes have sold for in recent years, it’s safe to say that #00003 is worth six figures—maybe even seven. Why does that matter? Because even before Brian’s fatal heart attack, he was thinking about what would become of his Corvette, since his wife Lee, son Ian, and daughter Shannon don’t share his passion.

Now Bruce and Lainey are in the process of selling the historic C2 on behalf of the family.

“We haven’t decided where and when,” Bruce says. “We’re considering Barrett-Jackson Scottsdale, or maybe Mecum Kissimmee (both scheduled for January 2023). And everybody seems to be selling cars on Bring a Trailer these days, so that’s an option, too. We’re still trying to figure it out.”

Knowing the Richardsons, they’ll make a smart choice, just like Brian did in 1975.

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As companions to Tuesday’s lovely historical feature on the history and legacy of the Tri-Five Chevy, written by the illustrious Aaron Robinson, we are publishing three Hagerty member stories about their own Tri-Fives. Enjoy! —EW

Raphael Gonzalez has been chasing his first love since he was a small boy. His obsession began one day in 1960, when he first caught sight of her cruising topless down a main thoroughfare of his native Puerto Rico. Her sharp lines, spellbinding chrome, and sexy fins caught his heart. From then on, he knew he’d own a 1957 Chevy Bel Air convertible someday.

But first, the 11-year-old Gonzalez, impatient to discover the inner workings of automobiles, walked into a local Volkswagen shop and asked for a job. Told he was far too young, the determined youth persisted and was rewarded with the assignment of sweeping loose nuts and bolts from the shop floor. From there, his innate curiosity and work ethic eventually won over the owner and shop staff, and they began to instruct him on basic automotive repair.

At 17, Gonzalez arrived in the Dorchester neighborhood of Boston and immediately sought employment in automotive repair. During positions at various garages around the city, he began to fine-tune his automotive education. His under-the-hood edification began an automotive journey of repair, renovation, and flipping that ultimately led him to Lucy.

He found her in 2002 through the pages of a well-read Bargain Hunter magazine, way out in Rochester, Minnesota. A simple black-and-white photo, one tiny block of text, and a price within his budget were all it took for him to pick up his phone and buy this 1957 Chevrolet Bel Air convertible sight unseen.

Named after his beloved mother, “Lucy” is the pride of his 10-car collection, which includes a 1955 Bel Air two-door hardtop, 1967 and ’68 Camaros, a 1970 Rolls-Royce, and an ’87 Buick Regal Grand National GNX.

Gonzalez’s first project for Lucy was to paint her his favorite color, red. A white rag top completed the exterior restoration. The original 265 V-8 was in rough shape and was swapped for a later 350 small-block mated to a new transmission. Other than the engine, Gonzalez has kept Lucy as close to her original state as possible. The factory hood rockets, bowtie grille emblem, red seats with silver accents, and small circular signal lights still adorn her body.

One big concession to contemporary times is a six-speaker Pioneer stereo system with two sets in the trunk, two for the interior doors, and two pumped through the air intakes above the front headlights, creating a stadium sound that could power your local drive-in movie theater. Oh, and a horn that blasts “La Cucaracha” to garner attention on a hot summer evening.

Most of Lucy’s 186,000-plus miles have been racked up as a parade ambassador, wedding chauffeur, and celebrity-toting limo. “I am asked all the time to drive a bride to her wedding or a mayor through a parade. Sometimes I have to say no because I just can’t do them all,” Gonzalez admits. Now that he is retired, Lucy will have more time to shine in the spotlight down at nearby Revere Beach next summer.

Above all, his love for the Bel Air connects Gonzalez to his community with every drive. “Everyone knows this car, and everywhere I go, they yell, ‘I love your car!’ Young or old, everyone stops to say they love my car or they ask to sit in her or go for a ride. It brings me much joy.”

This article first appeared in Hagerty Drivers Club magazine. Click here to subscribe and join the club.

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As companions to yesterday’s lovely historical feature on the history and legacy of the Tri-Five Chevy, written by the illustrious Aaron Robinson, we are publishing three Hagerty member stories about their own Tri-Fives. Enjoy! -EW

Dave Armstrong got the Nomad itch as a kid in Saratoga Springs, New York. His uncle owned a local garage where Armstrong’s dad and his buddies all used to hang out. Two of those guys had ’55 Chevy Nomads. His daily school bus rides took him past the shop, and Armstrong never failed to take good long looks at the wagons parked out front.

“I just liked how different they were from other Tri-Fives,” says the 62-year-old retired firefighter. Chevy sedans and station wagons of the period had upright pillars, a higher windshield, and more curve on the roof’s edge. Nomads, however, have B- and C-pillars with pronounced forward angles. “The Nomad’s tailgate and liftgate are laid way forward to match those angles, and they’ve got a nice low roof, so the side windows are lower as well,” he says. The projection of forward motion even at a standstill is clear.

Years ago, Armstrong’s grandmother was living in a nursing home in Vermont, and he and his uncle alternated driving duties for the hourlong trip to see her every weekend. His uncle was driving one weekend, so Armstrong grabbed a Money Saver paper to read on the way back. That’s when he found the ad for a ’55 Nomad for sale nearby for $1800.

After a call to the seller, Armstrong learned it had been used as a drag car at some point, but then had been sitting outside under a tarp for years. The whole car was in gray primer, and the previous owner had cut the front of the frame horns off and put a fiberglass flip nose on it for racing. “They even beat the firewall in with a sledge-hammer to fit a big-block,” he says.

The Nomad had no interior and no glass, and when Armstrong got it home and stripped it down, he discovered the entire body was covered in surface rust. In addition to a new firewall, it needed new floorpans, rocker panels, door skins, lower quarter panels, and a cargo floor. When he started the project, Armstrong had no idea how to weld, so he taught himself. “I used junkyard hoods and doors to learn on.” Then, with the help of friends, he started on the rehab.

Armstrong reckons he spent about 20 years on the restoration, finishing up just last year. “I learned that a Nomad is a hard car to do,” he says. “Expensive and hard.”

Nomads have a lot of trim pieces, many parts are rare, and many haven’t been reproduced. A good parts car is almost a necessity, and Armstrong was fortunate to have two. Still, one of his biggest challenges was the interior. “The headliner has seven chrome bows and chrome garnish moldings. And the cargo area is all linoleum and stainless steel.”

Armstrong’s Chevy buddies Rick Rudolph and Ernie Wilder helped to keep the project moving forward. “I learned so much from those guys,” he says, “and they made sure I got it done correctly.”

With the original engine nonexistent, Armstrong went with a 350, paired with a 700R4 transmission and a Camaro rear end. The car also sports power steering and power brakes. Finished in Shoreline Beige over Neptune Green, with a matching interior, Armstrong’s Nomad is a stunner—and a runner. “Oh, it drives down the road beautiful. You don’t even think you’re driving an old car.”

Reactions have been mixed. “A lot of people don’t like green.” But the workmanship can’t be faulted. “People see me out with it, and they’re like, ‘You drive this?’”

“Yep,” Armstrong says. “I drive it.”

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I grew up in Delaware in the 1970s and ’80s, in the shadow of two dirt tracks. Every weekend, modifieds, late-models, and sprint cars hit the track with the best drivers from the East Coast, battling it out for top honors. I can still remember everything about my first visit to the racetrack as a 5-year-old. Big-block modified race cars warming up in the pits like distant thunder. The smell of the fuel blending with the scent of hot dogs being cooked beneath the grandstands. The roar of the rowdy crowd cheering on favorite local drivers. And, of course, the cars! The cavalcade of color and sound that streaked by me that day left a big impression. It eventually led me to a life of preserving these machines and the history behind them.

Fast-forward 20 years, that young boy from Delaware lives in North Carolina, all grown up with a family of his own. I enjoy life in the South, but I never forgot the impression racing in the Northeast made on me.

One day, I was trying to explain to a local friend how great the racing was back in Delaware. The Internet had few references to the great racing history in that area. Then it hit me: Someone needs to preserve this history and the cars that made it. So I sought out and restored my first race car: a Kenny Weld–built chassis driven by many of the area’s top drivers, which I’d found on a scrap pile back in Delaware.

It was quite a learning experience, but after a year, the car was complete and I was as passionate as ever to keep going. After finishing that car, I published my first book on racing history, Delaware Auto Racing. It was a huge success in that it got people to start preserving the local racing legacy. Race cars are really no different than fingerprints, each one as unique as the people who build and drive them.

It has been a decade since that first restoration and my first book, and I’ve come a long way. I now have a small museum with 24 cars that represent different eras of racing, from an all-original 1937 Ford modified to a modern-day sprint car. I have also published four more books on racing and helped place three state historic markers to immortalize tracks in both North Carolina and Delaware. It has been so satisfying to see how preserving these cars brings out the passion and emotion in others as well. I often get visitors who stop by to view the cars they used to see racing. Some of them break down and cry when I fire up a car they remember from back in the day.

Race cars hold a special place in our lives. We can all relate to a specific car we watched as a child or even as an adult, and when we see it years later, the mere sight of it transports us back in time.

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In the 1950s, my dad landed a job at Chevrolet Engineering, in the brand-new GM Technical Center in Warren, Michigan. Dad was one of two Chevy Engineering transmission techs.

One summer day in 1959, the department held an employee open house event, and Dad took me to the Tech Center. I was 7 years old. I remember the fountains, the Design Dome, and the turbine cars that looked like spaceships.

Near Dad’s work area, around a privacy curtain, propped up on a white platform, was the neatest little car I’d ever seen: the Chevrolet Engineering Research Vehicle No. 1, or CERV-1, sans body. Dad introduced me to two men standing nearby, Zora Arkus-Duntov and Mauri Rose, then plopped me in the car’s metallic blue driver’s seat. I played with the controls, and at that moment, I became a car guy. Nearly 60 years later, I built my own CERV-1.

The mid-engine configuration was state-of-the-art in 1959. It had taken over Formula 1 and was being considered for Indianapolis. Understandably, Arkus-Duntov wanted to investigate the performance of such a layout, and the CERV-1 was his mule. Tests at the GM proving grounds and several racetracks (including Sebring, as covered in Sports Car Graphic, May 1962) showed its potential. Arkus-Duntov campaigned for a mid-engined production Corvette, but manufacturing costs and conservative management halted his plans.

The CERV-1 had a body designed by Larry Shinoda and Tony Lapine, with side pods, a headrest/air scoop, and a profile that resembled a stingray fish. Several first-gen bodies of slightly different styles and finish were installed on the CERV-1 chassis. My build uses the earliest body style, plus some artistic license. (This early body no longer exists; the car in the GM Heritage Collection sports a late body.) I mixed it up a bit more with a paint scheme of late nose blending to early tail. This Frost Blue Poly over Snowcrest White showed up for testing at Sebring in ’62.

The first step in reverse engineering is to gather all the data you can find on the subject. Fortunately, GM shared development photos with journalists throughout the ’60s, and I was able to find all the CERV-1 pictures and articles I needed.

Period photos show the tubing layout, but before I could design the chassis, I needed the key parts: engine; transmission and quick-change differential; front and rear suspension; seat; and suitable wheels. The engine and seat were easy—a small-block Chevy and a Kirkey. The CERV-1’s independent rear suspension (IRS) made its way into the 1963 Corvette, so I picked up an early IRS and rebuilt it. There were no transaxles available to Arkus-Duntov that could handle a hot V-8, so his team replaced the tail-shaft housing of a four-speed with a Halibrand V-8 quick-change differential. I designed and machined an adapter mating a Saginaw case to a Champ IRS quick-change. My quick-change is narrowed to Corvette IRS dimensions using Speedway Engineering Bells, with a Detroit Locker, custom forged axles, bearing retainers, and through shaft. It looks and works just like Arkus-Duntov’s, but stronger.

At Chevy, Arkus-Duntov needed an approved program to bill CERV-1 expenses. The only program in development at the time was the Corvair, and Ed Cole, then general manager, apparently allowed Arkus-Duntov to use some of the Corvair budget. For front suspension, the CERV-1 used a “leftover” handmade piece from the defunct Corvette SS program, with upper control arms that closely resemble those from a Corvair.

Period photos show the CERV-1 with a Corvair steering wheel. I recalled the column and steering box were also from a Corvair, so I junked one to get its front suspension and steering, which I modified to eliminate bump steer. I changed the ride height, improved damping, and added GM disc brakes. My CERV-1 re-creation should handle and stop better than the original.

Using the Southern California Timing Association (SCTA) rulebook as reference (and with help from Bonneville tech inspector “Kiwi” Paul Gilbert), I designed a frame in 3D CAD to meet or exceed land speed record specs. My CERV-1 development used 3D models extensively, from the frame and body to the transmission and quick-change adapter.

My frame design looks like Arkus-Duntov’s but has much larger tubes; a full SCTA rollcage bolts on, as well. A lot of time on the computer meant I saved countless hours, frustration, and a bunch of money in fabrication. It’s far easier to cut and throw away a virtual tube than a real one. It took 83 iterations and three years to get it (mostly) right.

From my 3D model, I crafted a body master “plug” and a mold. Starting with the belly pan, I laid up the CERV-1 body panels, trimming each and scribing the mold with wheel cutouts and the like. The wheel wells and headrest/air scoop were separate molds, some being designed quickly for single use.

My test engine was a 355-cubic-inch small-block Chevy with ported Vortec heads, a custom roller cam, 10.5:1 static compression, and several other tweaks. I made stainless-steel upswept headers and had them ceramic-coated, inside and out. Overall, it had more power than the original’s 283. I used the 355 for the initial testing and found it to be quite adequate.

Then I upgraded to a 388 stroker with 12.5:1 compression, aluminum heads, a comp roller cam, and a Holley Sniper EFI. It’s cooled with two large aluminum radiators up front and two auxiliary units in the tail. It was modeled after a 500-hp build and absolutely rocks this little one-seater.

In fact, it’s a hoot to drive. A V-8 go-kart. A 1960s Indy car. Visibility is great, and watching the suspension work is a blast. The cockpit is roomy but short, so your knees are brought up a bit, under the Corvair wheel. The hydraulic clutch is light, and shifting via cables from a modified Hurst Competition Plus is smooth.

Aggressive use of the throttle causes wheelspin—any time, any gear. It’s much faster than I thought it would be. In August 2020, I took my CERV-1 to Portland International Raceway (with the 355) and re-enacted Jerry Titus’s 1962 Sebring test. My test driver complained that he pegged the tach at the beginning of the back straight at 165 mph and wanted a taller gear. With the bigger V-8, this car will do 200. Someday I plan to prove that at Bonneville.

In the meantime, you can see my CERV-1 for yourself, on loan to the National Corvette Museum through late next year.

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As a child, I loved antique cars, so when I saw a 1922 Ford Model T Touring on eBay back in 2013, I snapped it up. I joined the Staten Island Region Antique Automobile Club of America and learned how to care for the Model T from members—and now good friends—Don and “Model T” Mike.

At automobile shows, I saw muscle cars and hot rods, but not enough antique cars. I wanted to preserve the history of these cars by keeping them as original as possible, and I put together a display of items associated with the Model T and its time period to show the significance of “the car that changed America.”

My car draws the biggest crowd at every event. Many people are surprised to see a Model T in person and are delighted to learn that I actually drive it—and that after 100 years, it’s still running. I can’t drive down the street without someone honking and giving a thumbs up. My wife and I go all out at car events with period clothing, and we are blessed by the passion people have for this car. We often do charity events and parades to show people what put America on wheels; the trophies we’ve won are amazing!

After searching for years for a rare 1920s camper that hitches to the Model T, I was so excited when I found one. It’s a treasure to own and makes a spectacular sight with all its correct 1920s camping accessories.

Henry Ford wanted to make his cars affordable so every family could purchase one, and he encouraged people to enjoy the great outdoors—dealerships sometimes gave away charcoal grills with a car. Even without hotels or frequent gas stations, they would venture out in their “campers,” which included accessories attached to the running boards—a toolbox and gas/water/oil cans. I am so proud to keep the memory of the Model T alive.

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Bill Chapman may have lost his eyesight, but he hasn’t lost his way. The 72-year-old Michigan man, who suffered optic nerve damage and went blind more than a decade ago, relies on his other senses to enjoy cooking, woodworking, kayaking, and playing cards, and he treasures his 1947 Plymouth Special Deluxe four-door sedan, even though he can’t drive it.

Upbeat and enthusiastic, Chapman says he doesn’t need to see his 1947 Plymouth Special Deluxe four-door sedan to appreciate it.

“I know what my car looks like, and I know what it’s supposed to feel like,” he says in the velvety, deep tones of a radio DJ, running his fingers over the black Plymouth’s front fender. “My car has a certain feel, a certain smell, a certain sound. I know that engine. I’ll start it up and back it down the driveway—with someone helping me, of course. That’s the highlight of my day.”

Anyone who spends time with Chapman feel the same about him. He has a delightful sense of humor and an infectious laugh, and he exercises both often. Chapman says he’s always been that way.

“I’m a people person,” he says. “I worked for the Kalamazoo [County] Circuit Court for 32 years as a probation officer and juvenile home director. I worked with kids and helped ex-offenders land jobs. I loved what I did. I retired in 2005, but I still did a lot of things. I played golf, I played softball, I kayaked … I was very active.”

He still is, even though his life is different than he imagined it.

Chapman grew up in South Bend, Indiana, where he was a strong student and athlete. He began working in the Michigan court system in 1973 after graduating from Kalamazoo College with a degree in sociology. After a fulfilling career that spanned three decades, he was eager to begin the next chapter of his life when he retired at age 55. That included spending more time with his wife, Pam, and their three sons and daughter. (One of the Chapmans’ sons passed away several years ago.)

Retirement also promised fun with friends and the opportunity for Bill to enjoy his beloved ’47 Plymouth, which was a gift from his wife.

“Growing up, I had a picture of my father and his father in front of a whaleback [style] car,” Chapman says. “It looked so great that I said, ‘I’m going to get one of those someday.’ Then 25 years ago my wife surprised me with this.

“It needed some work, and my buddies helped me out with it. Every year there was something else to work on.”

To learn more about the car, Chapman joined the Michigan region of the Plymouth Owners Club. “These guys had so much knowledge,” he says. “I’d ask about something and they’d say, ‘Just go here’ or ‘Just go there.’ I got into some car shows, and just the camaraderie is something, you know? You can feel the enthusiasm. It’s fun.”

Chapman describes some of the attributes of his Special Deluxe, quickly followed by his worst memory of it.

“It has a flathead six [218 cubic inches, 95 horsepower], suicide doors, and it’s pretty much all original except for the paint job,” he says. “Ohhh, the paint job. Let me tell ya about the paint job … It had a C-minus paint job when I got it, and I met a guy who promised he could give it an A+ paint job for $1000. Well, you get what you pay for, and I got an F paint job. I was sick, man. I couldn’t leave it like that. It had to be taken down to the metal and repainted right. Dan saved it.”

Dan is Dan Penn, who has known Chapman since 1974 and once taught a group of at-risk youth how to do bodywork—through a grant that Chapman arranged. (“Two of them are still doing that work,” Penn says, “so that makes me proud.”) Penn lives about an hour from Chapman, and he spent a year working on the Plymouth. Chapman says it was well worth the wait. “I was amazed. Oh, man. I could still see a little then, and it was beautiful.”

Chapman says he took the Plymouth to some car shows and quickly won four or five awards. “People seem to like it,” he says of his pride and joy. “I think it looks like something a gangster would drive. I put a violin case in the back seat, like in the Al Capone days [when a violin case might contain a machine gun]. People think that’s cool.”

At about the same time that Plymouth received its new paint job, Chapman began having trouble with his eyesight. He couldn’t see as clearly, which happens to most of us as we age, but it was more than that—the world seemed to be growing darker.

“I went to the best of the best doctors (at University of Michigan Hospital) in Ann Arbor, and I was diagnosed with optic nerve neuropathy,” Bill recalls. “Stop lights were hard to see. I saw shadows. I went into denial, but it kept getting worse. During one visit, my doctor said, ‘You’re blind, Bill—legally blind.’ I didn’t want to believe it. I said, ‘What are you talking about?’ I was in denial for six to eight months. I was faking it. I was bumping into people and saying, ‘Oh, excuse me’ … I was just trying to get by.”

Chapman’s wife decided it was time for a heart-to-heart talk. “Pam helped me. Fifty years of wedded bliss, I tell ya,” Bill says with a smile. “She said, ‘Bill, you can’t see. You need to get involved with the blind center and learn how to function.’ I let my ego get in the way, but finally, when I had tunnel vision, I knew.

“It tripped me out at first, but I decided to live. People in my situation have a high rate of suicide, and I can relate—I can see how that would happen. But for me, life don’t stop because you lose your sight. I was going to do everything I could to keep living.”

For 13 weeks—Monday through Friday, 8 a.m. to 4 p.m.—Chapman attended classes, determined to thrive.  “I learned cane mobility, Braille, cooking, and woodworking—yes, woodworking. I found out I really enjoy it,” he says. He also became good at it, and he now uses his talent to support Blind Truths, a Kalamazoo organization that helps people who are blind or have low vision. Chapman, who vowed to stay in touch with everyone he had attended classes with, is the organization’s president.

“I make clocks and plaques, and I use the money I get to help out other people in our group who are struggling, so when they get on their feet they can help out other people,” he says. “You never know what a person is going through. We have to encourage each other and show each other what’s possible.”

Turns out, there’s plenty. While Bill’s cane serves as his “eyes,” modern technology provides services that previous generations could only dream of. For that reason, his cellphone is his constant companion. In the end, Chapman says, simple determination is the key. He believes that for every hurdle there’s a solution, and quitting is not an option.

His friend, Dan Penn, can vouch for that. “As long as I’ve known Bill, he’s never let anything slow him down.”

We visited Penn in Sturgis, near the Indiana border, to see Chapman’s Plymouth. Dan is preparing to fix a dent that Bill discovered in the rear of the car, near the license plate. Chapman didn’t see the ding, of course, but he felt it after attending the Gilmore Car Museum’s “Mopars at the Red Barn” show in Hickory Corners, Michigan, in July. “Somebody must have backed into me,” he says. “So I knew who to call to help me.”

Penn is happy to do it, and he isn’t the only friend of Bill’s who is eager to lend a hand when asked. Chapman says he has “a couple of guys” who drive him to car shows, and once he’s there, his Plymouth always draws raves.

“I appreciate it when people give the car compliments, because I get to see it through their eyes,” Chapman says. “It’s fulfilling. It makes me smile.”

With that said, he decides to let us in on a little secret.

“I can’t drive my car on the road anymore, of course, but sometimes we go into an empty high school parking lot so I can drive it 10 feet or so,” he says with a laugh. “I have them videotape me, and I wave goodbye so it looks like I’m driving away. I enjoy showing that to people—they can’t believe it. They say, ‘You can’t drive anymore,’ and I say, ‘Wanna see?’”

Chapman has such a can-do attitude that, for a split second, you believe he could do the impossible.

“Being blind isn’t the end of the world,” Chapman says. “The only limitations that blind people have are the limitations they put on themselves. And God isn’t finished with me yet.”

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A Hagerty Drivers Club reader gives us the lowdown on his 1973 Datsun 240Z:

I bought this car brand-new from Daland Datsun in Millbrae, California, in August 1973—my first car. The Z now has 385,000 miles on it and still has the original motor, which has always run well.

It was my daily driver from 1973 to ’94 and was then driven by my son through high school and college, which explains how it ended up with four different-colored quarter panels and fenders.

In 2014, I had the body restored at Petaluma Autoworks. We didn’t touch the engine, but the work required a lot of rust removal from the floors, doglegs, and body panels. Then I had it repainted in its original metallic brown.

My brother-in-law, who has his own Z as well as an excellent inventory of early Z parts, helped me complete the restoration in 2015. This included re-chroming the bumpers, reupholstering the seats, refurbishing the interior, hand-painting the grille and horns, and replacing many exterior bits. Upgrades include 15-inch Panasport wheels and Tokico blue shocks, 1972 Z carburetors and a 6-into-2 header, and a BRE front air dam.

I have such great history with this 240Z. In 1975, my college roommate and I drove it on a long Colorado ski trip; all we needed was a good Barrecrafters ski rack designed for the Z. A year later, I took it up through Oregon and Washington to British Columbia, then down through Montana; Jackson Hole, Wyoming; and Reno, Nevada. I’ve always been amazed at how easy it is to pack a 240Z for an extended camping trip. After a couple of days, everything has its place.

These days, I baby it. It is always garaged, with a car cover, and I only drive it in ideal conditions, usually a few times a month out to the coast or to wine country. It runs and drives better than it did new.

Incidentally, my daily driver is a ’94 300ZX I bought new, which now has 350,000 miles on it, so I have over 700,000 miles on my Nissan/Datsun cars. Good cars are meant to be driven and enjoyed.

This article first appeared in Hagerty Drivers Club magazine. Click here to subscribe and join the club.

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I inherited my passion for cars from my dad, mostly thanks to a 1968 AMX X-code Go Pack 390 that he bought in 1972. It was his dream car, painted in Calcutta Russet with white stripes and optioned with power steering, power brakes with front discs, a three-speed auto, and factory air conditioning. Dad used a little black book to document every oil change and all maintenance.

Mom and Dad met, dated, and drove away from their wedding in this car. I remember Dad starting the AMX on occasion when I was young, but it scared me because it was so loud. As family life happened, however, the car was put on the back burner. Dad’s last noted oil change was in December 1975 at 16,666 miles.

We moved to a new house around 1990, and once the AMX was nestled under a cover in the garage, I never remember it moving again under its own power. Since Dad would never spend money on anything for himself, I gave him some cash for Christmas 2013, specifically bookmarked for the AMX. The next fall, he changed the oil in final preparation for starting the car, which then showed 17,050 miles. Unfortunately, he passed away unexpectedly in December 2014, at the age of 60. The water pump had been rebuilt and shipped back, but he hadn’t installed it yet, so he never heard it run again.

After he passed, I wanted to get the AMX restored, but it was cost-prohibitive. A local restorer fell in love with the car, and we sold it to him in summer 2016. He assumed it had 116,666 miles until he started working on it and realized every clip, seal, sticker, bracket, and more were clearly from the factory. He did the minimal amount of work to get it running, installed some new parts—brake lines, fuel system, exhaust, suspension components, carpet, headliner, seat covers—and drove it to local car shows. After about a year, however, he decided he didn’t want to paint or fully restore the car because of its originality. In what must be the most stand-up thing a person could do, he sold it back to us in May 2017 for only the cost of the parts he had replaced.

Four years after Dad died, Mom passed away suddenly of a stroke at age 64. Having the AMX back in the family means even more to me now. The car is not perfect, and the paint is clearly showing its age, but the engine still has never been opened. I have continued to add maintenance items and repair notes to the black book. The AMX is now parked in the garage next to my Honda S2000. Dad always told me cars were meant to be driven, so I drive the AMX monthly, and it now shows 19,033 original miles.

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I was born in Tabriz, Iran, and have always loved cars. My dad was an authorized dealer for American Motors selling Jeeps and Ramblers, and when I was 15, I assembled a CJ-7 with my cousin Ayoub, using parts from our Jeep store. It took more than two years, but I learned so much from that project. We were an authorized dealer for Mercedes parts, too, and we always drove a Mercedes, but in 1974, we switched to a BMW 520. Soon we got a 2002tii as well, which planted the seed of collecting in my mind. My oldest brother, Masoud, raced in Iran and won a championship in that car. He also taught me to drive in that tii when I was 14, on the shore of the Caspian Sea.

We moved to America in 1982. A few years later, in my last year of college at SUNY Stony Brook, I saved to import a gray-market 318i from Germany. I wanted the European model because it had smaller bumpers and more power, without all the emissions equipment. I owned it for about 10 years, and during that time, I earned my master’s degree and Professional Engineer license. Once I got established in my career, I started to collect my dream cars, one by one, as I could afford them.

First came a 1985 635CSi, which I bought from the original owner. It had maybe 76,000 miles on it and was mint, but I’ve put a lot of money and work into it—and only 4000 more miles—in the 28 years I’ve owned it. It’s still in near-perfect shape.

I also have three Baur 323i cars—white, black, and silver. Baur is a German company that got license from BMW to cut the top off the cars and make them two-piece convertibles. You can have the car closed. You can open up the top just above the front seats. You can open up the back above the rear seats. Or you drive it fully open and put the top in the trunk. It’s fascinating and I am, at the moment, possibly the only enthusiast in the world who has three of them. Finding even one is difficult.

I bought the white one first, in 2012, on eBay, which was my first experience with that. I was so nervous. I was thinking that if I gave my credit card information, it was a scam and I’d never see a car. Everyone was telling me, “Don’t be crazy. Don’t do it.” I couldn’t sleep thinking about it, though, so I got out of bed five minutes before the auction closed and simply paid whatever the guy wanted, which was $5000, sight unseen. Then I got the message: “Congratulations, you won the Baur.” That was one of the most exciting moments of my life.

That car really got me into restoration. I could do some of the mechanical work myself, but I did pay to have it painted. I needed wheels for it, too, and I wanted Alpina wheels, which are not easy to find. But I happened to go to Germany to visit my nephews and found a complete set over there. I brought all four of them home in my suitcases, but not before security stopped me at the airport in Hamburg because the alarms went off when they put my bags in the machine. They were quite surprised when I opened them up.

One night, I was messaging a guy on eBay who had a rare square-headlight set for BMWs. I bought it, and when we got on the phone, I noticed from his accent that he was Persian, like me. His name is Vanik, and he and his brother Vahik own Bavaria Auto Repair in Sun Valley, California. A few months after our conversation, I was out in California and Vanik invited me to the shop. When I got there, he showed me a shell for a BMW project—no interior, no engine, nothing but the shell. When I asked what it was, he told me it was a 1974 2002tii, just like the car my brother had raced so successfully. “I want it,” I said. Vanik looked confused. “Can you build it for me?” I asked. On the spot, we made a deal, and he spent about three years on it before shipping it to me.

Now the brothers are working on a rare (one of 1672 ever made) 1975 2002 Turbo for me. The body is finished in silver, and Vanik is putting the engine together before assembling the car. He says it will be done in a year. As an engineer, I always factor in variables, so I’d say more like two years. Finding parts has been a big challenge, but I’m browsing globally for them at every opportunity. I have many good friends and family members who search as well, and they have been instrumental in my collecting. When I hear someone has new old stock parts, I try to jump on them. I always try to buy extras, even if I don’t need them now. My parts storage looks like a mini BMW dealership.

Sometime around 1988, I was passing a local BMW dealer on Long Island and saw an E30 M3 for the first time. I’d never seen anything like it, and I never forgot that first encounter. Then one night a few years ago, I found an M3 for sale on eBay. I offered to buy it, provided Vanik could check it out, so I put him on a flight the next morning. When Vanik called me, he said, “Tell me you have changed your mind about this car, so I can buy it for myself!” Vanik did a thorough checkup on the M3, made some repairs and upgrades, such as installing a dogleg transmission, then shipped it to me.

Of all my cars, the black Baur feels special. We fully restored it and built the car with a stroker BMW engine, upgraded suspension, and a dogleg gearbox. It’s close to 240 horsepower and has Alpina touches all over, so it’s the most complete in terms of looks and performance. It’s like a wild horse.

Really, the only car missing from my collection is a 3.0CSi. They are so hard to find, but I’m looking. I’m always looking. My mom likes to make fun of me over my obsession. “Mohamed, don’t be shy,” she said once. “Why don’t you drive one of the cars into the living room?”

“Mom,” I said. “I wish I could.”

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Hagerty readers and Hagerty Drivers Club members share their cherished collector and enthusiast vehicles with us via our contact email, tips@hagerty.com. We’re showcasing some of our favorite stories among these submissions. To have your car featured, send complete photography and your story of ownership to the above email address.

Kirk Towner loves the Nissan Fairlady Z. The right-hand-drive sports car, the Japanese-market version of the similarly designed Datsun that Americans fell in love with in the 1970s, is much harder to come by on this side of the Atlantic. Yet Towner has owned three.

His newest addition, a 1970 model, is among the rarest of classic Nissan Zs, simply because it has been American-owned—exclusively—for 52 years, despite spending its first three decades in Japan.

The original owner, Kirk explains, was Don Davis, who purchased the Fairlady new while stationed at Misawa Air Force Base. After a three-year stint in Seoul, South Korea, from 1975–78, Davis returned to Misawa until 1980, when he left Japan and brought the Z home to Omaha, Nebraska (the 25-year import restriction wasn’t established until 1998). Davis, and the car, later lived in San Francisco and Alexandria, Virginia, but in 2001 he decided to let it go.

Davis didn’t sell the JDM gem to just anybody; it went to Eric Jolley, who had served under Davis while in Japan. Jolley and his brother Jason restored the car and tucked it away in a barn in rural Pennsylvania, but when Jason died unexpectedly, Eric lost interest in it. He offered it for sale on ClassicZCars.com, and Kirk reached out in February 2017.

“I was the only person to take the time to make the trip,” Kirk says of the drive from his home in Lakeshore, Maryland, to Eric’s house in Utica, Pennsylvania. “Similar to Eric, I loved this car, and he could tell. We shared dinner and few brews the night before I saw the car. He brought all the original paperwork from 1970 and a limited-edition framed poster signed by Mr. K (Yutaka Katayama, considered father of the Z car). We hit it off and made a handshake deal, and he handed me the keys with no deposit.”

Davis and Towner still remain in touch, and through the years the original owner has provided photographs and two Japanese license plate, which hang in Kirk’s garage. The 1970 Nissan Fairlady Z carries Mr. K’s signature on the back of the rearview mirror, and he also signed in a hidden spot for identification, in case the car is ever stolen.

The car (VIN S30-03814), originally painted Sunshine Yellow but now wearing Chrome Yellow paint, is powered by a 2.0-liter, straight-six, SOHC engine that’s mated to a five-speed gearbox. It also has a race clock and has competed at Sears Raceway (Sonoma, California), Bonneville Speedway (Wendover, Utah), and Summit Point Raceway (Virginia).

“Driving this car is awesome,” Kirk says. “This is my third Nissan Fairlady Z, so I’m used to driving (while) sitting on the right side, but passing on a two-lane road is challenging.”

Since Kirk bought the Fairlady, he has managed to score a Nissan 2000 OHC valve cover and mesh grille from a contact in Japan.

Although Kirk jokes that his wife, Michelle, comes along to car shows only if they’re going somewhere cool (“like Toronto”), he never has to ask his 16-year-old son, Jake, twice if he’d like to go.

“Jake has been involved with Z cars since he was a young boy,” Kirk says. “He enjoys the car as much as I do, and someday it will be his.”

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Hagerty readers and Hagerty Drivers Club members share their cherished collector and enthusiast vehicles with us via our contact email, tips@hagerty.com. We’re showcasing some of our favorite stories among these submissions. To have your car featured, send complete photography and your story of ownership to the above email address.

When teenage newlyweds Alex and Mary Gabbard won a radio mystery contest in 1966 and were awarded a $1000 prize, their wish list included using some of that cash as a down payment on a new car. So they went shopping at their local Sunbeam dealership.

Alex wanted a white Tiger Mk. I; Mary fell in love with a red Alpine V.

“I’ve always wanted a red sports car,” Mary told her husband, and Alex writes that they drove home in that “snazzy roadster” (with removable hardtop) on May 6, 1966. Their monthly payment was $72.79.

Sunbeam, a member of the Rootes Group (which also included Singer, Hillman, and Humber), followed fellow British carmakers MG, Austin-Healey, and Triumph—albeit a tad late—in producing fun little convertibles to sell to post-World War II Americans. Mary Gabbard’s Alpine V, powered by a four-cylinder 1725-cc engine, was actually a Chrysler UK product, as Chrysler Corporation began to take over the Rootes Group in stages beginning in mid-1964.

Alex Gabbard writes that he and Mary “often attended drag races on warm Sunday afternoons, and she became the drag-on queen of O/Stock class with a class championship at our favorite quarter-mile strip.”

Then the Vietnam War broke out, and “the fun ended that summer when my draft notice arrived in the mail.” As Alex detailed in his 2005 book, Adventures of an H-Bomb Mechanic, the couple drove the Sunbeam on Route 66 from Chicago to Albuquerque, New Mexico, in 1967, and it served as their sole mode of transportation during Alex’s four years in the Navy. In 1969, it was also the car in which the Gabbards brought home their newborn son—a fact that would become even more relevant later.

Following Alex’s stint in the Navy, he returned to college, and the Alpine went into storage in his grandfather’s barn. Forty-two years later, the car began undergoing a full restoration, and the Gabbards planned to retrace their Route 66 trip in April 2017. Unfortunately, Mary’s health began to deteriorate, and the trip didn’t happen. “Although Mary had driven her car for most of its 60,019 miles, another drive was not to be,” Alex writes. Instead, with Mary as a passenger, the two attended local car shows and took an occasional drive.

“Amusingly, her roadster proved educational to disbelieving Mopar owners,” Alex writes, referring to the Alpine’s Chrysler roots. “… No one driving a Pentastar had ever heard of a Sunbeam Alpine.”

Mary passed away in 2020, and the Alpine remains a constant reminder of the lovely woman who talked her husband into buying the car she wanted instead of the one he did. The couple eventually owned five Alpines, and since Alex never lost his fondness for Sunbeam Tigers, they had three of those too, including a “his and hers” matching set. Regardless, nothing could replace that first red Alpine.

“In our time together, Mary and me with our Alpine remains the great adventure of our lives,” Alex writes.

Although he received a “healthy offer” to sell the car, Alex says the red roadster remains in the family. The Gabbard’s son, whose first ride as an infant was in that very car, is now its caretaker. Perhaps there’s another Route 66 trip in its future.

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The Morgan Motor Company began production of three-wheelers in 1910. The sliding-pillar front suspension, the exposed V-twin engine, and the shaft drive via bevel gears to twin rear chains were unique features that contributed to the marque’s success.

Three wheels and light weight meant the car could be driven on a motorcycle license and registration. The Morgan was not only cheap and reliable, however; it was also sporty. Pilots from WWI described the ride as the closest thing to flying while staying on the ground.

Our Grand Prix model dates largely from 1920, but with Morgan owners’ long-standing practice of maintenance, upgrading, and changing of components, it is difficult to say how many parts came out of the factory that year. The engine, a water-cooled V-twin JAP, is serial-numbered to that date.

When we acquired the car, the body was entirely absent, but with plans provided by the Morgan Three-Wheeler Club, we had it reconstructed precisely. Rebuilding the radiator proved to be a complex job because the cores were corroded beyond recovery, and the sheet brass had been severely abused during clumsy repairs. In the end, only the dome and sides were retained, but they are the most visible parts, which benefits the overall look of the car.

Aside from the body, many other parts had to be built from scratch, including the windshield brackets, the wooden battery box, and the seats and upholstery.

The clutch is a leather-faced cone within the flywheel, and it needs regular lubrication with neatsfoot oil, a product most often associated with treating saddlery. The two-speed transmission provides drive to the twin rear chains (one low ratio and the other high) through bevel gears connected to sliding dog clutches. The controls on the steering wheel are for the accelerator, the fuel mixture, and the ignition timing, while a pump and gauge glass on the dashboard deliver measured amounts of oil to the total-loss lubrication system. It’s all primitive, but it works.

Theoretically, 60 mph is feasible, but it’s 102 years old, so we tend not to push the little three-wheeler.

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I got my driver’s license when I was 16, and shortly after, I bought my first car. It was a 1969 Dodge Charger in gold, with a black vinyl roof and a big-block 383.

Just after graduating from high school, I bought a ’70 Challenger R/T and sold the Charger to a friend. I hung on to the Challenger until 1992. I then went many years without a classic car, but I always had the itch.

One morning in 2006, I noticed a lump on my neck while I was shaving. It turned out to be thyroid cancer. I was 46 at the time and understood the lower survival rate for older patients. During surgical recovery, I decided to get another Charger because I really didn’t know how much time I might have.

I searched everywhere for a ’69, with no luck. Then I got a hit on a 1970 R/T in Alberta, so I decided to fly out to have a look at it. I told the seller that it needed to be in running condition for me to consider it.

We poured some gas down the carb and I cranked it while he worked the throttle linkage, a cigarette dangling from his mouth. I left the door open so I could exit quickly if the thing went up in flames. Miracle of miracles, though, it fired up and ran smoothly, so I bought it on the spot and had it shipped home.

The restoration began right away. I stripped the Charger down and sent it for sandblasting. A lot of metal was replaced, but the basics were all there. I got the car home and began the rebuild; every system on the car has been restored. I had the motor balanced and gave it larger pistons and a moderate cam. I had everything ready to go by December 2011. My two sons, both attending university, were on break and helped me put the drivetrain in. By summer 2012, the Charger was ready for the road. We’ve been cruising ever since.

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Next to my family and career, cars have always been an important part of my life—almost an obsession.

I was born in Phoenix, and my wife and I raised two sons in a little suburb north of Scottsdale. But my first love was a 1964 Chevrolet Corvette.

The car came into my life with the help of my father. He was one of those guys who never took his car to a mechanic and instead worked on them himself. He had a bunch of Cadillacs back in the ’60s and ’70s when gas was cheap, but when everybody transitioned to smaller cars, smaller engines, he made the shift to Japanese cars, mostly Datsun 280Zs. He basically taught me how to work on cars—plus I took three or four years of auto mechanics in high school, so that helped me learn along the way.

As my interest in cars grew, my father encouraged me to save up to buy a nice one. We made a deal: He’d double whatever I could save. So starting at 15 years old, with my $4-an-hour job, I managed to save $4000 by the time I was 18. My dad just about had a heart attack, but he came up with his $4000, and in 1983, I found a car born the same year as me—a 1964 Corvette coupe for $8000. It needed work, but it ran, and my dad talked the owner down to $7500 (and got to pocket the extra $500).

It was not an original car when I bought it—that’s why I was able to get it for $8000.

Back then, original cars were substantially more money—almost double—so even in the ’80s, they weren’t cheap. But when I say mine wasn’t original, I mean only the engine wasn’t original. Everything else was.

Over the years, I’ve built it the way I wanted, including installing a manual six-speed back in the ’90s. Far as I know, I was the first person to put a six-speed in a C2 Corvette; I bought one of the first units made by Richmond Gear, right when it took over Doug Nash, which was a big transmission company back then for five-speeds. Some of the new Corvettes were just coming out with six-speeds, so I thought, “OK, I’m going to get rid of the four-speed and put a six-speed in.” Today, after all has been said and done, my ’64 has about 500 horsepower, and nothing is stock.

And I still love it. It’s the car that started everything. It got me nuts on Corvettes, and I’ve owned eight of them now. I currently own four. The ’64 was how I got into racing as well. I have a good friend who is a captain in the Phoenix Fire Department and a big Corvette guy. We’ve known each other since high school, and we’ve bought various Corvettes together. We used to race each other back in the ’80s and ’90s, just messing around with our cars.

Eventually, racing the ’64 got too expensive to keep up and continually fix, so I bought a 2002 Z06 race car with a 600-hp LS3 and six-speed manual, plus a rollcage, harnesses, and racing suspension. The Z06 also happens to be my daily driver. A while back, my friend and I got involved in open-road racing in the Silver State Classic Challenge in Nevada, where they shut down State Route 318 and you just go for it for about 90 miles. I also do some autocross with it a few times a year in Phoenix.

Next is my 2015 Z06, which I purchased about five years ago. It’s 100 percent stock. I come from a long, proud line of police officers, and I retired from the Phoenix PD in 2018 after 33 years of service. Back when I was an active cop, I always wanted a Z06, so I worked a lot of extra jobs, saved, and bought it used. It’s a seven-speed and the most loaded Z06 you can buy—and it only had 20,000 miles on it.

Last year, I think I went a little nuts. I bought a brand-new C8—a 2021 mid-engine hardtop convertible. It’s the only automatic of the group. I’ve always been a manual Corvette guy—all of my cars have had them except for a 1986 Indy Pace Car that didn’t really do it for me and I ended up selling. But I’ll tell you, this new one is so much different. It’s what they call a dual-clutch automatic, and there’s an eight-speed in there. It doesn’t even feel like an automatic. It feels like there’s just one gear, and you don’t even feel it shift. It’s crazy.

The thing that ties all of my cars together is the color scheme. All four are black with a red stinger on the hood. I don’t know why, but I’ve found that once you get black cars, you’re done. You can’t get away from black.

Although my wife thinks the cars are nice, she’s not obsessed like I am. But my sons are becoming car guys. My 19-year-old is in the Marines and fortunately doesn’t need a car right now, but my 22-year-old is in college and trying to get on the Phoenix Fire Department. He’s a big car guy. I’ve told them both I’ll honor the same deal my father gave me: Save up and I’ll match it. My 22-year-old saved $10,000, and I helped him buy a 2010 Camaro SS—black with red on the hood, of course.

I guess it’s true what they say: Like father, like son.

The post A Stinger of a Collection: A father inspires a lifetime of Corvettes appeared first on Hagerty Media.

When I was 16, my parents decided they wanted to participate in off-road driving in California’s Anza-Borrego Desert. We said goodbye to our 1964 Chevrolet Corvair Monza and began the search for a four-wheel-drive vehicle.

This was 1971, and choices in the off-road category were limited. We looked at Scouts, Jeeps, and Toyotas. Since the car was to be my mother’s daily driver, she had to be comfortable in it. Despite a test drive that terrified my father—the salesman drove us up a steep grassy hill—the Jeep won simply because my mother could see over the steering wheel. I kid you not. We were out the door for $5000, which was a lot of money back then.

So there we were with a striking new Jeep in Champagne White with red and blue rally stripes, sporting a tachometer on the hood, a luggage rack, a Hurst dual-gate shifter, and a “Dauntless” 225—the 160-hp Buick Fireball engine manufactured by Kaiser. It also featured automatic front hubs—no getting out to lock them. My father studied the owner’s manual, which was only a quarter-inch thick.

My parents kept to established dirt roads, but so began the “four-wheelin’” adventures—Mom, Dad, me, and the dog all in the Jeep. And we were always prepared for the emergency that never happened: 20 gallons of water, 5 gallons of gas, and a snakebite kit.

Eventually, the adventures came to an end. I went to college, married, and moved to the East Coast. Time passed, the Jeep sat unused in the garage, and Alzheimer’s took over my parents. After their affairs were in order, I had the Jeep shipped back east on a flatbed truck.

With the Jeep in my possession, I became curious about its story and started going to cruise nights. Many people I met had only heard of the Hurst Commando or had only seen pictures, but I started to realize I had something special. Through research, I learned that Kaiser had made a deal with George Hurst to equip the Jeepster Commando with a Hurst dual-gate shifter and other special touches. Around 500 were planned for production, but once American Motors bought the Jeep line from Kaiser, it produced around 100 before changing the style of the Commando in 1972.

This past year, with the Commando in need of a major checkup, I found Rick at Horsepower Farm in Epsom, New Hampshire. What a great guy, and after he worked on the Jeepster, it was purring like a kitten.

The Jeep has brought me fully into the classic automotive world. Truth be told, I have had this passion since childhood, though I’m not sure where it came from. But I will continue to enjoy the Jeep as long as I can. I meet new people all the time, and when I’m behind the wheel, good memories ride with me.

The post This four-wheelin’ 1971 Jeepster Hurst Commando has been in my family since new appeared first on Hagerty Media.

I was born in 1944 and grew up a sharecropper’s son in north Alabama. In those days, most of our traveling was often done by mule and wagon. The only car my father ever owned was a 1939 Ford, which was broken down for most of its life, since it was costly to repair or to pay for gasoline, which was 28 cents per gallon.

Shortly after getting married in 1964, I spotted this 1948 F-1 in a man’s driveway. After looking at the truck for a couple of weeks, I stopped to see if he would be interested in selling. He said he’d sell it to me for $250. At the time, I made $37 per week, but that same afternoon, I went back to test-drive the truck and then wrote him a check.

I was washing the Ford when my wife came home and asked whose truck I was washing. I told her it was ours. Then came more questions: Where did I get it? How much did I pay for it? How did I pay for it? When I told her I wrote a check, she was curious if I knew how much money we had in the bank. I assumed that since we had checks, it meant we also had money. She then gently explained that in the future, we needed to talk about things before I made big purchases. But the truck stayed.

From 1964 to 1978, I used the Ford to carry goats, hogs, and firewood, and I took it when I went hunting and fishing. It then sat in the barn for the next 22 years. In 2000, I pulled it out and started taking it apart, down to the frame. It took nine years to fully restore it.

Today, 58 years after I bought it, I still have my wife and we still have our truck. I enjoy driving it, taking it to shows, and joyriding with the “co-owner.” I plan to pass the truck down and keep it in the family.

The post Almost six decades ago, I bought this ’48 Ford F-1 for $250 appeared first on Hagerty Media.

The sales manager at Linnes-Weiler Motors, in Albert Lea, Minnesota, ordered this car for my grandparents in October 1968, and they took delivery a month later, on Saturday, November 16. The dealer was located between my junior high school and my home, and I was walking home one day when I spotted it on top of the transport truck. I watched as it was unloaded and driven into the shop. I never gave one thought that one day it would be mine.

My grandparents traded in the Newport in 1984, and by 1990, they had both passed away. Then, in November 1991, I saw it parked next to my great-uncle Chuck’s Texaco station. I stopped in to ask about it, and when Chuck said it was for sale, I bought it pretty much on the spot. There had been two owners between my grandparents and me.

Much to my surprise, the owner’s manual, warranty card, and original registration receipt with Grandpa’s signature were all in the glove box. I was also able to track down the original-issue license plate, which is now affixed to the front of the Chrysler.

The drivetrain is original to the car, and the paint and vinyl top are original as well. I had the front seat reupholstered, but we were able to source NOS fabric in Ohio, so the front and back seats still match and look as they did from the factory. I have personalized the Newport with aftermarket wheels and dual exhaust.

May 16 marked the 30th anniversary of the day I drove it home. I love cruising in this old family car, and I think it’s fun that my grandchildren get to ride in their great-great-grandparents’ Chrysler.

The post I’ve kept my 1969 Chrysler Newport Custom in the family appeared first on Hagerty Media.

I’ve been fascinated with macabre things my whole life, including international death culture, dying, and hearses. I always dreamed of owning a black-on-black 1950s-style hearse.

A few years ago, I moved to Tacoma, Washington, and got a job with a mortuary service. We assisted all the funeral homes in the area with cremation and embalming. I discovered I really loved working for the mortuary, and I found great comfort in helping grieving families by taking care of their loved ones.

Through this, I learned about the role of a death doula and decided to pursue formal training. Just like a birth doula, our role is to guide an individual or family with a holistic end-of-life plan that honors the person and what they stood for. A death doula will advocate for the individual and their family. I recently launched my own company primarily working with people who are not yet at the end of life but want to get something in place for when they are.

During my schooling, I heard about this 1974 Superior Crown Limited Endloader sitting at an auction house outside of Tacoma. Due to COVID, no auctions were happening in person, but I knew in my gut this was the one. I logged on to the site and placed my bid, then waited. To my surprise, I won it! When I went to pick it up, I couldn’t believe the amazing condition it was in. The 472-cubic-inch V-8 ran great, and everything on the car is original. It even came with an 1800s Odd Fellows child viewing coffin.

After doing some research, I learned that mine is one of 611 Superior Crown Limited Endloaders. Sitting at about 21.5 feet long, the coach is white with a deep blue vinyl back. Three different very traditional 1970s blues make up the front interior, while a marble extension table and blue crushed-velvet paneling line the back. I really can’t find much history on the car itself, though I do know it has been primarily owned by women. I’m happy to carry on that tradition.

I always wanted a hearse to give it a rattle-can, rockabilly, pop-culture look. Now that I work to help people feel comfortable about death, dying, and bereavement, this hearse has a totally different meaning to me.

People come up to me all the time and I love to engage in conversation regarding the coach. Men will ask about the car itself, what engine it has, how it’s original, etc. Women will stop me and talk to me about the meaning of the car. I think the question I get asked most is: Why? Why am I driving it, and why do I think it’s beautiful? After we address this, I often hear stories about how they lost someone close to them, and they’re able to open up to me. It always goes beyond car talk. This Cadillac is a conversation piece—and a super tight classic car!

The post This death doula’s 1974 Cadillac hearse is anything but macabre appeared first on Hagerty Media.

I was in High Point, North Carolina, visiting my brother at his office, and this car was sitting at a salvage yard nearby, up front, behind a fence. It caught my attention because it had numbers on the door—a race car—but I had no idea what it was. I took a picture of it and sent it to a couple of racing friends.

One of them was Don Miller, who was president of Penske Racing’s NASCAR division. He’s part of this friend group of mine—lots of people in the racing business—that has always tried to get me into a fun vintage car. “Nice Sprite,” he said. “That’d be a great car for you and your kids to restore. You should get it.” I mean, it had no engine. The transmission was hanging off to the side. The interior was shot. The car had been sitting out in the weather for who knows how long. But my interest was piqued, so I went back to the scrap yard.

The guy who owned the place said his father had recovered the Healey from a barn. I met with him about buying the car and was sneaking around quietly, not talking about it to my family—not yet anyway. I wondered if I could pull this off without getting killed by my wife. Eventually I sat down with her and said, “Honey, we need to talk, and it’s really serious. Just have an open mind.” I told her about the car and that my plan was to restore it with our three kids as a family project. Well, when it registered with her that she would have some time to herself, she was totally on board. The next day, I came to a deal with the guy at the yard to basically buy a carcass. Even now, I can’t believe I ever attempted to do this.

Through research, I discovered the Sprite was owned by a Piedmont Airlines pilot named Johnny Jones, but he never registered it for the street. He bought it and immediately converted it into a race car. He got his SCCA license in 1966 and then raced the car everywhere, almost nonstop, until about 1976. Like everybody else in racing, he had his real job, but his full-time job was racing. Over time, he befriended a lot of significant racing people who respected his track efforts—numerous regional wins and even second in the 1971 SCCA Runoffs, losing out only to his instructor, Randy Canfield.

Sprites are accessible and parts are available, so it was a great family project. My kids were young and I was ambitious. I was like, “You know what? If we focus on this, we can try to have it running in a year and a half, maybe two years tops.” And two years rolled into three and a half to get it running, plus three or four months working with the DMV to get a salvage title to make it street-legal. Four years went by, and the car was still in our garage. We were still pushing to get it done. It just took longer—life got in the way.

But in the process, the kids learned how to paint, how to sand, and even learned how to wire the car. They installed the motor and transmission. They loved this car and did a tremendous amount of the work on their own. None of them are as car-minded as I am, frankly, but we spent hours—hundreds of hours—together. Whether it was peaceful or me barking at them, we did it as a family.

And it’s been a great journey. We’ve learned a lot and met some amazing people across the country through this car. When you’re in a circle or genre of car, you discover all sorts of helpful people. As more folks found out what we were doing, they started reaching out and offering us parts. I told the guys at Moss Motors what I was doing and they said, “And your kids are helping? If your kids are helping, we want to help.” My kids ended up as mini celebrities in some of their national magazine ads.

We still didn’t have a drivetrain, but a British guy in Florida got in touch. He was in his 80s and had been restoring Sprites his whole life, and he said he had a shed full of engines and transmissions. We just happened to be in Florida the next week, so we rented a trailer and spent the day with him, then loaded up an old race engine and transmission. I’d never built a motor by myself, but I had good mentors to make sure I didn’t hack it up too much. We tore down the engine, machined it, refreshed everything, and put it back together.

The first time the kids cranked it up was during a hurricane and we had no electricity. But to take this car that had sat for 40 years that had nothing in it and to bring it back to life, knowing that my kids got to be part of the entire experience—I mean, they remember everything they worked on. Then to have noise coming out of the exhaust! What a moment for all of us.

We did some repainting on the inside to clean it up and take care of some rust, but I like patina, so the Sprite is exactly the way it was on the outside when I found it. And it runs great. We take it to the store, we run errands, I go on sales calls with it. Sometimes my daughter and I get in the Sprite late at night just to drive to nowhere. But we also drive it the way it was meant to be driven—hard. On the weekends, we take it to hill climbs or to a racetrack. We’ve towed it to Texas to the hill climb at the Groesbeck Grand Prix, and we competed at the Chasing the Dragon Hillclimb in North Carolina.

Johnny’s wife learned about all of this and gave us many of his old trophies and photos, his goggles, all kinds of stuff that documents the car’s racing history. So now we have a little museum for the Sprite, and we’re chronicling everything we do to add to its great history. This car is a big part of our family!

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Bob Nauer is quite the Europhile—he’s lived in Germany and now resides in Britain—but his car choice is still very much influenced by his U.S. homeland.

The 1970 Dodge Challenger R/T that rolls up to Hagerty U.K.’s morning meet on a Drive It Day draws almost as much attention for its lurid Go Mango orange paintwork as it does for the throaty burble of its Hemi V-8.

It’s the third in a series of Challengers that Nauer’s owned, but he reckons it will be the last. “The second car I ever owned was a Plymouth Barracuda, so I’ve always been drawn to Mopar. This is a keeper, because it’s an export model, which is really rare.”

“It was sold new in Zurich and, although it’s hard to research it, they don’t think more than a dozen were made. AMAG was a manufacturing concern in Zurich and for many decades they took Dodges and converted them to European specification with the speedometer in kilometers and changed the headlights. But by 1970 the program was being wound down because it was too expensive, so ’70 through ’71 were the last years for it and they only made a very few.”

“I just got lucky,” continues Nauer. “I was in Germany and perusing the classified ads in an expat newspaper called Stars and Stripes. And in the back of there, was a little four-line advert that said Dodge Challenger R /T, so I thought it was worth giving the guy a call to see what it was. It had the original engine and was partly restored but the guy was going through a divorce and had to sell it. So it was just right time, right place, as they say. I always have my eye out, because you never know where you’re gonna find something like this.

“The car was 80 per cent together, but the interior was out. The engine had just been done. He did most of the paint work. So I had to finish it up once I got it and that was 16 years ago.”

“We took it to Switzerland a couple of times, but since I’ve had it here I haven’t done any extended trips. It can be challenging, especially in the back roads so you take it slow because the power steering is typical U.S. style and over-assisted, so you’ve got to watch it or you can over-correct. Of course it only gets about 10 to 12 miles per gallon, no matter how you drive it, but it’s a fun car to drive.”

Since owning the car, Nauer has had the paint refreshed by the Quest Brothers in St. Ives, while COVID-19 lockdowns gave him a chance to tackle some iffy electrics.

“There’s a company called Year One in Georgia and they have just about everything you need to get for one of these. There’s a few things that are hard to find that you might have to buy on eBay, but most things are reproduced. I got a new wiring harness for the dash, which was burnt out. It had a short in it from the day I bought it and finally during the pandemic I took that time and replaced the loom.”

Nauer has been hands-on since the day he started driving. “My first car was a ’69 Camaro RS SS pace car and when I first bought it to get a brake job was very expensive. I said, you know what, if I’m going to keep a classic car, I have to do the work myself. So I just started learning. Fortunately, I’ve always been fairly mechanically inclined, so it was quite easy.”

With a California-spec Triumph Spitfire and a newly purchased Jeep Grand Wagoneer to look after as well, Nauer has more than enough worth metal to keep him busy.

Via Hagerty UK

The post Switzerland loved Mopar, and this export ’70 Challenger R/T is proof appeared first on Hagerty Media.

I was 19 years old in 2004, when I picked up my first Rambler after seeing it for sale on the side of the road in Homeland, California.

It was a 1969, and I traded it straight across for my partially operational Ford Bronco II. During the process of working on the Rambler, I had just rebuilt the carburetor and thought it would be cool to do a big burnout in reverse. Well, my friend happened to pull up behind me as I was doing that, and I smashed the whole rear of the car. In the end, I sold it for $500.

Throughout the years, I kept my eyes open for a replacement, and in 2018, I came across a 1968 Rambler. Going through a tough divorce, I purchased the car from a 95-year-old woman in El Segundo, California, to help keep my mind right. I planned to spend all the free time I had focusing on something positive—this new project.

My mission was to completely rebuild the car. In less than two years, I got my Rambler roadworthy. I had all the bodywork and paint done professionally, sticking close to the original paint scheme but with some added touches—I used BMW’s water-based two-stage Donington Grey metallic, which really stands out. I also tinted the windows and painted the window frames black to mimic a hard-top Rambler.

I had all the seats redone in tweed and replaced the vinyl floor with a carpet kit I found on eBay. I then added some American Racing wheels I picked up from a 1965 Ford Mustang. To top it all off, I have a 383 stroker motor waiting for the day the original 232 AMC six gives up—which might never happen, so I may have a running 232 for sale in the near future.

It has been a fun, therapeutic build, and I look forward to seeing some of you at upcoming Southern California car shows.

The post Restoring my AMC was more than fun; it was therapy appeared first on Hagerty Media.

I always wanted a sports car. As I considered retirement, I knew it was time to get one. To me, the quintessential sports car, with its sensuous curves and storied racing history, was the Shelby Cobra. I call mine a “triple tribute” car.

There were plenty of replica Cobras for sale, but I couldn’t really determine their worth or quality. Then I heard about a three-day “build school” at Mott Community College near Detroit. Factory Five Racing donated a kit, and two experienced instructors led 15 students in assembling a Mk4. We had the roadster running just before 5 p.m. on the third day. I took plenty of notes and photographs and was impressed with the quality of materials, parts, and the details provided in the 500-page assembly manual. The entire experience gave me the confidence to build my own replica Cobra, and I knew I wanted a Factory Five roadster.

As I started to plan out the project, I called my best friend from college, Mark Kroncke, and told him my idea. He said he’d come from California to help build it. Mark had muscle cars all his life and was handy with a wrench. I, on the other hand, am a self-taught backyard mechanic. I have tinkered with and restored two WWII Jeeps and a Ford Model A roadster, but I’ve never done any major build work.

Life is not always fair and accommodating, however. Around the time I placed my order for a Mk4 roadster, Mark passed away suddenly. I was devastated. To honor my great friend, I pressed on with the build, and dedicating the effort to Mark was my first tribute.

One of my passions is vintage aircraft, including warbirds. For eight years, I was the chief pilot and caretaker of a 1944 SNJ-5/AT-6, the WWII-era Navy and Army Air Corps advanced trainer. The plane was built “rivet up” over 10 years by my wife’s uncle, Bill Dorris. After he passed away, I became its steward. In the midst of my Cobra build, the family decided to sell the SNJ-5/AT-6. The choice of which color to paint my Cobra then became easy—T-6 Yellow. It’s a hue with a touch of orange that all WWII Navy aircraft trainers wore. The two glossy black stripes down the center of my Cobra are a nod to the black stripe running from a T-6’s propeller to the front of the canopy. I added a decal of the USAF roundel on each door, and the dash has the tail number of the aircraft that Bill built, N3286, embroidered in yellow thread. I replaced the electric dash clock with an eight-day manual windup clock from the instrument panel of a SNJ-5/AT-6. The second tribute of my Cobra is to Bill.

The kit arrived as 24 boxes, two wooden crates, a chassis frame, and a fiberglass body—some 4000 parts in need of assembly in a particular sequence. Although Mark was unable to help me build my Cobra, about a dozen local friends helped me out, including my friend Yvonne Sippel, who learned to wrench from her father. Her signature and those of the others now adorn the inside of the hood. The third tribute is to her and the rest of the volunteer wrenchers who helped get this Cobra on the road.

I am in love with this car, and I’m so grateful to all the people who helped me achieve this long-term dream.

The post My 1965 Factory Five Mk4 is a triple tribute appeared first on Hagerty Media.

Car magazines and car TV shows are filled with the stuff of dreams. In fact, popular media would lead you to believe that our entire hobby is devoted to ultra-expensive rolling sculpture. Unfortunately, this emphasis on the rare and costly gives a skewed view of the hobby and can cause many enthusiasts to feel left out of the fun—or even think that affordable cars are unwelcome at car shows. Nothing could be further from the truth.

I have been fortunate to have a career in automobile design (currently with EV-maker Rivian) that has allowed me to collect the cars of my dreams, mostly from Rolls-Royce, Bentley, and Aston Martin. But that doesn’t mean I don’t also love many cars that can be bought for between $5000 and $10,000. Usually these less expensive machines deliver on the same key attributes we love about pricey collector cars—driving enjoyment, beauty, and the camaraderie found in car clubs or the local car scene.

I own two such affordable classics: a 1989 Pontiac 6000STE AWD and a 1990 Mercedes-Benz 300CE-24. An interesting thread connects these two cars with the others in my collection; each represents the best automotive thinking that was available from the countries that produced them at the time they were made.

There is no question that Mercedes-Benz made the most well-engineered cars of the 1970s, ’80s, and ’90s. The W124 line of midsize cars debuted in North America for 1986, the year of Mercedes-Benz’s 100th anniversary. They represented everything Mercedes had learned about building cars up to that point. They were superbly engineered, they exuded quality and refinement, and they were beautiful inside and out. I’d argue that no other car, before or after, had such a high degree of design cohesion between its interior and exterior. The same chiseled, geometric styling elements seen on its aerodynamic exterior were also found in the interior, such as the angled, planar dashboard, center console, and door panels.

North American variants of the W124 included a variety of silky smooth, inline-six-cylinder engines of varying displacements, and the 500E even featured a 5.0-liter V-8. Both four-speed and five-speed automatics were used in the W124, depending on the year, and a five-speed manual was available in the earliest cars.

The pillarless and perfectly proportioned 300CE was the ne plus ultra of the line. Looking at my 1990 example, I can hardly believe this car is now 32 years old and that the design itself is now nearly 37 years old. It is timeless.

The W124 perfectly represented Mercedes-Benz’s philosophy of luxury. It was about the luxury of having more safety, more reliability, and more finely honed build quality. They were not about more gadgets or more styling. The W124 gave you everything you needed and nothing you didn’t. The cars were very serious, very German.

You can still find a superb example of any of the three body styles (sedan, coupe, wagon) in the W124 lineup for under $10,000. And the driving experience still feels magnificent, even compared with today’s cars. On a nice summer day, the car you’ll probably see me driving the most is my $5000 Mercedes. It’s the perfect size, has the perfect level of performance, and the quality shines brightly, even at 215,000 miles. A W124 is a great way to own something special at a low cost, and the Mercedes-Benz Club of America is quite active, with a variety of events at local and national levels.

The Pontiac 6000STE (Special Touring Edition) appeared in 1982 as a 1983 model. It was GM’s first real attempt to emulate the sporty ride and handling attributes in a space-efficient package that defined the best mass-market sport sedans from Europe at the time, namely the Audi 5000 and BMW 528i. Although the 6000 shared its unremarkable-looking downsized bodywork with other GM A-body cars, its six headlights, two-tone paint, alloy wheels, and suede interior caused a sensation at its debut. The Pontiac was on the cover of every major car magazine, where it was favorably compared with the best from Europe. Few, if any, of those early examples survive in great condition.

My ’89 is a later, facelifted version, which lost some of the styling edge of the earlier car but gained one major improvement: optional all-wheel drive. Around 1300 cars were so equipped. The 6000 was the first General Motors passenger car to offer an AWD system, with an electromechanical center differential that could be locked with the touch of a button on the center console. Instead of a beam rear axle, it used a rear suspension that had a differential taken from the GMT400 pickup truck combined with a transverse composite single-leaf spring from the new-for-’88 GM10-based Pontiac Grand Prix. Power came from the well-known 3.1-liter 60-degree V-6, mated to a three-speed automatic transmission.

The 6000 faithfully expresses the design philosophy of the American car industry in that era, which was the opposite of the austere German outlook of the 300CE-24. Rather, the 6000 embodied the philosophy of luxury expressed as more stuff—not just more stuff, but more stuff you and your passengers could see and be impressed with. To that end, the 6000STE AWD was a true success. Within view of the driver are 72 Tic Tac–sized buttons to control everything a driver in 1989 could have wanted. The interior may be made of the lowest quality plastics, but the dashboard lighting, digital instrumentation, and the multitude of buttons gave the well-to-do 1980s buyer a feeling of excitement, as the Pontiac ads of the era so often reminded us.

It’s amazing to see the public’s reaction to the 6000STE AWD. I have rarely encountered a car that has drawn such positive reactions from enthusiasts at car shows and from passersby on the street. Nearly everybody had a relative who owned one, wanted one, was conceived in one, had their first date in one. It’s truly astounding to see how people—even non-car people—connect with their memories through this car.

With the growing popularity of the most interesting cars of the 1980s and ’90s, now is the time to find yourself an example of an inexpensive, fun car from this era.

The post These two affordable classics reveal ’80s America and Germany at their best appeared first on Hagerty Media.

Hagerty readers and Hagerty Drivers Club members share their cherished collector and enthusiast vehicles with us via our contact email, tips@hagerty.com. We’re showcasing some of our favorite stories among these submissions. To have your car featured, send complete photography and your story of ownership to the above email address.

Shawn Baird has been a Pontiac fan ever since his brother’s friend visited his family’s home in a 1970 GTO. “As the blue Pontiac GTO pulled up with a rumble, my heart started to race,” baird writes. “It was love at first sight!” He was only 14 at the time, but the menacing look of the dual headlights and Ram Air scoops made Baird a convert, and he has been hooked on muscle cars ever since.

As the youngest of seven in his family, Baird was surrounded by many classic cars, including his brother’s ’65 Impala, his sister’s ’69 Charger, and his mother’s 428-powered ’67 Catalina. Baird’s own cars included some memorable muscle as well, including a pair of Plymouth Roadrunners and a Dodge Demon powered by a 340 and a four-speed. Still, those cars didn’t quite scratch the itch. “In my mid-20s I restored a ’67 Malibu with a 283, but nothing matched that Ram Air GTO!” Baird’s first Pontiac, a 1968 Firebird 400, was purchased with the proceeds from selling that Malibu, but he wasn’t done. He’s owned several Pontiacs since, including some rarities, but this 1972 LeMans holds a special place in his heart.

When Baird first came across this car—a 42,000-mile survivor with the Endura bumper option that included the same hood and fenders used on the GTO—his first impression was that someone had swapped in a GTO drivetrain into a run-of-the-mill LeMans. There was a four-barrel 400 V-8 under the hood, along with a Turbo 400 transmission. After sending the VIN to Pontiac Historic Services, Baird learned that this LeMans wasn’t a Sport or a GT, and certainly not a GTO, yet it had been optioned with the performance V-8 from the factory. But that wasn’t all. The car was also equipped with a Positraction rear differential and dual exhaust. It even had the same handling package used on the GTO that included springs and shocks. It was a GTO in virtually everything but badging.

Despite knowing that the car’s list of options made it a bit of a rarity in the world of Pontiacs, Baird had to part ways with the car. When the new owner asked his thoughts on turning it into a GTO clone and painting it a bit flashier color, Baird suggested that it was more interesting, and likely more valuable, if it remained in its original Wilderness Green metallic hue.

His advice was heeded and the results speak for themselves. The car won awards at numerous shows, and the current and former owners remained in touch during the 12 years that have passed since Baird sold the car. This winter, Baird was given the first chance to buy back the car and he jumped at the opportunity.

“I once again own another rare piece of Pontiac history!” Baird says. This understated coupe, optioned just right to keep its performance a tight-lipped secret, makes it a fantastic sleeper and a great example of the muscle car era’s vibrant history.

The post Rides from the Readers: Carefully chosen options turned this LeMans into a clandestine GTO appeared first on Hagerty Media.

In 1934, Paul Casebere, my dad, was 19 years old. He and his brother Carolus were operating an auto-repair and used-car business as Casebere Motor Sales, in Edgerton, Ohio. They were asked by a Dodge representative if they thought they could sell five or six new cars a year, and just like that, they became Dodge and Plymouth dealers.

This 1935 Dodge Series DV was their first new sale, and it was to my grandfather—Dad’s father-in-law. He traded it back in 1937. After a couple of other owners, in 1948, the Dodge came back again. My grandmother, Paul’s mother, drove it until it was put in storage in 1953.

Dad and Carolus retired in 1986, after 52 years as Dodge dealers. During that time, they made many friends at the Chrysler headquarters in Detroit, including Owen Skelton, chief design engineer for Chrysler, who was born in my hometown of Edgerton.

In 2000, with the help of some friends, Dad began restoration of the Dodge. He rebuilt the original flathead-six engine, went through the chassis, radiator, and gas tank, and did a complete paint job. He also redid the interior with a new headliner, new door panels, and new seat upholstery, all done in period-correct material.

Dad volunteered on Mondays at the Auburn Cord Duesenberg Automobile Museum in Auburn, Indiana, for 10 years, rolling up his sleeves to maintain the museum’s old cars with the guys known as the Pit Crew. He liked to say that his ’35 Dodge, with its modern-for-time “floating power” rubber engine mounts and hydraulic brakes, was a better machine than the more glamorous Auburns of the same time period.

I acquired the Dodge in 2005, after Dad passed away. My husband and I enjoy taking it out for drives in the summer. We have 12 grandchildren who love going for rides and waving as people stop to admire and give us a thumbs up.

The post My father sold this ’35 Dodge Series DV new—to my grandfather appeared first on Hagerty Media.

Little did I know that in 1984, a Jaguar XJS-HE touring coupe with dealer-optioned Dayton wire wheels was destined to be attached to my life for the next 38 years.

The HE is a high-performance version of the XJS, with a 291-hp V-12 and a three-speed automatic. It was built for high-speed travel, and it was something elegant and aesthetically appealing I could afford. I loved taking long, comfortable cruises up the Pacific Coast Highway—and the occasional perilous ride across the Ortega Highway.

Time wore on and so did the Jag. The car’s Lucas “Prince of Darkness” electrical system did its insidious worst on everything with 12 volts running through it. Gas consumption was about 2 gallons to the mile, and some of the tow truck drivers around town knew me by my first name. I shouldn’t have been surprised when, at 112,000 miles, the engine seized. At that point, I bought a Mercedes, and the Jag was put to rest in the garage.

Just after my retirement in 2007, my wife suggested I do something with the Jag, so I started thinking of a project. Now I had something to do instead of playing bingo.

An XJS conversion is nothing new, and at last, the upgrade began with a donor Corvette LT4 V-8 and a five-speed manual transmission. Everything was redone from front to back, top to bottom, and the final touch was new paint.

Jaguars are not always easy to find parts for, so I spent countless hours online, on the phone, and in salvage yards searching for little bits. In the end, a donor XJS was the answer.

Although it is no longer as quiet, the Jag is still silky smooth and continues to be an awesome touring coupe. I’m not finished, however; in my ongoing quest to avoid bingo, I’ve begun a new phase to replace the current drivetrain with a 430-hp LS3 and six-speed.

I cannot wait to ride again through those canyons and up the ever-beautiful PCH.

The post This 120K-mile Jaguar survives thanks to a Corvette appeared first on Hagerty Media.

In the summer of 1969, when I was 8 years old, my dad took me to Indianapolis for the time trials and the race. Watching the bright red #6 car of fellow Texan A.J. Foyt take the pole at 170.568 mph was the most incredible thing I had ever seen—or heard. Sometime around then, I also learned about NASCAR, which was described to me as “real racing.” Foyt and Cale Yarborough became my heroes.

In 2000—many races, a marriage, two sons, and half a career later—we were living in Pensacola, Florida, deep in the heart of NASCAR country. Watching races with my sons gave me great flashbacks to my youth. I had a nice boat but no money to spare, so dreams of a fun car were just that—dreams. Then we moved back to Texas, without the boat, and I realized it was finally time for that weekend ice-cream-getter.

One day, I read about the Aero Warrior Reunion at Talladega, with all those glorious Superbirds, Daytonas, Talladegas, and Cyclone Spoilers, and I knew immediately what I wanted. The days of cheap Mopars were long gone, so I set my sights on Fords and Mercurys, which were all one-year-only models to meet NASCAR’s homologation rule. There aren’t many out there, and they didn’t often come up for sale. I wanted a big-block and my wife insisted on A/C, so that narrowed our choices to the Cale Yarborough and Dan Gurney Cyclone Spoilers.

I searched for the next few years without much luck. Then I joined the Daytona-Superbird Auto Club (DSAC). I placed an ad in the newsletter, and a few weeks later, I was getting calls from club members around the country, all willing to help. Finally, in 2007, I found a three-owner, 390-cubic-inch, W-nose Cale Yarborough Special with dealer-installed A/C and 72,000 miles. Thanks again to the DSAC, I was able to locate the second owner, a well-known Ford Aero Car collector, and verify the Mercury’s originality. After a few weeks of research and emails and phone calls with the third owner, I was on a flight to St. Louis with a cashier’s check in hand.

The car ran great and made the drive home to Texas without issue. I quickly learned what it means to own a car like this: the thumbs-up and honks on the road, the extra time needed at the gas station to explain its reason for existing—win on Sunday, sell on Monday.

I have since attended dozens of events, won numerous trophies, and taken part in the 2009 and 2019 Talladega Aero Warriors Reunions with my son, father, best friend, and brother-in-law. My father recently said, “In the end, it’s all about family and memories, and we’re lucky to have both.” So true!

The post This rare Mercury still spreads the NASCAR gospel appeared first on Hagerty Media.

Since I was 3 years old, I’ve loved cars. We lived about two blocks from Automobile Row here in Jacksonville, and I used to pedal my bike over to the dealers all the time and bug them to death. I still remember in ’53 when the prototype Corvette came to town and was on display. My dad wasn’t into racing—no one in my family was into cars—but he took me downtown, and for three hours, I sat there staring at one of the first Corvettes.

For years, I owned a filter company, and we sold industrial filtration equipment for ultra-pure water, nuclear fuel, stuff like that. That’s how I paid the bills. Outside of work, in 1967, I started contributing to Sports Car Graphic. Then, in ’71, Road & Track was looking for somebody and I got on with them doing photography. I’ve been shooting cars and racing ever since.

That’s the year I got my first “real” car, too, a 1971 Porsche 911. Bought it new for $7900 and I still own it. I’ve painted it twice and bumped the motor to a 2.7 Carrera, and I can’t ever imagine selling it. These days, I’ve got 15 cars in my collection. I’d say my tastes are eclectic, from a 1928 Simplex Piston Ring Special that raced on the beach at Daytona to a 1971 Ferrari Daytona. There’s also a 2005 Ford GT, a C8 Corvette, a ’57 Eldorado Biarritz convertible, a ’58 Eldorado Brougham, a ’63 Buick Riviera, a ’32 highboy roadster, and a Triumph TR8 race car.

I’ve always loved motorsport. I started working for a race team when I was 16, schlepping tires and coffee and all that sort of stuff. In 1977, I went to racing school and have been racing ever since. It was sort of a natural progression of my interest in cars. I was never into sports because I was a klutz, but racing came to me naturally. It was like stealing cookies from a cookie jar, and I really enjoyed it. There’s just something about strapping yourself in the car and then throwing the switches and pushing the button and feeling the visceral nature of it. No sound deadening, just you in this metal capsule that’s making a lot of noise.

My first race car was a Brabham BT8, which was a Denny Hulme Tourist Trophy winner that I pulled out of a South Carolina junkyard in about 1978. Since then, I’ve had a Shelby Cooper Monaco, a Lotus Eleven, an Elva Mk. 4. I’ve got a Pontiac 1LE Trans Am from the Firehawk series and one of the original Banjo Matthews IROC Camaros. I also ran the ex–Bob Sharp Datsun B210, which I destroyed at Sebring on January 14, 1984, at 2:15 p.m. Only wreck I’ve ever had, and it laid me up for about eight days in intensive care and then three months at home. Broken sternum, bruised heart—not something I’d want to repeat.

This TR8 of mine, I bought it from the estate of the late John Kelly, who raced it in period at Daytona and Sebring for Bob Tullius’s Group 44 team. I already had the ex–Paul Newman Group 44 TR6 and decided if the opportunity came up, I would buy the TR8. John had told me it was his favorite car because it was small and quick and did everything a race car should do.

It’s got a Buick-Olds-Pontiac 4-liter V-8 that was built for the Trans-Am series. But it was so quick in Trans-Am that the SCCA added hundreds of pounds of weight to it, which made Mr. Tullius very angry. So he decided he was going to go from SCCA to IMSA, and along with the sister car, they held their own against the Porsches and Corvettes.

I race it all over the country in the Historic Sportscar Racing series—Monterey twice, Lime Rock, Road America, Road Atlanta, Sebring, Daytona, the usual places. Lime Rock is probably my favorite track, because it requires a lot of discipline and it has a real rhythm to it. I’m not particularly wild about Sebring, though, because, well, that’s where I crashed.

Tommy Riggins at Riggins Engineering here in town and a friend of mine named Steve Boyle—who used to build engines for Indy cars—they do most of the work to keep it race-ready. And it still holds its own, too, against big-block Corvettes and Cobras and such.

But vintage racing has changed. The old vintage formula isn’t there anymore, which is rather disappointing, because the licensing for drivers nowadays is lax and the cars are even more lax. It takes the fun out of it when you have real vintage cars running with drivers who’ve come out of other series, who are qualified and good. Then you’ve got guys who got their license off a cereal box and they go racing in a Camaro with 700 horsepower. That’s not vintage racing. But often the sanctioning bodies will take those cars because they need the entry fees. It’s all a bit disenchanting, to be honest.

Thankfully, I’ve always had other pursuits to keep me plenty busy. The Amelia Island Concours, for instance, which I created in 1996 and ran for 26 years. And I’ve just released a book, The Other Side of the Fence. It covers six decades of my motorsport photography, back to those Sports Car Graphic days. The name came from my late sister, who told me when I got a camera that it would get me on the other side of the fence. Sales will help raise funds for Spina Bifida of Jacksonville, which is a non-profit close to my heart. The book might be an ego thing, I don’t know. But more important, it’s a kind of record of all I did and saw from that unique position.

The post Collector, racer, photographer, event organizer—Bill Warner does it all appeared first on Hagerty Media.

My wife and I bought this 1954 Divco Model 15 Stand/Sit drive delivery truck in 1997. My grandfather drove a delivery truck like this for many years when he worked for Dugan Brothers Bakery in New York.

Divco stands for Detroit Industrial Vehicle Company, which was known for its house-to-house delivery trucks. The company was founded in 1926, and the snub-nose models began to appear in 1939. They remained largely unchanged until production ceased in 1986.

My truck had several owners during its lifetime—and just about as many paint jobs. In fact, the multiple coats of paint are probably what kept it from completely rusting away. To honor my grandfather, we decided to restore it as a Dugan’s Bakery truck. The work took about two years, and finding parts and researching everything to keep it original was a huge challenge.

Over the years, we’ve taken it to many parades and shows and have met several men who worked for Dugan’s Bakery. Some of them even knew my grandfather. Through them, I learned some great stories about him I’d never known. During World War II, for example, while he worked for Dugan’s, he was in the Army National Guard and was an air-raid warden. During that time, there was little rubber for tires, so his Divco was outfitted with wooden wheels.

We belong to the American Truck Historical Society and the Divco Club of America. All the people we’ve met through our ownership of this truck have been amazing, and we’ve made many long-lasting friendships with other Divco owners. I love driving my Divco and I love seeing the joy it creates for so many people who happen to encounter such a unique truck from days gone by.

The post The 1954 Divco Model 15 bakery truck keeping a grandfather’s memory alive appeared first on Hagerty Media.

I grew up in South Bend, Indiana, and my parents took me to my first Studebaker show in May 1984, when I was 18 months old. As they tell it, I’d walk up to various Studebakers and critique them. My dad’s friend, Paul, was a big Studebaker guy and had a red and white ’53 Commander, which is the very first car I remember. I spent the next 35 years dreaming of the day I’d have my own Studebaker.

In 2007, while I was home from grad school, Paul, my sister, and I went to the Studebaker Swap Meet. As was tradition, Paul bought us T-shirts and barbecue sandwiches. At the nearby Osceola Dragway, a black ’54 Commander Starliner caught my eye. Built with a Corvette 327 by hot-rodder Dick Steinkamp, it was the coolest car I’d ever seen. It turns out that “S2D,” as it was called, was fairly well-known; it had been in the Grand National Roadster Show and had won trophies elsewhere.

A decade later, at a car show in Baltimore, I met a guy named Ed Ellis, who brought two gorgeous ’53s with him. He mentioned he had a 327 Corvette–powered ’54 back home. I asked if it was S2D, and he was astounded that I knew the car. We exchanged information and he offered to stay in touch.

By early 2020, I was finally ready to buy a Starliner of my own, and I purchased a mostly original yellow and green ’54. I emailed Ed to tell him, and he asked if I also wanted to buy S2D. I was floored. We negotiated a price, and a few months later, I had a second Studebaker.

My mom was on hand to see the yellow ’54 delivered and said it reminded her of that day in 1984. When S2D arrived, I wore the T-shirt Paul had bought me, and my friend and I went out for barbecue sandwiches, just like Paul would have wanted. Buying these Studebakers was truly a dream come true.

The post My two 1954 Studebaker Commanders are a dream come true appeared first on Hagerty Media.

When my father, George Carroll, was 18, he purchased a 1969 Chevelle from Zele Chevrolet in Torrington, Connecticut. He was too young to get the $3800 loan himself, so his father cosigned. Around this time, Dad and a few other gearheads founded the Speed Syndicate Car Club. They rented a garage to hold weekly meetings and tune their cars. There was a strong rivalry between the members’ Chevys and Fords, so part of the weekend was spent settling bets racing on nearby Norfolk Road. My father formed many lifelong friendships during those years, and many of those folks are some of his closest friends to this day.

Throughout my childhood, I heard countless Chevelle stories. Like the time my mother took the pickles off her hamburger and threw them out the window. A friend found them stuck to the side of the car hours later and said, “Hey, you guys saving these pickles for anything?!” Or about the time they drove to Misquamicut, Rhode Island, where the car overheated in the long lines of beach traffic. Perhaps most common were the stories of how every Sunday from 1969 to 1980, he and my mother drove 140 miles round trip to Lebanon Valley Dragway in New York with racing slicks in the trunk. The more time he put in on the track, the bigger his collection of NHRA Class Winner stickers became. He started displaying them on the rear windows, which now offer a look back in time at what he and his Chevelle were capable of.

My parents have always said those days on the dusty track were long and hot but definitely worth every minute; good thing Mom always packed chicken salad sandwiches! And, of course, I’ll never forget Dad teaching me to drive stick, how to pull a holeshot, or go through the gears on his car. Talk about sweaty palms …

Over the years, a lot has changed. As Dad got married, bought a house, and had two children, he contemplated selling the car to help with finances many times. Luckily, as time went by, he realized the car was an irreplaceable member of the family. But there is also plenty that hasn’t changed. The Chevelle is still almost completely original, including the 31,000-mile SS 396/375 high-performance L78 engine with solid lifters, the four-speed M21 transmission, and the original 4.10 Posi rear end. It has not been gutted, restored, repainted, or had anything major replaced since it came from the factory. The Le Mans Blue still shines in contrast with the black bucket seats and original vinyl top.

My father’s story is of a hardworking, blue-collar gearhead who saved his money for years to purchase a car and pursue his passion for racing. Even after 52 years, it brings him great joy, and you’ll still find him under the hood, tinkering whenever he can.

The post This family’s ’69 Chevelle made memories, a quarter-mile at a time appeared first on Hagerty Media.

Several years ago, I was watching a National Geographic show on the advanced Maserati factory in Modena, Italy, and I got hooked on these lovely Italian cars. I decided then and there that I needed to have a Quattroporte.

For six months, I searched the country for the right one. Then a friend in Chicago told me about ValEuroSport, a luxury and exotics dealer in Apex, North Carolina. I called and spoke with the owner, Val, and told him what I was looking for. Soon I was looking at a hundred photos of this lovely 2007 model. The story is that some fellow had bought this Quattroporte new but then died just a year later. His wife refused to sell the car and instead kept it in her garage for seven years. Every so often, her son would start it up, but it wasn’t really driven again. Finally, she sold it to the dealership.

I caught a flight to North Carolina, met Val, and drove the car. It had only 14,000 miles on it at the time. I was blown away at the craftsmanship, the power, the way it moved down the road—so I bought it, flew home, and had it shipped to me.

Mine is the Sport GT trim, one of 97 built in this color—Blu Oceano—and one of just 14 in the U.S. It has an Italian leather interior and carbon-fiber accents and is powered by a 425-hp Ferrari-built 4.7-liter V-8, with a six-speed automatic and paddle shifters. It has Pirelli P Zeros on 20-inch alloy wheels, with six-piston Brembo brakes. I love this car for many reasons, including its elegant Pininfarina body. I also love it because it is sedate enough to behave around town, but if you want it to be a sports car, it will get up and go like a bat out of hell. In my neck of the woods here in New Mexico, there’s plenty of open road for that. To me, the Quattroporte rivals any other luxury sport sedan on the planet, and I don’t see myself ever selling it.

The post The Quattroporte of my dreams is still as elegant in New Mexico as it was in Modena appeared first on Hagerty Media.

My grandfather was born and lived his life on a northern Indiana dairy farm. In 1919, he and his brother, my Uncle Willis, bought their first car—a 1919 Franklin Series 9 Touring—for $3000.

The car included the famous air-cooled 25-hp six-cylinder engine and was capable of a sustained 40-mph cruise. My grandmother was aghast at the purchase price and would only refer to his pride and joy as “That Three Thousand Dollar Car.” In 1928, Uncle Willis drove it to Los Angeles and back to visit cousins. A year later, they retired the Franklin, and it became the farm utility vehicle.

In 1936, Grandpa decided it was time for the Franklin to go. My 9-year-old father had other ideas and begged Grandpa to save the car for him. Grandpa relented and put it on blocks until Dad became driving age. Dad then proceeded to drive the Franklin daily to high school and college.

In 1948, he purchased a new Ford, and the trusty Franklin was again retired to weekend use. I then spent 60 years lusting after it until Dad reluctantly gifted it to me. Having total faith in the car’s reliability, I immediately drove it from Indiana to my home in Florida.

One of Jay Leno’s reviews of the Pebble Beach Concours introduced me to the concept of a “survivor” class. The Franklin was a perfect candidate, so I submitted my 2018 application—promising that if accepted, I would drive the car from Florida to Monterey. I was promptly rejected. Unfazed, and upon learning there was a Concours d’Lemons scheduled for the very same Pebble Beach week, I forwarded a similar application. I was promptly accepted!

Had I really just committed to driving a 99-year-old family car from Tampa to Monterey and back? After much consideration, my wife Therese and I decided even that was too easy, so we revised our route to take us north to Lake Superior, then west through the northern Rockies, then to San Francisco, and finally to Monterey.

I drove and Therese navigated. Interstate highways were out of the question for this trip, so we opted for the prettiest back roads whenever possible. Our daily plan was to cover about 225 miles, with at least two sightseeing stops. We loaded our camping gear into the same running-board trunk Uncle Willis used for his 1928 trip and filled the back seat with the rest of our stuff, and the adventure began.

Driving an open car on less-traveled roads at low speeds is wonderful. You see and experience so much more along the way. In Georgia, for instance, we stopped beside the road to take a look at an interesting water wheel. The owner came out to invite us in for a closer look. In Michigan, we had a wheel failure, and while I was replacing it, a trucker stopped to lend a hand and then shared a pizza with us. In Montana, we stopped at a small town’s car museum, only to find it closed. A gentleman walked over from a neighboring business with the keys. He let us in and gave us a personal tour.

The stories like this are endless. The trip, however, was not, and with three days to spare, we rolled down California Highway 1 and into Monterey. Goal achieved!

The post Driving 9300 miles across America in my grandfather’s 1919 Franklin Series 9 Touring appeared first on Hagerty Media.

“Italian tuna sounds good,” I said to my husband, Jeff, as I shifted up—quite smoothly, I have to say—into fourth.

I love driving my 1974 Tundra Green MG on the back roads between our house and Guido’s Fresh Marketplace in Great Barrington, Massachusetts. Canaan Southfield Road is winding. Traffic’s usually light—not too many intimidating SUVs bearing down on me. It’s a perfect 30-minutes-each-way trip. And Jeff, who typically has been allergic to food shopping throughout our decades of marriage, is happy to join me—as long as we take the MG.

“I’ll get breadsticks, olives, white beans, some of that nice goat cheddar, and the Italian tuna,” I said. “You can wait in the car.”

“It’s not Italian tuna,” Jeff said, nodding in approval as I downshifted and made the turn onto Cross Road in third—not second—gear, which he’s been encouraging me to do more of. “It’s Italian tuneup!”

You might know what an Italian tuneup is, but I—children’s book publisher, new classic car owner, and avoider of anything that sounds even vaguely like an ethnic slur—did not. But I know now: It’s a slang term for attempting to restore engine performance by driving a car to its redline, which theoretically flushes out carbon deposits.

I also know that when Jeff starts talking about Italian tuneups, it’s his way of telling me I’m shifting too soon. Revving it high just feels too aggressive to me, like I’m pushing too hard. But I’m listening to Jeff—and hearing him—and I’m going to keep working on my shifting to get it right. Because I love this car and everything about it—including the fact that Jeff (a 1971 Jaguar XKE owner) and I have started an interesting new chapter in our marriage.

Last Mother’s Day, Jeff bought the MG for me from a friend who bought it from its original owners, two women in Tennessee. The bill of sale included a note: “Goodbye Fun Car.”

And it is fun. I get so many compliments out on the road, and for the first time in my life, I’m enjoying the journey as much as the destination. The best part? Jeff and I have so many new things to discuss and rehash and obsess over. Long married life is great, for sure, but after a few decades of it, there’s often not a lot of new ground to cover. But he’s always interested and inspired when we’re talking about my latest trip in the MG.

It’s undeniable, Jeff and I have a ménage à trois going with this MG. She is the best kind of new partner. She’s beautiful and ageless, and she is not ashamed of going topless; she’s always up for a new adventure and is fun to be around. We three share a love of the open road; of driving for the fun of it; of going to the supermarket for an Italian tuneup, and maybe even picking up some Italian tuna for dinner.

The post In my MGB, Italian tuna always hits the spot appeared first on Hagerty Media.

When police cars like my 1957 Ford Custom 300 were in service, the city of Los Angeles had approximately 2 million residents, fewer than half the people it contains today. Many freeways were yet to be built. The city was growing at a dizzying rate, however, and things were changing fast. The LAPD was no exception. My ’57 Ford patrol car was the last model powered by an inline-six, and it’s mated to a three-speed column-shift transmission. The 223-cubic-inch engine was a strong runner, performing remarkably close to V-8s of the day.

In 2018, I bought this Ford from former Burbank police officer Robert Stentz, who had treated it to a two-year “body-on” restoration. The goal was to make the car appear exactly as it was in 1957. The doors, hood, fenders, and decklid were all removed for painting and installation of new rubber seals. The front floorpans and outer rockers were replaced with new reproduction parts, and the lower portion of the front fenders was replaced with new metal. The quarter panels, rear floors, and trunk are original and solid, and the bumpers were both triple chrome-plated. Underhood, the engine was replaced with a correct rebuilt one. To maintain the appearance of authenticity, he had it detailed with correct decals, colors, and original components, including the road draft tube. He installed a reproduction Power Punch battery cloned to appear as an original wet-cell type; however, it’s actually a dry-cell design and will not create acid damage.

The odometer shows 90,098 original miles, and there is still so much great original equipment on and in the car—brake drums, radiator, windshield, ball joints, headlights, etc. The front and rear springs are heavy-duty and paired with NOS non-gas shocks.

The roof-mounted can lights are vintage S&M model 757s used on an LAPD Central Division unit. The siren, B&M model S8B, was remanufactured by the factory under direction of the late Kevin O’Connell, who went through many cores to find one with a period-correct serial number. It is a masterpiece and produces a robust, spine-tingling sound. There is a floor-mounted button on the passenger side, for use by a second officer, which was helpful to the driver as he would have been shifting gears and maneuvering the vehicle on code-three calls.

The trunk, meanwhile, is fitted with a CO2 fire extinguisher, a working Motorola electronic bullhorn, a Motorola two-way portable, a vintage Johnson & Johnson first-aid kit, an LAPD-issued D-cell flashlight, and a 1956 city of Los Angeles municipal code book. Some of this stuff bears the stencil “Property of LAPD.”

My Ford sports a pair of antennas, because LAPD cars received dispatch calls on 1712 kHz AM and transmitted back to HQ on 155.01 MHz FM. I’ve even equipped the car with an electronic module that plays LAPD Valley Division calls through the Motorola speaker on a continuous loop. These are recorded onto an SD card and edited to eliminate any information that did not exist in 1957.

Mine is the only correct example of an LAPD ’57 Ford known to exist, and I love cruising L.A. in it and showing it off whenever I can—including at police events in the city, like the True Blue Gala, and the 150th anniversary of the LAPD back in 2019.

The post This ’57 Ford L.A. cop cruiser is as accurate as they come appeared first on Hagerty Media.

For me, vans are like music. How? Simple: I was born too late to be on the scene for the arrival of my favorite stuff. Not that vans aren’t hot right now. “Kids these days” are getting into minimalism and tiny homes. You could blame the recent housing boom, and the surging prices therein. You could, in some way, credit the fact that due to the pandemic a vast majority of people are now working 100 percent remote, free to explore and travel as they please. Whichever combination created a culprit, the past couple of years have seen a renaissance in Van Culture. Millennials everywhere are picking up high roof examples of modern vans, adorning them with solar panels, tapestries, wifi hotspots, Pinterest-inspired cabinets, storage, and sleeping applications. The possibilities are seemingly limitless.

Breathing new life into any facet of car culture via advances in technology and social media clout is always exciting, but looking at the new generation Vanners you’d suspect something was lost along the way, and it’s true: No more riveted upholstery, no more shag carpet, no more wild murals of dragons or wizards, no more disco balls, no more Bitchin, no more Heavy. Just the same as when Grunge Rock came into the fray; There wasn’t anything wrong with the new wave, for most, but something beautiful and rich had taken place not long before it. The new generation wouldn’t know. Just like the original cover of Skynyrd’s Street Survivors album: I wasn’t old enough to remember it, but I am lucky enough to have people in my life to tell me what was there before.

A notice to readers: Comments on new Hagerty articles have been disabled due to technical issues since July 29th. Don’t worry, the comments are coming back soon, and when they do, we’ll have a contest or giveaway to reward our readers for their patience. Never stop driving! — Jack Baruth

I met Matt of Rolling Heavy Magazine back at Greaserama 2016, in Kansas City, MO. I bought some merch off of him, and he gave me the latest issue of his magazine. It was cooler than any Hefner owned publication I’d ever stolen from my dad. (Side note: there was a near-mint ’87 Coupe De Ville that my old man kept in his shop. That’s where he hid his stash after he remarried. He won’t realize until he reads this, but I’ve known about that treasure trove since I was a kid. Thanks Dad.)

Anyways, Matt was cool like the other side of the pillow, happy to talk about these machines and the surrounding culture in their former glory. That thing that was there before, it was there all along, but I knew very little about it. In my own experiences there wasn’t much outside select memories with my dad, my older sister, and a multicolored GMC Vandura. Almost immediately after purchasing the van Dad swapped the motor for a crate 350, and installed an extra, mismatched bench seat. He threw us kids in the van along with his girlfriend at the time, and we hit the road for Naples, Florida with less than 20 miles on the new heart. Quite a shake down run considering we were coming from a small-town northwest of Atlanta in a time when cell phones were rare, and my dad wouldn’t be caught dead with one. I guess life warrants a gamble every now and then, and when you’re a single parent of 2, working graveyard shift nonetheless, you aren’t often spared the luxury of time to make sure everything is dialed in.

The trip worked out though, so did the next, and the next one after that. I imagine that thing had a lot of great life left in it when he passed it on to the then ex-girlfriend as a tradeoff to get her out of the house. Everything has a price, and the price of one freedom meant the sacrifice of another. My favorite part of those trips wasn’t the destinations, but sitting up front with him tracing our route with the Rand McNally as we hummed along. Finessing the analog stereo knobs through the gospel and static, searching for the nearest rock station with the best reception while the motor labored melodically beneath the doghouse between us. All the while hoping I wouldn’t lose track of the mile markers, and botch the single job of Pre-GPS navigation which I had been assigned. All of this playing in the back of my mind as I thumbed the pages of Matt’s magazine. I was inspired. I thought of my son, and how he would benefit from the same experience in this new age of technology. This is where Jake’s “on again-off again” search for a van would begin. I had to have one of my own, but being the black sheep of a mostly GM-powered family I knew that my ride had to be MoPar or no car.

After exchanging contact information with Matt came a plethora of emails and craigslist links followed by lamenting a variety of heartaches and obstacles in the form of time, distance, price, and condition. I ended up bouncing around the country for a couple years, habitually relocating for my cliché traveling salesman gig. I was never able to lay eyes or hands on an example I could feel confident about purchasing. Four years passed. Then one day, it happened.

Through a search in a Facebook group, I locked eyes with a burgundy ’79 shorty van. It was perfect. 318 small block, side pipes, a clean slate for however I wanted to build my bachelor pad in the back. The only concern was the Van was in Arkansas, and I was in GA, third in line to make an offer. I had the cash, and no interest in negotiating the price. I didn’t want to risk letting this one get away, but in the end, I missed out to a gentleman who got to Arkansas first. I am not certain if there is a name for the frenzy which ensued after losing out on a deal which seemed to be the perfect fit, but there should be.

I found myself so wrapped up in the concept of owning this thing that I had mentally sold it to myself at full price, maybe more if the guy would’ve accepted the higher bid. I’d imagined the adventures it would deliver me through, the memories it would create for my son, and filled up online carts with parts I intended to buy the day it found it’s home in my driveway… When I sit here and explain to you that I was upset, believe me, I’ve lost less sleep over good lovers leaving. I spent weeks back in square one; a pit of desperation that I could only compare to Hunter S. Thompson’s description of an ether dose: “You can actually watch yourself behaving in the terrible way, but you can’t control it.” Perusing the auto classified sites, scrolling aimlessly through Facebook marketplace, and becoming the nuisance to any Dodge Van related group I could slip into. I was borderline obsessing. Scratch that, this was a full-blown problem by this point, compounded by the scarcity of what I wanted, and where it was seemingly never intersected by a fair price. Looking for one of these vans (or really any niche car at this point) is sure to fetch mostly examples grossly overpriced, abused, neglected, corroding unto themselves, cannibalized by other projects of an unloving owner, or any tasteless combination of the array.

When I finally found the next candidate (an off-market deal from a stolid dude named Rob who frankly wasn’t convinced about selling) I refused to waste any time. I asked for all the pictures I could think of, I asked all the questions my limited knowledge would tell me to ask, I vetted the purchase as best I could. I quickly decided it was worth the having, now I just needed to plan the getting.

This is probably the best time to bring up my day job as it directly influenced the outcome of this deal. I sell charter flights for a private jet management company, and while that may sound illustrious it is mostly monotonous number crunching for 8-10-14 hours a day. One of the main redeeming perks, however, is that in the seldom event of a plane flying empty I can hitch a ride. Truthfully, it doesn’t suck, and in this near perfect alignment of the sun and the moon and whatever planets were necessary to connect me to my van there was an empty leg to North Carolina, not 40 minutes from where the van was parked.

I finalized the plan with Rob, and about a week later I was on a jet to go buy a vehicle, sight unseen, and ultimately drive it 5 hours home to Georgia with fingers crossed, and a belief that miracles can happen. I guess life warrants a gamble every now and then, and this would be the pinnacle of my ambitions.

Once the wheels touched down I took a rideshare to meet Rob at his place. Like me he is a purveyor of fine nostalgic metal, and was happy to show me around his collection. I couldn’t take my eyes off of my new prospect. I was relieved to see that she showed up just as well, if not better than she did in the pictures, and I felt that there was no reasonable obstacle that would stop me from getting it home. Even though in my haste and recklessness, I neglected to tote so much as a socket set when boarding the plane. I was 100% vulnerable with arms wide open for whatever this van would throw at me over the next several hours. I couldn’t think of a better way to get acquainted. 238 miles with a perfect stranger of a machine.

We would learn a lot about each other, and I looked at the prospect of a breakdown as an opportunity to correct a weakness that I would rather not expose later, say on a camping trip in the middle of nowhere with my kiddo. We spent about an hour looking the van over, talking cars, and strategizing my voyage home. Then Rob did one of the most professional paperwork jobs I’ve ever encountered in a vehicle purchase, and he sent me on my way. There’s not a lot that compares to the feeling after you’ve shaken hands, and handed over your hard-earned cash. Especially after the time invested in the chase. The anxiety or apprehension of a decision is intensified when you drive that vehicle out of the lot (or driveway) heading home. All the more outrageous considering the distance to my driveway in this case, but onward we drove because despite what lay ahead; I still had to be back in the office the next morning.

The first hundred miles were relatively inconsequential, I’d stopped after the first hour just to look back over everything. I added some gas, and let it cool for a while to make sure the gauges were all corresponding. After getting some time on the interstate I realized my cruising speed would be a modest 60-65, I didn’t want to overdo it. In a short while I found myself finessing the analog radio knob. I was looking for a rock station. It was a beautiful day. I crossed into South Carolina, found a new station, and when I reached the GA state line, I felt like the drive was going suspiciously well. I was 2 hours from home when I heard the POP, and lost all power. I persuaded the free-coasting fortress to the right lane and rolled up a convenient exit ramp well enough out of danger. Luck be a lady. After opening the hood I realized the pop I heard had been the battery. Previous experience with these Mopars, and their external voltage regulators, let me know on the spot that I would be needing a ride to a parts store.

I’m no stranger to hitchhiking. I’m not a stranger to a break down either, in fact, I was relieved that I would get to fix something. It keeps my expectations at a manageable level. I walked across the overpass to a truck stop where I found a ride surprisingly fast. Unlike the last time I’d found myself stranded on the side of the road, this time I had a cell phone, and called ahead to the local parts store. I picked up a battery, a voltage regulator, and an adjustable wrench. With another generous ride back to the interstate, this time from an employee of the Auto Parts store, I set out on my roadside repair.

Those who know will tell you that the voltage regulator is not rocket surgery, but my generic crescent wrench supplemented the difficulty level necessary for the satisfaction I needed to have getting back on the road. I couldn’t believe so much time had passed. The sun was setting now, and though I had just fixed a common issue with minimal effort, the parts stores would be closing soon which meant that any other breakdowns would either result in a hefty tow bill, or me getting to sleep in the van for the first time. Speaking of the tow bill, I didn’t mention yet that I maybe had $250 total cash for this endeavor, and the recent pitstop had eaten up about half of that. Things were getting exciting as the sun continued to set. Despite mounting anxiety, and almost compulsively watching for mile markers the Van charged on.

The sun was down now, meaning the parts stores would be no help at this point. I was back to fumbling through radio stations. Hoping for a familiar identifier to be called out like a beacon of hope and reassurance that I was within affordable range of a prospective tow bill, if needed. 5 hours is a long time in any vehicle. 5 hours in this vehicle with questionable reliability was beginning to look more and more like a terrible idea. The closer I got to Atlanta, the more anxious I became. The fear of stop and go conditions after a full day of boogie brought me to a whole new level of anticipation. The mile markers slowed to a painful creep as I joined the traffic at the perimeter. Sure, I could pay to get the thing towed from here, but truth be told, I just wanted to be home at this point. There was cold beer in the fridge, and I didn’t want to wait for a tow truck navigating a traffic jam to get me there.

We pressed on; it was almost 9:30 pm as I merged north on I-75. Away from the traffic now, this was the final stretch. Everything seemed strong as ever so I put the hammer down. Once out of traffic my nerves melted away. I turned the radio down. Then I turned it off altogether, and right there I had a moment. The streetlights whizzed by, the rays of orange illuminating the cabin sporadically. The wind whipped around inside the cabin. The engine was still patiently and diligently working away while the asphalt sang beneath the big cooper cobras. The entire orchestra putting Atlanta lights further and further behind me. “Pleased to meet you” I thought, and then I smiled as I patted the doghouse. When I finally got off the interstate I didn’t go home. I stopped at the bar across the street from my neighborhood. I parked the van under a light in the parking lot, and stared at it over a beer. Basking in the accomplishment. Celebrating a new friend. Breathing easier now with the weight off my mind. Even if it wouldn’t turn back over. I could walk from here.

The post I took a private jet to get this vintage van … then had to hitchhike back to it appeared first on Hagerty Media.

I grew up in the 1960s and ’70s. My dad was into cars, and he owned some interesting ones, all of them American (though the Europeans did come later). In 1976, when I was 15, he bought his first midlife-crisis car, a 1972 Corvette convertible with a 350 and a four-speed. I was smitten with the Elkhart Green Stingray. I always liked cars, but I was too young to appreciate the muscle car era, so this was the closest thing to it I’d ever seen.

I knew how to drive before I had my license, and I used to take the Corvette out and drive it around the neighborhood when Dad was at work. Ever the good son, I polished it once a month. Later, when I was in high school, he let me drive it regularly. Unfortunately, I was a typical teenager, and I had my share of mishaps with it: I once had to put three people in the car with me, which meant some girl had to sit on the console and it cracked. Sorry, Dad.

A few years later, while I was away at college, Dad sold the car, which broke my heart—especially when I had to see it later on a used-car lot. I was determined to get that car back someday.

Now, 35-plus years later, with my own kids grown and gone, it was time to look for a classic C3 Corvette. I wasn’t set on locating the same car, just something similar and in good shape. Lo and behold, I found almost the exact one that Dad had. It was local, and the price was reasonable. So, here I am, and it’s 1976 all over again. The smells, the sounds—everything about this Corvette transports me back to high school, when life was simpler. Better still, my son (a fellow car geek) loves it, as well. This Corvette will never leave the family.

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A few years ago, my cousin Phillip Wines and I were searching through the barns on our late grandfather’s Virginia farm when we stumbled onto something—rather, a piece of something—from a scooter of some sort. Then we found another piece, and another. Finally, a picture began to emerge, especially as we started to see military markings.

Charles H. Harbaugh Jr. enlisted to fight in World War II at the age of 18. He was part of the D-Day invasion and fought at the Battle of the Bulge. As a C-47 pilot in the 27th Air Transport Group, he took part in the Berlin airlift after the war. In letters home from England, he had mentioned a scooter that he used for rides around the countryside. He named it “Anna Louise.” The identity of “Anna Louise” is subject to question, though I believe she was an English girl my grandfather fell in love with.

My grandfather cherished the scooter and wanted to keep it. Because it was military issue, he broke it down into pieces to evade detection, and soon it found a place on his farm.

One day after our discovery, I posted pictures of what we thought was a Cushman on a Cushman Facebook page. Jerry Temple, president of the International Salsbury Restorers Society, soon informed us this was no Cushman, but a vintage Salsbury Model 72—one of three known to exist, and the only one remaining with military markings.

Jerry wanted to restore it and drove from Ohio to pick it up. His work was fantastic, and we debuted the scooter in 2018 at the eighth annual Middletown Car and Truck show on Main Street. Now it resides in the local Harley-Davidson dealership.

To Phillip and me, the scooter is not so much a relic of a bygone era but a memorial to a member of the Greatest Generation. We can’t think of a better way to honor him.

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My husband, Geral, and I were always car fanatics. Early on, he loved reading about fast cars and dreaming of what he might own one day. He was a longtime NASCAR fan and enjoyed racing his 1980 Chevy Malibu on the dirt oval at Georgia’s Senoia Raceway.

A love of cars was just in my blood. My dad grew up around cars, and we had a variety of Corvairs in the driveway at all times. And this love was reinforced every summer, when I’d spend the season with my grandparents in Massachusetts and Connecticut, and we’d go touring in their 1934 Ford Model A, their 1948 Willys Jeepster, or their 1957 T-bird. My grandfather cared for the collection of Friendly’s cofounder Curt Blake, and he used to take me to the big barn when he’d go there to work on Mr. Blake’s cars.

When my husband and I graduated high school, he owned an ’84 Camaro and I had a ’66 Corvair, but we began looking to purchase a gem that we could share. My husband longed for a Buick GNX, but we were still just teenagers, so they weren’t in our budget. The Grand National was, though, and in October 1987, he became the proud owner of one. We were married two years later, and he gave the GN to me as my daily driver. To say we had the best time cruising around in that car is truly an understatement.

The cruising came to an end in 1993, when my husband landed the GN in a ditch while trying to see how it did on icy roads. We moved the car into the basement, and our goal was to put it back together one day. Life has a way of moving on, however, and the project in the basement remained at a standstill. Soon we had children, and our shared interest turned to water-skiing. The longer the GN sat, the less it became a priority, especially as other cars entered the mix: We bought a Ford F-150 Harley-Davidson stepside, then a ’96 Chevy Impala SS, and lastly, a 2005 Joe Gibbs Chevy Tahoe, which was my favorite.

Sadly, my husband took his life in 2013. For those of you reading this who have lost a loved one, you know it takes time to get moving again. Eventually, my kids and I planned to move, and we wanted to take the Buick with us. It had a smashed-up quarter panel and was missing a front fender, the front and rear bumpers, and the decklid, but we got it running again. And boy, did it run!

The GN sat for 24 years, but words cannot describe the pride my kids and I felt when we finally got it put back together. We have enjoyed making some minor modifications to the engine, and it’s still so much fun to drive. Even more fun, however, is seeing the joy my son gets from driving it. One day, it will be his.

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Two Hagerty Drivers Club members, Doug Miller and Joseph Sprague, connected by way of a very special muscle machine. It might look like an ordinary Boss, but under this Mustang’s hood is a little 427-sized something by way of Holman-Moody—and Le Mans. When it came time for Doug to pass the car on, he made sure it landed in good hands. To join the Hagerty Drivers Club, click here.

Doug says:

That Mustang was a rocket, I tell you, a rocket. What a blast. I had the motor of my dreams and a car that was made to handle it. The thing tracked straight as a string and it was as safe as being in your bed at night. Never squirrelly, just outrageous.

Back in 1973, my buddy and I found a 1970 Boss 302 Mustang on a used-car lot in our town of Midland, Michigan. It didn’t sound very good when we started it up, and it read zero oil pressure. So before buying the Mustang, we took it to the Lincoln-Mercury dealer across town where we worked, ran it up on the hoist, and dropped the oil pan to check the internals. The oil pump drive was twisted in half, and there were lots of tiny aluminum pieces in the pan. We gathered the metallic bits up in a nice oily shop rag, went back over to the used-car lot, and dropped them on the salesman’s desk. “Let’s deal,” I said.

Right after I bought the Mustang, my buddy and I pulled the 302. We rebuilt the motor, dropped it back in the car, and I drove it for the next year. That 302 was great for racing streetlight to streetlight, but I wanted to go faster. I had always dreamed of owning a 427 Cobra, from the time I read about one achieving something like 0-to-100-to-0 in like 10 seconds. Well, in summer 1974, a local guy named Mike had this Shelby Mustang with a 427-cubic-inch V-8 in it. All the gearheads around town thought it was a 427 “Cammer” engine. I knew better. This mystery motor was Ford’s 427 FE overhead valve V-8, like the one used in GT40 race cars. The exhaust tube on the third cylinder, each side, crossed under the engine and over to the other collector. It made such a unique exhaust note.

Well, the 427 had started to make a little rattle or something, and Mike decided he didn’t want to mess with it anymore. He was tight with his money, and it was going to cost him big to send it down to Holman-Moody for a rebuild. Instead, Mike decided he wanted to trade the engine for something less radical. We ended up making this convoluted engine swap between three cars—nothing short of a backyard mechanical miracle. In the end, Mike ended up with a K-code 289 in his Shelby, and I had a 427 big-block, the motor of my dreams, in my Boss Mustang.

I still remember the way I was shaking from excitement the day I dropped the 427 into my Boss. Since those ’70s Mustangs could be ordered with a Cobra Jet engine, the engine bay configuration and all of the motor mount locations were ready to handle a big-block.

Midland was a Chevy town back then, and nobody knew what I had. I’d pop the hood, tell them it was the Boss 302, and they’d stare at that big motor, having no clue that it wasn’t. I kid you not. I had so much fun with this car. I think back to my time street racing on Monroe Road, 2 miles out of town. There were a lot of fast cars racing out there—396 Chevelles, 396 Camaros, plenty of pretty fast small-block cars, too. Whenever I’d race my Mustang, I’d let the other guys pull away a little, and then right at the end, I’d zoom right past them. Just nose them out. They’d say stuff like, “Man, that was a great race!” I’d nod and agree, knowing I was sand-bagging the whole time.

To this day, I think back in amazement to some of the things I did with that car. But time passes, and eventually I reached a point where I could see that the car’s future was not with me. A few years ago, I chanced upon Joe Sprague through a mutual friend. We hit it off immediately. I looked at Joe and saw a lot of myself back in the day, when I had the energy to come home from work and go right out to the garage and start wrenching on stuff. We agreed on a price for my Mustang and made the deal.

When Joe gets that thing back up and running, he’s going to have a smile so wide. No matter what I did with small-blocks, it never compared to the big 427. You’d stand on the gas, and this thing, without a hint of hesitation, would roar. I can still hear it. Before long, Joe will know that sound, too.

Joe says:

I was on the road for work, in a hotel room in Houston, and my buddy Randy called me. He told me about a 1970 Boss 302 Mustang with a non-original motor and gave me Doug’s phone number. I remember talking to Doug for the first time, and he’s like, “Well, it’s got a 427 in it, and it has the aluminum heads.” We agreed on a price, and I immediately started researching the car.

I looked up VINs and part numbers, and I interviewed people who worked on the car. It was so much fun reconstructing the car’s history and tracing the engine back to 1967. After two years, my conclusion is this: The 427 was one of 10 blocks sent to race in France at Le Mans with the 1967 GT40 J cars. The engine was unused in the race and sent back to the States. Somehow it ended up at a speed shop in California, and eventually under the hood of a 1967 Shelby GT500. The owner of the GT500 swapped the 427 for a K-code engine, and that’s how it ended up with Doug’s friend, Mike, in Midland. Even though the intake was replaced with a tri-power setup, the big motor has its original aluminum heads, Holman-Moody water pump, and aluminum crank pulley.

Sure, I own the car, but it’s Doug’s story. I still keep in contact with him. Every time I find a new tidbit of information about it, like when I got the Marti Report, I share it with him. I feel like, in a way, it’s really his car and I’m just holding on to it for him. The Mustang meant a lot to him. Anytime you sell something, you’d like to think that whoever gets it after you will appreciate it as much as you did. That’s what I’m trying to do.

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I was 17 in 1980, riding shotgun in my buddy’s ’75 Trans Am, when this green Trans Am pulled up to the light beside us. The guy told me it was a factory color, then the light changed, and off he went. Over the next few years, I saw the car around town, and each time I gave the guy my number, if he ever wanted to sell it.

By 1999, my wife and I had just opened a business, bought a new house, and started our little family. Money was not something we had, but one day, I came across an ad that said “1973 Trans Am, needs work, $2000.” I called, and all I asked about was the color; when the seller said green, I went straight to the bank and withdrew nearly everything we had. After reminding him I was the guy who gave him my number a hundred times, I picked up the T/A for $1200, with the promise I would restore it one day.

It was all there but was rusty and needed a lot, so the Trans Am sat in my garage for a few years. My neighbor happened to be a body man and said he could bring the car back to life if I were willing to help. It took us a year to restore the shell. Then it sat for another 15 years.

When I turned 55, I knew I needed to have the Trans Am back on the road, so I found a shop to work with. During the two-year rotisserie restoration, we discovered that only a few Brewster Green Trans Ams made it to Canada in 1973, so mine’s a real needle in a haystack. I debuted it in February 2020 at the World of Wheels in Calgary, but I wasn’t able to drive it much. This summer, however, I cannot wait to get it on the road.

The post The 1973 Pontiac Trans Am I first saw at 17 is mine and ready to finally hit the road appeared first on Hagerty Media.

I’ve always been a fan of boxy Volvos, particularly the 245 wagon. I love the crisp, clean lines and purposeful design. I’ve had a 1990 DL for a while now, but I got an itch for another, so I cast a worldwide net.

After months of searching, I found this Italian-market 245 Turbo through a site called autoscout24.it. This car checked all the boxes: B19ET engine (a tax-friendly Euro-only unit), M46 manual transmission, and air conditioning, which was super hard to find in Europe. It also has the trick rear-facing collapsible seat, plus unique-to-Italy side marker lights.

It was purchased new in 1983 by a young couple who wanted a family car. I can attest to its use as such, as I found some little green army men in it, and there were still a couple of Bimbo a Bordo (Baby on Board) stickers in the rear windows when it arrived here. After putting just 135,000 kilometers (84,000 miles) on the clock, in 1996, they traded it in at a dealer who placed the ’83 into storage as part of a collection. There it stayed until 2017, when the sellers I purchased it from bought it and began to tidy it up mechanically.

I first contacted them last July, and we finally closed the deal in October. The language barrier sometimes got in the way, but Google Translate was a huge help. And it was pretty interesting working with people I didn’t know, in a different country, on a car that I wouldn’t see in person until it arrived. Based on our conversations, however, I got a good feeling from the sellers. We’ve actually developed a friendship, and my first trip post-COVID-19 will be to Udine, Italy, to meet them in person. They even tried to send me some wine from the region with the car, but that got confiscated somewhere between Italy and New York.

I can’t say it with 100 percent certainty, but I’m willing to bet this is the only Italian Volvo 245 Turbo in the U.S. Can’t wait for car show season!

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This 1956 Power Wagon came to me by way of its original owners, the Roman Catholic monks at the Charterhouse of the Transfiguration Carthusian monastery, located on Mount Equinox in Sandgate, Vermont. I worked for the Carthusians as mountain manager and business director for a number of years, where I operated their two hydroelectric power plants, a 5.2-mile toll road to the summit, and various other ventures.

The Carthusians bought this truck in 1956 for use at their first location, in Whitingham, Vermont. It was not an ideal spot for them, but in an attempt to maintain self-sufficiency, the monks had been investigating hydroelectric power. Two worlds collided when Brother Paul paid a visit to Joseph George Davidson, an engineer and inventor who hated public utilities and had developed successful designs for a hydroelectric system as a result. As the two men talked, Davidson determined the water supply in Whitingham was insufficient, and the brother explained that in addition to a power source, the monks were looking for a better site to construct their monastery. Davidson offered his 7000-acre property on Mount Equinox, which could not only provide the water needed to generate power, but also the seclusion the order required.

Even before the brothers arrived on Mount Equinox, Power Wagons weren’t strangers to the place. Davidson had a fleet of them, in fact. He’d spent much of his career working on military contracts, including uranium enrichment at Oak Ridge, Tennessee, for the Manhattan Project, and Dodge had given him trucks throughout the 1950s.

On Mount Equinox, the Carthusians’s Power Wagon was put straight to work by a young brother named Michael. Each brother has a specific job, and Michael’s was to harvest enough firewood to keep the community warm through the Vermont winters. He and the truck hauled about 100 cords of wood a year for half a century. The Dodge spent its entire working life with Brother Michael, who loved and maintained it relentlessly.

In 2009, he told me it was time to retire the Power Wagon. I was shocked, because it was such a fixture on the mountain. When I asked what would come of it, he said it would be nice if someone could give the truck a good home, then stared at me until I took the hint.

A new home it has, and a new look, too. During the course of its four-year restoration, which I finished in spring 2020, I replaced the original Bermuda Coral color with a Mason single-stage urethane in correct 1956 Pontchartrain Green and black. Because this truck was a late ’56 build, it features the 12-volt electrical system that Dodge upgraded to midway through production (from 6 volts), as well as the New Process 420 synchromesh transmission. It also has the single option offered by Dodge that year—a driver’s-side armrest.

The Power Wagon will live out its retirement with me in my own rural corner of Vermont, where its toughest workload now is a leisurely drive through the Green Mountains. I think this truck’s life is a great testimonial to how they were developed, tested, and refined 75 years ago. Its strength and durability are synonymous with those of its original owners—a monastic order that has been around for 900 years.

The post This divine Power Wagon faithfully served a mountain monastery for 53 years appeared first on Hagerty Media.

In the 1940s, when I was in my early teens, I started reading the first issues of Road & Track and Motor Trend. They would do articles on the heavyweight stuff from the ’20s and the ’30s. That was my introduction to the big classics.

In college, I had this economics professor who talked about classic cars a lot. I stayed after class once and asked him about that, and you’d think he’d found his long-lost son. That very day, he drove me 10 miles out-side of Troy, New York, to see this 1930 Cadillac V-16. It was a seven-passenger sedan with a perfect interior, but the owner had just lost his garaging. It was $300, which in 1956 was about $2900 in today’s money. I didn’t have $3, let alone $300, but my parents cosigned the note. I borrowed the $300 and had that Cad Sixteen towed back to the fraternity house. I was about laughed out of the place when this bus arrived. It had oxidized terribly and the original tires were shot, but it was an all-original V-16 and it ran. I started taking it to club events and such, then traded it around Christmas 1957, plus $600, for a ’53 Buick Skylark.

I’ve got framed photos of all the cars I’ve ever owned—the V-16, that Skylark, Studebaker GT Hawks, Rolls-Royces, Bentleys, Hispano-Suizas, a Pierce Arrow, a Mercedes-Benz 300 SL Gullwing, a Delahaye 175S I wish I had back. If money were no object, I’d be dangerous, but these days, I’m down to four cars—a 1934 Bentley 3 ½ Litre I bought in 1964, a 1929 Isotta Fraschini Tipo 8A S, a 1947 Chrysler Town & Country, and a ’98 BMW Z3 M.

Compared to all of the cars of the ’20s and ’30s I’ve owned, the Chrysler is my “new car.” I found it locally about 15 years ago. My longtime friend Peter had seen it one day under a tarp next to a house. Sometime later, he and I were out and drove past the house, but the car was gone. The house, though in a nice area, looked abandoned, so we poked around. Now, I don’t like wandering around people’s property, but this time I did, and when I popped my head in the garage, there was the car. That was the end of it until several weeks later, when Peter stopped there again, and he was able to buy it. He came right over to my house and offered it to me.

The survival rate of T&C convertibles is much better than it is for the sedans, but I wanted a sedan for its unique look. Nobody back then made anything that looked like this. I got it home and it ran. Most of the wood was excellent, but the left rear door dogleg was rotted. You could pull handfuls of wood off of it. I’d always been interested in wooden boats and already owned a ’55 Greavette, so I wanted a woody car to pull my woody boat. Initially I was just going to dress up the Chrysler and drive it, but the wood issues … that was the beginning of the end. I did a whole-nine-yards restoration on it over about eight years.

The Greavette is one of maybe two or three Streamliners west of the Mississippi. I first saw it in 1982, nearby on Mercer Island, but I had no idea what it was. It was tied up in bankruptcy and divorce proceedings for a decade, and it sank once right next to the dock, but in 1996, I ran into a restorer friend at a boat show and he told me I finally might be able to buy it. I got it for a song, rebuilt the engine, rewired it, reupholstered it, and I’ve been using it ever since. Of course, the Town & Country’s inline-six lacks the poop to pull it, but they sure do look great together.

Garaging is an issue, so I keep the Isotta Fraschini in my man cave, which has the most overengineered floor in the house. The car is a little overkill for the room, I admit. It runs, but you don’t just back it out of here because you want to go for a drive. It’s an exercise. And anyway, I really love looking at it. It’s a painting with wheels.

It’s a Castagna body, and some records call it a toy limousine. It’s low and looks like it was chopped, but that was the design. The sales manager for the chief honcho at the importer in New York actually designed it, and Castagna built it. The details throughout are simply amazing. All the small stuff. And it’s powered by the first production straight-eight in the world.

Because of my long association with cars of this era, I have been a judge in the European Class at the Pebble Beach Concours since 1986, including chief judge for many years. I have also been a member of the concours’s selection committee since its inception.

In 2001, when Bentleys were featured at Pebble, my friend Peter said, “We ought to do a tour!” We opened it to 50 prewar Bentleys and sold out in months. It was a 1500-mile, 10-day tour from Kirkland, Washington, down to Pebble Beach, and we called it the West Coast Tour. It was supposed to be a one-time thing, but Rolls-Royce was featured in 2004, so I dusted off the ’01 event, and we did it again with Rolls-Royces and Bentleys. Shortly after, I was asked to build the tour into a regular event of the concours, and in 2005, my wife Sandi and I conducted the first Pebble Beach Motoring Classic, with the goal of encouraging road use of former Pebble Beach cars. We have hosted the tour every year since, except for 2020, and many participants have returned multiple times to take part.

Through our cars, we’ve been so fortunate to have met so many wonderful people from all of the world.

The post Full Classic: Al McEwan has spent his life in and around grand machinery appeared first on Hagerty Media.

It’s hard to believe that I have owned my Lamborghini Jalpa for 14 years now. I first saw this car 20 years ago. I had an opportunity to buy it then, but I passed. I regretted the decision almost instantly and jumped on the opportunity to buy it when it appeared for sale again six years later. Known issues had been fixed, and I thought I was getting a great car. Two memorable drives still stand out.

After the car had been shipped from New York to Oregon, I showed up at a local warehouse to pick it up. Seeing the Jalpa again in person, I was immediately struck by how amazing it looked. Though it shares a general appearance with the Countach, the Jalpa skips the exotic scissor doors for traditional ones. I pulled open the driver’s door, dropped down into the snug leather seat, and turned the key. The car started right up, and the 3.5-liter V-8 idled with a low rumble. I was pleased to find everything working: All the gauges and switches did what they were supposed to do. I slipped it into first gear and I was off, enjoying my first drive in a Lamborghini.

When I hit the gas to get on the freeway, the sound was incredible. The V-8 roared and the car accelerated hard. The Jalpa was raw and visceral, but it wasn’t crazy fast. It feels faster and sounds faster than it really is, in fact. At the same time, it was more … normal than I expected. I could see well, and the car wasn’t much lower than other sports cars I had owned. The controls weren’t as heavy as I had expected, and the gated shifter was easy to get used to. Nothing was crazy, in other words, but I knew I was driving something special.

Then it died.

I coasted the Jalpa to the shoulder, and nothing would get it going again. Then, after 30 minutes, it came to life like nothing had happened. The Jalpa made it home, died, and could not be restarted. That was the sum total of my first experience with it.

Eventually, I diagnosed the issue as a failed ignition switch. The system was essentially turning the key to “off” at random. Other breakdowns were common in my early days of ownership, too. After lots of little fixes, I finally sent the car off to a specialist for a complete engine rebuild and minor restoration.

Around this time, I was a recent widower. The Jalpa rebuild was finished just as I was starting to date again. I met a wonderful woman who liked cars, and for our second date, I persuaded her to join me on my first major outing in the newly repaired Lambo. We took a long drive down a twisting highway in the Columbia River Gorge. With the top down, we blasted through the curves and listened to the V-8 sing. The car was flawless, and my passenger and I fell for each other on that drive. In fact, we celebrated 10 years together—and a wedding anniversary—last summer. The Jalpa, too, has been going strong since that day in the Gorge. Mostly …

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I was 8 years old the day we went to pick up our brand-new car in October 1969. It was the first and only new car my dad ever owned. He was going to trade in his old Mercury, but it died two blocks from the Ford dealer in Montebello, California, so he and my uncle and my sister and I walked those two blocks to the dealership. My dad handed over the keys to the salesman and told him where he could pick up the Mercury.

The Brittany Blue Torino fastback sat on the lot. It was so sharp, and even sitting still, it looked fast. It had a 351 emblem on the fenders and GT badges on the wheel covers, the grille, and the rear (fake) gas cap, with chrome hash marks by the rear side windows to emphasize the sleek body. Inside, the light blue interior had bucket seats with headrests and a center console for the three-speed automatic shifter.

That Torino became a big part of my childhood and teenage years. My sister and I learned to drive in it, and it was the car I used for cruising with friends and dating. Later, when my dad retired, the Torino was rarely used. Dad never really took care of the car and only did what was needed to keep it running. By then, I had moved from Southern to Northern California and was busy raising my own family. Each time I went home to visit, the Torino looked worse than the last time. Unfortunately, his Social Security income wasn’t enough to keep it up.

When Dad passed away in 2015, I inherited the Torino and shipped it up to my house. It had only 81,000 miles on the clock, but the whole car looked rough. The paint had faded and the hood was rusty. There were dents and scratches everywhere. The interior was a mess, too. The center console had become brittle and cracked, the carpets were badly stained, and the front driver seat was ripped open. You could see the springs inside it, and my dad had stuffed some old towels and newspapers in there for support. The engine still ran, but it didn’t run well, and it seemed very tired.

I loved that Torino, so I vowed to restore it—and to keep it as original as possible. Using some faded memories and a Polaroid photograph that was taken shortly after we got the car, I spent the next three years working on the Torino. I resprayed the factory blue paint and replaced the interior with new light blue Corinthian leather, plus a new center console, carpet, and headliner. I had the transmission and rear end rebuilt and kept the 351 totally stock; turns out it just needed the carburetor rebuilt and a good tuneup.

Today, I’m pleased to say the car looks like it did in the Polaroid, and it drives exactly like I remember. My one wish is that I could have done this while my dad was still alive. But I know he’s got a big smile on his face as he sees the Torino restored to its original glory. Someday, I’ll pass it down to my son, and he, too, can share the story of our family Torino with his kids.

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From 1961 to ’64, my dad Fred worked at Al Roberts Plymouth in Garden Grove, California, where he managed the used-car lot. In the first year or so that he worked there, Al Roberts tried several times to get my dad to take a new Plymouth as a demonstrator that he could drive for free. My dad said that he liked Al and liked working for him, but he preferred his own Oldsmobile over the new Plymouths, which he considered kind of ugly.

When dealer memos appeared in 1962 announcing the upcoming 413 Super Stock package, as a joke, my dad told Roberts he’d take a new super stocker. Roberts responded by asking him which model, what colors, and what options he wanted. Dad answered each question, assuming Roberts was kidding. He didn’t give it another thought until Roberts called to confirm that his demo order was received and the car would be delivered in six to eight weeks. At that point, my dad told me he was in a mild state of shock, never expecting that he was being taken seriously, let alone that Roberts was actually going to order him a factory race car.

The night the white ’62 Savoy arrived, my dad took my mom and me for a ride. Once out of town, he stood on it a bit. I was 7 years old, but I’ve never forgotten the feeling of being pushed back in my seat as my dad shifted by pushing lit buttons on the dash.

He took it to nearby Jardine Headers for a pair of fender-well headers and tow-bar brackets, and with a set of Casler recap “cheater slicks,” my dad and the Plymouth were soon racing on most Sundays at Lions, San Gabriel, and Pomona drag strips.

He traded for a new ’63 when those arrived, now with a low-compression (11:1) 426, and gave it the same race-prep treatment as the ’62 had. He reached the quarter finals of Mr. Stock Eliminator at the 1963 NHRA Winternationals in that car, with a 12.25 at 116 mph. About a month later, he switched to a faster Belvedere with a high-compression 426. Dad already knew he was leaving Al Roberts Plymouth to open a speed shop with a partner, though, so he bought his own super stocker, a car he could keep for himself. This ’63 Savoy factory super stocker, with a high-compression 426 and an aluminum front end (1 of 50 so equipped), is that car.

The red Savoy proved the fastest of the four super stockers my dad raced. Like other factory race cars, it came with a booklet that included specifications. It explained that the car was built “for sanctioned acceleration trials” and was not built to be, or suitable to be used as, a daily driver. With another visit to Jardine and some race prep at Hayden Proffitt & Associates, he had great success in the NHRA’s AA/SA class (later A/SA) through 1966, winning events all over Southern California.

In spring 1965, the NHRA national record was 12.36 seconds at 116 mph; Dad ran as quick as 11.86 at 120.16 on 7-inch tires. The biggest name in AA/SA and A/SA back then was factory-sponsored Ford racer (and 1964 NHRA Junior Stock world champion) Mike Schmitt, who campaigned a very fast ’64 Ford Galaxie lightweight powered by a 427 High Riser. Schmitt and my dad raced in six heads-up pairings in 1965–66, and Dad beat him six times. He continued to be competitive for several more years.

Then, early in 1969, my mom suffered two near-fatal strokes. Dad ran his last race in the Savoy that spring at the Hot Rod Magazine Championships, before selling it to help pay medical bills. I know it stayed in the California racing scene for a few years and then started changing hands among collectors in the mid-1970s; by that time, he and I were focusing on my own super stocker, a 1964 Dodge Polara 500, which we turned into a seriously quick racer. Sadly, Dad died in 1976, when he was just 50 years old. I’ve kept the Polara all these years in large part because of his involvement with it, but I always wondered what happened to his Savoy.

I got my answer in 2014, when I received an email from a guy in Montana who had recently purchased it. Somehow he’d learned I was the son of the original owner, and he was looking for more information on the Savoy’s racing history. We ended up becoming long-distance friends, and in 2017, when he told me he had his eye on an original ’68 Hemi Dodge Dart and asked if I wanted to buy back my dad’s car, I couldn’t say yes fast enough. Three weeks later, the transporter unloaded the red Savoy in front of my house. I hadn’t seen it in person since the 1971 NHRA Winternationals.

The car is still 100 percent as produced, its 13.5:1 426 Max Wedge fed by a pair of Carter AFB carburetors on a cross-ram intake manifold, with forged pistons and heavy-duty forged connecting rods, a hardened crankshaft, and a special Torque-Flite transmission putting 425 horsepower to the rear wheels.

So many wonderful childhood memories are tied to this Plymouth. My mom passed away a few years ago, and my brother died in 1999, so it feels like the closest thing to family I have left. To have it in the garage again, now parked beside the Polara Dad helped me build, is beyond special.

The post This Savoy is Mopar’s link to super-stock stardom—and my connection to my dad appeared first on Hagerty Media.

My first experience with a rotary-engine car came while test-driving an early ’70s Mazda RX-2. I remember being impressed by its ability to rev so high and feel so smooth at the same time. Several years later came the May 1978 issue of Car and Driver, which featured a white RX-7 GS on the cover. I was sold, and I ordered my ’79 a few weeks after that. It arrived on the third boatload into Canada, and on September 29, 1978, I took delivery.

I went with white, despite the salesman advising me to pick a different color, “just in case white doesn’t show up.” Luckily, it showed up.

There weren’t many on the road when I received mine, and it drew a lot of attention. Three of my friends had never driven a rotary-powered car, so I let each of them take it out for a test-drive, and they were all thoroughly impressed. So much, in fact, that all three ended up buying their own RX-7s. The salesman was impressed, too!

My wife and I have made many memorable journeys in our RX-7. The odometer now registers 89,000 kilometers, or 55,000 trouble-free miles, most of which were put on in its early years. When the car reached 25 years old, I applied for collector car plates to better represent its status in the world.

The RX-7 has always been garage-kept and has never seen snow. I’ve entered it in several car shows, and it has won numerous awards over the years. Even though the rotary engine is thirsty for fuel, I’m happy to overlook it, simply because of the pleasurable driving experience it offers.

It has been more than 42 years since I first saw that Car and Driver cover, and I’ve loved every minute of my RX-7. As long as I can get in and out of it, I don’t see that changing anytime soon.

The post My 1979 Mazda RX-7 GS so impressed my friends that they each bought one appeared first on Hagerty Media.

When I was a boy, my dad taught me to ride a Honda 250 Dream on our alfalfa farm in Colorado. I’ve been a bike guy ever since.

In 2002, I started to collect show bikes, and I got into Vincents. In succession, I owned a Black Shadow, a Black Lightning, and a Python Sport. Then came “Hellboy,” my 1952 Rapide.

It was built on February 25, 1952, and it sold new shortly after for $1250, the cost of a Cadillac back then. Most Vincents were black; some were red, a few were gray, but factory records show that mine is one of about 30 produced in black and red. Its ownership trail is vague, but I do know that it spent more than 30 years in pieces under a tarp on a porch in Atlanta, waiting on a restoration that never came.

I bought it in 2011 as a pile. The whole bike had been hand-painted orange to preserve it against southern humidity, but the 998cc engine, upper and lower frames, and the crankcases were all matching numbers. I immediately shipped it to Herb Harris of Harris Vincent in Austin, Texas, for what became a 3 1/2-year restoration. Every original bit on the bike except the clutch lever was salvageable and put back into service.

I began showing the Rapide in 2014, first at the Keeneland Concours in Kentucky, where it won Best Bike. It has since collected more than 17 best-in-class or best-in-show awards around the country. In 2015, at the Morgan Adams Concours in Denver, my Vincent beat out 112 cars, 37 airplanes, and 50 other motorcycles to claim Best of Show. Two Duesenberg owners on hand were not pleased. The greatest honor came in February 2018, when the Antique Motorcycle Club of America designated it a 100-point motorcycle—a process that requires consensus from five judges.

It’s not all show, however. I ride Hellboy a few times a week, and it turns heads everywhere we go.

The post This 100-point 1952 Vincent Rapide has been raising hell on the show circuit appeared first on Hagerty Media.

In July 2004, I decided I wanted a get a little car to tinker with. I talked to my wife and started dreaming about an old convertible like an MG, Triumph, or VW. My wife is from Sandpoint, Idaho, and recalled a gentleman there, Paul Kemp, who had a car collection. He had passed away, but my wife said she’d call her father to find out if Kemp’s widow or son had any for sale.

Several months went by and I forgot about it until she mentioned that her father had talked to the widow. The woman had an old convertible Corvette she’d planned to keep in the family, but it didn’t run and needed new paint. If I was interested, my father-in-law said, the widow might sell. Since my father-in-law was a family friend, Mrs. Kemp trusted that I would appreciate this old Corvette and get it back on the road. So I contacted her directly and made an offer on the mystery Corvette, sight unseen. Imagine my surprise, then, to discover it was actually a C1 from 1954. Already it was much cooler than an MG or VW. As I began to learn its history, it became even cooler.

Paul Kemp was a car enthusiast who owned a Conoco/Texaco oil company in Sandpoint. He first saw this ’54 on a 1979 calendar put out by a Washington chapter of the National Corvette Restorers Society (NCRS). Kemp already had designs on a Corvette collection and wanted the ’54 as a centerpiece. At the same time, he’d made arrangements with nearby Taylor Parker Chevrolet to purchase a new Corvette every year for his collection, an order it filled from 1978 to 2000. Before his death in 2004, he’d amassed nearly 30 Corvettes.

Kemp loved the car but never drove it; he added only 100 miles, in fact. By the time I bought it, the Corvette had been sitting unused for a long time.

In 2008, I gave it a frame-off restoration, during which I discovered it had been painted several times, so I contacted Corvette historian Noland Adams. Because the car had old black paint beneath the cowl and inside the doors, he was able to determine that mine came black from the factory—one of just four or six produced for 1954. Its serial number (E54S001601) puts production around March 12 of that year. This coincides with the time General Motors was prepping for Motorama in Los Angeles and had several cars painted black for the exhibit. GM brought a fleet of Corvettes out west, including this one. It was even used for a promotion down L.A.’s not-yet-open Harbor Freeway.

Since its restoration, my Corvette has done the rounds in judged shows, scoring regional and national NCRS Top Flight awards, a Duntov Award, and Bloomington Gold certification. Not bad for a fun little car I could tinker with.

The post This 1954 Chevrolet Corvette is the “gift” that keeps on giving appeared first on Hagerty Media.

Last November marked the 60th year of my involvement with a particular Morris Minor, serial number MAT3L839171, a Pearl Grey convertible that my late father purchased on an overseas delivery program. It was built on June 14, 1960, and two weeks later, my older sister, Jane, claimed it at Morris Garages Ltd. in Cowley, Oxford, England.

My father bought the car for her with the understanding that she could use it for an extended European tour as a college graduation present, but when the tour was complete, Jane would deliver it to a port of departure for San Francisco; upon arrival, it would become my father’s. Little did he know that he would drive this car for the next 40 years, until the day before his death at age 93. It has been in my care ever since.

My love affair with Morris Minors began in the hot, humid summer of 1954 in Charleston, South Carolina, where two middle-aged neighbor women shared an Empire Green 1953 Morris two-door sedan. As a small boy, I took a special liking to their “child-size” car. I used to spend hours sitting on the curb of Limehouse Street admiring the diminutive machine, so different from the normal Detroit iron that populated American roads at the time. When our family decided to relocate to California and it became clear we would need an additional car beyond our trusty 1953 Dodge station wagon, my mantra to my father for six months was: “Dad, you gotta buy a Morris Minor.”

So, after settling in Menlo Park, California, in late 1954, my father—taking the advice of a 6-year-old—rode the Southern Pacific commuter train some 30 miles to San Francisco and came back with a used 1953 Morris Minor convertible from Kjell Qvale’s British Motor Car Distributors. I was in heaven.

That Morris saw my father through the MBA program at Stanford University. After landing a new job at nearby Lockheed Missiles and Space Company, he was so pleased with his first Morris experience that he traded up to a new one, a pale yellow 1957 tourer.

Then came my sister’s 1960 college graduation and her five-month, 5000-mile European tour in this car. Although today I am its principal driver and custodian, I was always its chief washer, polisher, vacuumer, and maintenance person, from the day it landed on the wharf in San Francisco. In fact, over my 60 years with this car, there is no part of it I have not cleaned, polished, taken apart, adjusted, overhauled, or simply inspected for proper appearance or operation. In 2008, I disassembled it for a full respray in the factory color, complete with the proper red pinstripe. I know my father would be proud that the car has well outlived him.

My early fascination with Morris Minors did not exist in a vacuum, however, and it set in motion an entire lifetime of devotion to British cars in America. I am now retired from 32 years as the western regional warranty manager of the British Leyland Motor Corp., Jaguar Rover Triumph, and, most recently, Jaguar Land Rover North America.

Lately, I’ve been reminiscing about my time with this Morris Minor. The day after my 16th birthday, I took my California driving test in it. I took my first date out in it. I put countless country road miles on it with friends. It was the car a high school buddy and I spent 700 miles in, midwinter in bone-chilling cold, on a road trip to southern Oregon. My father was an early naval aviator, and one of his primary rules was: “Don’t break the machine that is transporting you.” To that end, he used this car to successfully impart the finer points of finessing the mechanical attributes of a fragile little machine. They have served me well.

When I was a boy, I distinctly remember a few automotive eccentrics in the area who still drove their Model A Fords in a world of Galaxies, Chargers, and Vista Cruisers. So now, as I consider the Morris, I wonder if this machine is as irrelevant an artifact of automotive history as the Model A was in the mid-1960s. Can I continue to ignore its lowly 37-hp performance as it balks the progress of impatient soccer moms in their 6.0-liter SUVs or the heavy-footed hotshots in their M-series BMWs? Is there no respect for a moving display of automotive history in an age of sat-nav, Bluetooth, blind-spot cameras, and every other sort of driving aid?

So whither go this Morris, now that I enter the final quarter of my life? This car outlived my father, and I suspect it may outlive me. And when I finally come to the end of the road, will there be spare parts to keep it in pristine condition? Will there be technicians with the skills to carry out periodic maintenance and repairs? Most importantly, will there be a steward to drive it with care? In light of the above, I have left detailed instructions in the glove box, which hopefully some future owner will find and take to heart. Perhaps, some day, that will be one of you.

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