As the summer driving season approaches, Hagerty’s new Road of the Year award is meant to encourage Hagerty Drivers Club members and all automotive enthusiasts to get off the freeways and explore a great road in their own region. Our first annual Road of the Year winner: California’s Highway 33. This epic two-lane road is within easy reach of residents and visitors to the Los Angeles area. If you’d like to make your voice heard and discuss your favorite road, comment below and share the love of driving with fellow enthusiasts.

As important as what you drive and where you are going is how you get there. Because any wheel-driven vehicle cannot function without a surface upon which to exert its motive force, the road is as important to a car as oxygen is to the human body. OK, there are a few exceptions, including the lunar rover, but one characteristic shared by almost all automobiles built between the 1885 Benz Patent-Motorwagen and the 2024 Tesla Cybertruck is that they function to their full potential only on a prepared surface. Unlike the USS Enterprise, cars go best where others have gone before.

There are more than 4 million miles of road in the United States, from the Aleutian Islands to the Florida Keys. We’ve built roads over and under mountains, across sweeping spans of water, through the eastern forests and the western deserts, around nearly every island, and over the southern swamps. Picking one to single out as the best is impossible. The best for what? Since Roman times, roads have been engineered to do one thing and one thing only: link points on a map so that travelers may more easily journey between them.

However, as we all know, roads are capable of so much more. They can provoke delight and terror in equal doses. They can be vaults for our memories and incubators of our dreams. They can pay riches and serve as the best schools from which to get an education. Whether you press an accelerator or twist a grip, something is going to happen to you on a road, and there are a few worth recognizing for the extent to which they stir our spirits as much as get us to where we are going.

In our selection, the first of what we plan to make an annual feature, a few rules were necessarily applied to help winnow down the endless possibilities. First, the road had to be no more than a one-day round trip from a major urban center, the thinking being that anyone should be able to access the route easily as a day excursion and while perhaps visiting this urban center for work or vacation (we may change our mind on this point in future selections). Also, the pavement had to be in good condition. Plus, it had to have some dining amenities, and we leaned toward roads with outlets to other roads, such that they could be run in one direction rather than merely to a turnaround point.

The best roads tend to pass through majestic scenery, and majestic scenery tends to have extreme weather. Thus, always check the conditions before departing. It’s a living landscape in which rivers swell and mountains move, sometimes onto roads, making published routes suddenly impassible. Great roads often don’t have continuous cellphone coverage either, so best to bring some tools and an extra set of points if going in an older car. Hagerty Roadside is good, but they’re not psychic; they can’t find you if you can’t call them.

None of which should deter anyone from venturing out onto this or any other road, the one and only place our cars truly belong. “Wealth I ask not, hope nor love, nor a friend to know me,” wrote the poet Robert Louis Stevenson. “All I ask, the heaven above, and the road below me.”

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California is a fever dream that has been riling up folks since well before it became the 31st state back in 1850. Then, people didn’t worry too much about asking permission for stuff—they just went out and did it. Indeed, when the car came along, the state’s public works barons laid out the first highways that way, spreading maps of the still wild and remote state with its serial mountain ranges and yawning valleys and drawing arbitrary lines between the dots of settlements. Then they went out and slashed and dug and bored and dynamited their way through, confronting a rough and merciless terrain that does not give up its miles easily.

Those early road builders were pitted against a formidable foe: the ancient tectonic forces that lurk beneath California’s roiling landscape. The northbound Pacific Plate and the southbound North American Plate are experiencing a slow-motion crash, scraping against each other like two continent-size semis sideswiping over a double-yellow. The movement at their meeting point, the 750-mile-long San Andreas Fault, happens in famously rattling fits and starts, the bigger jerks making the national news.

The hills and granite peaks shoved skyward by this 30-million-year-old collision are like the wrinkles in a crumpled fender, and they are not easy to go under or around. So, California’s first road builders (as well as its current ones) mostly went over them, contouring their routes to the ridges and folds of this messy landscape and unwittingly creating thousands of apexes and on-camber thrillers for later generations to enjoy.

California State Route 33, about two hours’ drive north of Los Angeles (give or take, depending, as always, on traffic), is a perfect example. It squiggles and wiggles its way from the quaint village of Ojai up and over the Topatopa and Pine Mountains, rising to 5160 feet at the Pine Mountain Summit before plunging thrillingly into a gorge created by the Sespe Creek, eventually spilling out into the broad agricultural and ranching valley of Cuyama. If you don’t feel the need to immediately U-turn and run it backward, there’s an achingly beautiful option just to the east that recrosses the mountains to join up with Interstate 5 and the express route back to LA.

This road has everything: technical challenges, gob-smacking vistas, relatively light traffic, generally hospitable weather, a very tourist-friendly walking town as its jumping-off point, and the option of returning to the same bed in LA from which you arose that morning. And if you prefer to overnight in Ojai and make an early start, we can highly recommend it, with accommodation choices ranging from relatively inexpensive motor lodges such as the Casa Ojai and the Hummingbird Inn to the ultra-ritzy Ojai Valley Inn and Spa. There’s even a NAPA auto parts store and a tire shop in town if needs arise, and a main drag fronted by old Spanish-style colonnades and lined with pleasant eateries and shops.

Just west of town, State Route 33 branches off Ojai’s main drag, or State Route 150, and heads north. Take on fuel here or elsewhere in town before heading out, as you won’t see another petrol pump for a long time. After passing a few subdivisions and bar/restaurant establishments popular in summer with the biker crowd, you’ll enter Los Padres National Forest and civilization will disappear in your mirrors.

The view forward won’t look much different than it did a century ago when state planners envisioned a wagon trail to connect the seaside village of Ventura with the inland valleys of the San Joaquin and Cuyama. In 1891, when the first stakes were planted for the route, the obstacles must have seemed overwhelming as the route climbed inland from the coast. From the village of Nordhoff (which sounded too German after the outbreak of World War I and was changed to Ojai, or “Valley of the Moon” in the native Chumash language), the Topatopas tower like a wall, leering over this serene enclave of orchards and horse farms like the mossy ramparts of an ancient castle. Behind this wall lay a vast wilderness ruled by mountain lions and circling condors that was accessible only via pack mules on old Chumash trails. No doubt this is why it took 45 years for State Route 33 to go from planning to reality.

With the Great Depression on and California flush with a substantial share of a $400 million national road-building fund, the state got serious about completing the route. It spent $1.5 million to construct the Maricopa-Ventura Highway, aka U.S. Route 399, aka California State Route 33, finally completing it in 1935. The road’s most ardent supporters (and its primary economic benefactors) were the ranchers of the Cuyama Valley, and they threw an epic barbecue to which 25,000 came to feast on some 67 cattle slaughtered and roasted for the occasion.

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As the condor flies, it’s a mere 36 miles from Ojai to the T-junction with State Route 166 at Cuyama, but as the ’66 Mustang rolls, it’s about twice that distance, meaning you’re in for a lot of twists and turns over the next hour and a half. A series of tunnels bored and blasted through granite spurs welcomes you to Wheeler Gorge and the start of the rough country. One day in 1888, Wheeler Blumberg discovered the hot springs that burble from the rock here when he shot a buck that rolled down and parboiled itself in the warm waters. It’s believed the inhabitants of the nearby Chumash settlement may have cursed the invaders of their private spa, because after founding a successful resort in the canyon, Wheeler went mad, shooting 15 holes in the walls of his hotel before he was captured by a posse. He died in 1907 screaming in a padded cell. Successive owners of the resort have struggled through floods, falling trees, and repeated fires with limited success. After sitting abandoned for years, its latest incarnation is as a yoga retreat.

From Wheeler’s place, the road begins its climb up the long, spectacular valley, hugging the canyon walls and tracing each fold in the earth with lovely constant-radius corners that feed into short chutes that lead to more corners. A circular gravel turnoff 15 miles up from Ojai affords an excellent picnic spot with a stunning view out to the distant Pacific Ocean. Many a car-magazine spread, including photos from our five-generations-of-Corvette feature story back in 2020, has been shot here.

The unusually stormy winter of 2022 may have proved that the Chumash curse still has legs; parts of State Route 33 disappeared under rock slides or simply slid down the mountain, and the road was completely closed for almost a year. Last December, Caltrans, the state highway agency, finally reopened it with five one-way sections controlled by traffic signals. Work with heavy machinery was evidently in progress when we photographed this story, and it’s hoped that the one-way sections will be gone by the time you read this.

Near the top of the Topatopas, the Rose Valley Campground offers tenting and RV options for the hardy. And for the truly adventurous, a foot trail and primitive camping network spreads from here into the vast Sespe Wilderness. This whole untamed area shows that much of California, even with its 39 million people, crowded cities, and astronomical housing costs, remains in many places empty and undeveloped, even this close to Los Angeles.

A descent down into Sespe Canyon leads across some bridges and through the gorge cut by the Sespe Creek, which the road tracks with now gentler and faster curves. Another climb hauls you up to a sign announcing the 5160-foot Pine Mountain Summit, after which it’s all downhill from here. Big-sky views at the turnouts supply grand vistas over the mottled green and brown hills and sandy valleys that form the arid landscape, the single road sluicing through it the only real evidence of human hands.

Eventually the writhing road comes to the U.S. Forest Service Ozena Fire Station, and the option to short-circuit the loop back to Interstate 5 by hanging a right on Lockwood Valley Road. However, this narrow, sparsely trafficked ribbon can be in even worse shape due to ever-present sand in the corners and tire-slashing rock falls. And you may have to wade through Reyes Creek, as it tends to spill over the road during wetter months.

Continue north on State Route 33 through the widening valley and past the pistachio farms and new-age meditation centers and you’ll run into State Route 166. Hang a left and run the few miles into New Cuyama to a restored 1950s roadhouse and inn called the Cuyama Buckhorn for some of its locally famous barbecue. Be aware: Though the bar serves food until 8:30 Monday to Wednesday, the restaurant is closed on these days, as are many hospitality businesses up here owing to the utter lack of traffic on weekdays.

Tanks refueled, you can either return to Ojai or keep going via our optional route back to Interstate 5. If you choose the latter, continue heading east on 166, past the State Route 33 junction you just came from (166 and 33 actually merge here, 33 eventually turning north, at times merging with other roads to finally terminate near Stockton, east of the Bay Area). Just a few miles on, hook a right turn at Hudson Ranch Road. This rural byway romps through empty meadows and shoots along high ridges, then roller-coasters around the fringes of 8800-foot Mount Pinos. Lofty views of California’s Central Valley to the east are in the offing on clear days, and when you turn around, you’ll see the mountains to the west that you just drove through on State Route 33, now from a new perspective.

The road plunges into a pine forest and passes through the Pine Mountain Club, a cluster of week-end-getaway-type homes (though surely some are year-round residences) centered on a small commercial strip with a general store, some cafes, and a bed and breakfast. If you’re here in winter, carry tire chains and be prepared for icy conditions. The mountainous section of Interstate 5 known as the Grapevine isn’t too far ahead, but even that mighty and vital thorough-fare is subject to closure by the California Highway Patrol during snowstorms, lest the traffic be stalled on the black ice of its steep grades.

There’s no end of adventure on this route, even once you reach the freeway. Which is why we selected California State Route 33 as our 2024 Hagerty Road of the Year. Now it’s time to go find your own best road, and if you can beat this one, tell us all about it. We need some ideas for next year.

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

The first thing you should know about Snowball Bishop is that he was a racer. It’s also the second and third thing you should know about him. Don’t ask how Snowball got his nickname; nobody knows. The eldest of 10 children, he grew up in the hardscrabble hills of southwest Virginia’s Blue Ridge Mountains, where Snowball’s daddy and his daddy before him gouged a living out of the lead and zinc mines of Wythe County.

Although they worked the mines for a living, the Bishops lived for racing. Snowball’s youngest brother, Biggen (nicknamed because of his stature; Snowball gave everybody nicknames) remembers their daddy taking the motor from an old washing machine, fitting it to a shaft with a drill bit, and using it to bore out the intake of an old flathead Ford.

Snowball inherited his daddy’s talents. One year, he took the rusted-out shell of a ’37 Ford coupe from the open field of his farm there on Major Grahams Road, stuffed a big Mopar engine in it, then headed out to the local dirt track and won—often. But after a few racing seasons, and for reasons nobody can quite remember today, Snowball hung up his helmet and parked the old coupe.

It sat for more than 30 years, until Tom Cotter, host of Hagerty’s Barn Find Hunter, entered the picture. Cotter first met Snowball in 2008, when he was searching for 427 Fords and happened upon Snowball’s field full of Galaxies. Five years later, while working on his book, Barn Find Road Trip, Cotter found his way back to Snowball’s farm again and met the old race car. In a drawl as thick as the fog that hangs in the Blue Ridge’s hollers, Snowball told the tale to Cotter:

“I was running a flathead in this coupe until the small-block Chevys got to be something I couldn’t beat. I decided I was gonna start running a Mopar engine. Richard Petty had started to run Hemis, and I found out he had a bunch of stuff left over at his place, 426 wedges and stuff. I thought maybe I had better learn more about that.

“When I pulled up in the driveway, Lee Petty [Richard’s father] was sitting on the front porch. Lee said to me, ‘Boy, can I help you?’ I said, ‘I’m looking for some parts. I’m thinkin’ about runnin’ Plymouth. I been runnin’ Fords and I can’t run with the Chevrolets.’ Lee yells back into the shop, ‘Hey Richard, how much do we want for that stuff?’ Richard comes out, wipes his hands on a towel, and says, ‘Would you give me 12 hunnerd for it?’ I said, ‘That sounds reasonable enough, but I ain’t got 12 hunnerd with me.’ Richard said, ‘How much you got?’ I said, ‘I got a thousand dollars, all my money right here.’ Lee said, ‘Richard, would you take a thousand for that stuff?’ Richard said, ‘Yeah.’ But I said, ‘Now wait a minute here. I got to have some gas money to get home. I’m a hunnerd and 50 miles away. And I’m gonna need a meal.’ Lee said, ‘Gimme nine hunnerd dollars. Load it up.’ And that started the ball rollin’. We won the championship in 1972. I run ’em and run ’em till we run outta 426 stuff and then I run 440s.”

Snowball always wanted to return his coupe to its racing glory. That dream started to become reality when Jordan Lewis, a cameraman for Hagerty Media, came up with the idea to bring the car back to Hagerty’s headquarters in Traverse City and have Davin Reckow restore it as part of our Redline Rebuild series. Snowball—after some convincing—agreed to the project. Reckow hooked up the trailer to Hagerty’s Ford F-350 and headed south to collect Snowball’s coupe. “I raced dirt track for almost 20 years, so that made the project appealing to me,” Reckow recounted to us later. “And being an old car made it even cooler.”

Once the car was in his shop, Reckow took stock of it. “It’s a ’37 split-window coupe with the rear-window divider and window center posts removed,” he said. “They used the frame from a ’55 Chevy and a front solid axle from a Ford. Leaf suspension all around.

They had a beautiful roll cage in it. I didn’t change a thing on that. You could tell they were very close to NASCAR country.”

The 440 engine, likewise, was a mix of vintages. “We could tell by the date code on the block that it had been cast on the night shift of January 3, 1972,” recalled Reckow. “One of the heads was from ’68 and the other was from ’78. I found a pair of ’68s, cleaned them up, and installed them.” Once the engine was back together, it was time for the dyno. Reckow was surprised by the numbers the stock motor made—403 horsepower and 489 lb-ft of torque—but knew he could do better. After tweaks and upgrades—long-tube headers, an MSD distributor, a new intake, and a Holley 750 carburetor—the engine cranked out 489 horsepower and 532 lb-ft.

With the engine installed and the car completed, it was time for the coupe to head home. But time had passed, and the checkered flag had dropped for the last time for Snowball when he died on October 14, 2021. He was there in spirit on the farm, though, and with the family and friends who had gathered for the coupe’s homecoming. “When Davin fired it up, it was just like back when Snowball would get the car ready for racing back in the day,” son Jimmy said, his voice breaking up from the memories. “He would rev that thing up and you could hear it for miles.”

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Having reunited with the family, it was time to reunite with the dirt—specifically, the dirt of the track at Wythe Raceway, where Snowball and the coupe had opened the racing season in 1970. “A static display of a race car is fine,” Reckow noted. “But to really enjoy it, it needs to run on a track.” And run it did, with Jimmy Bishop taking the first turn at the wheel. “Back then, I never did drive the car, I just warmed it up for Daddy,” he told us. “It was exciting. The adrenaline was up there—whew! You wanna go faster, but hey, I wanna take it home!” Jimmy’s younger brother, Ricky Joe, was next. “It wasn’t that bad for noise,” he said as he took off his helmet. “But it was right there where you know it was at.” Then Jimmy turned to his niece, Amanda—Ricky Joe’s daughter and Snowball’s youngest granddaughter. “Hey, you aren’t gonna be satisfied unless you go around here, girl.” Amanda hesitated at first. “It wasn’t even in my mind to drive it,” she recalled to us. “I was just happy to be there, to be honest.” After a few laps, she was glad she got a chance. “I don’t know if I’ve ever heard a 440 before, being around Fords all my life. I try not to cuss, but it was badass!”

That night at the track, Snowball’s coupe ran a few parade laps with Reckow behind the wheel and an American flag flying off the rear bumper in a holder he had modified for the purpose. Later that evening, the ’37 coupe ran as the pace car for the Modified feature race. “Having private time at the track was great,” said Reckow. “But putting it in front of the public and running some laps was really special, because there were people there that night who remembered the car racing back in the day.”

The fans will certainly remember when Snowball’s coupe came home, as will Jimmy, Ricky Joe, and especially Amanda. “After I finished my laps, I asked Davin, ‘Can I do a donut?’ And he was like, ‘Heck, yeah!’ So he showed me what to do, and I did a donut. That was the highlight of my life!”

Somewhere—probably where the cars are fast and the tracks are hot and the dirt-track racing never ends—Snowball Bishop is laying a smokin’ patch of rubber in celebration.

***

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The post Snowball’s Second Chance: We Save a Barn Find Race Car from Rusting into the Virginia Soil appeared first on Hagerty Media.

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

Once upon a time, industrialists and educators came together to form a national organization for the advancement of artisanal craft skills among young boys. It was heavily promoted in high schools, youth groups, auto shows, and car dealerships across the country. It annually paid out thousands—and then millions—of dollars in college scholarships, and it grew to become second only to the Boy Scouts of America in membership. Its board of directors included the most powerful and influential industry leaders of the day, and invitees to its annual awards banquet in Detroit were flown in first class and chauffeured around in limousines.

And all a kid had to do to take a shot at securing his educational future was to build a miniature model. Not a plastic job out of a box, as most of us have attempted at one time or another, but an exacting replica of an ancient carriage or a wholly unique creation of their own design, conceived, sketched, measured, clay-modeled, and then constructed entirely from scratch. No help from Dad allowed.

From 1930 until 1968, the Fisher Body Craftsman’s Guild, so named for the coachwork firm that became a General Motors division in 1926, ran an annual nationwide talent search disguised as a model-building competition. The goal was to identify from among America’s teeming ranks of teenage youth the truly exceptional, the kids who had the artistic eye, the crafting skills, and the stick-to-itiveness to complete a phenomenally rigorous craft project.

Regional competitions fed winners to a national finale in Detroit, where a four-day pageant culminated in the awarding of scholarships that topped out at $5000 for the overall winners, a mighty sum in the era. The event also exposed the top echelon of young model builders to the wonders of the American auto industry at a time when it was at its imperial zenith. Naturally—and in accordance with the plan—many of those kids returned as college graduates to work in that industry.

It’s hard to imagine in the modern age when most people spend their day tapping keyboards or swiping screens that at one time, there were enough boys aged 11 to 19 in America willing to create thousands of model cars every year entirely from scratch. “When I look at my model today, I think, ‘How the hell did I do this?!’” said 1961 junior national winner Tony Simone, now of Bartlett, New Hampshire. “I have to give the Guild credit for giving us skills to use in life. Even today, that attention to detail is still with me.”

“The people who won had mastered discipline before the age of 20,” said Robert Davids, who was a 19-year-old Venice, California, pinstriper and surfboard shaper when he won the 1963 senior national award and a $5000 scholarship by carving a dramatic three-seat bubble-top coupe out of yellow poplar wood. For a year, Davids said, there was no girls, no dates, not even haircuts, only work during the day and then the model at night, typically until 3 a.m. “Every single disciplined person who entered was going to do OK in life, but the winners excelled at an early age.”

Then, as now, there was free money around if you could throw a ball or converse in mathematical theorems. Sports and academic scholarships have long been familiar avenues for teenagers from disadvantaged backgrounds to access the realm of higher education. The Fisher Body Craftsman’s Guild stood apart by being a scholarship program based mainly on manual skills of the type one learned in the shop classes that were once commonplace in high schools.

“Here was a take-home, industrial arts aptitude test that identified teenagers with innate artistic ability, creativity, imagination, spatial relationship acuity, manual dexterity, aesthetic eye, good taste, a propensity for perfection, and high intellect,” wrote John Jacobus, a Guild member in the 1960s whose later historical research for the Smithsonian Institution resulted in a book on the subject, The Fisher Body Craftsman’s Guild: An Illustrated History (upon which our story is heavily dependent). The skills that the model competition prioritized, he added, “were all qualities sought after by the auto industry.”

The inspiration of William A. Fisher, one of the seven Fisher brothers who had transitioned the family carriage business into a hugely successful vehicle-body supplier, the Fisher Body Craftsman’s Guild launched on August 25, 1930, with radio and print ads and large posters plastered to the windows of Chevrolet, Buick, Viking, Oldsmobile, Cadillac-LaSalle, and Oakland-Pontiac dealerships. The posters as well as promotional booklets lured boys with the promise of a share in the unimaginable sum of $75,000 (about $1.3 million today). Nearly 150,000 signed up the first year, just over 400,000 the second, records Jacobus.

The need was great. The Great Depression was already beginning to grip the country following the October 1929 stock market crash. The ranks of the unemployed were swelling, and fewer and fewer families had the means to offer anything more to their children beyond a life of hardscrabble toil from the earliest age. Amid the bread lines and the whispers of worker revolt and communist revolution, big ideas floated around about the very nature of work and the role of individuals in societies that were rapidly urbanizing and industrializing. “It is the sincere desire of the builders of Bodies by Fisher,” extolled a 1930 ad for the Guild in The Saturday Evening Post, “that tomorrow shall see this country peopled by men to whom honor can be given for their ability to design well and build soundly whatever their generation may require.”

The competition’s challenge was as daunting as the prizes were lavish. Early competitions required entrants to produce a detailed wood-and-metal replica of the ornate Napoleonic carriage that appeared in the “Body by Fisher” logo (ubiquitous on GM cars produced from the 1920s through the 1980s). Builders had to construct an 18-inch-long, 10-inch-high scale model complete with metal filigree, opening doors, and upholstery-lined interior using only blueprints and a 25-page instruction booklet that the Guild provided. It’s believed that two master models were produced over six months by craftsmen at Fisher’s Pennsylvania-based Fleetwood Metal Body division and that their time estimate to make a copy from the plans was 1600 hours.

Which helps explain why out of the millions of boys who signed up to the Guild in those early years, receiving their free pamphlet, membership card, and diamond-shaped Fisher Body Craftsman’s Guild pin, only a few thousand coach models were ever actually produced. Enterprising model companies developed kits to speed the builds, but even those were crude by today’s standards—just a few blocks of unshaped wood and some metal—and they still required enormous skill and patience to turn into viable entries. By the time the coach idea was dispensed with entirely in 1948 (the Guild paused its activities during World War II), it’s thought that only around 7000 carriage models had been built.

As it happened, the contest that replaced it wasn’t much easier. It asked entrants to build a 1/12th-scale concept-car model entirely of their own design. Believed to have been heavily pushed by GM’s first and renowned styling chief, Harley J. Earl, the concept category debuted in 1937 and the Guild fully pivoted to it in 1948. According to the late Charles E. “Chuck” Jordan, who won the 1947 competition and went on to become vice president of design at General Motors, the coach project was handicapped by the fact that “no individualized characteristics or personal creativity were sought—the coach was in the strictest sense a craft project, with no variation sought or accepted, saving excellence in detail or finish.”

That was fine in 1930 when, as the author Jacobus notes, car bodies still employed lots of timber as well as hand-finishing. Originally, the Guild was created to ferret out promising pattern- and toolmakers. But as the industry evolved, stamped-steel mass production took over and styling rose in importance. The talent need shifted away from an increasingly low-skill and automated production floor and toward the newly created styling studios, where designers and clay modelers were tasked with envisioning tomorrow’s vehicles. It’s no mere coincidence that the Fisher Body Craftsman’s Guild turned its attention to futuristic concepts almost at the same time Earl unveiled the industry’s first concept car, the 1938 Buick Y-Job.

In an age before the time sucks of television and computers, when more families made their living doing manual labor in factories or on farms and college seemed like a faraway dream, plenty of kids were willing to gamble their free time and their sweat on a long shot like the Fisher Body Craftsman’s Guild. And it was indeed a long shot. Though the posters advertised the riches available to winners, fewer than 400 scholarships were awarded over the 34 years the Guild was active (though smaller prizes were distributed at the regional level). During that time, 10 million American boys signed up—girls were allowed only in similar programs run by GM’s European and Australian subsidiaries—from which about 33,000 models were produced.

Despite the odds, it was worth it to kids who saw little opportunity elsewhere. “My father was a machinist and a toolmaker during World War II,” said Tony Simone, the ’61 winner. “One night, he came home and told my brothers and me to come to the dinner table, and he said, ‘I can put a roof over your head and food on the table, but I can’t afford to send you to college.’ [The Guild] was a lifeline, and I’m just one story out of thousands and thousands.”

Davids, the ’63 winner, was born the son of a soybean sharecropper in Franklin, Missouri. “My mother told me, ‘You don’t have a chance. People like us don’t win things like that.’”

Keenly aware of the challenges facing its members, the Guild produced a booklet called “How to Build a Model Car” with illustrated step-by-step instructions, starting with the basics of vehicle design. Cartoons showed readers how a low, curved roof and a long wheel-base was more aesthetically pleasing than a short wheelbase under a tall, boxy roof. It encouraged doodling of headlights and taillights, of fins and windshields and different types of exterior decoration such as hood ornaments and faux jet exhausts. It gave instructions on how to make a clay model, a wood model, or a plaster model from your drawings, how to get the wheel-to-fender clearances right, how to curve a piece of translucent plastic to make a windshield, and the best ways to apply paint. It included plan drawings of coupe and sedan/wagon cockpits, giving builders an accurate size template to sketch around.

In addition, a bimonthly newsletter, called the Guildsman, was full of tips as well as profiles of working designers and interviews with past winners. Typical headlines: “Four Hundred Pleasant Hours of Work: How Ken Kaiser built a $2000 Winner.” And, “Use Proper Plaster—Avoid Breakage; Hydrocal and Dental Plaster Good.”

“Headlights can be made from the ends of small, inexpensive screwdrivers,” read one how-to column from 1959. “The end of the handle is sawed off, filed, and mounted. The parabolic shape of the end looks much like an actual headlight.” To make things easier, aspiring builders could send to the Guild for a free set of prefinished wheels (sans hubcaps, of course, as those were up to the builder). The newsletter reminded builders not to forget rule No. 7 of the 13 compulsory rules, which required the models to have provisions for license plates front and rear.

David Courtney, now of Lomita, California, remembers as an aspiring car designer in small-town Illinois reading in the Guildsman a tip that taillights could be cut from the ends of toothbrushes there were made out of transparent red plastic. “I had those red toothbrushes for years,” he said. But like a lot of aspiring entrants, Courtney never completed the two models he began, one of which, an attractive Camaro-like roadster crafted from wood, he still has. “I had a handsaw, a file, a drill, and a 4-inch vise. That was it. As a result, my designs were pretty limited, and how to go about making it, I had no idea.”

Davids, the ’63 winner, attributes at least part of his success to knowing some past winners personally, and to obtaining a mailing list of others so that he could write them. Thus, he learned before starting the high standards that were expected. “One of the things you heard was detail, detail, detail. And you had to be authentic; you can’t polish aluminum until it looks like chrome. It has to be chrome.”

Most kids didn’t have ready access to chrome shops or much else that was needed to build a winning model from scratch, so the Guild encouraged its teenage members to be resourceful. Davids knew he wanted to put a fully enclosed bubble-top roof formed from 1/16th-inch-thick plastic over a fully finished interior, a feat that had never successfully been attempted in the competition. Not only that, but in his design, the car’s rear had a dramatic duct-like channel molded into the roof that carried through the rear glass into the trunk, an absolute showstopper—if he could pull it off.

To make a roof from his hand-carved molds, Davids needed a vacuum former, but having no money, he hit the scrapyards and salvaged an electric motor from an old refrigerator and a surplus vacuum pump from a B-52 bomber, kluging a working machine together. “I made 20 to 24 attempts to make the roof, from which I got two, one that was perfect and one that was almost perfect. I put the perfect one on the shelf and used the almost perfect one to build the model around. When I was ready, I finished the model with the perfect one.”

Ron Pellman, who entered four competitions from 1956 to 1960, the final year taking second place and a $4000 scholarship, remembers scouring his native Buffalo, New York, for materials. A local lumberyard was willing to plane him some 7/16th-inch-thick poplar boards into which he cut, piece by piece, the rough outline of his car in sections. He then glued the sections into a multilayered sandwich, dripping india ink into the glue so that the seams would help act as guides as he began chiseling, planing, and sanding the model to its final form.

Finding a chrome shop willing to finish Pellman’s tiny bumpers to competition standard proved fruitless. Finally, a tradesman in a shop down by the Niagara River that did hard-chroming of engine parts for Great Lakes freighters was willing to give it a try—and spent a solid week chroming, filing, filling, and re-chroming the parts until they gleamed with smooth perfection. Recalled Pellman with a chuckle, “I asked him what I owed him, and he put his hand on my shoulder and said, ‘Son, you could never afford it.’”

The Guild had a few family dynasties, including Simone’s who, with his two brothers, entered a total of 15 models, winning a combined $10,000 in scholarship money. He credits part of his win to getting insider intelligence from his older brother, who was treated to a tour of GM’s design studio while attending the 1959 awards. “He came home from Detroit and said, ‘Forget the tailfins—they’re gone.’”

In order to ensure a geographic and age distribution of winners, the Guild divided the nation into regions and its entries into junior (11–14) and senior (15–19) divisions. In order to be eligible for the national scholarship competition, you had to do well in the region, then box up and mail your model to Detroit—instructions were included in the newsletters on the best way to safely crate it for shipping—to be judged for the national competition on a points system that split the criteria between the quality of the design and the workmanship of the execution.

Special telegrams notified the 40 finalists for the scholarships—20 each in the junior and senior divisions—who were invited on an all-expenses-paid trip to the Fisher Body Craftsman’s Guild National Convention and Banquet. Parents were not allowed; the Guild members traveled from the far-flung corners of America on their own, with GM personnel detailed as escorts to help the kids transit at layover airports and train stations.

Simone vividly remembers his trip in 1961 from his home in Rhode Island. “I have to admit, I was in shock. I didn’t know nothin’, I was 15 and had never been out of Providence before.” He flew in a small plane to the old Idlewild Airport in New York, where a GM representative met the wide-eyed teen and walked him to his next flight. “The Boeing 707 had just come out, and they put me on a brand-new 707 jetliner—and here’s the kicker: We went first class.”

Following a dinner of filet mignon, they flew to Detroit, where Simone was directed to a Cadillac Fleetwood limousine that whisked him and some other arriving Guild members to the downtown Book-Cadillac Hotel. There, the group was intercepted by a team of tailors that measured the kids with military efficiency. “Overnight,” remembered Simone, “they made me a whole suit with the Fisher Body Craftsman’s Guild logo on the jacket.”

The next day, after a sightseeing trip around Detroit, the finalists were ushered to the banquet hall where Fisher Body gathered around 800 managers from GM’s vast design, engineering, and manufacturing organizations as well as top scientists, newspaper writers, politicians, and celebrities. Guild members in their matching new jackets sat in rows on a long, terraced dais while the event was presided over by emcees who were luminaries of the day, including Father Knows Best actor Robert Young, broadcaster Lowell Thomas, and TV newsman Walter Cronkite.

Seated in the crowd were typically some of the towering figures in GM history, including Alfred P. Sloan and Charles F. “Boss” Kettering. Judges included Harley Earl, his successor Bill Mitchell, Chrysler design director and tailfin czar Virgil M. Exner (a Guild winner himself), and rising young design star Chuck Jordan. The evening culminated in the scholarship awards for the top three models in the junior and senior divisions plus five honorable mentions each, usually announced by the president of GM or his second-in-command to uproarious cheers from the audience.

For the next few days (as GM photographers quietly snapped detail photos of every model to be studied later for possible inspiration), the young Guild members were squired around the region, visiting GM’s gleaming Technical Center, touring its design studios, and seeing and touching the dream concepts they had only read about in magazines. Dinners were lavish affairs at local country clubs. Pellman remembers going to a furniture factory and taking a Detroit River cruise to the Boblo Island Amusement Park. There were informational presentations by officials from the FBI, visits to Fisher Body assembly plants, and trips to the nearby Selfridge Air Force Base to sit in jet fighters and meet their pilots.

“If you won, you were on a roller coaster ride for a week,” said Davids. Winners were interviewed in newspapers and on the radio, and even appeared on TV talk shows. Their high schools received their own towering trophy, and their models went on a national victory lap of dealerships, corporate offices, and exhibitions, at times aboard GM Futurliners that once roamed the country touting the corporation’s industrial exploits. Many builders didn’t see them again for two years.

“It opened up a lot of doors for me,” said Davids, who went on to live a number of lifetimes, including fabricating body panels for Craig Breedlove’s 526-mph Spirit of America land-speed car, earning several college degrees, doing a stint running GM’s experimental design studio, operating a casino, launching a company in the late 1970s to design and manufacture some of the first hand-held electronic games sold in toy stores, and starting a winery specializing in pinot noir.

Other Guild alumni, like Jordan, Exner, Richard Arbib, who worked for years at GM as Harley Earl’s right-hand man, and Pontiac, GMC, and Hummer design chief Terry Henline, forged long and successful careers in the auto industry, often after Guild-funded degrees from the famous ArtCenter College of Design in Los Angeles. Still others went to work in aerospace, academia, product and packaging design, and varied pursuits in engineering and manufacturing. William A. Fisher’s plan to seed the American economy with capable, tenacious, hands-on thinkers had worked brilliantly.

However, even in 1963, the end of the Guild could be predicted. “It was a happy moment,” said Davids, “but the Beatles came out the year after I won, everything was changing, and kids were getting kind of crazy. There just weren’t enough who were disciplined.” Entries dropped precipitously through the 1960s, records Jacobus, from more than 4000 in ’63 to fewer than 2000 in 1967. Model quality also declined. Besides the social changes, which included more distractions and time demands on young people, GM was eyeing the multimillion-dollar costs of the program as new safety and emissions regulations threatened to squeeze Detroit in a financial vise.

And so, along with the fading of the program’s originator and patron, William A. Fisher, who died in 1969, the Fisher Body Craftsman’s Guild expired as well. A reunion of Guild members at the ArtCenter College in Pasadena in 2016 led to an effort by former members to conserve as many models as possible, and there are now permanent displays in several museums around the country (see below).

As time thins the ranks of the Guild’s surviving members, it’s worth remembering an era when so many teenagers dreamed of a career designing cars. And when the auto industry was clever enough to devise a productive scheme to harness and focus that youthful energy, simply because it recognized that its future, as well as the nation’s, depended on it.

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On Display: Where to See a Fisher Body Craftsman’s Guild Model

Petersen Automotive Museum

30 models, 1 coach

Los Angeles, CA | petersen.org

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Gilmore Car Museum

50 models, 1 coach

Hickory Corners, MI | gilmorecarmuseum.org

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AACA Library & Research Center

26 models, 1 coach

Hershey, PA | aaca.org/library

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Piston Palace

20-plus models, 1 coach

Warwick, RI | pistonpalace.com

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National Route 66 Museum

8 models, 1 coach

Elk City, OK | elkcity.com

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National Automotive & Truck Museum

5 models, 1 coach

Auburn, IN | natmus.org

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National Museum of Transportation (Coming Soon)

10-plus models, 2 coaches

St. Louis, MO | tnmot.org

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Little Nash Motors up in Kenosha, Wisconsin, came roaring out of World War II with some pretty far-out ideas. Its cars became sleeker and more interstellar, the wheels all but disappearing within wind-smoothed bodywork. The company defied convention by building a premium car that was actually small. The Rambler of 1950 was America’s first legitimate attempt at a compact alternative to the road-conquering Goliaths then in fashion. And Helene Rother, a pioneering female designer whose own story reads like an impossibly dramatic screenplay, played a key role in making it happen.

Rother’s might not be a name with which you’re familiar, but at a time when men universally ruled the auto industry, she was part of a small female vanguard that was destined to quietly put its fingerprints on American car design in the 1940s and ’50s. Notwithstanding her recent induction into the Automotive Hall of Fame, Rother’s achievements are mostly forgotten today. But in an era when small cars were not popular, her interior design for the Rambler was incredibly forward-looking and helped make this car fashionable—and, for a time, successful.

Which is why we took the opportunity to borrow an early Rambler from owner Scott Keesling in Beverly Hills, California, and, er, ramble around the city’s leafy canopied streets for a day. This joyful little car wasn’t made for speedy 0–60 times, nor did it perform aggressively around corners. Its name, Rambler, certainly doesn’t suggest quickness. Instead, it feels genial and easygoing, like spending time on a warm, sun-filled afternoon with an old friend.

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An unlikely automotive designer, Helene Rother spent her early life a million miles away from Beverly Hills, in Leipzig, Germany, surrounded by books and art. After receiving the equivalent of a master’s degree in 1930 from the Kunstgewerbeschule, an arts and crafts school, in Hamburg, the newly married Rother began a career in visual arts and graphic design. After her daughter was born in 1932, Rother’s husband, a known Trotskyist and a member of various anti-Nazi organizations, soon became persona non grata in Hitler’s Germany and fled to France, leaving Rother and their daughter, Ina, behind.

Rother continued working in design and art, even finding some success in jewelry design before the situation in Germany became untenable. Her connection to her husband put her in danger, and she decided to take her daughter and flee. A group of Americans who had formed the Emergency Rescue Committee shortly after France fell to the Germans sent Rother an alias, counterfeit identification, and $400 to get her to Marseilles. With travel from France to the United States severely restricted, Rother and Ina made their way to Casablanca, just as the refugees did in the famous film of the same name, to await safe passage to New York.

As the war raged on, Rother never quite settled into living in New York City. Still, she found a job as an artist and started designing geometric-patterned textiles in the style of Le Corbusier and Bauhaus, a school of European minimalism that produced architecture and objects that were practical and devoid of traditional baroque flourishes. She wrote and illustrated many children’s books that were never published and drew illustrations for Marvel Comics.

During the war, everyone did their best to get by, including car companies. With a former refrigerator salesman and car man by the name of George W. Mason running the show at Nash-Kelvinator, the company did its American duty. Instead of building powertrains for its moderately successful Ambassador Eight and Ambassador 600, it got to producing supercharged radial engines for naval aircraft. While automotive production was put on hold, in anticipation of the inevitable return to normal, Mason—a known risk-taker—never stopped new car development during those war years, including a $20 million project for a compact sedan that eventually became the Rambler.

In 1942, Rother heard about an opportunity in Michigan to work for Harley Earl, the first vice president of styling at General Motors. Though the General had never hired a female designer before, much less one with radical ideas, Earl was a visionary who was seeking out like-minded creatives, regardless of their gender. According to MaryEllen Green, another of Earl’s so-called Damsels in Design—a group of female designers whom he hired after bringing Rother on board—some GM suits wanted to keep secret the hiring of any women above the secretarial level, fearing that bringing them into such a masculine industry would be a failure and an embarrassment for GM. Regardless, Rother got the job and moved to Detroit with her daughter.

“I earned less than the men I supervised,” Rother is remembered as once saying to a group of stained-glass artists. Despite her dissenters, Rother put her artistic mark on the interiors of Cadillacs, Buicks, and Pontiacs, to name a few.

Rother turned contemporary interiors once dreary shades of black, gray, or tan into explosions of color, elegance, and convenience. “I have a long list of gadgets for use in cars beginning with outlets for heating baby bottles and canned soup, cigarette lighters on springs, umbrella holders, and so on,” Rother once wrote. Collectively, the Damsels, the pioneering women of car design, incorporated intuitive innovations, everything from improved gauge positioning to tissue dispensers. They spiced up cabins with flashy finishes and textured fabrics in the kaleidoscopic colors of an Elizabeth Arden cosmetics portfolio. As more women worked, drove, and were involved in the buying of cars, the Damsels helped GM move with the changing times.

In 1947, while still at GM, Rother started her own design studio, opening the door to her consulting for other automakers including Nash, who went on to become her main client. Rother designed seats, molding, garnish, trim pieces, and fabrics. She did extensive work on all the interiors of the revolutionary Airflyte models. The Statesman was her triumph, as she used artistic design elements incorporating color, fabrics, and texture throughout.

Statesman buyers could choose from 21 color combinations with well-considered trims and finishes. The Statesman’s interior drew particular interest for its revolutionary seating configurations. The right front seat reclined into a comfortable daybed. Fully reclined, it became a twin bed. With the addition of the driver’s seat fully reclined, the cabin became a private sleeping car. Sales skyrocketed.

***

As her work gained more recognition, Rother’s prominence in the automotive industry grew. In November 1948, she became the first woman to address the Society of Automotive Engineers with a paper titled, “Are we doing a good job in our car interiors?” She inherently knew that part of the pleasure of driving a car was a driver’s interaction with the cockpit. “The instrument board of a car,” she wrote, “shows above anything else how well-styled the car is. Here the driver is in real contact with the mechanics, and here is the greatest test of good coordination between the engineer and stylist.”

Always on the hunt for what came next, Mason had been captivated by the stylish but practical designs of Italian coachbuilder Pinin Farina, as seen on the likes of Lancias, Alfa Romeos, and Maseratis, as well as the compact Cisitalia 202. This small, unfussy, yet elegant sedan likely piqued Mason’s attention, reinvigorating his $20 million wartime development idea. The time was finally right for a smaller car in the Airflyte’s lineup.

When it came time to design the body of the Rambler, there was no exterior team to speak of, as a proposed deal with Pinin Farina had not yet borne fruit. So, the company’s longtime engineers—including Nils Erik Wahlberg, who didn’t even believe in the compact car project, plus Ted Ulrich, and Meade Moore—were put to the task with only some loose design studies to work from, submitted by an independent design firm. These engineers put together a workable exterior that cribbed elements from the opulent Ambassador only in a scaled-down and more utilitarian way. At the same time, they improved mechanical issues with novel design solutions, including side air scoops to cover the connection between the fenders and the cowl. In testing, they found that the battery was 3 percent cooler than it had been previously, as it sits on the driver’s side just below the new air vent.

The Rambler, which was strongly supported by both Georges—George W. Mason and his newly hired protégé, George Romney—finally came along in 1950. As America’s postwar economy boomed, Mason and Romney saw an opportunity to put a second car in every garage. Smaller than the traditional family car but no less stylish, the Rambler was brilliantly marketed as a luxurious purchase. Certainly, there was nothing compact about its official name, the Nash Rambler Custom Convertible Landau.

Although it was smaller, the $1800 Rambler was priced several hundred dollars higher than its nearest competitors at Ford or Chevrolet. This strategy was put in place to make buyers feel as though they weren’t simply settling for a cheap, small car. Customers got a good deal for their money. In addition to Rother’s stylish interiors—which Nash promoted heavily as the work of “Madame Helene Rother of Paris” to make her sound more European—the all-new Rambler was initially only offered as a convertible and featured many standard amenities, including a radio, a heater, and whitewall tires.

The two-toned, brightly colored orange and white of the example I drove—not original—made an excellent effort of recreating what might have been an available Rother colorway. But Rother’s design was not merely stylish. The glass over the center gauge, for example, was concave, a shape that redirects light to a center focal point, which makes the driver’s information easier to see while at the same time reducing glare—rather important for a convertible. The Rambler’s interior not only looked pleasing, there was inventive purpose in every detail.

Passersby stopped to ogle the delightful Rambler as we took photos, some calling out the small charmer by name. Men and women alike beamed at what for the time would have been a diminutive pipsqueak on highways packed with rolling automotive giants. Nash’s largest car at the time the Rambler went into production, the Ambassador, is a prime example, stretching 210 inches with a 121-inch wheelbase. That’s the size of the current Cadillac Escalade. Beside modern cars, the Rambler doesn’t feel so compact as it scoots about town. It stretches longer than a modern Toyota Corolla by 3 inches, and its bulging fenders, upright greenhouse, and squared-off roofline give it the visual illusion of a more substantive car.

The Rambler’s interior asserts its Teutonic design aesthetic with clean lines and spartan ornamentation. What does exist subtly marries function and beauty. A singular, unembellished gauge using a crisp midcentury typeface displays only crucial information. (The car’s current owner added two additional gauges for vitals important to those who drive classics.) Chrome doesn’t overwhelm but rather underscores the boldly colored dash. The Rambler’s small clock sits atop a centerpiece speaker grille that could only be described as the interior’s statement jewelry. No fluffery exists, but there is art to the simplicity of it.

The bench seats are broad and comfortable, something I imagine Rother would have insisted upon. Though a small car, it can fit three abreast on the front bench and two comfortably in the rear. However, I wouldn’t want to be sandwiched between two people up front for any length of time.

The Rambler sports an inventive front suspension, one that helps explain the car’s unusual styling. The coil spring is mounted above the upper control arm to sit on top of the knuckle, attaching to the inner fender instead of a pad on the frame. This spring-above-knuckle configuration, made possible only by a high fender line, small wheels, and a casual disregard for keeping weight low, means that the springs take direct impacts from the wheel load and additionally help mitigate body roll. Also, “The lower control arms in particular are no longer subjected to vertical bending loads and hence can be made lighter, with less unsprung weight,” said Meade Moore, chief engineer at Nash at the time of the Rambler’s launch. Because this configuration stands quite tall, it limited exterior styling and design choices, helping give the Rambler a face rather like a chipmunk with its cheeks full of acorns.

Mason and Romney wisely leaned into the lifestyle of their targeted customers (mainly women) for the Rambler. One wonders if this were influenced by Rother and her belief that style meant a great deal to buyers and that women of the time liked gadgets. Images of women driving the car using its additional standard features, including the glove drawer, filled the pages of glossy magazines of the era. Marketing brochures featured the varied interior colors and textiles customers could purchase with the tagline, “There’s much of tomorrow in all Nash does today.” Ads assured potential buyers that despite its convertible top, it was just as safe as a sedan.

Initial sales of this petite econo-luxe oddball were impressive, spawning iterations of the nameplate in the form of a wagon and a hardtop. In 1950, its first production year, Nash sold over 11,000 cars. That climbed to 57,000 for 1951 with the addition of the hardtop. Although the gross national product had ballooned from about $200 billion in 1940 to $300 billion by 1950, it was accompanied by rampant inflation, housing shortages, and a scarcity of raw materials caused in part by the Korean War (one reason the Rambler was launched as a convertible was that it used less steel than a hardtop).

Rother’s growing frustration at the wholesale dismissal of women as both automotive designers and customers became apparent during a speaking engagement in Detroit in May 1952 commemorating “Get the Dents out of Your Fenders” month, which was a nationwide campaign to promote car repair in the face of dwindling new-car inventory. Barbara Tuger, a reporter with the Detroit Free Press, quoted Rother as lamenting, “Once a car is sold, little is said about how (the female buyer) should care for it.” In fact, she declared, “Less is done in this country to attract the woman buyer than in Europe.” But even Tuger seemed to belittle and even mock Rother’s accent with her article’s headline, “Oo, la, la, Zose Dents by Women Drivers.”

Rother went on to describe new cars being presented as fashion in France. “They are used as a background for a style-conscious life, and more than half the visitors at an automobile exhibition are women. Here, it is mostly the teenaged boys who come,” Rother said.

As sales started to decline in 1953, the Rambler got the long-awaited Pinin Farina magic touch. The chubby hood and fenders were stretched and slimmed by the Italians, becoming more graceful and elegant in the European mien. But neither the new looks, the launch of a less expensive two-door sedan version, nor using both Rother and Pinin Farina in advertising campaigns could help the decline in sales. Nash merged with Hudson in 1954 to form American Motors, providing Nash with a massive dealer network. Nevertheless, not even that nor the subcompact Metropolitan, now highly collectible, could save the company from its inevitable downward slide.

After leaving Nash, Rother went on to work with clients including Goodyear Tire, BFGoodrich, Magnavox, and International Harvester. Some of her stained glass still graces cathedrals around Detroit. Later in life, she dedicated herself to her own work and her horses, but her legacy quietly continued, even if it was temporarily unrecognized.

The automotive community has not showered either that first Rambler or Rother with accolades or credit where it was due. But all you have to do is look to American interior styling of the 1960s and ’70s in the Chevrolet Corvette, the Lincoln Continental, or the Pontiac Trans Am, with their flashy colorways and innovative features and design, to see the influences. The modern compact Cadillac CT4 and electric Chevrolet Bolt come with luxuries and conveniences that include smartphone connectivity and heated leather gravity seats—modern gadgets like those Rother knew drivers craved. Some full-size trucks even have optional center-console coolers. On some levels, all these vehicles can look back to the Nash Rambler and Rother’s interiors and find their DNA.

As more women entered the contemporary automotive arena, Rother’s name, among others, was resurrected. In February 2020, a well-overdue 21 years after her death at the age of 91, Rother’s significant contribution was duly acknowledged, and she was inducted posthumously into the Automotive Hall of Fame (in the same class as our own Jay Leno). No doubt it was thanks in part to the stylish collision of a freethinking designer and an innovative automaker, both a bit ahead of their time.

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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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Still in high school in Athens, Tennessee, Betty Lou Parrish has found her calling: restoring vintage prewar vehicles. “Whenever you bring one back to life,” Parrish said, “you feel so accomplished.” She started young. According to her grandfather Stefan Ronnebeck, a German immigrant and accomplished craftsman who married into the family before Parrish was born, the teenager has experience welding, fabricating, panel shaping, painting, and completing electrical and engine work. The two bonded over projects, including building a log cabin and working on everything from 1920s Marmons to a 1979 Ford. “He’s supported me no matter what,” Parrish said.

Other interests have come and gone—Parrish considered becoming a veterinarian or a cosmetologist—but vintage vehicles have remained a steadfast constant. With help from the nonprofit RPM Foundation and the support of her family, Parrish was invited to work alongside LaVine Restorations in Nappanee, Indiana, for two days of rigorous job shadowing to see how a world-class prewar restoration shop functions.

Parrish was excited yet nervous. She felt like she didn’t have “what it takes to do what they do.” Those feelings quickly waned after she met Travis LaVine and his crew and became engrossed in their work. Parrish learned how to use the English wheel, a Dake multi-hammer, a planishing hammer, and a shot bag and mallet. She also helped pour the dash mold on a classic Packard and detail million-dollar collectibles.

Travis LaVine was impressed with Parrish’s maturity. “She is a very inquisitive and intuitive young adult, which is also impressive in today’s world,” he said. “Restoration work is unequivocally a thinking person’s game,” he added. “She has the right foundation to build upon to play it well.”

The experience went well enough that Parrish will, upon graduating high school, join LaVine Restorations as an apprentice. The RPM Foundation will be there to assist her with gap funding and the necessary guidance she needs to navigate through the learning process.

“This is a great example of how the RPM network can benefit individual students,” said Nick Ellis, the executive director of the nonprofit organization. RPM has a volunteer ambassador corps of more than 25 collector vehicle professionals and enthusiasts across the nation who act as its “boots on the ground.” One such ambassador, Kevin Jackam, connected with Ronnebeck at a car show in Tennessee.

Parrish’s apprenticeship will, LaVine says, introduce her to all aspects of a restoration shop, including technical skills but also research and writing, project management, and financial analysis. “We need to encourage women who have an interest in the history of the automotive industry to feel connected any way they can,” said LaVine, who added that his shop has benefited from talented women since its beginning.

“Mom and Dad [Eric and Vivian LaVine] started this company in 1974 and worked in the shop together, but Mom’s the one who really took this from a one-stall business to one of the premier restoration facilities in the world now,” LaVine stated.

Parrish, for her part, was thrilled to do meaningful work in a restoration shop and is excited for her apprenticeship. “They trusted me that I knew what I was doing,” she said. “I felt honored and special.”

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

David Zenlea’s story about whether we are in the waning days of affordable sports cars that go very fast reminded me of a recent driving adventure in which I drove a car that goes very slow.

The car: a 1903 Knox made in Springfield, Massachusetts. Top speed: about 26 mph if I gunned it and was going downhill. With a tailwind. The occasion: the 2023 London to Brighton Veteran Car Run, the oldest car rally in the world, dating back to 1896.

I participated in this glorious slow-motion tradition for the first time in 2007, but my steed—a borrowed 1904 Rambler—wasn’t up to the task of chugging 54 miles from Hyde Park in central London to the coastal town of Brighton. Instead, to my great disappointment, it broke down outside Westminster Abbey. Twelve years later, I completed the journey aboard the Knox. We finished again last November, along with hundreds of other Veteran cars, some of which have completed the Run 60 or 70 times. Think about that. Vehicles over 120 years old still driving on public roads—albeit early on a Sunday morning. These were among the first cars ever built, and yet all these decades later, they haven’t lost their ability to transport both our bodies and our souls, mine included. It’s an amazing experience, and it gives me hope for the next century of motoring fun.

Which brings me back to David’s splendid think-and-drive piece, which tests out five fantastic new sports cars—with, key point, manual gearboxes—that you can buy right now for $50,000 or under: the Acura Integra Type S, the Mazda Miata, the Subaru BRZ, the Toyota GR Corolla, and the recently refreshed Mustang. I’m sure you’ll agree that these are all inspiring machines in an era when many cars barely get our attention. I would love to drive all of them on a twisty road like the ones our editors found in southeast Ohio, and I bet you would, too.

That alone tells me that we aren’t in the end times of affordable sports cars at all. To the contrary, I think it’s proof that we are living in—and have been for some time now—a golden age of motoring performance. I’m quite serious. I’ve been a sports car fanatic since I can remember, and I can’t think of a time when there were more sports cars—foreign and domestic—with today’s combination of drivability, dependability, affordability, and raw power. Can you?

There are those who will say, “Yes, but it’s all going to end soon!” Car people are the best people in the world, but we do like to worry. The concern, of course, is that EVs will ruin everything. But what if they change nothing? Or very little? Porsche has already said it will keep producing gas-powered 911s for as long as it can. They get it. Others do, too, I suspect. I personally know many of the executives running our car companies, and I can tell you they bleed high-octane fuel and are committed to serving enthusiasts.

Maybe there will come a day when no one makes gas-powered sports cars anymore, but even so, that doesn’t mean the fun is over. I’ve driven some of the best EVs out there, and they are truly a blast. The torque alone wins you over. They add to the sports car world, not detract from it, in my view. The more, the merrier. EVs will be an ever-increasing part of the mix, but it’s not a zero-sum game. The sports car market is likely going to be a hybrid environment—a mix of electric and gasoline engines—for the foreseeable future. Let’s also not forget that the millions of cool, fast internal-combustion cars that are already out there aren’t going to disappear overnight. Like my Knox, a lot of them will be on the road and in our garages for a long time to come.

Love endures. So do great cars.

I would love to hear what you think. Please be sure to leave a comment below.

***

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

The early 1980s were a turbulent time for the U.S. economy. Inflation, high interest rates, and rising concerns about things like imported goods and a shifting job market. Sound familiar?

Frustration about the situation brought out lots of debate, as well as some patriotic thinking from those who thought they might be able to help boost the spirits of America and its ailing auto industry. One elaborate idea actually came close to happening, as far-fetched as it might have seemed: drive an American-built car from Japan to Detroit.

“I started to brainstorm and said, ‘What can we do? Something spectacular,’” remembers Leon Kaplan, thinking back on the events of 40-plus years ago. At the time, he was wearing many hats: repair shop owner, aviator, broadcaster, former racer. Kaplan’s Los Angeles repair shop had him working on the luxury cars of some of the movers and shakers in Hollywood and Beverly Hills going back to the 1960s. His client roster included Lucille Ball, Lloyd Bridges, Dolly Parton, Sammy Davis Jr., Debbie Reynolds, Ricardo Montalban, Shirley Jones, and a young Michael Jackson.

With his weekly Motorman radio show in Los Angeles, which he only recently retired from, as well as regular local and national television appearances, the North Carolina–born mechanic to the stars nearly hatched a scheme to have a domestic car travel under its own power more than 8000 miles from the Port of Tokyo all the way to downtown Detroit.

A red, white, and blue publicity stunt to end all publicity stunts, attempting to show that an American-built automobile was as good as anything arriving from Japan on a cargo ship.

Obviously trekking across a route that was mostly over water would require some kind of gimmick, and Kaplan had come up with one. He would place a car on a custom-built vessel, with the vehicle’s drivetrain providing momentum via rollers and a hydraulic propeller system. The idea got as far as having a sailboat designer draw up plans for the 54-foot tri-hull, a layout that would help ensure stability on the high seas.

“It must have been Petersen who put me in touch with Iacocca,” said Kaplan—Petersen being publishing magnate Robert E. Petersen, a friend as well as a customer at Kaplan’s shop, of course. And yes, Lee Iacocca, the then-CEO of Chrysler who had become a household name, thanks to his side role as television pitchman for the company.

“If you can find a better car, buy it.” That was Iacocca’s stoic tag line as he was beamed into millions of American homes on a regular basis, touting the products of the newly reinvigorated Chrysler. The company seemed an ideal partner for “Leon Kaplan’s All-American Trans-Pacific Automotive Spectacular,” the initial working title for the project. Kaplan’s manager-publicist had earlier come up with a marketing packet that was shopped around to the Big Three.

Ford passed immediately; General Motors expressed mild interest, but it was Iacocca at Chrysler who really saw potential in the elaborate plan. Kaplan flew to Detroit several times to meet with the chief executive, who sought to promote his company’s upcoming flagship, the Chrysler LeBaron convertible. For that vehicle, Kaplan had to modify the design of the propulsion system a bit, as the initial layout was intended for a rear-wheel-drive car. With a LeBaron riding piggyback, the dual dynamometer-type rollers under the front wheels would be on swivels. The driven wheels would be effectively powering the ship, and when the driver turned the steering wheel, the ship’s rudder would move accordingly.

An alternative name for the floating epic was soon proposed: Chrysler Craft. At Iacocca’s insistence, “New Chrysler Corporation” was to be emblazoned on both sides of the vessel, helping highlight that the company he had come to the helm of was on a comeback. Kaplan recalls his multiple visits to Iacocca’s office, remembering that it was “nothing fancy,” located in the old Chrysler Building in Detroit. With Chrysler’s new mission of austerity and getting back on its feet, Kaplan found the visits with the CEO to be very unpretentious.

As the proposal progressed, Kaplan—who had done some off-shore boat racing—consulted with maritime experts about the best route and time of year to make the ocean voyage. Travel across the Pacific would be easiest in late spring and early summer, and a stopover in Hawaii would be a necessary part of the journey. The project was then timed to have the Chrysler Craft’s final destination be the San Francisco Bay, arriving under the Golden Gate Bridge on July 4, 1983. Along with Iacocca, the LeBaron would supposedly be welcomed back to dry land by none other than President Ronald Reagan. Widespread media coverage would pretty much be a given.

Helping with that aspect, Robert Petersen pledged his assistance in the telling of the journey’s story. Among his media company’s numerous titles at the time was a yachting magazine called Sea. That publication would cover the project extensively, and Motor Trend would undoubtedly have splashed the story on its pages as well. Kaplan’s manager had also gotten coverage commitments from Time, People, Playboy, and other outlets.

In the proposal, after landing in San Francisco the fully functional car was to be offloaded, then Kaplan would drive it to Chrysler headquarters in Detroit to finish off the trip. The tricky part would have been completed at that point, so the paved portion would have been smooth sailing, in the figurative sense.

The concept had so much traction in its planning stages that Mattel signed on for rights to build toy versions of the car-ship combo. Its prototype shop built a 1:43 scale model, which Kaplan owns to this day and used during his presentations in Iacocca’s office. “I even had a special case that I used to carry it with me on airplanes,” he remembers.

Kaplan had a California-based shipbuilder lined up to construct the vessel, and he was assured they could meet the time frame laid out. There would be a launch ceremony at the Port of Long Beach, then a 50-mile shakedown run to Santa Catalina Island and back, just to make sure everything worked as designed. Once the watercraft and its attendant Chrysler were signed off as functioning properly, the whole assembly was to be loaded onto a barge for transport to Japan.

Would the car survive the obscure round-the-clock journey, great distances away from a service facility? It’s safe to assume that Chrysler’s engineering team would have prepared the most balanced, blueprinted, micrometer-measured, hand-torqued LeBaron possible. One thing was an absolute certainty: The convertible would have to run the standard 2.2-liter four-cylinder engine, and not the optional Mitsubishi-built 2.6-liter unit, for obvious reasons. Kaplan figured that the car would be most reliable with the engine running at a steady 1500 rpm, and that would yield a water speed of about 5-6 knots.

When asked about what kind of reaction this escapade might have gotten from the Japanese government, Kaplan sort of shrugged, as the proposal hadn’t really included any diplomatic aspect. Presumably, an international shipping company familiar with foreign port protocols would have been brought in for assistance. Still, once the Chrysler Craft was deployed in Japan’s territorial waters, some eyebrows surely would have been raised. Perhaps the philosophy of “It’s easier to beg forgiveness than ask permission” was the game plan.

In the planning, other logistical needs were taken into consideration. For example, while the trimaran was designed to have a working repair pit under the car, along with storage for spare parts, tools, and other necessities (including bunks for sleeping below deck), a support vessel would be needed to tag along on the two-week crossing. For that, a ship from the Pacific tuna fleet out of San Diego was to be hired. The crews of those large fishing boats were used to being at sea for weeks at a time, had maritime knowledge of the waters, and the ship could obviously carry whatever supplies might be needed.

For example, hundreds of gallons of unleaded gasoline to refuel the car along the way. To ferry fuel, supplies, and relief drivers to the Chrysler Craft, Kaplan revised the design to have a slanted ramp at the stern. That way, an inflatable Zodiac boat could land, offload containers of fuel and other things, then easily slide off and make its way back to the nearby support ship. The tuna boat would also provide quarters for sleeping, showers, meals, and so forth.

Kaplan was to be the lead driver, most importantly at the helm of the top-down LeBaron as it made its triumphant arrival under the Golden Gate. He had enlisted some boating and sailing friends as relief drivers, though he told very few people about the project beyond those directly involved.

Everything seemed to be in place, except for a key element: a signed contract—and the ensuing funds—from Chrysler. The cost to pull off everything was calculated to be approximately $1.1 million, chump change for a major auto manufacturer, even in 1982. But perhaps not a manufacturer under the continuing scrutiny of Congress. The U.S. Government had guaranteed $1.5 billion in bank loans a couple of years earlier in order for the company to stave off bankruptcy. Part of the agreement to get the loans was that Chrysler cut the costs that had previously soured its balance sheets. Splashy publicity hijinks were probably not considered a necessary seven-figure expenditure in the eyes of the company’s chief financial officer.

As the clock ticked toward the mid-1983 target for the voyage, Kaplan couldn’t get a final commitment from Iacocca. He did have secondary sponsorship agreements from Hawaiian Punch and Goodyear, but title sponsor Chrysler needed to come through with the bulk of the money.

Time went on, and Kaplan did occasionally hear from Iacocca, who said he was still interested in the idea, “Maybe next year,” as Kaplan recalls. But as Chrysler steamed ahead through the ’80s with a renewed spirit of innovation, early payback of the loans, and new-found profitability, the planned Chrysler Craft got stuck in eternal dry dock.

Today, Kaplan looks back fondly on the project, reflecting on the countless hours he invested trying to bring it to fruition. If it had happened successfully, it truly could have been spectacular and gone into the history books. Who knows, Chrysler might have even created a TV spot about it. Imagine Lee Iacocca standing proudly akimbo atop the ship, with the LeBaron just behind him, and the Golden Gate Bridge off in the distance. “If you can find a better car, drive it across the Pacific Ocean!”

The Chrysler Craft: An Unrealized Dream

To embark on such a voyage, the vessel toting the LeBaron would have to be large and stable enough to handle the deep blue Pacific, but also small and light enough to be propelled by a passenger car with a rather meek engine. Kaplan enlisted Searunner Multihulls of Virginia, run by two experienced ocean sailors and designers, John Marples and Jim Brown. It was Brown who drew up the initial 54-foot trimaran plans, with the center hull shaped to carry the Chrysler. Marples still remembers the project and recently said, “I was sorry that the design was never built.” So is Kaplan.

***

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

When I started driving, I admired all kinds of cars, although I was most attracted to the ones that offered serious performance, like the Corvette, the Camaro Z/28, or the Shelby GT350, not to mention the Ferraris that were sent to my father’s shop for repair. In fact, the ’65 GT350 really opened my eyes to high-performance cars. I still think it is one of the best cars ever.

As a teen, I was lucky to have an inexpensive VW Beetle or Mini that ran most of the time. New cars were not an option, and if used cars were good enough for my dad, they were good enough for me.

Even when I could afford a new car in the late ’80s and into the ’90s, I didn’t think the cars being built were particularly good, and they certainly didn’t perform very well. After the early 2000s, that all changed as cars got better and better in what can only be called a renaissance for high-performance cars. We went from less than 200 horsepower in a Corvette to a mind-blowing 670 horsepower in a new Corvette Z06.

All of a sudden, there were quite a few powerful cars, many of which came from the Big Three automakers. There were Hemi-powered Dodge Challengers, base Corvettes with more than 400 horsepower, and Mustangs with all kinds of power. In fact, I went nuts for a 2020 Ford Shelby Mustang GT500, with its aggressive styling and 760 horsepower from a supercharged 5.2-liter V-8.

I couldn’t stop there, grabbing up a GT350R in 2021. They were just a small part of my new-car buying spree. I was also attracted to the Hellcat and the Demon, cars with tremendous power on tap. They offered more performance than the hottest ZL1 Camaro or Hemi Cuda from back in the day. Unlike ’60s and ’70s muscle, they go around corners and stop quickly. The icing on the cake is that they come with a new-car warranty, and they usually start on the first turn of the key. Finally, there were new cars that I truly wanted to buy.

This may sound strange coming from a guy who has worked in the old-car world for 50 years, but I really like a lot of modern performance cars. Although the core of my collection consists of old cars, these days it always includes modern cars. I may like a marque enough to have a couple of examples: My tastes range from a Citroën 2CV to my one-off Moal Speedway hot rod, and on to a Bentley 3-Litre, and a Demon.

Whether I’m buying a 100-year-old Stutz barn find or a new Corvette straight out of the showroom, I’m buying cars I like. With the old cars, the motivation could be looks, performance, or historical significance, although high performance is typically the motivator when I buy something new.

Thanks to my television show Chasing Classic Cars and my magazine columns, the New England Motor Press Association sends me press cars to sample. That means that I get weeklong test drives of the latest cars. I also get to decide which ones I can’t live with and those that I can’t live without.

Having sold the GT500 and the Demon, these days, I am totally content with my 2020 GT350R, 2024 Audi RS6 Avant, and 2024 Corvette Z06. The Corvette is a modern-day supercar. I could have three or four of them for the price of a new Ferrari. Then there is the RS6 Avant. I’ve long found fast station wagons—like my Cadillac CTS-V wagon—to be very cool. My goal with the new Audi is to load it up with four adults and their luggage and be timed at 200 mph on a racetrack. That will be one for the record books.

As for the GT350R, I chose to keep that one because it has a flat-plane crank, revs to a mind-bending 8250 rpm, and pumps out 526 horsepower. Ever since I saw the Sunoco commercials with Mark Donohue shifting a Z/28 at revs that would destroy most V-8s, I’ve always had a thing for high-revving American engines.

If anyone asks me why I own these new cars, the simple answer is that they’re fast and I like going fast. Just don’t ask me to choose between my ’65 GT350 and my 2020 GT350R. You might be surprised by my answer, but then again, I once found myself having to choose between a Dino 246 and a European honeymoon. After 40 years of marriage, I think we made the right decision.

***

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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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This past summer, with supply chain issues resolving and factories once again humming, electric vehicles started piling up on dealer lots. Between January and July 2023, reports the trade paper Automotive News, the “days’ supply” (an industry metric used to measure unsold inventory) jumped for EVs, rocketing from a brisk 59 days to a worrisome 111 days. Meanwhile, the inventory of internal-combustion vehicles remained relatively flat in the mid-50s, proving that there were buyers out there, just not for electrics. (As of December 2023, EV days’ supply was 114 days, versus 71 days for the total market.)

An industry that only 18 months ago was rushing head-long to expand battery manufacturing and race to market with full electric product lines suddenly nailed the brakes. Ford, simultaneously reeling from a costly UAW strike, said it will slow-roll an earmarked $12 billion in electrification spending, delaying product launches, cutting production of its Mustang Mach-E electric crossover and F-150 Lightning, and pushing back construction on one of two planned battery plants. GM and Honda likewise said they are scrapping an agreement to jointly produce compact electric crossovers.

On the front lines, Mercedes-Benz dealers were in open revolt over the factory’s unwillingness to put incentives on its slow-moving EQ line of pricey electrics, saying they are losing customers to rivals. Meanwhile, back in 2020, GM offered its Buick and Cadillac dealers a choice: Either invest upward of $200,000 in electric infrastructure for their dealerships or sell their franchises back to GM for cash. Almost half of Buick dealers and one-third of Cadillac dealers took the buyout.

Is the EV transition over before it ever really began? Probably not. The hasty 180 on EV investments likely says less about the long-term viability of electrics and more about present dilemmas. The industry is nursing fresh wounds from strikes and previous bad bets, including Ford’s write-off of $1 billion following the implosion of Argo AI and GM’s staggering $8.2 billion loss (and counting) on its Cruise autonomy division. Add in the turbulence caused by the 2022 Inflation Reduction Act, which places restrictions on EV tax credits so that they apply only to American-made vehicles with U.S.-sourced components, and it’s easy to see why the industry is unsettled.

The ride into an electric future was bound to be bumpy. Now that early adopters have rushed out and purchased electric vehicles, sales growth was certain to slow as the industry gets on with the laborious task of convincing a wider (and more cautious) buying population that EVs are for them. The timing could be better; the market is currently suffering from high interest rates that make new-car purchases more expensive, and there’s a surplus of high-end EV offerings costing $70,000 and up.

Currently the pricing gap between EVs and internal-combustion-engine (ICE) offerings in the hot compact SUV segment is almost $20,000, with electrics retailing above $50,000 while comparable ICE crossovers are $35,000. Sure, tax rebates help close the gap, but the numbers look daunting to buyers watching their dollars. At the same time, older, more affordable EV options, like the Chevrolet Bolt and VW e-Golf, have been taken off the market and their replacements are still on the drawing boards.

Richard Shaw, a retired airline captain in Los Angeles, is an example of the disconnect between consumer demand and industry supply. Four years ago, he bought his first electric car, a new Volkswagen e-Golf, for $19,000 after rebates and incentives. “If you have two cars in the household, you’d be crazy not to have one be electric,” says the EV convert. “They are much cheaper to operate and perfect for local trips, and we find we take the electric way more than the other car.” However, the e-Golf has since gone out of production, as has the similarly priced Chevy Bolt, leaving the base Nissan Leaf as the lone sub-$30,000 electric.

Some buyers may have deferred their purchases in 2023 owing to changes in the Clean Vehicle Credit, the $7500 federal tax credit that, as of this year, allows buyers to use the credit directly as a down payment.

EV sales growth has slackened, but electric cars are still selling—at a rate of about 1 million per year. If EV sales aren’t proving to be a tidal wave, they are definitely still a rising tide.

***

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Two funerals are now part of my car’s restoration story, a sad twist I never imagined when I started this project three years ago.

The shadow of death has marked these cars from the outset: Dino was Enzo Ferrari’s short-lived sub-brand that was named after his son. Alfredo Ferrari, nicknamed Dino, worked for his old man until he passed away from muscular dystrophy in 1956. He was just 24 years old.

In January 2021, I paid $25,000 for a 1975 Dino 308 GT4 that spent some 20 years hibernating in a SoCal garage. That 25 large was, I knew, only a down payment on this project car. I’ve had some success with previous machines and realized a long time ago that I enjoy the DIY portions and getting to know the craftspeople I hire for the jobs I can’t do, like painting and interior work. There’s the learning aspect, too—a chance to practice and improve my self-taught mechanical skills.

While the car was with a semi-retired painter in 2022, he unexpectedly passed away. I had known him for about a decade, and I always enjoyed stopping by to catch up on my car and life. One thing that I’ve learned over the years is to look for people who enjoy their craft and cars as much as I do. The shared enthusiasm brings added joy to any project.

Scrambling for another painter revealed years-long waiting lists. Through a friend, I found someone with excellent references and an opening for spring 2023. The week before I brought my car to him last March, a fire destroyed his paint booth.

Meanwhile, I’d identified a similar late-career trimmer to restore the interior. This gentleman had a one-man shop and took jobs he enjoyed rather than ones that merely paid the bills. He saw my 308 as a way to hone new skills and experiment with different interior materials. We debated colors and fabrics with vigor and I usually deferred. He took great joy in a technique he developed to replace the destroyed driver’s-seat foam. Last summer, he unexpectedly passed.

Oh, man. What is it with this car?

I’m not superstitious, but you have to wonder. My wife declared she wouldn’t ride in the car even if I finished it. Her aversion to exhaust fumes suggests, however, that the car’s potential curse might be a convenient excuse.

How does one press on? I’ve now had two painful episodes in which teary-eyed families helped me dig through soon-to-be-empty shops for car parts. How does one be respectful, but also make sure parts weren’t lost? In one instance, a shop landlord locked the doors, imprisoning my seats until the estate was worked out. I know that the GT4’s sun visors are gone. What else?

All this on top of the fact that, as regular readers may remember from my last dispatch, I had to get the engine rebuilt twice due to it burning too much oil—and smoking out my entire neighborhood in the process. Is the GT4 karmic retribution for past sins?

Last summer and fall, I waited for the new painter, who also had some family emergencies, to regroup. A June delivery date was pushed to August and then to November. I wanted to be understanding and felt like I had been, but at the same time, I was eager to get the car back. My car friends all told me to just let it ride, as the waiting is part of the game. By December, I prepared a mental script to inform the painter that I was coming to get the car in January, painted or not. I called, and before I could say anything, he told me he was painting the car next week. The pictures here were shot a week before the end of the year.

I also found another trimmer, who plans to finish the interior this winter. With any luck, I’ll drive the car this summer. Is it misguided to feel hopeful? The evidence suggests, no surprise, that I am probably the fool. My car—and some subsystems—has sat for months at various places despite assurances of reasonable timelines. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve heard, “In two weeks,” only for that time to come and go without even an acknowledgment of the missed deadline. To be clear, I’m not talking about every shop I’ve worked with, but at least half have operated in this way. It’s no secret that the pool of skilled automotive craftspeople is aging. One of the consequences, it seems to me, is that those who remain in the field have lots of power and the paying customer has surprisingly little. More often than not, the deadline is, “When I get to it.”

Am I simply the jerk or pushover who is repeatedly pushed aside for other projects? Possibly. I seek out the small, one-person operations because I get closer to the actual work and talent than I would with a big operation. I usually ask to work alongside for a day or two as a dumb set of hands so I can learn. I cherish those days. The downside, I now know, is that my strategy leaves me vulnerable to life events and capricious schedules.

Since I’ve never worked with larger organizations on a car project, I can’t advise on the difference. These restorations look straightforward, and maybe they are for well-known and popular cars like Corvettes and 911s. Oddballs like the GT4 truly are ventures into the unknown, so it could be that I’m merely a victim of bad luck.

I hope the car’s not cursed. I met another GT4 owner last fall and asked to drive his car, which refreshed my memory that I love the car not only for its controversial design, but also for the driving experience. That short jaunt brought back all the enthusiasm I had in January 2021 and reminded me why I had searched for the right Dino for many years.

For now, my Dino restoration experience offers two seemingly opposing lessons. On the one hand, we don’t know when life will end, so get moving. At the same time, perhaps, it’s a reminder that we should be patient—because sometimes, we just don’t have a choice.

***

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I was watching television the other day, and an ad came on in which this guy is climbing Machu Picchu, the famous ancient mountain city down in Peru. It looks beautiful and he’s clearly having a moment, and the voiceover comes on and says something like, “At the end of your life, what are you going to think about: What you could have bought or where you could have gone?” And I started thinking about what I could have bought—like this Hispano-Suiza I once stupidly passed on—while the ad smugly answered itself: “It’s where you could have gone.”

“What? No!” I yelled at the TV. “I’ve completely forgotten where I’ve gone!” That’s when I realized that the ad was definitely not aimed at me. Maybe I’m completely missing out on the point of life, but I’d rather have a nice watch than go somewhere. I don’t particularly like to travel, so I need to have a reason for it. Such as work. Or, better yet, to look at a car. Then I have a reason, a mission. Obviously, I’ve saved a lot of money on vacations over the years, and there are probably a few extra cars around here because of it.

One example might be the Dodge Demon 170 I just bought. I couldn’t resist it. This is the last car of its kind that will ever be made. It’s got 1025 horsepower, and it’s kind of like your sister’s big, dumb boyfriend. It’s a big linebacker that will kick anybody’s ass, do 0–60 in about 2 seconds, and rip an 8-second quarter-mile. It does wheelstands from the factory and comes with an optional parachute kit, and it makes me laugh.

More important, I love the egalitarianism of it, the idea that everything in America should be attainable if you work hard enough. To get this kind of horsepower somewhere else, you have to go to Ferrari or McLaren and pay hundreds of thousands of dollars, whereas this car was built in a union shop (I spent my whole career at NBC working in a union shop and I’m a union guy) and it stickers for less than $100,000. OK, the Demons are not so easy to get, and good luck finding one at sticker. But if you can live with only 717 horsepower, or even just a mere 375, there are Hellcats and R/Ts aplenty. And they’ve been building the car since 2008, making it better every year, with modern electronics, tighter door seals, and improved handling. (You can read all about the Challenger’s replacement, the new Charger coupe, here.)

As far as I’m concerned, Tim Kuniskis, who ran Dodge until he was promoted last year to the truck division, is a genius. He figured out exactly what the buyers of these cars wanted—a lot of horsepower and noise and comfort at an affordable price—and packaged it up in that great Brotherhood of Muscle campaign. The sales have just gone up and up.

I’ve got a 1970 Challenger with the 426 Hemi, and though I love the looks and the nostalgia of it, the car is awful. It squeaks, it rattles, it doesn’t do anything well. It has two sheetmetal screws holding the transmission tunnel in; you can shake it and the whole thing might come off in your hands. I remember my dad’s ’66 Ford Galaxie; by 1968, there were already rust bubbles on the fenders. But hey, that’s the way cars were made back then: a lot of style and noise but not much substance. We still have fun with them and accept their quirks as part of their charm. But the Hellcat looks great, has proper brakes and a proper suspension, and for anything you do on the street, it makes driving at seven-tenths pretty much perfect. Does that make it boring? I don’t think so.

Ed Welburn, the former head of GM design, told me a few years ago that because SUVs are so popular, the seat height, or the height of the seat above the ground, of the average new vehicle today is the same as GM cars from 1938. So I wouldn’t say that everything about today’s cars is better. To me, the Challenger is really the last great American road car. I’ve already got a Hellcat here in the garage with a six-speed. The seats are big, the car is comfortable, and it’s got a lot of what Detroit marketers used to call “road-hugging weight.” Which sounds ridiculous, but the car plants itself and you aim it at Vegas and it goes there, getting over 20 miles per gallon with 707 horsepower. I love driving it because there isn’t one time when I’ve taken it out and done a downshift and it didn’t make me laugh.

Which is a lot more than I can say about the thought of climbing Machu Picchu.

***

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Tiny McPherson College in central Kansas, with its 850 students and 27-acre campus, may never go to the Rose Bowl or get a team into the NCAA Final Four. But it has achieved milestones that no other institution of higher learning can boast: It has put a car on the lawn at Pebble Beach, and it has taken a class award there. For the eager young minds enrolled in the school’s Automotive Restoration Technology program, there is no better trophy to stick in the case. Or, indeed, no better line to put on a résumé.

Among the cars entered in the Postwar Luxury class at the 72nd Pebble Beach Concours d’Elegance this past August was an obsidian-black 1953 Mercedes 300S Cabriolet. It represented the culmination of a 10-year plan by McPherson’s staff and students to enter a student-restored car into the world’s most prestigious concours. The plan was audacious in its conception and unique among plans in that, except for the unplanned class award, it went exactly according to the plan.

“Back in 2013, we did a strategic planning retreat and set a goal of being at Pebble Beach in 10 years,” said Amanda Gutierrez, McPherson provost and vice president, of the auto restoration program. It enrolls about 150 students in a four-year undergraduate degree program that instructs pupils on everything from chrome plating to torquing connecting rods to automotive history, valuation, business accounting, and project management. Alumni go on to jobs in top restoration shops, in museum curation, at auction houses, and as managers of private collections. (Hagerty editor Kyle Smith is a McPherson graduate.)

The next step was to find the right car, one to “challenge the students but not break them,” said Gutierrez. That meant no French art deco bolides with electronic preselector gearboxes and hide-away sliding roofs, but a car elegant and distinguished enough to qualify for Pebble as well as eligible for one of the event’s classes. That narrowed the list of potential candidates. One of the program’s longtime advisors, Massachusetts-based restorer and Pebble Beach regular Paul Russell, suggested the relatively straightforward Mercedes 300S as a good candidate.

“It was Mercedes’ first clean-slate design after the war and their statement that they were back,” said Brian Martin, McPherson’s director of automotive restoration projects. The imposing 300S sold new for $14,000 in 1953 and, like most other cars eligible for Pebble Beach, is now mostly the province of wealthy collectors. “We were attempting to do Pebble Beach on a ramen budget, but we couldn’t wait for someone to donate a car,” Martin said.

A three-year search culminated in a 35,000-mile candidate that was complete and came with spare parts and a spare engine, but it needed a thorough overhaul. The sellers, Richard and Mary Hopeman of Pennsylvania, were attracted to the idea of a student project and offered a good price, and a donor stepped in to cover the purchase as well as provide seed money for the project.

The car appeared in unrestored condition at a McPherson event at Pebble Beach in 2016. “It presented much better than it was,” quipped Matt Kroeker, a 2023 McPherson grad from Longmont, Colorado. He was a freshman in high school when the project started and completely unaware that a 70-year-old Mercedes would come to dominate his young life and launch his career. He heard about McPherson from a Fox News item, and when he arrived at the school in 2019, the car was in bare metal and bits were scattered all over the school’s workshops.

As is the case with the restoration of any special, limited-production car, there were problems. It took three years to find a replacement windshield. There was trim that didn’t fit, U-joints that unexpectedly failed, electric windows that wouldn’t wind, and sheet metal perforated by rust and damaged in long-ago accidents. The school deemed it important to pay the students for their work, so it was treated as an extra-curricular internship rather than as classwork.

Once the restoration was completed, there was the monumental task of getting the car accepted to Pebble Beach. The selection committee is notoriously finicky as it winnows down hundreds of applications to a field of around 220 cars. Only six spots were allocated to the Postwar Luxury class. “We were told there was no preferential treatment,” said student Jeremy Porter, who is due to graduate in 2024. “We were on pins and needles like everyone else waiting for the word. We kinda bet the house on it.”

The bet paid off, and the Mercedes was driven by students onto the lawn at dawn last August 20 among a fleet of peers ranging from priceless Figoni-bodied Delahayes to Murphy-bodied Duesenbergs to short-wheelbase Ferrari 250 Berlinettas. There were two other Mercedes 300s in McPherson’s class, as well as a one-of-two 1953 Ghia-bodied Cadillac and a one-off 1955 Chrysler Imperial convertible built for the then-president of Chrysler. When the judges in their straw hats and blue blazers came to poke and prod the Benz, students showed them the car as an unusually large crowd looked on, at least some of it composed of 120 parents as proud as any you would find at a big-time college football game.

At Pebble Beach, all cars are awarded 100 points and the judges deduct from that for mechanical issues, restoration errors, or preparation oversights. The sweat and effort of all the students were good enough to win the Mercedes a second-in-class, which did not make it eligible for Best of Show—only class winners have a shot at that—but is nonetheless a high honor for which many aspiring Pebble Beach entrants have liquidated much greater fortunes without success.

Nobody at Pebble beat the McPherson team on enthusiasm and spirit, which thankfully still counts for something even in an event as fueled by money as the Concours d’Elegance. Speaking of which, the school, which launched its automotive tech program in 1976 but ramped it up considerably with the help of Jay Leno in 1997, recently announced that it has raised a startling $1.5 billion in endowments. Ideas being floated are a second campus and an engineering program.

The Mercedes will be a gift that keeps on giving for those who worked on it. Some 200 students contributed to the restoration over seven years, 40 or so at any one time. The car was challenging enough, even with help from school advisors and the Mercedes-Benz Classic Center, and the students learned skills that will serve them well after graduation. Indeed, several said they were being recruited by shops even before they had graduated.

***

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I’ve always thought that a Cadillac drives totally differently—in a good way—from other GM models. My dad and Uncle Henry agreed and savored that difference, which is why various Carinis have logged so many miles in Cadillacs. Dad really had a thing for those built from 1961 through 1965.

When I was in college, Dad and I took a summer cross-country trip to see all the car museums we could fit into three weeks. Traveling in style, we took his freshly restored 1961 Cadillac. Back in those days, there were no cellphones or GPS units, so before we started out, Dad went to AAA for one of their TripTik route planners and a few of their maps.

We hit some of the great collections and museums—Harrah’s in Reno, Nevada, the Briggs Cunningham Automotive Museum in Costa Mesa, California, and the collection at the Natural History Museum of Los Angeles County. During the trip, we found that the Cadillac, then 10 years old, was a pretty good conversation starter. I did most of the driving, broken up by regular meal stops because Dad was “a scheduled eater.” Breakfast was at 6 a.m., lunch was at noon, and dinner was at 5 p.m. At one point, we were on Interstate 80 out west and I told my father, “There is a great diner about three exits ahead,” and sure enough, there it was. Dad was surprised that I knew about it and wanted an explanation. It was one of several places I stopped at when I drove my Super Beetle out to college in Idaho.

The next Carini Cadillac I remember was a maroon 1965 Eldorado convertible that my father restored to show. When it came to car shows, he was a trophy hound, and he expected to win every time. The Eldo was great for that: In its first showing, it won a first prize, as well as an AACA Junior award at Hershey. The following year, he netted only a lowly second-place award. He was sitting at the banquet table with his small trophy when he spotted a guy walking by with a big trophy, which he won with a Whizzer—essentially a bicycle fitted with a small motor. Dad didn’t even know what a Whizzer was, but he had to have one. By the following year, he had found a Whizzer, restored it, and bagged a first.

In 1972, my sisters, Kathy and Lynn, wanted to take a cross-country trip to visit Kathy’s boyfriend in Arizona. Dad let them have a restored 1964 Coupe DeVille. “I was young, the Cadillac was pristine, and I didn’t want to be caught dead in a car that looked like a boat,” Lynn remembers. With luggage and ice chest in the back, they headed west, eating mostly fast food or sandwiches and staying in budget motels. Lynn ended up in California, met a guy, and settled there, while Kathy and her boyfriend returned to Connecticut in the Caddy.

One day, more recently, I got a call about an all-original 1961 Coupe DeVille with 41,000 miles. The Chasing Classic Cars crew and I went to Buffalo to see the car, which the owner had found on Bargain News. Sold new in New Britain, Connecticut, and gorgeous in Shell Pearl Blue Metallic, with color-matching hubcaps and an Olympic White top, the car was in unbelievable condition. It didn’t even have the usual hole worn in the driver’s side carpet(caused by high heels). The first owner’s nephew explained that his aunt always drove the car in low-heeled shoes or with Peds over her bare feet. Yes, I bought it.

A friend now owns that low-mileage 1961, but I get to see it and drive it on occasion. My current Cadillac is a black-on-black CTS-V wagon with a six-speed. I’d long wanted one, only to return to the shop one day to see a low-mileage example sitting there. A customer had dropped it off for us to sell. I called him the same day and told him it was sold! I couldn’t say no to a wagon with 556 horsepower, a manual transmission, and room for five.

Over the years, I’ve crossed paths with many other Cadillacs, including a stunning gold 1966 Fleetwood Eldorado my father had for a while. There have been other Cadillacs in the Carini stable, and there will probably be a few more in my future and my grandson’s future. Blame my father and the marque of excellence.

***

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Wayne Kady might be the most well-known unknown designer in the history of General Motors. Well known, because his designs are some of the most recognizable from the 1960s to the 1990s; unknown, because the unassuming Kady was often eclipsed by flashier designers more adept at self-promotion.

Kady’s tenure at GM began in 1961, when the General was at the zenith of its influence—so all-powerful that the government considered taking action to break up the automaker’s near 50 percent grip on the American market. GM Design was the undisputed leader of automotive styling, and Kady was in the thick of it, working for legends like Bill Mitchell. He soon landed at the studio where he made the most impact—Cadillac, where he penned the 1971 Eldorado and helped steer the brand through the vehicle downsizing of the late ’70s. By the time he retired in 1999 as chief designer, Buick 2 Studio, his portfolio contained some of the most recognizable cars to come out of Detroit.

Over the course of many interviews, Kady told us his story, which is also the story of how one person can make a huge impact on an industry and a culture.

California beginnings

I grew up in Reedley, California, a small farming town located in the heart of the San Joaquin Valley. My dad immigrated here from Lebanon and saved up enough to buy a small farm. My first experience driving was on our tractor. Dad had a ’29 Chevrolet truck that was no longer used and was going to be scrapped, so Dad let my brothers and me take it apart. I learned about how an engine works and how to turn a wrench, as well as how to skin my knuckles. By the eighth grade, I could draw all the GM cars from memory. In my junior year of high school, I bought a 1940 Willys for $12 and started to build a sports custom. My inspiration was the Jaguar XK 120. I never finished it, but I learned how to weld and graft sheetmetal—and how to use a lot of Bondo. What inspired me to become a car designer was I learned that you could earn a living doing it. In January 1951, Life magazine published photos of the Le Sabre show car. It was an inspiring thing to see, that “Wow, all of a sudden, it’s the future!”

ArtCenter

In high school, my art instructor saw me drawing cars when I should have been drawing other things. He told me about ArtCenter College of Design [located in Los Angeles, California, before it moved to its present location in Pasadena] and suggested I apply. I did, and they rejected me. They said I was too immature. After two years at Reedley Junior College and a second attempt for admission, they let me in on probation.

Hired by General Motors

Clare MacKichan, the chief designer of the ’55 through ’57 Chevrolets, came to ArtCenter and interviewed me and several other students, shortly before I graduated with honors. He looked at my portfolio and offered me a job. I moved to Detroit on February 13, 1961. The farthest east I’d ever been was Phoenix, Arizona. That was the first time I’d ever flown. I had a window seat and I was looking out as we were circling Willow Run Airport. I couldn’t see anything moving, and everything was white. I sat there wondering what I was doing. I got off the plane and had to walk across the tarmac because Willow Run didn’t have jetways back then. I didn’t have an overcoat, just a suit coat. When they opened the door, it felt like nails going through you, it was so cold. My first night in Michigan was spent sleeping on the floor of Syd Mead’s apartment in Royal Oak. Syd was a fellow ArtCenter graduate and legendary designer who went on to create designs for the Blade Runner and Tron films.

It sounds like a cliché, but my first day at GM, I couldn’t believe that I was hired to work at this place. It was an environment where you couldn’t wait to get to work, because if that’s your passion, that’s the ideal place to be. The environment was such that you wanted to be as creative as you could be, the ideas had to flow out, and you had to be competitive with whomever else was working there, too. Working at GM back then was fantastic. It was a very creative environment to be in.

Bill Mitchell

I first met Bill Mitchell when I was newly hired and assigned to Design Development, the studio where all newly hired designers started. There they could be evaluated, then assigned to a studio where they could be most effective. I remember whenever Mitchell would visit the studio, he was always dressed in expensive, tailored suits and had someone with him taking notes. Later, after I was assigned to Cadillac, Mitchell would visit the studios to check on the progress of the clay models. If he wasn’t happy with the direction the design was headed and you tried to defend it, his face turned red, and you knew a chewing out would follow. Usually he would come back after a couple of hours knowing everyone was tense and uptight, and then he would tell a joke or make an off-color comment and then walk out, and that would lighten the air. Some designers had a hard time with him, but I thought he was very effective. He might have been a little crude in some areas, but he was successful as far as picking the designs for production.

Designing at Cadillac

In 1962, while assigned to Bernie Smith’s Preliminary Design studio, our project was to create an alternate design for the 1965 all-new Cadillac versus the direction the Cadillac studio was pursuing. Smith’s theme was chosen, and I was transferred to the production studio to help design the ’65 DeVille and Fleetwood. We were also working on a theme that eventually led to the design of the ’67 Eldorado. In August 1968, I was promoted to chief designer of a newly formed advanced Cadillac studio to design an all-new Eldorado for 1971.

1971 Eldorado

The ’67 Eldorado, [Oldsmobile] Toronado, and [Buick] Riviera were designs initially developed with unique sheetmetal for each brand. Cowl, windshield, and side-glass planes were the only major parts shared. Eldorado shared front-wheel drive with Toronado, while Riviera continued with rear-wheel drive to enjoy a price advantage as well as differentiation. When I was working on the Eldorado for 1971, we started out with a smaller, more tailored body. As the design progressed and volume cost estimates and other data evolved, we ended up having to share the B-body platform used by all five car divisions and even sharing the roof panels between Toronado and Eldorado.

The ’67 was a big act to follow, because the car was, as far as designers are concerned, probably the best-looking Cadillac for a long time. The 1967 through ’70 Eldorado had a two-piece hood. When they’re stamped in two pieces, they’re assembled to the center and then the ends have to be welded and metal finished. Metal finishing cost a dollar an inch back then, and the ’71 hood required 9 inches of welding and metal finishing, so it cost $9 per car. In those days, if you took 50 cents out of a car, that was big money. Wally Sitarsky was the die engineer at Cadillac; I had great respect for him.

After careful study, he found a way to make the hood of the 1971 Eldorado in one piece. [This technique saved Cadillac almost $250,000 in 1971, roughly $1.8 million in today’s dollars.] Another important cost savings for Cadillac was sharing the front-center bumper and guards with the DeVille and the Fleetwood series.

1976 Seville, Part 1

After completing the design on the ’71 Eldorado, we had a fiberglass model built of a four-door DeVille concept with horizontal taillights before starting work on a small Cadillac to compete against the Mercedes 280SEL. We had completed a set of renderings of three possible approaches: importing the Opel Diplomat [Opel was GM’s German division], importing an Opel with minor changes to the front and rear, or creating an all-new car. These were taken by the sales team and the general manager to dealer councils across the country, where they were evaluated and voted on as to whether we would even have a smaller Cadillac. Cadillac was having competition on the West Coast in particular with the Mercedes. As that project started to roll, I got transferred to Buick. Mitchell called me into his office, and he didn’t really say much. He just said, “Hey, kid. I’m transferring you to Buick. They got a problem in there. Get out and fix it.” He used to call me kid. I was pretty young then.

Buick

One of the reasons that I was sent to Buick was because Mitchell was pressured to change the boattail Riviera. The Buick general manager disliked it and thought it was too controversial. Mitchell wanted me to graft the design that came off the four-door Cadillac with horizontal taillights onto the back of the boattail Riviera. The doors had to be kept, while the roof panel was shared with the Toronado and Eldorado. We also had to incorporate the new 5-mph bumper standards. We didn’t have enough money to change a lot on that car except maybe the quarter-panels and the decklid and add high-level brake lamps. I managed to make it look more conventional, which satisfied Buick. It didn’t enhance the look and did not add sales. I always thought the boattail was better-looking. Mitchell’s the guy who pushed the design of the boattail Riviera, but Jerry Hirshberg was the chief designer. After [facelifting] the LeSabre, the Electra 225, and a major facelift to the ’76 Buick Regal series, I was transferred back to Cadillac as exterior chief designer.

1976 Seville, Part 2

Back at Cadillac, I reinherited the Seville that was marketed as a ’76 model; its design was already finished when I returned. The design was done by Stan Parker, my first boss at Cadillac. It was a big hit for the division, and it answered the competitive question to the Mercedes. It introduced Cadillac into that small-car segment, at a big price. I think it was priced higher than anything except for the limousine. [1976 Cadillac Seville MSRP was $12,749.] From my perspective, it was the proportions that made the design so successful. One of my colleagues once mentioned proportions as being to design as location is to real estate. I think anytime you start a design for a car or a house or a product, proportions are one of the first things that you want to address. When I’m talking about proportions, it’s the dash to axle, the location of the front wheel in relation to the windshield, the amount of overhang in front of that wheel, and then the location of the rear axle to the roof profile. Then the placement of the wheels to the width of the car. These are all the things that you see while you’re looking at a car, whether it’s moving or static. The Seville’s A-pillar looks swept back, but that’s more dramatic because the roof profile was so upright and formal.

Earlier in my Cadillac career, somebody had taken a survey of our owners’ garages, and a lot of them had garages that were attached to older houses. The houses might have been big, but the garages weren’t, because nobody anticipated cars growing to that length. We got to a certain length, and we were told, “Don’t go any further because we’re going to lose customers.”

Downsizing at Cadillac

The first major downsizing project was the ’77 DeVille and Fleetwood. I’d started a little of that [downsizing] at Buick before I left. I think the assignment was to get a thousand pounds out of the car, so we had to reduce the size. Part of the assignment was to make the car look more fuel-efficient. We had these large cars that looked irresponsible and were getting maybe 12 mpg, then we’ve got Asian cars that are getting 25 [mpg] or more. That’s what people were concerned about back then. Even if the car got good fuel economy, it was the image that was part of the reason for downsizing. There were people at Cadillac who were talking about the bulk of the car and the appearance that we were wasting the nation’s resources and that we were greedy.

1980 Cadillac “Bustleback” Seville

After we finished the design of the ’67 Eldorado, we were given time to sketch whatever we wanted, and we were putting together advance concepts. I always had an interest in something that was unique and a little different for the rear of the car. Harley Earl used to say, “The most important part of a car design is the front end.” But I thought maybe the rear end was just as important.

Tailfins had run their course, and it occurred to me that people spent a lot of time looking at the back of a car. I thought, “There’s an opportunity to make a car distinctive and different.” I had been sketching that idea since probably the early to mid-’60s. We were looking at this design for the ’79 Eldorado, and we’d shown the clay model to Ed Kennard, who was the general manager of Cadillac. He rejected it and Bill Mitchell asked if he’d consider it for Seville. Kennard said he would look at it, and I think he was placating Bill for having rejected it outright as an Eldorado. We added another door cutline and that’s how it became a Seville. I was invited to the dealer announcement in Long Beach. When they announced that car, they had it on the stage and when they pulled the curtains back, the car started to revolve on a turntable and was partially concealed with fog. Then the lights gradually came on, like the sun coming up. As the fog cleared, you could see the car. It got a standing ovation. I’ve been to a lot of these dealer announcements, and this was by far the most applause for a new car that I’d ever seen. But then they priced it, I think, almost $4000 more than the previous year. They added a lot of standard features, like a diesel engine. Those engines were extremely problematic and added to the car’s price. I remember going into a dealer showroom and people would walk up to that car, they’d look at the sticker price, and then they’d look at an Eldorado or DeVille and many of them would go for the less expensive option. Then they had the V-8-6-4 [GM’s first attempt at cylinder deactivation] and the technology wasn’t ready. The electronics weren’t worked out, and the dealers didn’t know how to fix it—the factory didn’t have a fix. It was a time when fuel economy was a huge problem, and the corporation was doing all it could to squeeze out as many miles per gallon as possible. I’d give credit to Cadillac engineering for advanced thinking and having the fortitude to produce it. It’s just too bad that the technology wasn’t proven. They were ahead of their time. Today cylinder deactivation is standard on a number of cars.

I remember being at a dealer council meeting and the dealers were very upset with the general manager and the chief engineer. I think I was included in the meeting because the Seville was controversial with that bustleback and I would share some of the criticism. Oh, they were very upset. One of them was Don Massey [known as “the Cadillac King,” at his peak, Massey was one of the largest Cadillac retailers in the country, accounting for approximately 6 percent of the brand’s sales], but he was fairly cool. The one who was the most vocal and angry was John DeLorean’s brother, Charles, who owned a Cadillac dealership outside of Cleveland. Another dealer belonged to the same country club as some of his customers, where he would regularly overhear one of them asking another member how they liked their new Cadillac. The other member responded, saying, “I hate it. It’s been at the dealership, and he can’t find a fix for the engine.” And DeLorean says to us, “I’m losing my customers, I’m going to lose my franchise, and it’s because of you SOBs.” They were literally calling the general manager and the chief engineer SOBs right to their faces. It was pretty nasty. Massey was the last to speak. He looked at Kennard, and he said, “Well, boss, looks like we got work to do.”

The Cadillac Allanté

The 1989 model year was my last year at Cadillac. One of my final projects was an alternate design to the Allanté. I was not happy when I found out that Bob Burger, Cadillac’s new general manager, was going to [Italian design house] Pininfarina to build a two-passenger car. I asked Burger, “How is it that we can do your bread-and-butter products, but then when it comes to a fun and historic project, you give it to somebody who hasn’t done anything for you?” He answered, “Well, this is business. We want that designer label.” I said, “What do you mean, ‘designer label?’” He said, “We want a designer label on the car, like the red tags on the back of Levi’s.” I asked him, “What do you think we are?” He replied, “Nobody knows who you are.” And he was right. Nobody knew who we were. Bill Mitchell received credit for everything, but the designers, they were unknown to the public. We put together an alternate version of the Allanté anyway. It wasn’t any better than what I think Pininfarina came up with, but we had to do something to keep the team together. The morale was shot when they found out about it. I think if Mitchell had still been there, he probably would have fought Burger on that one.

Back at Buick

I was transferred to Buick after the ’89 model year. I shared responsibility for Buick exterior design with Bill Porter [another design legend at GM, who was responsible for the 1968 Pontiac LeMans/GTO, the 1970 Pontiac Firebird, and the 1982 Chevrolet Camaro/Pontiac Firebird, among others]. Bill was leading the design for the LeSabre, the Park Avenue, and the Riviera. I was responsible for the Century, the Regal, the Skylark, and the Roadmaster, which was based on the same platform as the Chevy Impala; the estate wagon version of it was done by my assistant, Dennis Wright. He brought back woodgrain trim on the sides of the car, and some of the designers disagreed. Dennis told me at one time, he thought that the Roadmaster estate wagon outsold the Impala version. We were there to design cars to sell for profit. That’s what we were paid to do.

I retired on April 1, 1999, after a little over 38 years at General Motors. Coming from a farm, as a farm kid, I never would’ve dreamt that I would have been working at General Motors from day one. And to work on Cadillac, on GM’s top brand, and be the chief designer longer than anybody else in the history of Cadillac. I made a good living, met a lot of great people, and worked with some of the most talented people in the world for automobile design. You know, what’s there not to like?

***

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True story: I once got sued for driving “a mobile distraction.” I was driving my 1913 Mercer Raceabout on the 405 freeway in Los Angeles, and it was the usual bumper-to-bumper traffic. I noticed that this one guy was looking at me, and not at the car in front of him, and I said “Hey, watch out!” Oh yeah, he said,no problem, and he asked me what kind of car I was driving and what year it was and so forth and … boom! He hit the guy in front of him. Not hard,just a small bang, maybe a broken taillight or something.

A couple of weeks later, I got a notice in the mail that I was being sued for driving “a mobile distraction.” I went to court and told the judge that this is exactly what the Mercer looked like when it was new, that there was nothing on it in particular to distract a driver, no flashing lights or neon billboards, nothing like that. Well, I won, but it was crazy—the whole premise was that I was driving something like a clown car, trying to get people’s attention.

I sometimes wonder if people buying the latest hypercars will have the same problem. After all,isn’t that what they are buying,attention? I guess another attraction is that they are bespoke and handmade. Each one is individually handcrafted to the owner’s exact specifications, the seat molded to the exact contours of their butt,etc. Hey, I get it;in the 1920s and ’30s, bespoke coachwork was all the rage, and my garage is full of cars from that era—what I like to call my “collection of noble failures” because firms like Duesenberg offered the finest craftsmanship at the highest prices and ultimately flopped because it was too expensive, even back then.

The idea that anything handmade is better than anything designed by a computer and built by a robot really went out years ago. The English beat it to death, and have you checked the prices of 1980s Jaguars? I remember when a company out of Australia called Carbon Revolution brought a set of handmade carbon-fiber wheels here to try out. The wheels were about $20,000 apiece, and I drove a Porsche 911 fitted with them. It did feel a little lighter and everything, but the wheels cost as much as the car! A few years later, Ford came in, helped the company automate their manufacturing, and offered the wheels on the Shelby Mustang GT350 for about $2500 per wheel. The same wheels! Which says everything you need to know about the efficiency of hand manufacturing.

And don’t tell me people buy hypercars for the performance. If you buy a $3 million car are you a 30-times-better driver than a guy who buys a Porsche? Personally, I don’t think I’m good enough for any of them. Last time I drove a Porsche 718 Cayman, which starts around $70,000 today, I thought, “Well, this is a fabulous car. You have plenty of power, it’s relatively light, it handles as good as anything I’ve ever driven, and if I went out and bought a $3 million car, a proper driver would beat me in a Cayman, no question.”

I remember a number of years ago, this one guy rode to the Rock Store up on Mulholland Highway on a Harley 883 Sportster. Nothing fancy, the cheapest Harley in the catalog then. A bunch of guys in racing leathers were going up the mountain on the hottest new sport bikes and he went with them. And he was practically banging the handlebars on the groundgunning it out of the corners beating these guys on bikes with 180 horsepower. And I said to myself, “OK, I’m never going to be that good, either on two wheels or four.” If I had to pick, I would definitely rather drive a Cayman and try to beat someone than lose to a Cayman while trying to look good in my McLaren F1, because I’m totally not worthy.

One million dollars is ridiculous for a car, but that’s about what the McLaren F1 was when I got it. The car was designed by Gordon Murray, a genius, really. And now Murray is building a new line of cars that are supposed to be analog, like my old F1, with naturally aspirated engines and manual transmissions. In the interior, you get not much more than in a Miata; there’s a little steering wheel, a stick shifter, and a radio, but the price is $3 million! Sure, it’s beautiful, and if you buy one,you might get hit with a silly lawsuit. More important, you better know how to drive it, because there’s somebody out there in a Cayman who would love to eat your lunch.

***

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Sick Week 2024 kicks off on January 28 at Orlando Speed World. This year, instead of ushering in the new year with Florida sun and burnt rubber, I’m holed up in my Michigan home surrounded by snow. Rather than shed a tear (it would likely freeze), let’s go back to 2023 and relive the event through my camera. If you’re anywhere near this year’s southern soiree, I suggest you go. Now, if you will excuse me, I’m going to search last-minute flights to Orlando. —CN

Throw the Baja 1000 and the NHRA season in a blender, and you get Sick Week. During a five-day rally, drag racers in everything from decommissioned Crown Vics to hot-rod Firebirds cover over 1000 miles of public roads, visiting four different drag strips and making multiple runs to net the quickest time. The top cars here lay down quarter-miles in the realm of an NHRA Pro Stocker—under 7 seconds, at speeds exceeding 200 mph. Yet the real goal for the hundreds who compete is simply to finish.

“It’s super grueling,” says Hagerty contributor Tony Angelo, who participated in the 2023 event in a 10-second Firebird. “There’s limited sleep, and tons of parts break. But when you finish, it’s the greatest feeling of accomplishment ever.”

I caught the Sick Week bug last winter during its stop in Bradenton, Florida.

How Sick Week Works: Road to Strip to Road

Aside from burnouts, the most common sight during Sick Week is pant legs wriggling under cars, usually accompanied by shouted profanities. Roadside repairs are the rule, not the exception.

Teams are capped at two people, and the use of a support vehicle is strictly prohibited. Some racers tow spare parts, drag slicks, and other road-trip necessities in a single-axle trailer behind their ride. No trailer queens here.

Each morning, the group departs from a hotel for a nearby strip. At the racetrack, racers might swap tires, tune carburetors, or even change supercharger blower pulleys to prep their street-legal cars for the drag strip. Once each driver makes a pass (or multiple passes if they want to improve on their time), they pack up, convert the car back to street mode, and point their hood scoops toward the next town.

What You’ll See at Sick Week: Beasts of All Kinds

A common complaint about drag racing (and just about every professional racing series nowadays) is that the cars are too much alike. That’s not a problem at Sick Week, where you can see everything from a Volvo wagon to late-model trucks alongside the standard muscle car fare. They compete in more than a dozen classes. Many of the vehicles are seriously quick—a stock Porsche 911 Turbo S would run mid-pack—but all are welcome. A 1997 Jeep Wrangler competing in the stick-shift class ran a 19-second time.

How Sick Week Started … and How It’s Going

Sick Week is in only its third year, but the 350 entry spots sold out in all of two minutes. Sick Week’s founder, Tom Bailey—a celebrity in the drag-and-drive niche—is a four-time champion of Hot Rod’s Drag Week. His street-legal 4000-hp 1969 Camaro, capable of 5-second passes, unofficially holds the title as “the fastest street car in America.”

It was at Drag Week in 2021 that Bailey and a group of friends began discussing what they would do differently if they had their own event.

“At the top of our hit list was good track prep,” says Bailey. “Put us on great tracks where people can run their best times.” Bailey, a Michigan native, had spent his summers testing in Florida and discovered several quality strips within a day’s drive of one another. “I thought: ‘Why hasn’t anyone done this?’”

Bailey and his posse rushed to assemble the first Sick Week in 2022. It was an instant hit. “I remember arriving late to a track one day and seeing the cars lined up for miles,” says Bailey. “It was packed on a Thursday morning in February.”

What’s Sick Week Like? Hurry up and wait

“It’s hard to go fast. It’s even harder to make every stop,” says Angelo, the Firebird driver. This is a sentiment shared by all, as getting the drag car to the track is half the battle—Florida traffic is enough to force the coolant out of any radiator. You can only relax once you’re in the staging lanes. While they wait for their pass, some weary competitors sleep in the seat, on the ground, or on a hood.

You Don’t Have to Race: Join the Sick Ward

Of course, the real draw, at the end of the day, is the raw power of drag racing. Sick Week brings in so many spectators that Bailey created the “Sick Ward” for people who just wanted to cruise with the group and enjoy the camaraderie rather than race. Members of the Ward, as well as local drag nuts, pack the stands at every Florida and Georgia stop—pretty amazing for a weekday event.

***

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Change is afoot. We all feel it. Even if electric vehicles aren’t meeting sales expectations at the moment, it’s not hard to wonder whether it’s closing time for the traditional sports car. At least, for those of us who don’t have millions to throw at one of Gordon Murray’s naturally aspirated, stick-shift hypercars. Fewer than 2 percent of all new cars sold in the United States last year had a manual transmission, and the options dwindle by the day. Many of our favorite cars are straight-up disappearing—a few months back, we bade goodbye to the Chevrolet Camaro with a series of articles—while others remain in name but leave us in spirit. The latest BMW 3 Series, for example, offers no manual transmission except as a $76,000 M3/M4; the Volkswagen GTI currently has three pedals but will not for 2025, and it will likely go all-electric in 2026.

Indeed, as I was readying the new-for-2024 Ford Mustang you see here to participate in the story you’re about to read, I got a text from my father informing me about the purchase of… a 2024 Mustang GT. Although he has owned his share of sports cars over the decades, there seemed to be an urgency this time around. “It could be my last opportunity to buy a new car like this,” he explained.

The desire to seize the present as well as wring the last few drops of driving season carried us to southern Ohio in late autumn in five sports cars you can buy right now, including the Acura Integra Type S, the Mazda Miata, the Subaru BRZ, and the Toyota GR Corolla, as well as the aforementioned Mustang GT. Our aim wasn’t a conventional comparison test, so our qualifications, aside from the need for a clutch pedal, were unapologetically fuzzy.

We wanted cars that could be had for around $50,000 (roughly the average price of a new car in 2023, believe it or not) and that represented some niche of sports car enthusiasm. And rather than a rigid rubric of track and performance testing, we opted for a backroads adventure someone might reasonably do in a factory-warrantied, bank-owned daily driver. Our goal, in essence, was to understand the state of the affordable sports car in 2024. Is this really the end? Or, worse, has the best already come and gone?

The Purebreds

2023 Mazda Miata Grand Touring

One of the things no one tells you about Ohio is that it’s beautiful. South of Columbus, the midwestern monotony of cornfields and industrial sprawl gives way to red-streaked rock, winding waterways, and ribbons of perfect blacktop that dip and careen through a multicolored forest canopy. We set out in the early morning from the town of Athens, home of Ohio University and situated along the Hocking River. Although it was cold enough to frost, I flipped open the top of our Miata to let in the morning mist.

The Miata is the oldest vehicle in this test in more ways than one. It was last redesigned in 2015, an eternity in the auto industry, and differs in no meaningful way from what Mazda introduced in 1989. It also represents our very oldest notion of what an affordable sports car is—a two-seat, rear-drive convertible with an overachieving four-cylinder. In the 1950s, these arrived on our shores as MG TDs, Austin-Healeys, and Triumphs.

If your senses have been dulled by modern performance cars with their rock-hard suspensions, steamroller tires, and Ludicrous settings, you might spend a mile or two wondering what all the fuss is with the Miata, in the same way my 4-year-old daughter was unimpressed by her first real rainbow sighting (“Where are the unicorns?”). This Miata has more power than any of its predecessors, edging out even the turbocharged 2004–2005 MazdaSpeed Miata. But given the massive horsepower inflation of recent years, it doesn’t feel particularly muscle-bound. Even for me, a longtime owner of a first-generation Miata, the initial meeting here is slightly awkward. Steering is relatively light, and the ride is luxury-car supple. Through the first few corners, supposedly this thing’s calling card, I sawed at the wheel, jabbed at the throttle, and was rewarded with a whole lot of body roll and slower corner exits.

Then I settled down, slowed my inputs, and devoted more of my energy to seeing and sensing the road. It clicked. The car stopped fighting me—or, rather, I stopped fighting it—and we started experiencing each corner as a team. With smooth braking and deliberate turn-in, the Miata sets, sticks, and gently pivots. Feed in throttle, let out a small whoop, and prepare for the next one. The Miata isn’t just a good driver’s car but also one that continually teaches you to become a better driver.

This has always been the Miata magic, but that magic has been distilled in the latest edition. Three of the editors on this test, myself included, own first-generation cars, and we all remarked on how this one actually feels better. “It’s every bit as agile as the original but is so much more composed when you go faster,” said editor-in-chief Larry Webster (who technically owns two old Miatas). “It’s light and flickable, graceful. The motor kept its zinginess but has the muscle the first one lacked.” On top of all that, it has become considerably more practical, with an easier-to-stow and quieter top.

Of course, there are still practical limitations. Most of us could not justify a two-seater as a daily driver. “I would wait to get a Miata until later in life; in my 20s, I only want to keep track of one car, and I want something with more trunk space, if not more seats, and a hard roof,” noted associate managing editor Grace Houghton. Taller drivers, Webster included, had to accept being cramped.

These aren’t really criticisms, exactly, in the same way it’s not really criticism to say a hammer isn’t good at drilling holes. We’ve become accustomed to cars that attempt to do a lot of things at varying levels of competency. The Miata is one of the last cars on the road that tries to do one thing well. It is a sports car boiled down to its essence. On the right roads, it’s impossible to imagine wanting anything more.

2023 Subaru BRZ Limited

Unless, maybe, you hop directly into a Subaru BRZ, as I did for a stretch of Ohio State Route 537, a rural roller coaster dotted by the occasional farm and Parks General Store. (“You terrorists?” a local asked before driving off, apparently uninterested in our answer.) The Subaru’s chassis is noticeably and usefully tauter than the Miata’s, to the extent that you can hit the same undulating curves harder, brake slightly later, and jump on the gas a bit more aggressively. The general experience is similar, but there’s more adrenaline here.

If you’ve spent time in the first-generation BRZ and dismissed it—as I had—the second generation deserves fresh consideration. The boxer engine, which was breathless and harsh enough to knock loose a filling in the original, has been smoothed; it revs freely and has been given extra oomph. The gearbox is slicker, if not quite as silky as the Mazda’s, and the steering is nicely weighted and direct. “This is a ‘sweet spot’ car,” said Webster. “Enough power so you can wring it out but not so much that you’re going insanely quick.”

There are still some rough edges. The interior is, as ever, a sea of dark plastics, with a touchscreen that reminded one editor of a “10-year-old Android phone.” The busy exterior styling checks all the sporty boxes—and presumably satisfies the brand marketing departments at both Subaru and Toyota (which badges it the GR86)—but fails to strike much of an emotional chord. “As a design, it’s just not that memorable,” said HDC magazine creative director Todd Kraemer.

Yet none of these flaws meaningfully take away from what was, for only $31,500, the purest handling car in this entire group. “You get what you pay for here—and you’re paying for the chassis,” said Houghton, who named it her top choice. By my reckoning, you’d have to pay $70,000, the base price of a Porsche 718 Cayman, to get a significantly better chassis.

Indeed, it wouldn’t surprise any of us if, someday, enthusiasts shell out big-time money for the BRZ, as they do today for the best handling Japanese coupes of the 1980s and 1990s.

“This is one of those cars we currently take for granted,” noted senior content manager Joe DeMatio, “which, when it’s gone, we will be like, ‘Oh damn, why don’t they make that anymore?’”

The Sport Compact Generation Gap

2023 Toyota GR Corolla

Stopping for lunch in one of the one-street towns around these parts, I spied a teenage boy gesticulating at me. Had I parked in the wrong spot? Run over his dog, perhaps? Only as I got closer did it become clear that I had spotted in the wild what is supposedly the rarest of creatures: a young person who is really into cars. Not just any car, though. He was drawn to the GR Corolla.

If, like me, you happen to be a middle-aged geek, this might seem odd. After all, we are talking about what is recognizably a Toyota Corolla hatchback. Chris Stark, associate editor and our own tame 20-something, attempted to explain the appeal: “Colin McRae ASMR 10 hours.”

Um, what?

“You know, Colin McRae, the Scottish rally driver who is most famous for driving Subarus in the 1990s,” he enthused. “And ASMR stands for autonomous sensory meridian response—a tingling feeling down your spine in reaction to certain sounds. There are a ton of long YouTube videos about it, but basically, this Corolla makes really cool rally car sounds.”

I still don’t quite get all that, but within the first few miles, I appreciated the sheer chutzpah of this Toyota. Beyond the styling—an adolescent fever dream replete with fender flares, scoops, and three exhaust tips—it has the most unsubtle turbocharger I’ve experienced on a new car in at least a decade. How else can a 1.6-liter three-cylinder make 300 horsepower? Each dip into the throttle is rewarded with a RIGHT NOW wallop of boost and neck-snapping thrust. “It’s just so scrappy and energetic,” remarked Webster. “You can’t not flog it.”

When the flogging ensues, you begin to realize there’s a lot more going on here than simply a pile of performance parts. For the uninitiated, “GR” stands for Gazoo Racing, Toyota’s in-house motorsports outfit. It has been particularly active of late in World Rally Championship, winning the manufacturers’ title three years running. Our test car was a limited-build Morizo edition, that being the nickname of company chairman Akio Toyoda. It evinces all kinds of engineering overkill, from a lighter, carbon-fiber roof to extra spot welds (349, to be exact) that add rigidity. It is, in short, the real deal, and it drives like it. “The new hot hatch benchmark,” enthused Webster.

The car hoovered up the gnarliest corners Ohio could throw at it, going faster than the other cars in the group, always whispering for more speed. Unlike many all-wheel-drive wündercars, though, it never gives the impression that computers are doing all the work. Toyota paid attention to the ABCs of driver involvement, starting with a great manual gearbox. “The clutch pedal to shifter relationship is spot on,” observed DeMatio. “You can feel the texture of the pavement through the steering wheel,” added Houghton. The tires, Michelin Pilot Sport Cup 2s, have phenomenal traction but let you know when they’re reaching their limit, rather than braking suddenly. “It was confidence-inspiring on a level unmatched by any car in our group,” concluded Webster.

It was also, without a doubt, the most tiring car in our group, with a bone-rattling ride and a never-ending cacophony of road, engine, and wind noise. “I’m told the Morizo version has a lot of the sound deadening removed—put it back!” groused Kraemer. Even Stark, who spent much of the trip trying to figure out what he could Marie Kondo out of his life in order to afford one, admitted there were moments when it was all too much. “I love this car, but I’m glad I wasn’t the one who drove it back to Michigan,” he said.

2023 Acura Integra Type S

The car most of us preferred to while away the hours in was the Acura Integra Type S. Before going any further, let’s take a moment to appreciate that there is such a thing as a new Integra Type S. The nameplate disappeared in the United States around the turn of the century, and Acura hasn’t offered a small sport compact of any kind in more than 15 years (the outgoing ILX had its merits but never had sporting intentions). Zooming out, there just aren’t many new cars (as opposed to crossovers) of any ilk being added to lineups these days, let alone hatchbacks with stick shifts and 320-hp turbo engines.

That said, for better and for worse, this is not the Integra of millennials’ nostalgic imagination so much as the Integra for millennials as they exist today—30-somethings with respectable jobs to get to and families to haul. The model-year 2000 Acura Integra Type-R, now a darling of the collector car market, was in many respects a tuner special in the spirit of the Corolla GR. The Type S, although essentially a Type-R under its skin (most of the mechanicals come from the Honda Civic Type R), hews closer to the tradition of the Volkswagen GTI: a subtle, refined front-driver.

Most of the time, this felt like a pretty smart balance. “The right car for me,” said DeMatio. “Plenty of power, but also plenty of refinement and an attractive exterior. All the stuff you’d expect from a daily driver—easy-to-use interfaces, excellent outward view, comfortable seats—is here.” Much like in the best GTIs, when you spend enough time in the Integra, you start to wonder why anyone would ever need anything more. Moreover, everyone appreciated the aggressive styling, which is frankly astonishing when you consider how polarizing Acuras have been over the past decade or so.

Driven by itself on these roads, the Integra feels nearly ideal, with no shortage of power or traction and a manual gearbox as good as any Honda has produced (which is to say as good as anyone has produced). In our group of purebreds, however, the trade-offs become clear. The steering wheel tugs noticeably under acceleration and generally lacks a consistent feel. “It’s darty just off center and then overly slow as you turn in further,” complained Webster. “I found myself making numerous little corrections.” The engine is better behaved, producing nary a hint of turbo lag. Yet some of us would have preferred some rowdiness. “Where’s the VTEC, yo?” wondered Stark.

More than any of the other cars on the test, this one seemed haunted by memories of what used to be. It is neither the zippy boy racer of Acura’s past nor the perfectly balanced sports sedan that, not long ago, seemed to be price of entry for every serious luxury brand. “I thought the car might make me sell my E36 1998 M3 four-door,” mused Webster. “Nope.” But our memories can play tricks on us. When we turned our focus to the present, the Integra was the car more editors said they wanted to take home than any other.

The Pony Car Stands Alone

2023 Ford Mustang GT

There are many things that distinguish the Ford Mustang from the other cars in this test. It was the largest, the most powerful, and (as equipped) the most expensive. It wears the oldest nameplate, too—60 years, as of this April. Not for nothing, it’s the only one in our group sold by an American automaker (although it should be noted that the Integra is in fact built right here in Ohio). But the most important distinction, in terms of understanding the Mustang, is that people buy it in meaningful numbers. Ford still sells some 50,000 a year in the United States and boasts that it has been the bestselling sports car in the world 10 years running. The new seventh-generation model is so hot that it’s sitting on dealer lots for an average of just seven days. Like the Rolling Stones, it somehow manages to keep drawing the crowds.

This popularity makes it an exception among affordable sports cars. Yet it is an exception that proves the rule, for the most popular sports car in the world is—at least in the particular context of this group and these tight country roads—not exactly a sports car.

Please don’t misunderstand: The new Mustang is effortlessly fast, and it sounds the business. “Easily the best sounding car here,” enthused Stark. Around town, the 5.0-liter does a convincing impression of an old-time big-displacement engine, but it really sounds best at high rpm, where eight cylinders combine with four fast-spinning overhead cams in a symphonic roar. True to form as the last muscle car standing, it also does, per Webster, “the best burnout of any modern car.”

Despite its size, it had no problem keeping up with the others, even through technical sections where it couldn’t rely on its massive power. If only it felt a little more joyful doing so. “The steering is lifeless, like a racing simulator,” said Webster. Admittedly, that’s a trivial complaint in most driving situations. Charging over a blind crest or dialing downhill into a decreasing radius corner, though, this sensory deprivation can be downright spooky. You have to trust that the tires are somewhere out there and indeed sticking to the pavement. Mind you, the Mustang consistently proves worthy of that trust. “It did what I asked every time and compensated when I made mistakes, so the suspension and brakes were doing their job,” noted Kraemer. “You just didn’t always feel like they’re going to do their job.”

None of this is surprising nor, really, an indictment. The resounding majority of modern performance cars, including the Porsche 911 and pretty much all new BMWs, have grown larger and feel more isolated from the road than their predecessors, presumably because that’s what most of us want. Heck, it’s what most of us wanted most of the time—the Mustang, along with the Integra, was the car editors most desired for the stretches of “normal” roads that connected the technical bits. “I imagine it’s a fine commuter car for someone who’s got to burn 50 or 75 miles of freeway every day,” admitted DeMatio.

What saves the Mustang as a sports car—what has almost always saved it—is that it doesn’t take itself all that seriously. Everyone geeked out over the fact that among the optional gauge configurations in the digital driver’s screen is a tribute to the tach and speedo in a late 1980s Fox body. “All the bells and whistles on the dash are pure fun,” enthused Kraemer. Most were charmed by the return of a handbrake (even though it’s actually connected to the e-brake by electronics, rather than a cable). And everyone loved the way it looked—even those of us (me) who had balked at the initial photos. Using the basic retro styling language that has served this car well since 2005, Ford designers came up with something more expressive and almost cartoonish—in a good way. More than any of the other cars in our group, the Mustang has a personality and a presence. “It reminds me of a Labrador—big, dumb, loud, and eager,” said Stark. It was hard for any of us to be angry with the pup for being out of its element on this drive.

“This thing does all the Mustang stuff—it just might be too soft for what we want to do out here,” concluded Webster. “I’ll reserve judgment until I drive a Dark Horse.”

It turns out the automotive industry, which has by and large converged on the front-drive-based, SUV-like wagon as the Universal Transportation Solution, still produces (at least) five wonderfully different answers to the question, “How can I have fun in a new car for $50,000 or less?”

Those differences make disingenuous any attempt to declare one car the absolute winner. Indeed, the vote was irreparably split. DeMatio and Kraemer preferred the Integra; Stark naturally fell for the Corolla and Webster seemed to be with him, albeit with the caveat that it might be “too stiff and annoying in everyday use;” Houghton picked the BRZ; photographer Cameron Neveu, freed from camera duty long enough to get seat time in each car, lent his support and a huge grin to the Mustang; I’d soonest put a payment down on the Miata.

We tucked in for the night in Marietta, Ohio (population: 13,178), the oldest settlement in the former Northwest Territory. Situated at the meeting point of the Ohio and Muskingum rivers, Marietta was long a choice spot for indigenous tribes—as evidenced by large burial mounds—and later became a nexus of shipping, railroad, and oil wealth. In recent decades, though, it has faced economic challenges all too common throughout the Midwest, and many of its stately buildings sit empty or in disrepair. Spend enough time in towns like this, and it’s hard to escape a sense of loss, a nagging sense that we’re closer to the end of something than the beginning.

Perhaps it was the afterglow of the day’s driving, but I chose, on this night, to see it differently. This place is still here. The work of generations—the broad boulevards, the rows of massive trees, and the 18th-century mansions—is still here for us to appreciate on a clear autumn night in the 21st century.

I suggest we choose to take the same view of the affordable sports car, which has, truth be told, been dying for about as long as it has been alive. In the 1950s, the decade many associate with the emergence of the sports car in America, it faced extinction from the proliferation of driving assistance technologies like power steering and automatic shifting. (From 1950 to 1960, manual-transmission take rate in the United States dropped from two-thirds to less than a third.) In the 1970s and ’80s, fuel crunches, safety regulations, and insurance hikes doomed the muscle car and sent British sportscar makers into a tailspin. In the 1990s and early 2000s, sporty coupes were supposed to be supplanted by SUVs.

Now they face the rising threat of electric vehicles. What else is new? That’s not some bromide about how the best is yet to come. But I can say that at this very moment, affordable sports cars are still with us, and people, they are very good. If you’ve dreamed of one, there’s no time like the present. Dad’s right—don’t wait.

***

__

Specs: 2023 Mazda Miata Grand Touring

Engine: 2.0-liter I-4
Power: 181 hp @ 7000 rpm
Torque: 151 lb-ft @ 4000 rpm
Weight: 2341 lb
Power to weight: 12.9 lb/hp
0–60 mph: 5.7 seconds
Base price: $29,300
Price as tested: $34,500

__

Specs: 2023 Subaru BRZ Limited

Engine: 2.4-liter H-4
Power: 228 hp @ 7000 rpm
Torque: 184 lb-ft @ 3700 rpm
Weight: 2864 lb
Power to weight: 12.6 lb/hp
0–60 mph: 5.4 seconds
Base price: $29,600
Price as tested: $31,500

__

Specs: 2023 Toyota GR Corolla

Engine: 1.6-liter I-3
Power: 300 hp @ 6500 rpm
Torque: 295 lb-ft @ 3250 rpm
Weight: 3186 lb
Power to weight: 10.6 lb/hp
0–60 mph: 4.9 seconds
Base price: $37,000
Price as tested: $52,100

__

Specs: 2024 Acura Integra Type S

Engine: 2.0-liter I-4
Power: 320 hp @ 6500 rpm
Torque: 310 lb-ft @ 2600 rpm
Weight: 3219 lb
Power to weight: 10.1 lb/hp
0–60 mph: 5.1 seconds
Base price: $52,000
Price as tested: $52,000

__

Specs: 2024 Ford Mustang GT

Engine: 5.0-liter V-8
Power: 486 hp @ 7250 rpm
Torque: 418 lb-ft @ 4900 rpm
Weight: 3827 lb
Power to weight: 7.9 lb/hp
0–60 mph: 4.2 seconds
Base price: $45,000
Price as tested: $61,700

***

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The post Gas + Stick: 5 New Sports Cars That Keep the Faith 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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For a young California surfer, the gleaming walls of New York City were all kinds of wrong. Sure, they beckoned like a sparkling Pacific swell in a graceful sine curve of energy wrapping around a rocky point before jacking up and barreling onshore. But Midtown wasn’t Malibu, and in all fairness, I’d guessed the Big Apple would be a weird trip well before I moved there for work, coincidentally on the same day in December 1980 that John Lennon was shot. The city was fun—for a while. Eventually, though, the relentless traffic and sirens, a harsh business climate, and the seething, sweating masses packing every square foot of subways and sidewalks, elevators and offices blew my fuses. Homeward bound, I wished I was. But how? In the city, just one car merited an escape: a Checker cab.

Ernst the cabbie answered the door of his home in Queens. He invited me inside, where the bouquets of linen doilies, shag carpeting, waxed hardwood, and beef stew intertwined in an invisible olfactory waltz. Shortly, Mrs. Cabbie produced two cups of tea whitened with milk and sweeter than a box of Sugar Smacks. Advertised in a local paper, Ernst’s used-up 1976 Checker Taxicab was $800. It was also as large as a moving van, and, most important, it ran.

While we talked, the Checker sat curbside looking like a beached, sunburned rorqual awaiting rescue. Its enormous front bumper, which could easily double as a Darlington guardrail, was twisted down as if smashed by Cale Yarborough’s 427 Galaxie during his massive ’65 crash there. The precious “medallion,” New York’s operating permit for cabs, had been prised from the hood, and the roof light and taximeter were likewise switched to Ernst’s new ride. “Rates: $1 First 1/9th Mile,” read the chipped door signage. “10¢ Each Additional 1/9th Mile; 10¢ PER 45 SECONDS—TIME NOT IN MOTION.” Huh. As a passenger, NYC to LA penciled out to $2511.36—not including charges for any delays. Owning looked way better than renting.

Inside was purposefully banal decor, including black vinyl bench seats front and rear, shabby rubber floor mats, and a pair of swing-up jump seats. Separating the quarterdeck from steerage, a bully-proof, bulletproof, Life-Guard clear partition spanned the cabin, with a pass-through for cash located below. “For our families’ peace of mind,” promised a 1976 Checker brochure; in 1981, when this tale happened, New York City was rough. Elsewhere were signs of wear and tear, indicating relentless use over the car’s six years of servitude in America’s biggest burg. Ernst added that he had shared it with his son, each driving 12-hour shifts so the car literally had zero downtime.

The Checker Motors Model A-11 Taxicab debuted in 1961 and was built in Kalamazoo, Michigan, until production shuttered in 1982. This one listed for $5274.54 and featured the base 250-cubic-inch GM inline-six engine backed by a robust Turbo-Hydra-Matic 400, all nestled inside a cavernous engine bay and X-braced ladder frame with a breathy 120-inch wheelbase. It was equal parts Sherman tank and stagecoach and built for hard work. Get this: In 1999, the last New York City Checker Taxicab finally retired, a 1978 model with nearly a million miles on the clock from hacking through nearly 4000 miles of city traffic per month continuously for 21 straight years. Insanity.

Who knew how many times my new ride’s odometer had rolled over, but on November 24, 1981, it read 54,170 miles as the cab navigated toward the apartment of a young lass I’d met at an Upper East Side party. She needed a lift to Wisconsin for Thanksgiving, and since that was reasonably en route to good surf, I’d offered her the right seat. Paula must’ve had a screw loose to trust what was heading her way on that cool, clear Tuesday. Rattling across Midtown, its suspension juddering and body shell booming whenever the tires slammed a pothole, the bandit cab must have been a sight.

Literally, because I’d stuffed all but one of my possessions inside, right up to the ceiling, while lashed to the roof with trucking bungees was my surfboard. To mess with folks, I lettered “AROUND THE WORLD…BY CAB” on the rear fenders and slapped an “I LOVE WHALES” sticker on the trunklid. I’d unwittingly created a freak show with me as the star, but I really didn’t care; this was the starting line for adventure.

Frankly, it made no sense to leave my highest paying and possibly best career-starting job yet for such a wretched, reckless, and temporary ride. I had been working as senior editor at Adventure Travel magazine, right next to offices for Car and Driver, Flying, Cycle, etc., in the old Ziff-Davis headquarters on Park Avenue. When I reconsider it now, the trip—and, moreover, my about-face to the West Coast—was purely instinctual, driven by youthful myopia, money in the bank, and a congenital disdain for authority. Broadly, Aesop’s “The Wolf and the House Dog” fable called it. In the fable, a fat house dog meets a scrawny wolf and extols his pampered life. Wistful, the hungry wolf nearly signs on, until he spies a worn patch on the dog’s neck where collar and chain attach. “‘What! A chain!’ cried the wolf. And away ran the wolf to the woods.”

Oh, and that last item not packed in the cab? It was my apartment’s telephone, which I discarded on the sidewalk nearby. Don’t call me, New York, I’ll call you.

The old Checker certainly did run well, so I didn’t worry about the powertrain. What troubled me was whether the bulging retreads could withstand nearly 3000 highway miles with the car loaded to capacity, and how it would all work on the open road. Luckily, Paula didn’t mind the creaky, shuffling gait; she even wanted to drive. Trading places in the afternoon, her smooth hands explored the wheel delicately, and her unfreckled complexion was softly backlit by the low sun, which refracted through a garnet ring into dozens of miniature green streaks. We made Cleveland by nightfall.

While hoofing west toward Lake Michigan, like a horse sensing its stable, the cab suddenly—well, OK, figuratively—pulled hard right into Kalamazoo, Michigan, its hometown. It was a gray Wednesday before Thanksgiving, dark and bleak as befitting the Midwest. Six miles off I-94, there stood the dingy water tower and headquarters of Checker Motors Corp., then winding down production of cars. “Checker Motors rises out of the murk like a dinosaur from a swamp forest,” I scrawled in the logbook. “Weeds choke the executives’ parking places, and across the road, multicolored shapes sit, awaiting sale or delivery.” I’d bought the car as a tool, but spontaneously visiting this troubled place was like seeing the Chicxulub crater in the Yucatán, the impact point of the asteroid that doomed the Mesozoic era. Within a year, Checker would also be extinct as an automaker, except this time obsolescence was the asteroid. The old triceratops just couldn’t adapt to the times.

Even so, it was a good run for an independently owned specialty automaker. The company began in 1922, when Morris Markin, a Russian immigrant, merged struggling Commonwealth Motors with the Chicago taxi fleet. Postwar, Checker Motors’ forte was building taxis for New York City and, naturally, Chicago. The iconic quad-headlight design we all know launched in 1959 and flourished for over two decades.

An estimated 4000 to 5000 were manufactured annually, including the Marathon model for families, a station wagon, an executive limousine, and two extended “Aerobus” airport limos. A more upscale taxi, if you’ll pardon the term, was the A-11E, which featured a 9-inches-longer wheelbase and rear doors, a standard 350-cubic-inch GM V-8, and optional forward-facing auxiliary seats instead of the side-facing jump seats of this base A-11 model. Today, about 2000 Checker taxis are estimated to have survived.

What had been decent front tires 900 miles ago in New York were flat-out roached when I dropped off Paula and shot down to Chicago to pursue what was left of Route 66. At the time a smarter motorcycle guy than car guy, I didn’t quite know what to make of the tires’ odd wear pattern; mysteriously cupped and bald on the inside. But a Montgomery Ward store had a solution, sort of, and levered on a new G78-15 Runabout Belted and a used Vogue whitewall. Seemed like problem solved.

And then, as Kenneth Grahame wrote in The Wind in the Willows, “Toad, with no one to check his statements or to criticize in an unfriendly spirit, rather let himself go.” Answering to nobody and desiring to make the escape from New York more meaningful, I found a hobby shop and bought some Testors model paint, a brush, and thinner. So equipped, I went to work on the Checker’s body sides, painting a globe featuring the Western Hemisphere on the left and another showing Australasia on the right. Intending to further spoof the general populace, I detailed these with lines showing cities where the cab had allegedly been—or would ultimately visit. “I’m such a clever Toad,” remarked Grahame’s protagonist with conceit.

For all my “cunning” at the time, today the artwork seems dumber than the worst cartoon storyline, but my clumsy choices were just beginning. This I was about to learn as I traded heaven for hell at Chicago O’Hare International Airport, where I picked up high school friend Hunter for companionship on the Mother Road. To illustrate that a blind pig doesn’t always know a truffle when it finds one, consider this: Paula had been smart, sweet, agreeable, engaging, fun, pretty, and more. So naturally, I’d traded her in without cause. Forty years to the day after the Pearl Harbor attack, “Hunt” flew to Chicago to join the drive to LA. He’d come at my urgent request. “Old buds on the loose!” I’d enthused. “On Route 66! In a real taxi!” However, since graduating, he had become a grouch, a whiner, and an accomplished hypochondriac. Bluntly, Hunter was a boil on my backside from the moment he in his puffy orange Eddie Bauer parka with his battered American Tourister suitcase climbed into the cab—which, as if in retribution, still carried the last delicious traces of Paula’s perfume.

Despite his experience as a motorcycle desert racer and explorer, Hunter tired of the ride a mere day into our 10-day plan. “John, your cab is so f****** slow,” he complained from the passenger seat, valuables packed around him like gilded offerings in Tutankhamun’s tomb, including: a wrinkled bag containing a half-eat-en Filet-O-Fish; a Sanka coffee can full of prescription meds; and a formerly white handkerchief, now stained with who-knows-what. On the bridge of his nose perched wire-framed prescription glasses, their broken hinges soldered solid at the temples. “And the miles out here—they’re not normal miles, they’re country miles!”

This point, I had to concede. The Checker was acceptable in the city—coarse, clunky, and cumbersome, maybe, but dammit, the thing worked. At highway speeds, the game changed entirely. Sucking hard through its one-barrel downdraft carb, the thrifty overhead-valve six struggled to keep up with only 105 horsepower. The cab’s blocky shape, which excelled at ferrying passengers and luggage in urban environments, meant aero drag and noise—lots of it. The window seals proved nearly useless, letting the wintry, rushing air in like Jack Nicholson splitting the door open with an ax in The Shining and leering, “Heeere’s Johnny!”

Besides the wheezing engine and arctic blast, the cab also wandered all over the road. At 65 mph, it proved almost impossible to steer straight down its lane. Slowly but surely, over mile after grim, resolute mile, a theory emerged: In the slow lane, where thousands of heavily loaded truck tires had compressed the asphalt, these sunken tracks caught the tread and steered the cab in a drunken, meandering weave. Option A was to slow to 50 mph to lessen the weave; Option B was to merge into the flatter fast lane, which would block real drivers in real cars. Neither was attractive, given the nearly 2000 miles left to go.

After two days of battling adverse factors (including a stop for no license plate by the Illinois State Police, who released us after seeing the temporary permit), Hunt and I found ourselves nearing Kansas City. By late afternoon, the road, barren trees, and fallow farmland had melded into a dreary gray-brown mud. But above that, the sunset countered with an atomic blast of red, orange, and yellow that ignited the entire horizon. We were pissed at the situation and at each other and, as card-carrying nitwits, decided cocktails and calories would help. Which is why, I suppose, a bright green sign for Houlihan’s Old Place looked so attractive. Like a couple of punchy moths, we bumbled into the parking lot and flitted inside.

“Who’s a Houlihan’s girl? She could be you!” read a period want ad for hostesses there. Well, Marcy wasn’t a hostess, but she was hilarious, into kitsch, and dug the cab—which, gritty from the road, loomed out there in the gloom, like the antichrist of lighthouses. Somehow, she found her way into our booth, and somehow, a few hours later, we found our way into her apartment. Friendly local, check. Need a place to stay, double check. Largish beverage consumption, checkmate.

Hunt had the better instincts, curling up in a blanket on the dining room floor. But elsewhere—was I still heading to hell or already there? In the middle of the night came a loud crash. Hunt had rolled over in his sleep, knocking down a stack of closet doors leaning against the wall and gaining a huge knot on his head. In the morning, we were both happy to be alive and back in the same cab that had caused such misery the day before. Our headaches were the same, but different.

For Hunter the Adventurer, the damage was done. “I’m through,” he said later in Pratt, Kansas. That required only a quick (ahem) 200-mile detour south to Oklahoma City for him to catch a jet home. But hey, anything for a friend. Outside town, evoking Andrew Wyeth’s famous Christina’s World painting, stood an old farmhouse and barn set back from the two-lane, with a “bathtub” Nash Airflyte 600 in the grass nearby. I turned onto a dirt driveway, bounced past a weathered gate, and approached a farmer working near hewn oak doors. He was pushing 80, meaning that he’d been born around 1900. Emaciated, wearing dirty coveralls and smoking a grubby pipe, he meted out praise for Nash’s aerodynamic entry in the “lower-price field.” “Fifteen-hundred dollars,” he croaked. “Runs, too.” Tempting, but nope. (The same money, invested in Apple stock instead, would be worth $2.4 million now.)

After dispatching Hunter, the Crown Prince Sourpuss, the cab and I wandered up to Tulsa, scouting thrift stores for an imagined $75 Gibson 12-string guitar (no luck) before vectoring toward Cadillac Ranch near Amarillo, Texas. By now almost three weeks into this listless sojourn, I began thinking I’d also had nearly enough. My tail hurt from sitting on the bench seat all day, every day. The engine seemed to be losing power and the chassis’ dynamic hijinks were worsening. Indeed, by Clovis, New Mexico, one of the newly replaced tires had already worn to the cords. The local Ward store lacked replacements, but it had a fine mechanic, who immediately put the Checker on the alignment rack and found the settings to be way off. The old cab had driven toe-out most of the way across the country, causing the scary handling and wear. He worked all morning sorting it out and charged a paltry $13. Across town, a Firestone store had the right rubber, and with those mounted, why, the Checker drove almost like new.

Glen Campbell sang “By the Time I Get to Phoenix” in 1967 and probably had fun doing it. I fared worse, because by the time I got to Santa Fe, loneliness had crept inside the Checker and grabbed me by the gut. How needy can you get? So far, I’d enjoyed a cantankerous best friend, encountered several curious cops, chitchatted with gas jocks, clerks, and waitresses, been kicked off Pueblo tribal land, met some women, and forged deep bonds with tire shops in Illinois and New Mexico.

You might guess that was ample company. Nonetheless, in Santa Fe I went looking for one more soul to share the remaining push to the coast. Anyone with a pulse would do. Apparently, in the rush for personal freedom, I’d failed to consider the value of personal relationships. No luck, though I did wander into a dealership selling brand-new DeLoreans, next to which the Checker looked like a Super Chief locomotive beside tins of sardines.

Nearing Flagstaff, Arizona, the reddish tones and sinewy shapes of vaulted sedimentary rock formations, the hardy green junipers, and the clear, powder-blue skies offered a welcome change from the drab midwestern landscape as winter neared. And later, chugging up serpentine State Route 89A past the old mining town of Jerome, the laboring of the taxi—and, by extension, myself—felt heavy. “Above Jerome, a town destined for some cataclysmic event, the elevation is 6000 feet,” I scrawled in the log. “The car is being pursued by a Coors truck, and it is gaining. It’s a slow-motion, dreamlike race. Trying to run, but I can’t. Creeping, crawling, ever so slowly, with a beer truck closing in, the monster behind.” The alone time had germinated an inkling that I was running from something. But really, a Coors truck? That’s pretty poor paranoia.

After summiting at 7023 feet, the taxi began coasting toward Prescott, but even this glide path wasn’t exactly easy. “The left-front brake is surely worn out,” I added. “As I put on the brakes, sintered brake-pad dust flows freely through the Checker interior. I can hear the pad base wearing and tearing into the rotor on hard stops.” More resigned than concerned, I turned the cab onto a wide shoulder to look for smoke, flames—whatever this next drama held. Nothing. Just the utter quiet of the rocky terrain, a light breeze, and a wispy flight of cirrus clouds assembling to the north.

Per the odometer (highly optimistic, possibly to overcharge passengers?), the Checker had covered over 4000 miles since New York. It was tired and, at least emotionally, so was I. Luckily the Sanyo cassette deck installed before the trip still worked. I hit play and absorbed Glenn Frey and Don Henley’s masterpiece: “Desperado, why don’t you come to your senses?/Come down from your fences, open the gate.” Alone, cold and vulnerable in the mountain air, the verses woke me up, and I reached in the window and spiked the volume to the 6×9 coaxials buried behind the Life-Guard partition. Within seconds, the end, “You better let somebody love you/Before it’s too late,” had me sobbing. At that moment, I decided to gather up my s***, and commit.

Epilogue

The erstwhile Checker Taxicab soldiered on to Route 66’s terminus in Santa Monica on December 18, 1981. The next morning, I jumped in it to run errands, but the transmission rebelled and the car would barely move. I sold it soon afterward, sharing the repair cost with buyer Eleanore, an artsy LA lady who loved the Big Apple. We remained friends, and three years later, the cab became the getaway car at my wedding; a much cheerier Hunter was the chauffeur. Eleanore enjoyed it for a decade before selling it for $400 to Villa Roma Sausage Company president Ed Lopes, who wanted a fun prize for his company’s annual golf tournament.

Lopes concealed it with a blue cover at the event. “Under the tarp, the cab looked like a Mercedes-Benz!” he said. (For added drama, Lopes hired Shannon Rae, a model and later star of the tribute band Rondstadt Revival, to reveal the taxi to the winner. No lie, the band’s song list includes “Desperado.”) The winning golfer was stunned to find that the cab started and could be driven home. He did so and later gifted it to his son’s high school auto shop class, where, after fixing it up, the school used it to carry the principal and dignitaries to football games.

That’s the last I heard of the Checker, and now three decades later, the trail is truly cold. But if you should ever find it rotting in some SoCal carport, approach with caution: I left my old demons inside.

***

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Today, Enzo Ferrari graces the silver screen in a new biopic, titled Ferrari. The film recounts Enzo’s risky bet on the 1957 Mille Miglia, the 1000-mile sports car race whose outcome could determine the fate of his namesake company. In celebration of the big debut, which features Adam Driver, Penelope Cruz, and Patrick Dempsey (read our exclusive interview with the actor here) we’re resurfacing this October 2022 article. —Ed. 

They called him the Old Man, Il Commendatore, or simply Mr. Ferrari. But Enzo is said to have preferred the title of l’ingegnere, the engineer. Few would argue that he deserved the label, though Enzo Ferrari washed out of technical school and only adopted the honorific after the University of Bologna conferred on him a ceremonial degree in 1960. It was just one pantomime in an operatic tale of struggle, cunning, triumph, carnage, and ego warfare that were the pillars of Enzo’s life and empire.

To outsiders, he was an inscrutable, 6-foot-2240-pound golem of stone hiding behind dark glasses. To insiders—at least those who wrote books about or spoke of their days in Ferrari’s orbit—he was an often-exasperating puzzle, a confusion of contradictions and emotions propelled by a bunker-like insecurity informed by a worldview firmly fixed in 19th-century Italian masculinity.

Was he a genius? Well, he knew brilliance when he saw it. In engineers, such as Vittorio Jano, Gioacchino Colombo, Giotto Bizzarrini, and Mauro Forghieri. In designers, from Battista “Pinin” Farina to Sergio Scaglietti. And in drivers, from Tazio Nuvolari to Juan Manuel Fangio to Mike Hawthorn to Phil Hill to John Surtees to Niki Lauda. He turned proud, ambitious, and gifted men into fawning supplicants willing to devote their careers and risk their lives for the splendor of the Scuderia. Then he often drove them out, or mad, or into early graves with relentless pressure tactics applied through endless political intrigues.

People said Enzo Ferrari preferred his cars and his mechanics to his drivers and his customers. According to Ferrari biographer Brock Yates, somebody once asked Luigi Chinetti—who cracked open the hugely lucrative American market for Ferrari—if Enzo deserved the reproach. After considering it for a moment, Chinetti replied, “I don’t think he liked anyone.”

It’s no accident that the history of Italy’s auto industry is largely confined to a crescent on a map defined by the Po River and the broad plain it bisects in Northern Italy. The region has been known for its metalworking since the Middle Ages and for its sophisticated design and engineering since the Renaissance. Enzo’s father was a metalworker, starting with a dirt-floor workshop next to a dirt-floor house in Modena, an ancient gray burg that swelters in summer and is often enveloped by a dismal, greasy fog in winter. When his second son, Enzo Anselmo Giuseppe Maria Ferrari, was born on February 18, 1898 (the exact day is a matter of dispute and speculation), Alfredo Ferrari was busy growing his business into a thriving workshop that supplied the national railway with bridge and canopy iron.

Though Enzo would claim later in life that he came from rags, his father bought the family its first car, a single-cylinder De Dion-Bouton, in 1903, when many Italians still dreamed of a donkey cart to call their own. Young Enzo’s romantic visions of his future drifted, from opera singer to Olympic sprinter to sportswriter. However, Italy, more than any other European nation, had gone mad for the automobile. Every region, practically every town, hosted a hill climb or a trial or a circuit race, and Ferrari was caught up in the fever.

World War I and the untimely death of both Enzo’s father and older brother, Alfredo Jr., or “Dino,” delayed events and decimated the family business. In November 1918, Enzo was rejected for a job at Fiat, sparking a grudge that would endure until 1969, when he extracted millions from the Agnelli family in exchange for Fiat’s half interest in Ferrari. However, rather than head home from Turin, Enzo started to pal around with the drivers and mechanics who infested the backstreet garages and pubs of Italy’s burgeoning motor city.

His results as an amateur racer drew the notice of the Alfa Romeo team, which invited him to join the squad as a journeyman driver in 1920. Despite modest success as a piloto, though, Enzo longed to return to Modena, where he saw more opportunity as an Alfa Romeo dealer and racing-team manager than as a driver, which was a filthy, bare-knuckled profession in those early days that routinely racked up a horrific butcher’s bill. Racing laurels brought fame, money, and women, but Enzo had an innate sense of both his limited driving talent as well as his true calling, which, given the bleak odds back then, probably saved his life. After he founded Scuderia Ferrari and began building his own cars in 1947, he rarely drove himself, preferring to be driven by his former riding mechanic and longtime valet and chauffeur, Peppino Verdelli. His fate was to wear a tie instead of leathers, to sit behind a desk rather than a steering wheel, and to die in bed at the age of 90 rather than against a tree or upside down in a burning wreck.

Seasoned racers say their chosen sport brings the highest of highs and the lowest of lows. Such was true of Enzo’s entire life, a melodrama of glory and bitter personal and professional grief, the latter often coming hard on the heels of the former as chronicled in his aptly titled autobiography, My Terrible Joys. For the most objective reading on Ferrari, see the two best biographies, Enzo Ferrari, the Man and the Machine, an amusingly sardonic take by the late Car and Driver editor and Cannonball Run founder Brock Yates, and Enzo Ferrari: Power, Politics, and the Making of an Automotive Empire, which, at nearly a thousand pages, is a more academic (and less deliberately iconoclastic) undertaking by Luca Dal Monte, a former Ferrari PR man.

One walks away with an impression of a figure who saw himself as a David constantly in battle with one Goliath after another for the honor of his little duchy of dedicated artisans and, by extension, Italy itself. From Nazi-funded Germans before the war to the chastened but still very potent Germans after, followed by his hated crosstown rival, Maserati. They were replaced by a band of British innovators such as Cooper and Lotus—Enzo dismissed them as the garagiste because they operated out of small garages and didn’t build their own engines—followed by the mighty Glass House presided over by a spurned and vengeful Henry Ford II. After Porsche arrived with 917s that could top 220 mph on the Mulsanne Straight at Le Mans, Ferrari retreated from sports car racing to focus its limited resources on Formula 1.

Subterfuge was a tool that never got rusty in Enzo’s box. In September 1953, he summoned the Modena police to the factory, claiming that plans for a new grand prix car had been stolen and sold to a rival. The brouhaha hit the press and suspicion immediately fell on Ferrari’s nemesis, Maserati. Company president Adolfo Orsi called his lawyers, and Enzo was compelled to appear and sign a witnessed statement saying Maserati was not a suspect. As with so many of Ferrari’s little opera buffas, the controversy evaporated as quickly as it erupted.

In response to some perceived slight or to gain some small advantage, Enzo threatened to quit racing entirely so many times that journalists lost count. In 1953, he announced that he was retiring and closing the factory “for delicate personal reasons,” adding that “racing no longer interests me.” That September, Enzo amended his list of unbearable injuries to include the supposed theft of the blueprints. By December, the press reported Ferrari’s plans to continue into 1954. End scene.

And so it went; the Royal Automobile Club of Belgium canceled the 1957 grand prix at Spa because Ferrari refused to come unless the starters’ fees were increased. By then, wrote one reporter, staging a race without Ferrari was like staging Hamlet without the prince. In 1960, Ferrari pulled out of Sebring because of a dispute over the fuel sponsor (the cars were instead sent to Chinetti, who campaigned them under the North American Racing Team—NART—banner). In 1976, having lost an appeal over two contested grands prix, Enzo again said Ferrari was done with Formula 1.

“Withdrawals and threats of withdrawal used to be a regular feature of Ferrari’s end-of-season press conferences,” observed Eric Dymock, for many years the racing correspondent for Britain’s The Guardian newspaper, in a 1976 column. “For some reason or another, the 78-year-old autocrat, who has been connected with motor racing for nearly 60 years, took the huff over something and said his beautiful cars would never run again. Always he changed his mind.”

Experts seem to agree that Enzo sold road cars to pay for his racing mania. And that he scorned his customers, the dandies and poseurs and idle rich who groveled for his attention and threw reckless sums at him for cars. You can just imagine some of the characters who bought a Ferrari in the 1950s, when European cities still showed the scars of war and there were shortages of everything. One had to be a particular sort to want to flash wealth in that environment. In the 1960s and ’70s, their kids came back for their own cars, putting Enzo in a unique position to observe a particular kind of generational human folly.

But the tycoons and the toffs couldn’t help themselves; the exquisite driveway jewelry assembled behind the famous red gate on Via Abetone in Maranello set hearts aflame across all classes and nationalities. With Pininfarina’s growing involvement beginning in the early 1950s, Ferraris developed a more familial look in an expanding product catalog that was slowly becoming more organized, planned, and marketed. The factory’s output rose from dozens in the 1940s to hundreds in the 1950s to thousands in the 1960s. Enzo’s hidebound allegiance to solid axles, drum brakes, wire wheels, and front-engine configurations left him open to competitors, but nobody who ever bought a Ferrari was asked why. It remains a blue-chip purchase to this day.

Enzo surely had his eccentricities, but it’s hard to judge a man whose life was so equally blessed and cursed. He was at his son’s bedside in June 1956 when the 24-year-old, long suffering the slow erosion of muscular dystrophy, said, “Dad, it’s over,” and slipped into a coma and died. “I have lost my son,” Enzo wrote in a journal he kept of Dino’s illness, “and I have found nothing but tears.”

It was a ghastly period for Enzo and the Scuderia. Alberto Ascari had been killed in 1955 while he was taking a few quick practice laps at Monza in teammate Eugenio Castellotti’s 750 Sport. Castellotti himself died at Modena in March 1957. Luigi Musso and Peter Collins were both killed the following year at the French and German grands prix, respectively. And Phil Hill’s 1961 world championship–sealing win at Monza was clouded by the fatal crash of the popular and affable Count Wolfgang von Trips, which also massacred 15 spectators.

But it was the disaster at the 1957 Mille Miglia that was to haunt Ferrari for years. Alfonso de Portago, the handsome, athletic, and fabulously wealthy son of an Irish heiress and a Spanish count, was the sort of aristocratic playboy whom Ferrari derided and distrusted. Enzo always claimed to not have favorites, refusing to rank his drivers as other teams did. But he took the best shine to poor, up-from-their-bootstraps gunners such as John Surtees, whom he affectionately called “Giovanni,” and Gilles Villeneuve.

However, the 11th Marquess of Portago could drive, having earned his chops competing in the Carrera Panamericana and winning the Tour de France Automobile as well as the Nassau Governor’s Cup. Though Portago was infamously hard on his equipment, Ferrari assigned him as a last-minute substitute to one of the factory’s state-of-the-art 335 S roadsters. Enzo then turned the screws. He pointed out to the 28-year-old Portago that the Scuderia’s more experienced drivers, Piero Taruffi and Olivier Gendebien, had been given less powerful cars. Enzo then sniffed to Portago that it didn’t matter, that they would probably beat him anyway. Such were the standard mind games at Ferrari.

Near the end of the Mille, Portago’s 390-hp, 4.0-liter V-12 rocketed him and co-driver Ed Nelson, an American bobsled racer along for the ride as part of Portago’s clique of hangers-on, to 180 mph on the long straights across the Po Plain toward the Mille’s finish in Brescia. At the final rainy fuel stop in Mantua, Portago was running fourth behind both Gendebien and Taruffi, but he was told that the leaders were having mechanical trouble and that he was closing on Gendebien. Portago was offered a fresh set of Englebert tires to replace his badly worn skins, but he refused, taking a swig of orangeade and roaring off in haste toward Brescia.

Some 17 miles up the road, the slimy and battered Ferrari shrieked toward the village of Guidizzolo at around 130 mph. A front tire exploded. The car jinked left, clobbered a stone kilometer marker, and spun violently into a ditch, emerging 15 feet in the air as a pinwheeling, shrapnel-spraying buzz saw of death. It sailed over one line of spectators, hit the road, tumbled, and plunged into the crowd. Portago and his co-driver were killed instantly, as were nine bystanders, five of them children. The mayhem was so grisly that police had trouble identifying the bodies.

Italy erupted in rage. Protesters thronged the crash site and, later, the Ferrari factory, shouting, “Assassins! Criminals!” The conservative newspaper Il Tempo joined a media chorus denouncing the race, labeling it “an absurd fight between defenseless crowds and a small group of irresponsible men.” Enzo was brought up on murder charges, and the Vatican issued a statement calling him “a modernized Saturn devouring his own sons.” The Mille Miglia was finished but the legal wrangling lasted four years, until Enzo was dragged into court, where he broke down in tears after the first question from the prosecutor. He was soon acquitted, as it was estimated that up to a million people had lined a route with zero crowd control. The Scuderia soldiered on.

Italians obviously forgave Ferrari. The armies of tifosi swarmed to the tracks to cheer their nation’s gladiatorial heroes, even as Italian drivers appeared less and less frequently on Ferrari’s roster. It didn’t matter; if you drove for Ferrari, you were an Italian. Niki Lauda, who won two world championships with the Scuderia, wrote in his memoir, My Years With Ferrari, that after he flew his own plane to Italy in 1977 to end his stormy relationship with the team, the control tower at Bologna airport refused him clearance to leave. “You’ve got a delay of two hours,” Lauda recalled the tower radioing him. “No more priorities, no more VIP treatment. You left Ferrari, you bastard.”

As Enzo’s stature grew, so did his isolation. He never attended races, only the Saturday practice at nearby Monza. His sparse office was likened to a tomb, the walls bare except for a giant portrait of Dino looking down above a small shrine of flowers. His desk drawers were stuffed with trinkets to give away to the few visitors granted entry.

One such visitor in May 1963 was Ford Division assistant general manager Donald Frey, who had come to settle the question of Ford’s purchase of Ferrari. Enzo was content to let the road-car operation go for a relatively modest sum, but control of the racing team was a sticking point. Enzo began, “If I wish to enter cars at Indianapolis and you do not wish me to enter cars at Indianapolis, do we go or do we not go?” Frey’s immediate response was: “You do not go.” The meeting ended abruptly, with Enzo presenting Frey as a parting gift an autographed copy of My Terrible Joys.

Enzo regularly held court for his inner circle in the bar of the Hotel Real Fini in Modena, across the street from his house, then conducted his many liaisons in the rooms above. Family life was never simple or easy. His wife, Laura, whom he married in 1923, feuded endlessly with his widowed mother, Adalgisa, who lived with them until she died in 1965 at the age of 93. Laura’s increasing involvement in the factory was said to have contributed to a mass walkout of the top engineers in 1961. After that, she stepped back to a solitary life defined by a lost son and a wandering husband.

Over time, the question of the role of Piero, Enzo’s son by his longtime mistress Lina Lardi, became more pressing. Born in 1945, Piero began working at Ferrari in the early ’70s as Enzo’s personal translator, then moved into an assistant manager role of the F1 team. But it was awkward and not widely discussed until Laura died in 1978. Piero then adopted the Ferrari name and, after Enzo died, inherited his 10 percent share of the company along with a vice-chairman title.

The irony of Enzo Ferrari is that this famously unemotional man, who lived a virtual hermit’s existence in his later years when his dynasty was at its peak, evoked the greatest passion in everyone around him. “He was,” concluded Brock Yates, “exactly what he repeatedly said he was: an agitator of men.” The company bearing his name maintains no resemblance to the one Enzo left behind when he was laid to rest in the family crypt in San Cataldo. Years of modernizing by successors, especially Luca di Montezemolo, under the supervision of Fiat produced a publicly traded and thoroughly advanced engineering and marketing machine that Enzo would not recognize.

But there, on the next F1 grid, will be two blood-red Ferraris bearing the black Cavallino Rampante, the Scuderia showing up as it has for over seven decades to write history one lap at a time. Ferrari the man and Ferrari the company remain as inseparable today as they were when Enzo was alive. And as we all know, you can’t stage Hamlet without the prince.

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Before the Formula 1 championships or the transcendent supercars, there was just Bruce.

The connection between McLaren the man and McLaren the company isn’t as widely understood today as, say, Carroll Shelby to Shelby American or Enzo Ferrari to Ferrari. Blame the brutalities of racing: Carroll and Enzo were lucky enough to survive their stints as drivers and see their companies flourish; Bruce was tragically killed testing a Can-Am car in 1970, years before McLaren’s Formula 1 championships and decades before the launch of the F1 supercar.

Yet McLaren’s life and incredible drive have a lot to do with the success the company ultimately achieved both as a racing team and an automaker. To better understand Bruce McLaren, the man, Larry Webster sat down with McLaren’s daughter, Amanda McLaren, on the occasion of the company’s 60th anniversary.

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LW: Even casual car enthusiasts know McLaren as a maker of supercars and a Formula 1 constructor. They might not, however, know as much about how it all started. Can you tell us a bit about that?

AM: My father was actually born in New Zealand [not England, where the company resides]. At a very young age, he developed Perthes disease, a degenerative condition of the hip joint. He was told at the age of about 12 or 13 that he may never walk again. But he was a little kid with a big dream—he wanted to race cars. And over the years, he built himself a little race car, which if any of you go to McLaren Technology Centre in Woking, England, is actually there.

He raced through the New Zealand circuit and was awarded the inaugural Driver to Europe scholarship that the New Zealand International Grand Prix Association started. He raced Coopers for a number of years, but he always wanted to design and build his own cars. That’s what inspired him to form his own team. So, in 1963, he founded Bruce McLaren Motor Racing. He was very successful on track, especially in the dominant Can-Am series across Canada and America.

LW: It’s easy to forget how short of a time span some incredible things happened—he founds the company in 1963, wins Le Mans for Ford in 1966, becomes one of the few people to build and drive his own car in a Formula 1 race in 1968, and builds a car for Can-Am and dominates the series. That’s sort of where you pick up the story. Did he ever sleep?

AM: My mother [Patty McLaren-Brickett] said that he could actually just nap anywhere! There’s some beautiful pictures of him in the pits lying against a tire, fast asleep. Because, yes, he was developing cars for himself, he was working with Ford and Firestone to develop their cars and products—which really was funding for the McLaren Formula 1 team—he was racing Formula 1 but also Can-Am across Canada and America. He was rarely at home.

LW: Was there a feeling that, somehow, he knew he didn’t have a lot of time?

AM: I would like to think not. He was planning in 1970 to step back and just do more testing, and let some of the others take over. His hip was really starting to give him problems and he was looking at doing a hip replacement, which back in the ’70s was a big thing. It was new technology. Motor racing was very dangerous back then. He’d seen so many of his friends and colleagues die. So, I really don’t know. But certainly he achieved so much in such a short time.

LW: You were just 4 years old when your father passed. How did you learn about his legacy, and how did you become connected with the company?

AM: My mother and father had moved over to the United Kingdom when he got his driver scholarship. If you wanted to race, especially Formula 1, you had to be based in the U.K. or Europe. So, I was born and brought up there. My mom decided to stay even after my dad was killed, although she did have a house in New Zealand. She remained McLaren’s No. 1 fan until the day she died. When you started working at McLaren, you were one of her boys. She was just so pleased to see the road cars happen, because she knew that was my dad’s next baby.

My mother had friends coming to the house. They were “Uncle” Jackie Stewart and “Uncle” Graham Hill, people like that. But I didn’t connect them to my father until I was about 11. I went to the British Grand Prix in 1976, and I (like most of my girlfriends at school) had a pinup of [Formula 1 champion] James Hunt on my wall. When, on Monday morning at school I said, “I met James Hunt,” there was a stunned silence. And when they asked me how I got to meet him, I drew myself up proudly and said, “Well, he races for the company that my father founded.” And then they started asking me all these questions, and that got me thinking. I started having a look at Mum’s collection of books, and there’s the names of all the people who came to our house—and there’s Dad’s name. I talked to people about my father’s impact. Those who knew him all gushed about what a fantastic person he was and would practically be in tears talking about him. He had all these achievements on the track, but his true legacy was inspiring the people around him. His character was passed on.

I eventually went out to New Zealand on what was a six-week family holiday and said to Mum and my stepfather, “I’m going to stay for six months.” That became six years, which became 26 years. If any of you have been to New Zealand, you’ll probably understand why—it’s the most beautiful country. We did move back to England, my husband and I, in 2014, to become brand ambassadors for McLaren Automotive. It was the most amazing experience, to really be a part of that legacy and make the connection between the history and what the present company was doing. Now we’re back in New Zealand and I’m officially retired, but you never retire from being Bruce’s daughter.

LW: What of your dad can you see in today’s road cars?

AM: When Dad was asked why his Can-Am cars were so successful, he said that they were lighter than the competition. That was a founding principle that continues in today’s road cars.

LW: One last question: McLaren’s team color is a bright orange called “Papaya Orange.” Where did that come from?

AM: They wanted something that stood out, both for the other drivers to see them coming on the track and for the fans. They sent a mechanic to buy the brightest orange he could find, which turned out to be the same paint that road crews in England used to cover pedestrian-crossing beacons. It was called Ryland’s Traffic Yellow, which I guess means technically our paint should be called McLaren Yellow. But it wasn’t, and over time, the name evolved to Papaya Orange. Racing sponsors often dictated their own colors on the McLaren racing cars, but team principal Zak Brown has put the orange back on, and I couldn’t be happier. McLarens deserve their own color, don’t you think?

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I first met Jack Riddell—aka Lambo Jack—over the phone back in 1996. We had much to bond over, including a shared interest in music and pet parrots, but it was his knowledge of old Lamborghinis that I needed the most. The parts for my car, a 1969 Espada that I had just bought for 10 grand, were scattered among three different buildings in Reading, Pennsylvania, the stripped and upturned engine block serving as a rubbing post for a cat.

“It’s not really that complicated,” said Jack reassuringly of the four-cam, six-carburetor V-12 that looked exactly that complicated. “Go slow and take your time. And call me anytime if you have questions.” His reassuring words were the first puffs of wind in my project’s sails, and I would come to need a lot more to keep the ship moving over the next seven years of the restoration.

Raised in the Montana outback, Jack first saw a Lamborghini on the cover of Road & Track in the mid-’60s, and that was it. He bought his one and only, a 1967 400 GT, out of a pennysaver paper in Seal Beach, California, in 1972. The guy wanted $8000. Jack, then a U.S. Navy chief warrant officer, had less. They settled on $6250, and he had to borrow money to buy it. The Lamborghini, which he adorned with the plate “V12Toro,” thus became Jack’s oddball commuter to the Naval Weapons Station Seal Beach, where he was an instructor in guided missile systems.

In 1982, the local Italian-car cabal encouraged Jack to drive his car the 450 miles up to Monterey for the annual Pebble Beach car weekend. Back then, it was just an easygoing weekend, fueled more by enthusiasm than money, starting with an informal Italian-car gathering on Friday at the nearby Quail Lodge. That meet eventually morphed into the ritzy Concorso Italiano, but in those days, it more resembled a cars and coffee. It was free to park and free to walk in, and the catering was potluck. Jack remembers that the proceedings were interrupted by badly timed sprinklers, sending everyone scrambling.

Jack found his community, and he didn’t miss a single Monterey weekend for the next four decades. Back in San Diego, he organized his own Lambo weekend, a three-day driving and eating festival that for 30 years was a must-do on the Charging Bull calendar. And Jack went to Italy every spring for 17 years, making lifelong friends at the tempest-tossed factory and becoming an important link between it and the U.S. owners.

When the internet came along, he created the first forum for owners of old Lamborghinis, calling it the Vintage Lamborghini Garage. Through several iterations, the VLG is still online and, with 950 members, still a vital resource for the community trying to keep up these old Latin fusspots. Lambo Jack is often the most authoritative voice on it, having fixed nearly everything one can fix, including rebuilding his own V-12 twice. After the first overhaul, he wrote a comprehensive and illustrated step-by-step rebuild manual that he offers as a PDF to anyone for free.

The years and the miles have rolled up. Lambo Jack is now 85 and the V12Toro has 281,000 miles on it. His wife, Elise, stopped going to Monterey years ago, and last year, on his 40th consecutive trip, Lambo Jack declared it the final run. But a bunch of us cajoled him into making one last drive this year, even submitting his car for the Lamborghini class at the big Pebble Beach Concours on Sunday (they turned him down). But despite only recently recovering from cancer treatment, Jack went anyway. Partly to receive a special award from the Concorso Italiano, but mainly to see all his friends again. There were organized dinners and lots of toasts, but the best was the relaxed night of pizza and Lamborghini wine on the patio of the Mariposa Inn, the traditional HQ of the old-Lambo crowd during Monterey week.

As usual, Jack insisted on driving his car solo all the way up and back from San Diego, through the stew of L.A. traffic. On the return, the starter failed, and he had to get a push start and keep the engine running for the rest of a journey that would flatten a person half his age. Monterey, already suffering from a rising tide of look-at-me hyperflash, just won’t be the same without the old salts like Lambo Jack. I doubt he’ll fall for it again, but come January, I think I’ll give him a call.

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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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Growing up in central Connecticut, I didn’t see many French cars, probably because there were few if any dealers and the “foreign” car shop near us wouldn’t work on them. I saw more Renaults, Peugeots, and Citroëns in one day in the parking lot at Lime Rock than I’d see all year.

I watched a lot of old French movies, and they always had a cool-looking black Citroën Traction Avant, usually driven by the bad guys. Unusually low for a car built from 1934 until 1957, the model had front-wheel drive and a fairly advanced chassis. During World War II, when gasoline was scarce, they were often converted to run on gas produced by fitting gas generators that burned coal, charcoal, or wood.

My first encounter with a Citroën 2CV happened at my high school, thanks to a classmate who sometimes drove his dad’s. Other kids teased him and threatened to tip over the tiny, two-cylinder car. Once, the 2CV was in our auto shop class for service and he left it overnight. That evening, a bunch of us were at a basketball game at the school and decided to have a little fun. We rolled it out of the auto shop and, by removing the center divider strip from one of the school’s double doors, were able to push it into the cafeteria. We then bolted the divider back into place.

I remember the next morning watching the vice principal and three janitors stare at the car and then at the door, unable to figure out how we got the 2CV into the lunchroom. Someone ratted us out and we all received Saturday detention. My father thought the prank was funny, but he was annoyed because I missed my weekly work at his auto body and restoration shop.

Sometime later, I visited Paris for the first time and saw 2CVs everywhere. The small cars fit through narrow streets and were easy to park (head onto the curb). The first 2CV I drove was a 1948 or ’49, which featured corrugated steel panels, a full fabric roof, and hammock-like seats. I loved the simplicity, and I thought features like the suicide doors and fabric roll-back roof were cool. Through my volunteer work with autism, I met a 2CV collector who asked if I wanted to buy one, so I did. My first early car is long gone, but I still have a 1980 Charleston model. I’d also love to have a 2CV Truckette panel van.

As a teen involved with the YMCA Hi-Y club, I encountered a volunteer, a Trinity College professor who drove a Citroën DS wagon. The club met Wednesday nights and took after-school trips, often in his DS. One day he showed us how you could take off a rear wheel and drive around on just three wheels.

I was captivated by the car’s space-age styling, the comfortable ride from the hydraulic suspension, and the single-spoke steering wheel. Driving one for the first time, I immediately took to the ultra-light power steering and that mushroom-like brake button sprouting from the floor—it’s so sensitive, almost like an on/off switch.

My opportunity to own one came years later when a client sent his DS19 to me for some work. One day, his collection manager called and asked if I wanted it. I jumped at the chance to buy the green Citroën. I let it go a few years later, which I truly regret.

My favorite moment with my DS19 was when I took my mother-in-law to buy a cell-phone. It was a gray, rainy day, and I pulled in front of the store and dropped the suspension to let her out easily. Several of the people who worked there came rushing out of the store asking, “What is it? Can I buy one?” Mom went in to get her phone and I showed them the Citroën. They sat in it, and I raised and lowered the suspension. They weren’t really car guys, but they were amazed, nevertheless.

The Citroën I’d most like to have is the DS Chapron convertible (décapotable in French), but they’ve gotten so expensive that I’m not sure I’ll ever have one. They’re so sleek and look so cool when the suspension is lowered—slammed on the ground.

I’m currently looking for an exotic SM, which mates the sophisticated hydraulics and stunning Citroën styling with a V-6 from the Maserati Merak. They are surprisingly affordable—costing a fraction of what you’d pay for a Chapron. One of these days, I’ll definitely have one in my barn, preferably in silver or metallic green.

***

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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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In the summer of 1945, only a few months after Allied bombers stopped punishing Italy for its WWII transgressions, Enzo Ferrari summoned his trusted colleague Gioacchino Colombo to Maranello for consultations. Though postwar racing rules had not yet been announced, Ferrari was anxious to build his own cars to compete. Anticipating a 4.5-liter displacement for naturally aspirated engines and a 1.5-liter limit for supercharged powerplants, Ferrari sought the advice of one of Italy’s foremost engine designers.

Asked how he’d construct a new 1500-cc engine, Colombo mentioned ERA’s promising six-cylinder and eights under development at Alfa Romeo and Maserati before proclaiming, “In my view, you should build a 12-cylinder!”

The usually aloof Ferrari lit up like a Roman candle. Turns out the 47-year-old racing don had admired V-12s for years after hearing primo piloto Antonio Ascari rev the engine in his 1916 Packard racer and seeing WWI American military officers cruise Italy in their majestic Packard Twin Sixes. He and Colombo immediately began conceptualizing the Scuderia’s first V-12, the engine destined to become the Prancing Horse’s heart and soul.

Ferrari’s timing was perfect because Colombo had been laid off by Alfa Romeo due to Italy’s postwar economic turmoil. Though the 42-year-old lacked a formal technical education, he had served a lengthy apprenticeship designing engines, including V-12s, under Alfa Romeo’s brilliant Vittorio Jano. Colombo erected a drafting board in his Milan bedroom and in a few weeks completed sketches of both a new V-12 and the Ferrari 125 S sports-racer it would power. His guiding light was versatility in order to serve wide-ranging racing applications and eventual road use.

Packard’s 1916–23 Twin Six, the world’s first production V-12, made 88–90 horsepower from 6.9 liters. The beauty of a dozen cylinders in a V is perfect balance—freedom from the shake, rattle, and roll resulting from pistons starting and stopping at the ends of their strokes. (The same is true of an inline-six; a V-12 is simply two banks of six cylinders sharing a common crankshaft. A 60-degree angle between cylinder banks yields the even firing intervals necessary for smoothness.)

Before we delve into Colombo’s V-12 design features, it’s essential to understand the operational details within every four-stroke engine. First, there’s an intake stroke when one valve opens to admit air (and usually fuel) to a cylinder while the piston moves top to bottom. Next is compression, with both valves closed and the piston rising in the cylinder, squeezing the mixture. Near the top of the piston’s travel, electricity sent across the spark plug’s gap serves as the match to light the bonfire inside one cylinder. Rising combustion pressure within the cylinder drives the piston back down, spinning the crankshaft and driving the wheels through the transmission. Then comes exhaust, when the piston again reverses direction, forcing burned gases out an open exhaust valve and into a pipe connected to the cylinder head through an exhaust manifold. Simply described, the four-stroke cycle is suck, squeeze, bang, blow.

Given that each power stroke lasts the better part of 180 degrees, in a V-12, there are three overlapping power strokes at any given instance to run through all the cylinders in two turns of the crankshaft. As a result, output feels more like a continuous twist than discrete pulses. A V-12’s exhaust note can be whatever the designer desires, between a gentle purr and a coyote’s shriek.

V-12s do have several less sanguine design issues—added friction, heavier weight, higher cost, and their overall length. It goes without saying that when value and mpg are top priorities, carmakers steer clear of V-12s.

To minimize mass, Colombo chose aluminum over iron for the block and head castings. Italy had become an epicenter for bronze casting during the Renaissance back in the 14th century, specializing in statuary, equestrian monuments, cathedral doors, crucifixes, and even dishes.

Combining a 55.0-millimeter bore with a 52.5-millimeter stroke yielded the target 1.5-liter (1497-cc) piston displacement. Cast-iron cylinders wet by coolant were plugged securely into the bottom of the block with a shrink fit (achieved by heating the aluminum block to expand openings before inserting cold iron cylinders. Once the cylinders and block reach the same temperature, they’re securely locked together).

Bolts securing both the heads and the cylinders screwed into the block’s upper decks. Since the block’s side skirts ended at the crank centerline, the cast aluminum oil sump had ribs to radiate heat and to increase the engine’s overall stiffness. The crankshaft was machined from a single billet of alloy steel with seven main bearings and six throws spaced 60 degrees apart to provide even firing intervals. Connecting rods were forged steel.

One chain-driven overhead cam per bank opened two valves per cylinder through rocker arms. Locking screws touching the valve stems facilitated lash adjustment. (Lash is the small space in the valvetrain that allows each valve to seal tightly against its seat in the closed position.) The valves were splayed 60 degrees apart to straighten and streamline ports for maximum flow of air and fuel into each cylinder. A domed (aka hemispherical) combustion chamber topped each cylinder. Colombo screwed the spark plugs in from the intake side of the heads because the bore-center areas were blocked by the single overhead camshafts.

Three downdraft two-barrel Weber carburetors prepared ample amounts of fuel-and-air mixture. Twin Marelli magnetos driven off the tail end of each camshaft supplied the ignition energy. Initial output with a 7.5:1 compression ratio was 118 horsepower at 6800 rpm.

To provide a path to more power, Colombo gave his seminal V-12 three innovative features. The first was what’s known as an over-square bore/stroke ratio (a figure greater than one). The unusually short stroke diminished the pistons’ reciprocating motion, minimized the height of the block, and lowered the engine’s center of gravity. The relatively large bore in turn allowed larger valves (see end-view illustration), a boon to volumetric efficiency (fluid flow in and out of the cylinder head). The net result of Colombo’s over-square design was a rousing 7000 rpm available at the beginning of this V-12’s life. His second fundamental inspiration was 90-millimeter cylinder spacing to facilitate significantly larger bores and additional piston displacement with minimal changes to the overall design.

Colombo’s third special feature was the type of valve springs he incorporated. Instead of the spiral-wound coil springs that are now common practice, he used what was called a “hairpin” design (despite the fact they more closely resembled springs found in clothespins). He was inspired by air-cooled motorcycle engines, which used such a configuration for three key reasons:

The first is that the hairpin design was less susceptible to fatigue failure that, in the worst case, would destroy the engine when an out-of-control valve struck the top of a piston. Second, the hairpin design was a better means of exposing the valves to cooling air swirling over the top of the engine. Third, this design allowed shorter and lighter valve stems. Lighter valves are less susceptible to the fatigue failures common with racing cam lobes. In summary, the hairpin spring design was instrumental in helping Colombo’s V-12 withstand the rigors of racing. Two such springs were fitted to each intake and exhaust valve.

A paucity of intake ports was the most notable shortcoming in Colombo’s V-12. Since Ferrari hoped to add a Roots-type (twin interlocking lobes) supercharger, there were but three intake ports feeding six cylinders per bank. This arrangement made it more difficult to ram-tune naturally aspirated versions of the engine for competitive power at high rpm. (Ram tuning uses fluid-flow momentum to pack the maximum amount of air and fuel into each cylinder.)

With the ink barely dry on blueprints, Ferrari attacked the 1947 racing season with a two-seater dubbed 125 Spyder Corsa. The 125 code referred to the number of ccs per cylinder, spyder is Italian for roadster, and corsa is the boot country’s word for racing. Nine entries yielded two victories by Franco Cortese, two class wins by Tazio Nuvolari, one third, one fifth, and three DNFs. Adding a supercharger for its 125 Formula 1 single-seater yielded 230 horsepower and the Scuderia’s first grand prix victory. By October of ’47, Ferrari was ready to move up with a 1903-cc V-12 dubbed 159, followed by a 1995-cc 166 for the 1948 season.

The rising costs of fielding competitive cars in road races, endurance competitions, and F1 are what moved Ferrari to offer his cars to wealthy customers bent on enjoying them on the road.

In a 1984 test of the first 1947 Ferrari 166 Spyder Corsa delivered to a private owner, Car and Driver clocked 0–60 in 13.1 seconds and estimated top speed at 121 mph. Weighing less than 1500 pounds, this red roadster rode on skinny 15-inch Michelin X radial tires. Respecting the vintage Ferrari’s rarity and fragility, C/D’s test driver used only 6000 rpm, so a run to 60 in under 10 seconds is probably within the Spyder Corsa’s reach.

Bolting on a two-stage supercharger in 1949 raised output to 280 horsepower, earning Ferrari five grand prix wins. In spite of the Scuderia’s early successes, Ferrari demanded more; Colombo fell out of favor and returned to Alfa Romeo in 1951. His successors? First Aurelio Lampredi, a former aircraft-engine designer, then four years later Colombo’s mentor Vittorio Jano, who continued development of Ferrari’s first V-12 another decade.

Colombo’s masterpiece grew from its original 1498 cc to a maximum 4943 cc in its final Ferrari 412i form. The 1957 250 Testa Rossa brought conventional coil-type valve springs, spark plugs relocated to the outer side of the heads, and one intake port per cylinder. These changes yielded 300 horsepower from 3.0 liters, enough prancing horsepower to win 10 World Sportscar races, including three Le Mans 24-hour events between 1958 and 1961. Ferrari 250 GTO sports cars that followed won the FIA’s over-2-liter championship from 1962 through 1964. In 1964, a 4.0-inch stretch of the block increased bore-center spacing from 90 millimeters to 94, allowing 4.0-liter and larger displacements.

Features proved on the track rapidly trickled down to Ferrari’s road cars. Dual overhead cams, still operating but two valves per cylinder, appeared on the 1967 Ferrari 275 GTB/4. The illustrious 1968 365 GTB/4 Daytona came with dry-sump lubrication. (Keeping oil well away from a frantically spinning crankshaft eliminates what’s known as “windage,” frothing of the lubricant, which saps power output.)

In 1979, carburetors went the way of the buggy whip with the introduction of Ferrari’s 400i equipped with Bosch K-Jetronic fuel injection. This added power by diminishing the flow restriction that is imposed by carburetor venturis.

Ferrari’s 1985 catalog listed an amazing 75 60-degree naturally aspirated (no super- or turbocharger) V-12 engines designed over the previous four decades. The venerable Colombo stallion wasn’t dispatched to the glue factory until 1989, by which time Ferrari had shifted its focus to 180-degree (flat) 12s for the 365 GT4 BB (Berlinetta Boxer) and its successors. (They’re called that because the horizontal motion of the pistons resembles boxing gloves smacked together.) Even so, these new engines inherited their pistons and connecting rods from Colombo’s outgoing design.

The V-12 today

Fast forward to the March 2017 Geneva motor show. Although most makers follow new trends like a puppy locked on to a rabbit’s scent, Ferrari used this European gala to toast its 70th birthday with what it excels at building and selling: a fresh V-12 to power its new aptly named 812 Superfast sports car.

The first number in the 812 code refers to this engine’s peak power (in hundreds); the next two indicate the number of cylinders. Translating the 800 metric horsepower to imperial units yields 789 horsepower at a canvas-shredding 8500 rpm. A slightly revised version introduced in May 2021 tops 800 imperial horsepower.

What Ferrari achieved with its F140 V-12 was the most power ever packed into a production engine unaided by a turbocharger, supercharger, or electric motor. Add to that more than adequate torque: a peak 530 lb-ft at 7000 rpm. Those in the audience who favor the lower end of the tachometer will be happy to hear that a stout 425 lb-ft of twist is available at only 3500 rpm.

In keeping with longstanding Ferrari tradition, this is a Testa Rossa engine adorned with striking red valve covers and intake plenums. Naturally the bore/stroke ratio is markedly over-square, with a 94-millimeter bore collaborating with a 78-millimeter stroke to yield 6496 cc (6.5 liters). That 78-millimeter dimension ironically matches the longest stroke ever found in a Colombo V-12.

In contrast to the Colombo V-12s, the 812’s cylinder banks are spread 65 degrees apart. After Ferrari began using this angle in its 1989 Formula 1 V-12s, it trickled down to the 456 sports car in 1992. A 65-degree V-angle provides additional space for larger bores (more clearance at the bottom of each piston’s stroke), room between the cylinder banks for more voluminous intake manifolds, and a slight reduction in overall engine height. While it’s possible to maintain even firing with split-pin crank throws, Ferrari wisely avoided that potentially fragile complication. The result, with six straight crank throws, each carrying two connecting rods, is slightly syncopated firing intervals that alternate between 55 and 65 degrees of crank rotation. This subtle ticktock isn’t detectable from the driver’s seat thanks to Ferrari’s judicious powertrain isolation and intelligent acoustic measures.

Car and Driver’s 2018 test of a $465,509 Ferrari 812 Superfast reported a 3851-pound curb weight with a slight rear bias, 0–60 mph in a remarkable 2.8 seconds, and a quarter-mile clocking of 10.5 seconds at 138 mph. No one has verified the factory’s 211-mph top-speed claim, but that figure is certainly credible.

While all versions of the 812—GTS, Superfast, Competizione—cease and desist after existing orders are filled, Ferrari’s F140IA 65-degree V-12 will continue in the 2024 model year under the hood of the new five-door, four-seat Purosangue SUV.

Though Ferrari has boldly experimented with and/or produced engines with two, three, four, six, eight, and 10 cylinders, it’s most associated with V-12s thanks to its loyalty to that configuration for three-quarters of a century. There’s little doubt that 12-cylinder engines have been instrumental to Ferrari winning respect as a hypercar producer. Last year, the brand built and sold 13,221 cars worldwide, reporting 19 percent increases in both volume and revenue.

Count yourself fortunate if you’ve owned, driven, or even heard more than your share of prancing horsepower!

***

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Not long ago, I drove the Tesla Semi, which is their idea of an electric over-the-road hauler. It was sort of like driving a giant McLaren F1. You sit in the middle of the cab with a couple of computer screens, and even though it’s the size of a building, it feels as fast as a Tesla car (it isn’t, but for a huge truck, it sure feels like it). The windshield pillars are pulled way back, so you can see everything, and it’s extremely comfortable, and, of course, very quiet. One thing I didn’t like is that the windows don’t go down, which is a little disconcerting. They only open sideways, and just a crack, so you can maybe slip a Wendy’s single through, but you’re more or less sealed up in it.

We set up a trailer loaded with cars, and I backed the Tesla in, hooked up, put it in drive, and pulled away. And even though the whole rig with the trailer now weighed about 80,000 pounds, I could not tell the difference between having and not having the load attached. It accelerated exactly the same, and it’ll go 500 miles. It was amazing, and I think if you’re a trucker, especially a short-hauler like we have thousands of in LA going from port to warehouse and back again, this is the future. No dirty fuel, no changing the oil every other week, and you can pull it right into a warehouse to attach and detach the trailer because there’s no emissions.

I admit I am a huge fan of the Tesla story. OK, the Cybertruck isn’t necessarily my thing, but I grew up at a time when a pickup truck was a radiator, an engine, a cab, and a bed. And I’m old enough to remember the first pickup truck that was not a pickup, the 1961 Corvair Rampside. It didn’t really sell because it didn’t look like a pickup truck. But I get that the Cybertruck is for a different generation. It’s the best example of an over-40/under-40 car in a while, meaning people over 40 can’t stand it and people under 40 think it’s totally cool.

But the genius of Tesla is not in the cars, it’s in the infrastructure. Elon Musk came to the garage in 2007 with his Roadster based on the Lotus, and I drove it. I told him it was great, and he said that he planned to build charging stations all up and down California so you could pull in and charge for free. I remember thinking, “Well, that’ll never happen.” But as he was building the cars, he was also building the charging stations, and you see today that the Tesla charging network is a big reason people are buying the cars.

I think about when I was a kid, how a lot of American cars were all about the marketing. They would bring in guys from Whirlpool or somewhere and whatever they knew about selling washers, they would apply to cars, so it was all marketing hooey. The GT version was just the basic car with fancy wheels, a stripe, and a cartoon character on the fender. Those cars are nostalgic and fun to play with today, but they were never cutting edge. Nowadays, it seems like the president of General Motors is at the Nürburgring every other week. Personally, I think American engineering is now the equal of anything from Europe or Asia. Take the C8 Corvette; it’s built out of aluminum and magnesium in a union shop paying a union wage and it’s under $100,000. Europeans can’t do that. Heck, nobody else can do that.

I guess that makes me a techno-optimist. I look around and I see a world that seems better in just about every way. Sure, there are problems, but the average person lives a much better life, in large part due to technology. And American engineering and American manufacturing are on the upswing again. Tesla and the Corvette are only two examples, but it seems like every week there’s an announcement of a new breakthrough in clean energy or a new battery plant or chip factory being built somewhere in the U.S. Wasn’t it just yesterday that Japan was going to put us out of business? Then it was China. I think we tend to write ourselves off too quickly, because here we are, still in the game.

People my age often complain that America isn’t what it used to be. A lot of them are like Mark Twain, who is credited with saying, “I’m in favor of progress; it’s change I don’t like.” In the end, it doesn’t really matter what America used to be, it only matters where it is headed. And to me, it looks like it’s headed in a pretty good direction.

***

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We’re delighted and confused by the automotive cornucopia that fills the brick-and-glass shop called Ai Design. As we stroll through the 10,000-square-foot, sun-lit space, located just north of New York City, we spy a 1961 Cadillac Eldorado, a 1985 Audi Quattro Sport rally car, a Porsche 959, a partially disassembled Maserati race car that’s resting on jack stands next to a military-grade Hummer H1, and a pristine 1970s Ford Bronco. They all have four wheels, but the similarities end there. What is this place?

“I freely admit that I can’t describe it in one sentence,” says owner and founder Matt Figliola. The services offered include not only repairing, modifying, or restoring any car, but also locating examples of rare vehicles—indeed, this outfit helped us find the cars we drove profiled in last month’s rally car story. (Click here to read it.)

Figliola, 56, got his start in the mid-’80s, upgrading the sound system and electronics of a Plymouth Horizon.

The craftsmanship and ingenuity of the modifications persuaded a custom-car shop in Manhattan’s Hell’s Kitchen neighborhood to hire the self-taught electronics whiz. In those days, the wolves of Wall Street wanted hi-fi car stereos, radar detectors, and body kits installed in such a way that they looked like they came from the factory. That meant hours of costly detail work. Money, however, flowed in the greed decade, and Figliola learned the importance of cultivating the clients who were willing to pay for the details he wanted to craft. “I’ve always been fastidious,” he says.

In 1992, Figliola left Manhattan and opened his own shop in Yonkers; six years later, he moved to his current location in Tuckahoe, a town 20 miles north of the Empire State Building.

Few shops that work on cars are so neat. The floor is polished daily, and even the ductwork shines. Metal sculptures and wall-hanging decorations accompany the expected tool chests, welding stations, and metal-working jigs, lending an art gallery feel. The space itself attracts what Figliola admits is an eclectic clientele, as evidenced by the varied machines inside. “We help them find the personal touches they want in their cars,” he says.

On the day we visited, the shop was hustling to finish a Maserati MC12 that was due to leave in a week so the owner could drive it in the GoldRush Rally. One technician shuttled between the car and the fabrication room, which was sealed from the shop’s main space by a pair of automatic sliding doors. The owner wanted air conditioning, which meant building a new set of carbon-fiber ducts to house condensers in the nose. Another worker retrofitted a new wiring harness in order to power front and rear video cameras and assorted other electronics.

The H1 Hummer nearby had received every survival gadget imaginable, including joystick-controlled spotlights, power-opening sides with tool storage, exterior cameras, Wi-Fi, and infrared lights for… we’re not sure. The recently finished Bronco, which Ai Design built from scratch and upgraded with modern mechanicals, waited for the owner to pick it up.

Future restorations, according to Figliola, will require different skills than that Bronco required. Cars built after 1980 are more electronically complicated and often have plastic-based materials that degrade over time. “I see a firestorm coming,” says Figliola. Engine computers were built on boards that develop hair-line cracks. The capacitors are vulnerable to leaking. “We are well situated to tackle these problems because we’re experienced with electronics, and we’ve been scanning and 3D printing parts for years,” he adds. Ai is also ready and willing to convert your classic to an EV, if you so desire. Indeed, we first encountered the shop two years ago when we reviewed a Willys-Jeep it had electrified.

These days, it’s definitely trendy to question the long-term future of our automotive obsession, especially in places like New York City. (Around the time of our visit, The New Yorker magazine published a piece with the headline, “How to Quit Cars.”) Shops like this give us hope that said future will be wonderfully weird.

Ai Design (Tuckahoe, New York)

• Open since: 1992
• Cars serviced yearly: 175–200
• Crew size: 12 full-timers
• Sweet spot: Custom anything and electronics
• Shop vibe: Art museum meets elbow grease

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Nearly 20 percent of drivers admit to picking their nose in their cars. That admittedly gross statistic (based on a U.K. survey) alludes to a larger truth: We tend to think of our cars as private sanctuaries. Yet technology for self-driving cars, much of it already on the market, threatens to turn that sanctuary into a place of intense and constant observation.

“Imagine a world where every car on the road has multiple cameras filming all at the same time,” said Tifani Sadek, a former GM lawyer who’s now director of the University of Michigan’s Law and Mobility program. “We’ve created a massive surveillance state that just didn’t exist before.”

There are a number of ways in which modern cars can watch us. Exterior cameras (the Tesla Model 3 has eight) survey the road, while interior cameras monitor driver alertness. What those cameras see in many cases gets transmitted and used for further development of autonomous vehicles. For instance, Mobileye, one of the leading suppliers of cameras for vehicles, uses the stream from millions of vehicles for what it calls Road Experience Management—a continually updated map of roads around the world.

The greatest shield for our personal information is the U.S. Constitution. In particular, the Fourth Amendment prevents search and seizure without “probable cause.” However, this right is not absolute. For one thing, a private individual or corporation can simply ask for consent to collect and use information—it’s usually buried in those multipage disclosures we all mindlessly accept. Even without that, a court will ask whether your expectation of privacy was “reasonable.” What exactly qualifies as reasonable depends on several factors, including where you are (in your home, you might reasonably expect a lot of privacy; walking down Times Square, very little) and from whom you want privacy (there’s generally greater protection against government intrusion than from individuals or companies). The standard has also evolved over time. Forty years ago, you’d never expect a company to know or care what photos you looked at or what news stories you read. Nowadays, companies like Google and Facebook monetize such information to the tune of hundreds of billions of dollars.

Therein lies a Catch-22: Intrusions into our privacy have a way of lowering the threshold for the next intrusion. “Government and private-industry surveillance techniques created for one purpose are rarely restricted to that purpose, and every expansion of a data bank and every new use for the data opens the door to more and more privacy abuses,” warned the ACLU back in 2001, when it was advocating against traffic-light cameras.

The constant encroachment not only erodes our legal rights but needles us psychologically. We’re already being tracked by our phones and getting eavesdropped on by Alexa. Does it really make that much of a difference if we’re also being watched in our cars?

It very much does, says Sadek, because of how we use our vehicles and, more specifically, whom we put in them. “We have passengers, and we have minors in the car,” she notes. “If I get into an autonomous vehicle that has a camera, it’s watching my kids, too.”

Granted, most companies aren’t out to steal your individual information. Mobileye, for instance, says it scrubs identifying details from its camera footage, not just because doing so is ethical but also because it makes the data easier to transmit and process. The fact that you told your boss you were at home when you were actually driving to a Taylor Swift concert is a boring waste of bandwidth (but beware that if you’re in a company car, your boss might be able to track your location).

Most automakers who operate in the United States have committed to “Consumer Privacy Protection Principles,” a document created by the Alliance for Automotive Innovation. Some of those principles are distressingly vague (“Participating Members commit to collecting Covered Information only as needed for legitimate business purposes”) but at the very least reflect a desire to protect privacy beyond the letter of the law. It’s worth acknowledging that real-world driving data has the potential to dramatically improve safety on public roads, as well. Most of us trade privacy for far less. “I know Google is crawling through my emails, and I don’t mind it, because it tipped me off that I’m going to be late due to extra traffic on the road,” says Sadek.

In any event, shutting down the car cameras is likely impossible. It may be more reasonable to expect laws that clarify what kind of information a car (or any technology) can collect from an individual. In many places, such laws already exist. In 2016, the EU passed the General Data Protection Regulation, which stipulates an individual’s “fundamental right” to certain levels of data protection from both public entities and private companies. Some U.S. states, like California, have passed similar bills. Given how easy it is for data to cross state lines, the need for federal regulations seems obvious. “We’re trying to read this 200-year-old document to figure out what it means about autonomous vehicles,” says Sadek. “It would be much easier simply to pass some legislation that clearly states what rights you have, and what rights you don’t have.”

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With the Camaro nameplate retiring soon, we’re honoring the beloved two-door with a series of love letters, fun lists, and memories that you can follow here. Many performance cars, especially nowadays, aim for an anodyne version of perfection that only a few can afford. The Camaro is for the rest of us—and it’s always ready to party. Still, we can’t pretend the car we’re about to celebrate over the next week or so is perfect. That in mind, let down your hair and come with us for a deep dive into what, exactly, makes the sixth-gen Camaro so bitchin’.

If designers ruled the roost for the fifth-generation car, the engineers made their presence known for the sixth gen. “We literally designed the sixth-generation Camaro while we were reading about the faults of the fifth generation in the enthusiast media,” remembered Al Oppenheiser.

The biggest complaint was weight. The Zeta platform on which the fifth gen rode started life serving full-size Holden sedans, which made for a porky two-door. There was some movement within GM to continue the sixth gen on the same architecture, to the point of creating full-size design models on it. But around the time work on the car began, another option presented itself. “Before I left, the ATS platform was being designed, and I was pushing it in a way that would make it viable for the Camaro,” remembered John Heinricy, who retired in 2008 as an executive in GM’s performance division.

The resulting Alpha platform, which was engineered for the Cadillac ATS and CTS, ultimately wound up serving the Camaro as well, and it was key to making the car finally drive as good as it looked. “With Alpha, we were able to expand gen six’s performance capability because of its lower mass and structural differences.” Oppenheiser summed up the two generations this way: “With the fifth gen, the driver learns how to drive the car, while with the sixth gen, the car responds to the driver’s input. It was a completely different philosophy.”

The philosophy did not change quite as much from a design standpoint—the car clearly continued to hark back to 1969. “We wanted to move beyond gen five’s design, but the question was, ‘How far can we push it?’” said Peters. The basic shape, it was decided, would be sacrosanct. “I like to say that the form is in the brand, so when you look at it, you say, ‘Yeah, it’s a Camaro.’ It can’t be mistaken with anything else. You don’t need the badge.”

Familiar as it looked, there were important surface changes. “We learned a lot, not only from Camaro racing, but Corvette racing, too, and we applied that knowledge to the new design,” continued Peters. “We knew there would be more powerful engines, and so it had to breathe like crazy. We had to open up that front end. We spent a lot of time in the wind tunnel, and that led us to develop some forms that we might not have sketched before. When I first started, the designers’ relationship with the aerodynamic group was almost adversarial. Later, I realized that you have to collaborate. Out of conflict came a new and better way of designing.”

The sixth-gen Camaro debuted in 2015 as a 2016 model, simultaneously available as a coupe and as a convertible. The 3.6-liter V-6 made 335 horsepower, while the SS had a 6.2-liter V-8 good for 455 ponies. Most notably, the Camaro offered a four-cylinder as the base engine for the first time since 1986, now as a turbocharged 2.0-liter making 275 horsepower. All engines could be matched with either a six-speed manual or an eight-speed automatic. In 2017, GM offered a ZL1 option; this time, the supercharged 6.2-liter V-8 made 650 horsepower with either a six-speed manual or a 10-speed automatic.

A conversation about the fifth- and sixth-gen Camaros wouldn’t be complete without mentioning visibility—or, rather, the lack of it. Peters is aware of the criticism but stands by the design. “These cars were driven by style, and I wanted to keep the proportions as dramatic as possible,” he explained. “In my mind, there are cars like the Countach and yeah, they’re not sedans. But that’s our mission. The gen six is definitely more dramatic than gen five. We went around and around about that. We also know we were incorporating some awesome technology—not just rear-avoidance sensors, but the new rearview mirror we were going to have where basically you look in the mirror and the whole upper goes away. I knew it was onboard and that was a powerful tool. From a visibility perspective, it turns your car into a convertible.” Peters concluded by saying, “I never had as much freedom to get where I was 100 percent satisfied on exterior design as I was on the sixth-generation Camaro.”

The one that comes next …

So, what about a seventh-generation Camaro? GM has been careful to clarify that the end of the sixth generation’s production is “not the end of the Camaro’s story.” It has also been careful not to give much detail on what the next chapter may entail, but the tea leaves read that it’ll be an electric vehicle, likely with four doors.

If that sounds depressing, allow Al Oppenheiser, who moved from Camaro engineering to the Hummer EV, to try to cheer us up. “If we get the opportunity to do another Camaro, I would say we would be able to be successful if we remembered that DNA. It’s a soul. It’s part of you and it’s an expression of you. If we could do that, then you could make it out of any propulsion system,” he said, adding, “It’s no coincidence that [with the Hummer EV] we took 1000 horsepower and went 0–60 in 3 seconds.”

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The post Sixth-Gen Camaro (2016–24): The one that nailed it appeared first on Hagerty Media.

With the Camaro nameplate retiring soon, we’re honoring the beloved two-door with a series of love letters, fun lists, and memories that you can follow here. Many performance cars, especially nowadays, aim for an anodyne version of perfection that only a few can afford. The Camaro is for the rest of us—and it’s always ready to party. Still, we can’t pretend the car we’re about to celebrate over the next week or so is perfect. That in mind, let down your hair and come with us for a deep dive into what, exactly, makes the fifth-gen Camaro so bitchin’.

The Camaro Concept debuted at the Detroit auto show on January 9, 2006, to a full marching band from a local school, a parade of vintage Camaros (one from each generation), and 250 Camaro fans specially invited to the event.

Tom Peters, design director on the Camaro concept, was there, riding shotgun in his personal ’69 Camaro (the venue’s union rules dictated that only a union worker could drive). “I’ve been at the introduction of a lot of cars—Corvettes, other Camaros, Cadillacs—and this one was magnified times 10,” recalled Peters. “We drove down an aisle roped off on either side, and it was packed with people surging forward to get a glimpse of the car. The excitement was palpable—and a little unnerving.” After the first four generations had assembled on the stage, a curtain was drawn back to reveal the fifth-gen Camaro concept. “The place erupted into complete pandemonium,” said Peters. “Grown men had tears running down their faces.”

On August 10, 2006, GM’s CEO, Rick Wagoner, announced the Camaro’s official return: “As evidence that we’re not completely brain-dead, GM will build the Chevy Camaro.” Overlooking the fact that Wagoner felt it necessary to qualify the exact state of the company’s brains (this was GM in 2006 after all), the announcement meant that the Camaro would return in 2009 after a seven-year hiatus. Later that same day, on GM’s FastLane Blog, GM vice chairman Bob Lutz posted: “I’m not going to tell you that Camaro is happening because the blogosphere demanded it; that would be disingenuous. But I will tell you that the enthusiasm shown for Camaro in this forum is a shining and prominent example of the passion that exists for this automobile, and we thank you for sharing it with us.”

Equally important to the enthusiasm shown outside of GM for Camaro was the enthusiasm shown by Lutz himself. “I’m not sure that Camaro would’ve come back if Bob wasn’t there,” said Peters. Ed Welburn, then head of GM’s global design and owner of a cherry 1969 Camaro, also played a crucial role. “When Ed Welburn came on board, the whole emphasis and enthusiasm ramped up so hard,” recalled Peters. “He and Bob had common visions. Bob understood what design is about, how important it is. But Ed knew specifically the talent that we already had that could be unleashed.”

Even the prettiest Camaro was going nowhere without affordable rear-drive underpinnings. The lack thereof was one of the main reasons the car went away for so long. Chevrolet had flirted with the idea of a Camaro based on the Australian Holden Monaro but decided the design wouldn’t work. (That car wound up being sold in the States as the 2004–2006 Pontiac GTO.) For the fifth gen, Chevy again looked to Holden, which had developed a new platform for its full-size sedans, but this time had the latitude to change key dimensions.

Then came the financial crisis of 2008 and GM’s bankruptcy in 2009; suddenly, the Camaro’s fate was unclear. “I was hanging on a string with the fifth-gen Camaro for about a year,” recalled Al Oppenheiser, who at the time was lead engineer on the Camaro program. Ultimately, the car went ahead, in large part because it would have been costly to turn back. “We already had the dies shipped to the assembly plant, test vehicles on the ground, and a convertible that was coming,” said Oppenheiser. “We were more toward production than away from production, so we were allowed to continue.” What might have been a disaster for the gen-five Camaro turned into a positive. “The front grille of the fifth-gen Camaro became the face of the new GM around the world,” said Oppenheiser.

The stars further aligned for the Camaro when Ed Welburn happened to be giving director Michael Bay a tour of Chevrolet styling studios and Bay saw the Camaro concept. Bay stopped and said, “I’m going to make that a star of a movie.” That movie, Transformers, was the highest-grossing film of 2007.

The production version of the Camaro arrived in April 2009 as a 2010 model, featuring many of the concept’s design cues inspired primarily by the 1969 Camaro—the deep-set egg-crate grille, single round headlamps, and beefy hood bulge. Another benefit of the Holden-derived underpinnings was a multilink rear suspension—the first in the Camaro’s history. Long-hood, short-decklid proportions emphasized the car’s rear-drive setup. The fifth gen’s most notorious design feature, however, was its limited outward visibility. The low seats and cramped interior—especially the criminally small rear seat—contributed to a claustrophobic vibe. Buyers didn’t seem to mind, as sales averaged more than 100,000 a year over the car’s entire run.

Initially a coupe was offered and then, in 2011, a convertible. Engine choices included a 312-hp, 3.6-liter V-6 on the base models, while the top-trim SS boasted a 426-hp, 6.2-liter V-8 paired with a six-speed manual transmission. In 2011, GM offered a ZL1 option, brandishing a supercharged version of the 6.2-liter V-8 that cranked out 580 horsepower. The Z/28 version of the gen-five Camaro arrived in 2014, with a 505-hp, 7.0-liter V-8 featuring a dry-sump oil system (a first for Camaro), carbon-ceramic brakes, and a carbon-fiber extractor on the hood.

Although production of the fifth-generation Camaro ended in 2015, for Peters, its essence is summed up by a moment from the media launch of the car: “We were transporting journalists around the Milford Proving Ground to where the cars were on display. We hear the roar of a jet and here comes Bob [Lutz]. He comes back around, so close that we can see him, and gives a thumbs up. Then he turns up and goes into the clouds. And you know what? He took that company up into the clouds with him.”

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The post Fifth-Gen Camaro (2010–15): The one that rose again appeared first on Hagerty Media.

With the Camaro nameplate retiring soon, we’re honoring the beloved two-door with a series of love letters, fun lists, and memories that you can follow here. Many performance cars, especially nowadays, aim for an anodyne version of perfection that only a few can afford. The Camaro is for the rest of us—and it’s always ready to party. Still, we can’t pretend the car we’re about to celebrate over the next week or so is perfect. That in mind, let down your hair and come with us for a deep dive into what, exactly, makes the fourth-gen Camaro so bitchin’.

It’s more or less common knowledge that the Ford Mustang nearly became a front-wheel-drive car in the 1990s, a diversion that ultimately produced the Probe. The Camaro had its own brush with front-drive around the same time, yet the program failed to meet weight, cost, and safety targets. This was pretty much standard operating procedure for General Motors at the time. The company posted its largest-ever loss at $23.5B, a hangover from years of binging on ill-considered technological cure-alls (plastic-bodied Saturns; automated factories where robots wound up spray-painting each other; Lotus).

Despite all that, a new rear-drive Camaro arrived for 1993, and it was a beast. GM had just put the finishing touches on the LT1, the most significant update to the small-block V-8 since its introduction in the 1950s. In the Camaro, it made 275 horsepower, a 30-hp bump compared with the outgoing car and a 40-hp advantage over the contemporary Mustang GT. It sat way back, the block tucked under the cowl of the windshield for better weight distribution. “It’s almost a mid-front-engine car,” said John Heinricy. (Try to remember that if you’re ever changing the rear spark plugs on one.)

It also had a sophisticated double wishbone front suspension, although getting it to production required a King Solomon–like choice: “The guy who was responsible for the financials said, ‘There’s just no way the program can afford to do a new front and an independent rear suspension,’” recalled Heinricy. “I said, ‘Let’s do the front and hopefully in a couple of years we can come in with a program to upgrade the rear.’”

That proved to be wishful thinking. Annual production at the outset was well over six figures but dropped to around 60,000 a year in the late 1990s. Those volumes for a sports car don’t sound particularly bad to modern ears. Yet GM had miscalculated. “We had configured Sainte-Thérèse [a factory in the suburbs of Montreal] to build two shifts of Camaro and Firebird,” remembered Scott Settlemire, who was product manager for the car in the late 1990s. “By ’96, we went down to one shift, and that’s when you lose stupid amounts of money.”

What went wrong? It’s tempting to point to the broader shift in consumer taste, and this was indeed the period when many would-be coupe buyers started finding their way into small SUVs. Yet as always for the Camaro, there is the inconvenient counter-factual of the Mustang, whose sales skewed upward during the decade. “It’s easy for an engineer to say this, but I blame marketing,” said Heinricy. “They just didn’t take the car seriously.”

The styling didn’t help. Baby boomers, in their millions, were entering midlife and beginning to look back, and much of the car industry was pivoting to indulge their nostalgia. Cars like the Mazda Miata and Dodge Viper winked at the past, and Volkswagen’s New Beetle, shown in concept form in 1995, gave it a full-on bear hug. And yet the wedge-like fourth-gen Camaro, largely the work of GM’s Advanced Studio in Warren with influences from young designers based in California, continued to gaze straight ahead. “Chuck Jordan [GM design chief from 1986 to 1992] was always looking at the horizon—creating the next big thing,” said John Cafaro, who led the studios that designed the Camaro and the Corvette.

By the time the Camaro got a mid-cycle update for 1998, rumors abounded that it was on death’s door. The car itself begged to differ. The all-new aluminum LS1 V-8, which had debuted in the C5 Corvette just a year earlier, brought horsepower unseen since the early 1970s. In the Z28, it put out 305 horsepower; SS models, fitted by after-marketer Street Legal Performance with a cold-air intake and freer-breathing exhaust, made 320 horsepower. It has become gospel in Camaro circles that these numbers were conservative. Heinricy denies underrating the cars but notes that little other than tuning software differentiates a Camaro’s LS1 from a Corvette’s. “It was a very simple thing for somebody in the aftermarket to do a calibration that brings that all to life.”

The car persisted and in its final years became profitable again, per Settlemire, thanks to higher take rates on those V-8s. Yet it ultimately met its demise due to banalities of crash standards. “There was a new head-impact standard that came on to the books on September 1, 2002, and in order for us to meet that, we would have had to severely pad the windshield opening,” Settlemire said. “And it’s kind of hard to see out of a windshield of a fourth gen, anyway.”

Just over 40,000 Camaros made it out of the factory that final year, less than a third of the production of the rival Mustang, which was strutting about with a new Bullitt package. The irony was not lost on the car’s internal champions. “Ford saw the Mustang as something really important… they decided to go after it and keep it going,” said Heinricy. “GM just didn’t feel that way about Camaros.”

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The post Fourth-Gen Camaro (1993–2002): The one that died first appeared first on Hagerty Media.

With the Camaro nameplate retiring soon, we’re honoring the beloved two-door with a series of love letters, fun lists, and memories. Many performance cars, especially nowadays, aim for an anodyne version of perfection that only a few can afford. The Camaro is for the rest of us—and it’s always ready to party. Still, we can’t pretend the car we’re about to celebrate over the next week or so is perfect. That in mind, let down your hair and come with us for a deep dive into what, exactly, makes the Camaro so bitchin’. Here: the highs and lows from each of the Camaro’s six generations.

With so many memorable models and so many race-winning performances, it’s difficult to pick just one highlight from each generation of Camaro. Of course, we like to challenge ourselves, so we did exactly that, polling our staff to choose one high and one low from each of the six generations of our favorite Detroit underdog.

We welcome your input as fellow Camaro lovers: What triumphs or notable features did we neglect? Were there any issues that Chevrolet should have caught in development but didn’t? Share your thoughts with us in the comments below.

First Generation (1967–69)

High: 1969 Trans-Am–winning Chevrolet Camaro.

AMC and the Big Three put a lot of effort into Trans Am racing in the late ’60s and early ’70s. Notable drivers included Parnelli Jones, Dan Gurney, George Follmer, Jerry Titus, and Mark Donohue. With Roger Penske as his crew chief, Donohue won back-to-back Trans Am championships for Chevrolet in 1968 and 1969 powered by the big-bore, short-stroke 302 V-8 from the Camaro Z/28 which ended production in 1969 and was replaced by the LT-1 the following year.

Low: “Cocktail shaker” dampers on the convertibles.

Removing the roof of the Camaro eliminated a lot of structure, introducing a lot of body flex. The solution was a set of four oil-filled canisters with a suspended weight tuned to absorb the specific frequency at which the body would vibrate. It’s not a particularly elegant solution, and the canisters added about 100 pounds to the Camaro.

Second Generation (1970–81)

High: Pre-’74 Z/28 with all the right options.

There are plenty of ways to build a Camaro, and that degree of personalization is part of the draw of the pony car class. While there’s nothing wrong with a big-block, we’re fans of the Z/28 package, which brought a 350-cubic-inch LT-1 with a solid-lifter cam and a four-barrel carb along with upgrades to the suspension, already improved for the second-gen car. The RS package, shown here, with its redesigned fascia that included round marker lights and an extended grille framed by a split bumper, gave the Camaro a noticeably different look. If you also specced yours with a Hurst four-speed, mag wheels, and stripes—well, you might have the perfect second-gen, in our book.

Low: This generation lived in the shadow of Burt Reynolds’ magnificent mustache and his Bandit Trans Am.

While the Camaro managed to survive the late ’70s with decent styling and sales numbers that eclipsed those of the Mustang (in 1977), the Firebird thrived, especially in Trans Am livery with its over-the-top graphics. A black and gold Trans Am, equipped with T-tops and dressed as a 1977 model, was almost as big a star as Reynolds in the film and has become synonymous with Smokey and The Bandit. Where was the Camaro movie love?

Third Generation (1982–92)

High: IROC with T-tops.

With its liftback cargo area, third-generation Camaro was downright practical,  but where it really shone was the style. The IROC, with its signature 16-inch wheels and ground effects, was one of the best-looking pony cars of the ’80s and we think its looks have aged rather well. Starting in 1988, you could also option your IROC with the 1LE package, which added a close-ratio transmission and brakes improved with parts pirated from the Corvette and Caprice.

Low: The big engine came with only an auto. Also, someone kindly tell us what “Berlinetta” means, and why those cars had a datebook on the roof.

While they still look cool, the Tuned Port Injection (TPI) intakes were a bit of a strange choice for a sporty car, because their strength is low-end torque production. The 350 models produced an adequate 245 hp and an impressive 345 lb-ft of torque at the end of the third-gen’s run. The compact and lightweight T5 five-speed transmission, like the one used in contemporary Mustangs as well as in the 305-equipped Camaro, had a maximum torque capacity of 300 lb-ft and thus never found its way into the more powerful and torquey Camaros powered by the TPI 350.

Fourth Generation (1993–02)

High: The B4C-package Camaros produced for police.

The B4C gave the Camaro all of the performance of the Z28 without a lot of the additional options, many of which tacked on extra weight. They were also missing T-tops which seem to be found on most of the high-performance Camaro models. While the Z28 came with a black roof and mirrors, the B4C was painted like a plain old base Camaro, so it was also a bit of a sleeper—provided it didn’t have lights on top or wear police livery.

Low: “Skip shift. ”Also, the service procedure for replacing the rear spark plugs.

The tricky shift procedure could easily be worked around, but the long, steeply angled windshield meant that the engines are tucked way into the cowl on the fourth-gen Camaro. Working on the back of the engine is not going to be a simple task, but at least the plugs have a long service interval.

Fifth Generation (2010–15)

High: The LS7–powered Z/28.

“Imagine presenting to Chevrolet leadership that we wanted to sell a vehicle that had no carpet, no air conditioning, and a trunk that had one speaker just because the seatbelt chime was a requirement, and that we wanted to sell it for more than the Corvette costs. That was a personal win. And the thing was a track beast.”—Al Oppenheiser lead development engineer, fifth- and sixth-generation Camaro

Low: Concept car trunk.

The fifth-gen Camaro returned with concept-car styling, and it was a big hit. However, like the sixth-gen that followed, this Camaro featured a rather average-sized trunk only accessible through a tiny opening. Packing can be a hassle, and large, rigid luggage is a no-go. Pack light, or pick a duffel bag.

Sixth Generation (2016–24)

High: The SS 1LE.

The Alpha platform that underpins the 6th-gen Camaro is an absolute gem, with fantastic road manners and excellent handling and road feel. Chevrolet was nice enough to give us the 1LE package in turbo four, naturally aspirated V-6, naturally aspirated V-8, and supercharged V-8 varieties, so there’s a driver-focused 6th-gen for Camaro fans of every kind. Our favorite, of course, is the SS 1LE: It drives like a BMW M3 but looks, sounds, and hits the wallet like nothing but a Camaro.

Low: Good luck seeing out of the thing.

Visibility in the sixth-generation Camaro isn’t any worse than it is in the fifth-generation, and it’s certainly no worse than many contemporary sports cars. That’s not to say it’s great. However, you get used to the sightlines. You can’t have a roof this low or a profile this sleek without some tradeoffs.

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

The post Highs and lows of the Camaro, by generation appeared first on Hagerty Media.

With the Camaro nameplate retiring soon, we’re honoring the beloved two-door with a series of love letters, fun lists, and memories that you can follow here. Many performance cars, especially nowadays, aim for an anodyne version of perfection that only a few can afford. The Camaro is for the rest of us—and it’s always ready to party. Still, we can’t pretend the car we’re about to celebrate over the next week or so is perfect. That in mind, let down your hair and come with us for a deep dive into what, exactly, makes the third-gen Camaro so bitchin’.

“For reasons that probably baffle those who witnessed the mullet’s first rodeo in the ’80s, the hairstyle has become an unlikely symbol of hot,” reported British GQ in March 2023. What better time, then, to reexamine the legacy of what might be the most misunderstood Camaro?

The third gen, produced from 1982 to 1992, is the one people are most likely to mock. It had the weakest engines, starting as low as 90 horsepower in base models; build quality ranged from suspect to depressing; and there’s the association with big hair and even bigger bravado.

Yet this Camaro might be the most ambitious and—wait for it—sophisticated of the bunch. Development commenced in the mid-1970s, the tail end of General Motors’ golden age. Despite nagging challenges from upstart imports and regulatory pressures, the company still commanded more than half of the American car market. Bill Mitchell and his acolytes still roamed the halls of the Warren Tech Center. “You could see that there was trouble ahead—the company was getting involved in front-wheel-drive cars they didn’t know how to do—but there were these pockets of great design,” recalled John Cafaro, who joined in 1977 as a designer for Chevrolet and retired in 2019 as the brand’s global design director. “One of them was the Pontiac Firebird studio, as well as the Camaro and Corvette studio.”

The ’82 Camaro, with its sharp creases and unadorned body panels, seemed to have as much in common with Giorgetto Giugiaro’s stylings of the period as they do the pony cars that preceded it. There was more than a hint of motorsport—Cafaro, who designed the Z28’s nose, drew inspiration from the slantnose Porsches that were dominating Daytona. It was a beautiful departure from the go-fast gimcrackery that had taken over performance cars in the late 1970s. Thanks in large part to its enormous glass hatch, it was more functional than any Camaro before or since—more than trivial given that 1980s car buyers used them to do things we now reserve for 2-ton crossovers. (The Camaro was also, in this era, the Chevrolet most likely to be purchased by a woman.)

The pressure to perform as an everyday commuter and the fuel crunches of the era left their mark on the car’s performance as well, and not entirely for worse. The third gen was nearly half a foot shorter than the car it replaced, not to mention lighter. To drive one even today is to be surprised by the sensitivity and the immediacy of its steering. “You really could embarrass the Corvettes in autocross if you wanted to,” remembered John Heinricy, who is probably best known for his role as director of GM’s performance division in the early 2000s. But in the 1980s, he was a production engineer for Chevrolet who spent his weekends racing F-bodies at events, including IMSA’s showroom-stock series of the period, the Firestone Firehawk Endurance Championship.

It was those extracurricular efforts that bequeathed the perfect track-day Camaro. In an effort to upgrade the brakes, which Heinricy deemed “marginal” for racing, he helped slip a racing package into showrooms under the then-unused RPO (Regular Production Option) code 1LE. It included brake rotors lifted off Caprice police cars, an aluminum driveshaft, a baffled gas tank, and a suspension so stiff that Heinricy personally spoke with each customer to ensure they knew what they were getting into. “We really wanted the cars to race. We didn’t want them just to be bought as a street driver.”

The Ford fans will note that we’ve so far avoided talking about engines. Indeed, they stank, at least initially. A corporate decision to cap displacement at 305 cubic inches, as well as fumbling experiments with throttle-body injection (a half-measure between carburetion and full-on fuel injection), meant the Z28 limped out of the gate with 165 horsepower. It needed close to 10 seconds to hit 60 mph. The base car, with its Pontiac-sourced Iron Duke four-cylinder, needed double that.

Those numbers, ignominious as they are, rapidly improved. By 1985, the top dog (now called an IROC-Z, a nod to Chevrolet’s participation in the International Race of Champions) could be had with a fuel-injected, 215-hp, 305-cubic-inch V-8. Two years later, the 350-cubic-inch small-block returned with 245 horsepower. Yet those anemic early ’80s cars, produced in the hundreds of thousands, left a bad taste in many enthusiasts’ mouths. The fact that a great deal of the survivors today look ready for a role in The Walking Dead doesn’t help.

Amid a wave of nostalgia for 1980s icons, including but not limited to mullets, these Camaros are at last on the rise. A third gen in perfect condition and the right specification—that is, a later IROC with a fuel-injected engine—can bring more than $40,000.

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With the Camaro nameplate retiring soon, we’re honoring the beloved two-door with a series of love letters, fun lists, and memories you can follow along with here. Many performance cars, especially nowadays, aim for an anodyne version of perfection that only a few can afford. The Camaro is for the rest of us—and it’s always ready to party. Still, we can’t pretend the car we’re about to celebrate over the next week or so is perfect. That in mind, let down your hair and come with us for a deep dive into what, exactly, makes the second-gen Camaro so bitchin’.

In drag racing, first gear gets you off the line, but second gear wins the race, and everything can come down to how well you execute the shift. By 1970, after just three short model years of the original Camaro, GM was ready to reach for the shifter.

Sketching of the second gen began in 1966, right after the design work wrapped on the first Camaro. This time, Chevy Studio 3 chief Henry Haga and his counterpart at Pontiac, Bill Porter, were determined not to let family-car proportions hamper their work. The second gen was a clean break, with almost no design elements carrying over from the original. Haga’s team drew the cowl so low that GM engineering pushed back, grousing that there was no way to package the car’s heater, air conditioner, radio, and glove compartment within such a compressed space.

According to Chevy historian Michael Lamm, styling chief Bill Mitchell—a full-fledged GM vice president—was called in to settle things. Mitchell backed up his designers, holding that a low cowl was essential to the car’s sporty character and that it shouldn’t rise even a fraction of an inch. The gen-two Camaro thus became the designer’s Camaro.

The 1970 ½ Camaro, so-called because its arrival was delayed by labor unrest, was proportioned to look dramatically lower, longer, and sleeker, with a slipstream roofline and a much sexier stretch from the dash to the front axle, known as the dash-to-axle ratio. This despite the wheelbase and overall construction, a semi-unitized steel architecture with a bolt-on front subframe, remaining conceptually unchanged from the first gen.

For the face, inspiration came from the then-new 1968 Jaguar XJ6 making the auto show rounds, with its prominent rectangular grille bracketed by faired-in headlights and driving lights. A decision to do away with a quarter-window supposedly saved GM $18 per car, money plowed into better cabin insulation including a double-wall roof. However, besides hampering rear visibility, no quarter-window meant excessively long doors, which were better for accessing the rear seats but made a shimmy job out of exiting a Camaro parked in a garage or between cars.

A decision to give Pontiac almost entirely separate sheetmetal for the Firebird, including slightly different doors, likely killed the convertible as well as a proposed two-door wagon. Tooling up such niche spinoffs for both Chevy and Pontiac was deemed prohibitively expensive, so the F-body for the 1970s arrived as a hardtop coupe only, with T-tops arriving as an option in 1978.

Performance, as well as design, was a calling card—at least at first. Hot engines included a 360-hp small-block V-8 and a 396-cubic-inch V-8 with 375 horsepower. At least one equipped with the Chevelle’s famed LS6 454-cubic-inch V-8 roamed GM’s proving grounds.

The “designer’s Camaro” arrived just as sales in the segment were tanking. Inflation was raging, OPEC was rampaging, and GM was facing mounting costs for meeting new safety and emissions regulations. In its first year, the second gen sold barely 50 percent of what the ’69 had sold. A devastating six-month UAW strike at the Camaro’s Norwood, Ohio, plant in 1972 prompted GM to consider killing the F-body outright. Production was halted so long that 1100 partially assembled Camaros and Firebirds collecting dust in the plant had to be scrapped because their 1972 bumpers no longer met 1973 safety standards.

However, the car had friends in high places within GM and ducked the ax. The second-gen carried the Camaro flag on for an astounding 11 years even as competitors ballooned in size and then drastically shrank (Mustang) or disappeared altogether (AMX, Challenger, etc.). Indeed, the F-body survived long enough for the 1977 blockbuster Smokey and the Bandit to inject new life into the segment; the 272,000 sales of the aging 1978 Camaro beat that of any year of the first gen as well as finally—finally!—swamping that of the Mustang.

As in drag racing, the Camaro launched in first, but it won in second.

***

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With the Camaro nameplate retiring soon, we’re honoring the beloved two-door with a series of love letters, fun lists, and memories over the next several weeks. You can follow along by clicking here.

Let’s not pretend the car we’re about to celebrate over the next week or so is perfect. In fact, the Camaro has always been flawed and beset with contradictions. It’s a sporty car, sometimes a very capable one, and yet many built over the decades had humble four- and six-cylinder engines and spent their lives as workaday commuters. It’s built by America’s largest automaker but is the consummate underdog, always playing catch-up with its crosstown rival, the Mustang, and scrapping for development dollars with its big brother, the Corvette.

The Camaro has, for most of its existence, lived in the crosshairs of the suits, who sent it into cold storage in 2002 and are doing so again at the end of this year. (Don’t think for a second, though, that it won’t be back.) To be even more blunt: The T-tops often leaked, the doors were usually too heavy, and the view out was almost always obstructed.

No matter, we love Camaros—have owned them, wrenched on them, and generally gotten up to no good in them. Judging by Hagerty data, you feel the same: It’s the fourth most popular car we insure. Our affection has a lot to do with all those “problems.” Many performance cars, especially nowadays, aim for an anodyne version of perfection that only a few can afford. The Camaro is for the rest of us—and it’s always ready to party. That in mind, let down your hair and come with us for a deep dive into what, exactly, makes the Camaro so bitchin’. We start at the beginning…

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First Generation (1967–69)

The one that picked a fight

It was the worst kept secret in Detroit in the summer of 1966. Ever since the arrival of the spectacularly successful Ford Mustang two years earlier, all eyes had turned to Chevrolet and its expected counterattack. Word had gone around that the Bowtie’s answer, the so-called F-car, would be about the same size and price as the Mustang and that it would be christened the Panther. Ford even ginned up a mocking TV ad in which a feline panther unsuccessfully chased a Ford Mustang, and Ford PR reps would quip to any reporter who would listen that Chevy’s blatant knockoff should really be called the Parrot.

On Tuesday, June 28, 1966, newly promoted GM vice president and Chevrolet general manager Elliot Marantette “Pete” Estes made the official announcement from Detroit’s Statler-Hilton hotel over a coast-to-coast conference call with 200 reporters gathered in 14 cities. Backed up by a boisterous squad of Michigan State University cheerleaders, Estes triumphantly announced that Chevy’s new Mustang-beater, due in showrooms that September, would be called—well, uh, it sounded something like “ka-MAIR-oh.”

The Los Angeles Times reported that “a 30-member press gathering at the Beverly Hilton reacted to Estes’ announcement of the name with silence.” To the north, the San Francisco Examiner stated that journalists’ first reaction there was, “‘He must be kidding.’ The name sort of stirs the imagination as much as a wet noodle.”

Estes said that he settled on Camaro only that morning at 10 o’clock, because it both upheld Chevy’s C-centric naming convention—Corvair, Corvette, Chevelle, Chevy II—and in colloquial French loosely translates as “comrade,” (“…a word that also has its connotations,” said a smirking New Hampshire paper).

“We chose a name which, besides being lyrical and new, also reflects the purpose of the car. The real mission of the auto is to be a close companion of its owner, tailored to his or her individual tastes,” said Estes. Some observers also suggested that GM’s recent smackdown in the Ribicoff traffic-safety hearings that grew out of Ralph Nader’s 1965 book, Unsafe at Any Speed, and GM’s hiring of private investigators to discredit Nader had scared GM away from aggressive names that “subtly encourage speed by exciting images of power and violence,” according to one columnist at the time.

So, comrade Camaro it was, although bewildered French speakers said they had never heard the word before, and the entire English-speaking world had to be trained on how to pronounce it. “CA-maro,” and not “caMARo” or “camaRO.” Ford PR reps chortled—again, to anyone who would listen—that a Spanish word very much like it refers to a type of shrimp.

They had every reason for swagger. In just two years, Ford had pumped out more than a million Mustangs, saving the mid-1960s from being an otherwise dreary period for Detroit of repeated factory strikes, encroaching foreign competition, and soft sales. Additionally, the Mustang proved that there was a huge untapped market for what the industry called “specialty cars.” “When you have a winner, you have to expect competition,” mused Ford Division general manager Don Frey, who at the time lived across the street from Estes. “Imitation continues to be the sincerest form of flattery.”

Contrary to expectations that were elevated by the fiberglass-bodied Corvette and the rear-engine Corvair—as well as the front-drive ’66 Olds Toronado and the over-head-cam Pontiacs—there would be nothing very radical about the all-steel, rear-drive 1967 Camaro save for the hideaway headlights that disappeared behind motorized panels in the grille of RS editions. Chevy was aiming hard for a circa-$2400 base price, considered critical to effectively challenging the Mustang, and it would not be deterred by any of the techno-wizardry then pouring forth from GM R&D.

According to Chevy historian Michael Lamm, GM’s See-the-USA division committed to building a Mustang competitor as early as August 1964. It was a rush job on a shoestring, a sporty car to be grafted onto the bones of the Chevy II/Nova sedan (as was the Mustang an offspring of the Falcon). Bill Mitchell, who in 1958 succeeded Harley Earl as GM’s design chief, oversaw the styling of that first Camaro, code-named XP-836 and executed in Chevrolet Studio 2 at GM’s Technical Center in Warren, Michigan, where it was assigned to division stylist Henry Haga.

From the earliest clays, the Camaro’s shape departed from that of the straight-edged Mustang, brooming aside the midcentury-modern convention of flat fender lines and slab sides in favor of rounded haunches and a sloping nose and tail, pulling in elements of both the Corvette and Corvair. As with other sporty cars of the era, the ’67 Camaro’s front and rear fender lines swelled upward to peaks directly above the top of the wheel arches before tapering off. That little trick, called “Coke-bottle styling,” had made period designs from the Ford GT40 to the Lamborghini Miura to the ’68 Dodge Charger look good.

Although the Camaro’s 108.0-inch wheelbase was identical to the Mustang’s, its sedan underpinnings—including the high cowl and conservative dash-to-axle ratio—meant the first-gen Camaro would never be as long, low, or sexy as designers would have liked. Modern collectors might strenuously disagree with him, but Mitchell was a bigger fan of the second-gen 1970 Camaro, saying later that the ’67 was the hasty product of a committee.

Unlike the fully unitized Mustang, which had a frame welded to its body, GM engineers designed the Camaro around a semi-unitized concept, meaning everything forward of the firewall was supported by a bolt-on frame while everything aft of that was, as on the Mustang, integrated with the body. That engineering decision was unwittingly a gift to future restorers and customizers, who could easily swap out the Camaro’s front subframe for a new one or, in more recent years, an all-aluminum pro-touring setup.

Toying with many ideas, including a two-seat roadster and a two-door Nomad-style wagon, Chevrolet eventually settled on two straightforward body styles, a notchback coupe and a convertible, available with six-cylinder or V-8 and various trim levels. People had admired the look of fastbacks since they went mainstream in the late 1930s, but they almost universally plunked their money down on cars with protruding trunks. The 1966 Mustang notchback outsold the fastback by a rate of 14 to 1. The first Dodge Charger in 1966 was a daring fastback—and a colossal failure. The only real exception was the Barracuda, which Plymouth broadened in 1967 with a notchback to join the existing fastback and convertible. The Cuda fastback held its own, selling about the same as the notchback—though all of Barracuda’s sales in 1967 didn’t add up to two months’ worth of Mustang sales. Chevy was aiming higher, and it didn’t want the distraction of a fastback.

Ultimately, however, the first Camaro couldn’t beat Mustang in the showroom. Chevy’s two plants in Norwood, Ohio, and Van Nuys, California, churned out around 221,000 units in ’67, rising to 243,000 in 1969, when even a fading Mustang sold almost 300,000 units. But as the turbulent 1960s drew to a close, GM was undaunted; the Camaro and its sister car, the Firebird, were established enough in three short years to be worthy of a complete reinvention for the next decade.

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It is apparently common for a new owner of a Singer restoration to call the home office with questions. Why, they ask, does their newly delivered pride and joy feel a bit distant, stiff in the knees?

“Just drive it,” Singer people say. As with any new restoration, the Porsche 911s from Rob Dickinson’s shop require break-in. The shell is old but the parts are new, and those parts need mileage to get happy with each other.

The car we tested for this story had a few thousand miles on the clock. It thus carried the standard Singer magic: a Porsche 911 that somehow delivers, in one single car, everything worth loving from the name’s greatest hits. Monster torque? Huge traction but ready willingness to slide? Germanic obsession with finish and a perfect balance between handling precision and comfort, all draped in the looks of an RS 2.7 sketched by Syd Mead? Sign us up.

On a mountain high above western Los Angeles, we were granted a handful of miles with a left-hand-drive 1990 911 in Sport Classic Grey. That car wore all-wheel drive, a 4.0-liter flat-six producing a claimed 390 horsepower, carbon-ceramic brakes, and a six-speed manual.

I’ve tested some 911s reimagined by Singer and poked around dozens more, and the details always delight. With all-wheel-drive cars, Singer replaces the stock 964 front-axle equipment—differential, driveshafts, and so on—with 993-generation Porsche hardware, then adds dozens of other tweaks to help the car respond and work. Combined with the company’s various cosmetic and driveline updates, the result is a piece of jewelry with incredible feel and raucous intake honk. Jewelry you can hammer at a track day or slog through traffic—simply a car, reliable and comfortable, cold air and great seats, designed to be used.

These cars, in this form, are worth every penny Dickinson asks. The catch is how that price draws a specific customer; you have to be quite successful to afford a machine of this value, and success often means a life with little free time. Some owners sell their cars after a year or two and only a smattering of miles. Which means they never see the magic.

Shame. Every Porsche 911 was built to move, after all. Dickinson’s just happen to be far better at it than most.

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You’ll be surprised how much acoustic guitars and bespoke Porsches have in common. Fourteen years ago, no one thought the world needed custom Porsche 964 restorations worth well into six figures. Forty-nine years ago, nobody thought the acoustic guitar was in need of reinvention.

In each case, a wildly successful Californian company has since proved the naysayers wrong while teaching us something about the reinvention of old ideas.

Taylor Guitars was founded in 1974 by Kurt Listug and Bob Taylor. In the decades since, they have brought modern engineering and fresh thinking to an industry dominated by tradition and fuzzy intuition. Through CNC machining and constant innovation, the company has grown into one of the world’s largest builders of acoustic instruments, but also a compass for the guitar industry, influencing even legacy giants like Martin and Gibson.

Singer Vehicle Design is younger. English expat Rob Dickinson found public exposure in the 1990s as the vocalist for shoegaze band Catherine Wheel. In 2009, he started a company to “reimagine” the Porsche 911 through heavily customized, ground-up restorations. Singer’s jewel-like work costs as much as a West Coast house and looks it, but it also launched an industry, birthing countless copycats. Singer reps won’t admit this publicly, but the company’s work is so good, it’s admired even within the executive suites of Porsche itself.

Happily, Dickinson and Listug know and respect each other. The former owns and plays a Taylor, while the latter, a longtime 911 fan, just took delivery of a Singer restoration after a four-year wait.

Mindful of all this, we toured Singer’s new restoration facility in Los Angeles. After that, we visited Taylor’s modern San Diego factory. Finally, we sat down with Dickinson, then Listug, and then Taylor’s new CEO/chief luthier—the architect of its recent renaissance—Andy Powers.

We met these men separately but asked each the same questions—on creativity and inspiration, but also on how you make something new in a hidebound environment. Their answers comprise the virtual roundtable on the following pages.

All three men love machines and music and view both in unique ways. (Powers even drives a vintage pickup to work and wrenches on it himself.) But enough introduction—we’ll let the creators speak for themselves.

Taylor now owns 40 percent of the American acoustic market. Singer has delivered more than 200 customer cars. Growth like that doesn’t happen by accident. And yet you can’t totally plan it, either.

Rob Dickinson: It takes a nutjob, an individual. Just setting out on these goals… cannot be done by a committee. It can only be done by someone who’s got something in their brain that they just can’t shake off. That they’re convinced will be good.

Did you ask Kurt if he imagined Taylor would grow to this? I can probably guess his answer. There was never a destination to my idea. I just knew I was absolutely f***ing convinced it was a good idea. In as much as it would not kill me, or bankrupt me, or bankrupt all the people—my wife’s family—providing the money to get it off the ground. I was just convinced it would be OK.

Kurt, did you and Bob ever think deeply about growth? Or was it just… finding the next cool step?

Kurt Listug: The things that you do are the things that make sense to do. We’re dreaming all the time about things we want that could be great for the business, but it’s a matter of timing and resources. What do you get really amped up about, that you want to work on and pursue?

We grew the business to $150 million a year and basically self-funded. We started with $10,000, we reinvested, grew and grew. Looking back, it seems impossible, but that’s what we did.

You waited four years for one of Rob’s restorations. Why?

Kurt: I’m a 911 guy. I’ve had 11 Porsche 911s. I saw [Singer’s work] in the magazines and thought: Wow, that’s really incredible. The workmanship, the quality of the craftsmanship, the design.

Rob is… being an artist. I hoped [the car] would be as good as I wanted it to be. It really exceeded my expectations.

You told me that ordering one felt like a leap. That a project this complex could be worth the money and time.

Kurt: The car is reimagined, turned into something completely different. I like it when people do that, and really, any industry would just get stale and die without it.

With Andy being so creative, someone who can invent new guitar designs, that’s important to us—that’s who we want to be as a company. We want to make instruments that inspire people to create new music.

The music business and car business each run on an odd balance of tradition and new.

Kurt: With guitar companies, typically, when the founder gets old, they sell. The company is usually bought by financial people. They’re backing sales and marketing, and nobody’s in charge of design anymore.

The same old design becomes a legacy product. It doesn’t really advance, but it has to. You have to keep creating the new world, so to speak.

When I started the business, we couldn’t pay ourselves regularly for the first 12 years. I know with Rob, the company was basically financed early on by customers paying their deposits. He surrounded himself with people who were equally passionate. That’s how new things come into being.

Everyone knows these industries die if they don’t occasionally break out of the box. And yet they both push back on reinvention and call you nuts when you try.

Rob: It was just like, “We’ve got to build this and show our idea.” If you talk about it, people will just roll their eyes and say you’re f***ing bonkers.

That’s why we didn’t have any luck raising any money before we started Singer. We had to do it ourselves. “I don’t really understand. What do you mean, great quality? How are you going to make it look any different, any better?”

You start to get bored with those conversations quite quickly. I think the only way to do it is to build it. It comes through sheer passion or sheer insanity: I can’t stop thinking about this when I go to sleep, and I can’t stop thinking about it when I get up.

I love how artists and engineers, when they start a project, don’t always know where it will end up. They just know where to start.

Kurt: It’s getting an idea, an intuition, of the direction to head in.

Rob: Lots of people have good ideas. But lots of people can [move on, go] do something else. I just was unable to do that. To the extent that I pushed aside a reasonably rubbish rock-and-roll career for the sake of a car I had become obsessed with.

If everyone thinks something is fine as-is, how do you begin thinking about changing it? Is that process rooted in need? Problem-solving?

Andy Powers: All of the above. I have all these things, and none of them satisfy me—why not?

If you’re making something new through deeply considered choices, how do you prioritize that work process, not get overwhelmed by possibility?

Andy: What do I want it to be that it isn’t? That’s incentive No. 1. I don’t have what I want. I have no means to get it unless I build it.

Another part would be, maybe I have the ability to build something that nobody else has. Knowledge or tools or personal initiative. There’s also that simple question: Why not do this? With Southern California… in other places, the expectation is: Don’t do that, that’s not the way it’s done. Here, it’s: Oh, yes, do your thing, man. Hope you don’t get hurt.

Rob: The process isn’t work. I grew up in the Porsche community in England and was deeply within it for 5 to 10 years before I moved to America. Gaining opinions and attitudes, desires for what was best, what was average. The natural library builds up in the head as to what great can be.

So many great bits of new have compassed off California culture. Like how early hot-rodding evolved, couldn’t have grown the same anywhere else.

Andy: It’s the opportunity of a place and ability and desire all stacking together to go: Hey, this should be, and there’s nobody to tell me no. They’re not even paying attention.

Rob: And it is unavoidably entangled in ego. Wanting to express yourself. To be seen as the person who did something that needs to be done.

Ego can be productive.

Rob: If I’m brutally honest, I thought someone would do [what Singer does] before I did, and I wanted to get in there first.

I was thinking last night about where the great music has come from. The best rock-and-roll is audacious. Audacity is a product of ambition and ego, I think. Wanting to make your mark, to go: F*** it, I’ve done it, go tell me I’m wrong. The audacity to do that in a song! The Beatles had it flowing out of every pore.

Does that process look different when you’re rethinking someone else’s creation?

Andy: It does. You feel a great dose of respect, and you don’t want to upset that legacy. You already love what it is. In the case of a Porsche, there is a very emotional connection Porsche drivers have—with the legacy, the fenders, the sound, the feel.

Musicians have an attachment to their instrument that makes it behave almost like a living thing. It’s intimate—used as an expression of emotion, philosophy, aesthetic. You don’t want to do something that is totally irrelevant to that legacy, and yet, within context of it, you can make your changes.

One of the things that was a real departure in the history of acoustic guitars—we started bolting the neck on instead of doing woodworking joinery to glue those parts together. Mostly because [that change] makes it more serviceable. It just does a better job serving the musician over the life of the instrument.

Because guitars change shape over time. Wood moisture shifts, the neck has to be adjusted to play right.

Andy: Instead of a super-invasive and expensive repair job, this takes like 10 minutes. You take it apart, you put a different set of spacers in—it’s no different from, say, changing a car’s alignment.

Kurt: It’s all done with CNC [milling] equipment. Bob designed shims of different thicknesses… you can change, in thousandths of an inch, the angle of the body.

Before, you had to break the guitar apart to do that. It was decades to get to the point where he could do that. I knew he would eventually figure out how.

Andy: We went to great pains to make it look familiar. You want it to look and feel comfortable and respect the tradition of how the thing performs. More recently, we totally changed the internal architecture of an acoustic guitar.

Taylor calls it V-class bracing—this massive shift in how guitars are built.

Kurt: Un-freaking-believable. That’s a problem guitars have had forever: They’ll go out of tune once you go up the neck. Andy figured it out from surfing, looking at wave-forms. Sound is waveforms. He figured out it was really the guitar top fighting itself. He redesigned it. His V-class bracing, they play in tune all the way up the neck. That’s never been done. Ever.

Andy: It was a series of circumstances: Oh, I should take this influence from archtop guitars and mandolins, all these different instrument-building legacies, and I’ll combine those in this funny surfing context—that would give me a better architecture for how an acoustic guitar could work.

I could voice that and steer it in a lot of different directions. But the first course of business was, take this radically new idea that performs better and deliberately voice it so it is familiar to what a Taylor player already loves.

It’s not going to come out of left field—I’m going to hide it. When you play it, you’re going to instantly go: That is the sonic signature of a Taylor guitar. It’s all that I like, there’s just more there.

Why are we so compelled to make new from the old without losing the old?

Rob: [Our cars], in my humble opinion, they’re me thinking to myself: This idea can be even more fantastic than it already is.

I live in the past. I don’t like sci fi. I don’t like computers, really—I’m not very good with them. I live in a rose-tinted world of trips to France with my parents in the 1970s. From 1970 to 1985, we spent six weeks each year driving down to and around the south of France, sometimes into Spain.

You can imagine what I saw on the roads. The glamour and beauty, the birth of the appeal of the automobile to me, as an object of deep, dry-mouth desire. Those cars became my life.

I think it’s the same with music. My songs are very much a product of loving other people’s songs. I think our work on the 911 is very much a product of us loving the 911 and wanting to do our own thing.

That “dry-mouth desire” can be hard to share. Is it ever frustrating, trying to get a customer on board? “I can’t explain it, just trust me?”

Kurt: It’s not frustrating. It’s a challenge. You think about Rob, how he went about making a [964 have the nose of a] long-hood 911? What it takes to rebuild the whole thing to be able to do that? I texted the guys up there about the steering. I wondered what they’d done differently because it felt so good. I got back this answer: We’re using this and that and there was a 993 something-or-other and we designed our own bushing for this and that.

It’s just… they knew no bounds, to make it as good as they could.

A Porsche designer once told me that redesigning the 911 was half privilege, half curse. Everyone wants the car to get better, but no one wants it to change. It ties into this old saw in the car business, how what the customer wants and what they say they want don’t always jibe.

Andy: Ask your favorite band: We need a new single—can you make it different from the last one and make it sound just like the last one?

To me, it feels like a left-brain/right-brain exercise. You’re going to look at this thing as the sum of its parts, and at the same time, you’re going to see it as a cohesive whole: What do I like about it? What feels expressive?

Musicians are not doing their business with dollars and cents. They work with the currency of emotion. They’re trying to make sense of a wider world. That’s the language we need to think about if you’re going to disassemble this thing. Let’s say we want the guitar to have more empathy. What the heck does that turn into? What does it mean when a car has great road feel? What translates through a steering wheel? Technically, that’s a flaw, but why is it so dynamic? It feels like you’re engaging with a living thing. That’s something that needs to be preserved.

Those are all measurable, quantifiable things, but what they really turn into for a musician is: What can I do with this? How expressive can it be? I start disassembling them mentally. I want them to turn into the more subjective experience. Then, when I go back over to my holistic side, I want all of these components to still reflect and affirm each other. In other words, the guitar needs to sound the way it looks and look the way it feels.

That’s all fuzzy, personal stuff, but also real and universal.

Andy: It’s very real. If it looks a certain way, you want it to then feel that way when you pick it up. You want the sound that comes out of it to conjure up the same sensation.

So much of creativity orbits rules—new ones we make, old ones we break. Success can calcify that thinking. You don’t want to risk what you’ve built.

Kurt: I’ll give you an analogy of creativity versus not being creative, wanting to do the same thing over and over.

If you have financial people running, say, a record label, they’ll look at what’s been selling. They’ll say, I want you to sound like so-and-so. They’ll squash [an artist’s] creativity when that person really needs to develop their own voice, their own personality.

I think that’s just the nature of business types, because they’re used to looking at metrics like that. They’re not always able to discover something new, see something in it.

The car business is so similar.

Rob: I’m asked more and more what I think of the industry that perhaps we had a hand in inspiring. I’m going, “Why don’t you try and imagine what Singer might do next, rather than trying to copy what we’re doing now?”

I look at this new [Singer-like] Porsche 928 [restoration] that’s just come out. The entrepreneur behind this company found a car designer that he loved, a good car designer but with no passion for Porsche whatsoever. It’s like, let’s change it as much as possible for the sake of reimagining it. Rather than look at how the guys that were responsible for the 928 [thought], set about reimagining that.

Apparently, though, a lot of people love it. Which is fantastic. Who am I to say what the rules are?

Who are any of us?

Rob: It’s interesting how other people misinterpret why we’re around. Yes, I wanted to start a business. But what I really wanted was to make a name synonymous with doing something particularly, dare I say, unusual in the automotive sphere.

To get under the skin of a subject and understand it. Not just from a design aspect. From an industrial aspect, a social aspect.

The 911 is such a social thing. It’s bought for what it means, how it feels. And yet the business model is so metric-driven. Each new one must be faster, or they’ve failed.

Kurt: You stake 15 more horsepower every time you turn up with a new one. They have to give people a reason to buy it.

Right! As if a Porsche weren’t desirable already. The balance is so funny. If carmakers ask the customer what they want, they want a crash-proof ’69 Camaro with 3000 horsepower and a 5-pound curb weight. Does the music business have more latitude to listen there?

Kurt: The music business is really, really teeny compared to the car business. They don’t have the capability or the resources [to respond] to the public as quickly.

I admire what Porsche does. I think they’ve done a remarkable job with not wrecking the 911. They’re basically all the same animal, but the personalities are all a little bit different.

Does it ever feel limiting to work with only one instrument? One car? Evolving one object for most of your career?

Andy: I break them into categories. There’s always the projects that are going into production in six months. Some things, we can’t make in even 10 years. The players aren’t ready for it. We’re not ready to figure out how to make it.

To me, it’s exciting to work on all of them. Because you’re a product. Whatever a person makes is a snapshot of who they are right then—your experiences, influences, resources, inspiration at the moment. That might be the availability or lack of a certain material. It might be a musician asking for something. It might be a changing aesthetic that you can’t even put into words yet, but you know is there.

I’ll look at something and go, man, we just put everything into it. Now, two years later, how the heck are we going to do that again?

You can’t just double your efforts. You won’t get anything new or fresh out of that.

Rob: I think that Singer has an opportunity, maybe, to become a car manufacturer. Because of whatever we’ve done thus far. I’m slowly starting to put together the idea of what our first [ground-up] car will be.

In the past, I didn’t really scratch that itch, because I didn’t know what it was. I’m starting to get a better idea. I think it’s a journey through the past to get to something brand-new. That no one has ever seen before.

The question is, do we reimagine 911s for the rest of our lives? Or do we do other things with that notoriety that perhaps we’ve gotten? I don’t know.

With creating, what does it feel like when you realize you’ve gone…

Andy: Too far in the wrong direction?

It’s typically coming out of the struggle to bow to some market metric. Let’s say as a company, we want to make a new thing, and we understand that there’s a market and a price point we should look for. And that if we arguably delivered a set of features at that price, mathematically, you would have a certain number of customers.

The reality is, it rarely works that way. As I said, musicians aren’t doing their business with the currency of dollars and cents. Fortunately, we’ve never really gone that far. You tiptoe up to the line and go: Oh, that was the line, back away.

There was a psychologist, I think his name was Mendo. He did a lot of work back in the ’50s and ’60s trying to define creativity. The closest he ever got was saying that his essence of creativity was the formation of a connection between disassociated ideas.

You take two things that aren’t related, and you make some sort of connection between them, you’ve created something new.

What’s scarier—creating on a blank sheet with endless freedom, or inside fences?

Andy: Both are exciting and terrifying. Within an existing box, you don’t want to ruin it. You have a lineage, an expectation. A community of enthusiasts. You can all stand around this thing and agree on what it is.

Don’t disrupt that. That’d be like some kid stomping on your sandcastle. At the same time, [freedom] has its own pitfalls. Something entirely new—I might make one and go, “Well, this was exactly what I wanted,” and nobody else will agree. “You have what you wanted, now get back to making some we all like.”

Rob: A blank sheet is always scarier, but only if you don’t have an idea.

If you got an idea, it’s great. Approaching that blank canvas each morning. Even if you are embracing the traditional mores of popular music, which is built on repetition. If you’re challenging and you’re audacious, maybe your second chorus isn’t the same as the first chorus. Maybe there’s only one chorus. Imagine three verses and one chorus—f*** me!

When any band is trying to find new ways of doing things, these things are always experimented with. And you do find yourself coming back to this very satisfying sense, if something is really lovely, you want to hear it again.

It sounds so easy once you see someone do it. Making something new. Convincing people it’s worth it. And yet.

Kurt: I was the person who did all the sales, called on stores, and drove around the country. People working in guitar stores, or guitar players, they always want to see a new guitar. For ours, it was the [ease of] playability. Bob liked the thinner neck—he didn’t see any reason why we needed to have a [more traditional] bigger neck.

Everything in the business is problem-solving like that, even the creativity with marketing. When I had the money to start doing advertising, I didn’t want ads that looked like everybody else’s. It helped put the company on the map.

Really, anything you approach, you have to look at the problem and come up with a creative solution. Not just do what everyone else has done. Because who wants what everyone else has done? That already exists.

***

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The post Work, Wheels, and Wood: A conversation with Taylor Guitars and Singer Vehicle Design appeared first on Hagerty Media.

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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The post Trundling 2000+ miles in a 1924 Dodge is my kind of fun appeared first on Hagerty Media.

When we drive our cars, they collect signs of that use—patina, in collector-car speak. The latest issue of Hagerty Drivers Club magazine, in which this article first appeared, explores the delight found in such imperfect cars. To get all this wonder sent to your home, sign up for the club at this link. To read about everything patina online, click here. 

Homologate: Verb; Approve (a car, boat, or engine) for sale in a particular market or use in a particular class of racing.

Forty years ago, the world was mad for rallying. The once-genteel motorsport held on public roads and geared toward endurance and precision had evolved into outright speed contests. Hundreds of thousands attended major events like the Rallye Monte-Carlo—which, in turn, attracted carmakers that were eager to use the sport to sell cars.

That era, from the early 1980s to mid-1990s, spawned some of the most fascinating competition weapons ever produced.

We’ve gathered three here to prove that point. This trio covers the wide breadth of machinery from the era, each one imbued with character from their countries of origin. From Germany, we have a full-blooded factory rally car, a 1985 Audi Sport Quattro S1—this machine actually a veteran of the 1985 RAC Rally in Wales. The Peugeot 205 T16 is the street version of the French company’s 1985 rally racer. Though it started life as a front-engine economy hatchback, the T16 is a mechanical Frankenstein with a mid-mounted turbo engine and four-wheel drive. And finally, the 1994 Lancia Delta Integrale Evo II is the refined hot hatch of the bunch, a supremely compelling canyon carver that shows how the mad Group B specials of the early 1980s evolved as a result of rule changes that further commonized rally machines with ordinary production cars.

These rare gems of racing history—only a few Audi Sport Quattros exist in private hands—were sourced and provided by AI Design, a shop in Tuckahoe, New York, outside of New York City. To stretch their legs, we headed to the Wilzig Racing Manor two hours north of New York City. Motorhead Alan Wilzig built a private racetrack at his farm and generously let us loose on the track and trails nearby.

This story has several origins, including the start of the World Rally Championship in 1973 and the subsequent set of regulations introduced for the 1982 season called Group B that, for a short period, made rallying more popular than Formula 1. An argument can be made, however, that we would not be here except for one man’s embrace of two pieces of tech that were getting a lot of attention in the late 1970s: turbocharging and four-wheel drive.

In 1972, Ferdinand Piëch, who inherited the technological genius of his grandfather, Ferdinand Porsche, was probably still basking in the success of the Porsche 917. That car, which was developed while Piëch was head of Porsche Motorsports, was the first Stuttgart stallion to nab the overall win at the 24 Hours of Le Mans, in 1970, thus becoming the dominant sports-prototype racing car of its era. Piëch’s reward was a job at the special project department at Audi. He was just 35 years old.

What was Audi in 1972? Few Americans knew much except that the company was somehow tied to Auto Union, which was best known for its Reich-funded grand prix cars in the 1930s. The first Audi appeared in the U.S. in 1970, six years after it had merged with Volkswagen to become VW’s premium brand. In the late ’70s, Piëch recognized that an ongoing R&D project, a compact four-wheel-drive system, could vault the brand’s stature. He further realized that the best showcase for the feature was rallying, which raced production-based cars on dirt and snow—two surfaces where four-wheel drive would have a huge advantage.

Audi introduced the new drivetrain on the 1981 Audi Quattro, a coupe based on the stodgy Audi 4000 sedan. The Quattro also had another novel feature bolted to the five-cylinder engine: a turbocharger. The Chevrolet Corvair offered an optional turbo in 1962 for the same reason, to increase horsepower via an exhaust-driven turbine that pressurizes the intake manifold, but the performance enhancer didn’t catch on until precise electronically controlled fuel delivery arrived later in the ’70s. Turbos meant that small and light motors could make big-motor power.

The Audi, known informally as the Ur-Quattro, had fender bulges at every corner to accommodate its wider suspension and larger tires. Car and Driver called it “a landmark car.” In 1981, Audi’s fresh rally race team suffered the usual new-car mechanical problems that often forced it to retire, but the Quattro won three times—including the Rallye Sanremo in Italy, with the doyenne of drift, Michèle Mouton, behind the wheel.

Alas, Audi’s technological advantage coincided with the new Group B regulations that went into effect in 1982. The new rules smashed rally’s traditional close connection to production cars by folding into one class several previous classes that allowed some pretty exotic machinery. For example, just one rung up on the new ladder was Group C, about to be dominated by the all-conquering Porsche 956, so we’re talking the Pentagon-budget, moonshot end of the racing spectrum. The French bureaucrats who run the Fédération Internationale de l’Automobile (FIA), the international body that governs the rules in much of the big-time European series, also slashed by half (to 200) the number of stradales, or street-legal cars, required for Group B approval, or homologation. That cut the participation cost for automakers—at least, initially. Furthermore, manufacturers were allowed to build special one-offs, called evolution cars, in batches of just 20. There were no limits on engine placement or the materials used, and only a basic minimum weight based on engine size that meant turbocharged engines were favored. While the heroic Walter Röhrl in a more reliable Opel won the 1982 WRC drivers’ championship, Audi took the manufacturers’ crown, hinting at what was to come.

What followed was the onslaught of the lightly regulated Group B machines. Lancia, Peugeot, Renault, Citroën, Ford, and even British Leyland’s MG division entered new cars, some with mid-mounted turbocharged engines, most with four-wheel drive. Horsepower galloped higher as did the speeds, which drew more crowds. Photographs and videos of the Group B era show a sea of people standing in the roads and scrambling for safety right as the cars punched through. “The only thing that scares me,” said Röhrl at the time, “is the crowds.”

The danger amped up the publicity. A win brought global prestige, creating a cyclone feedback loop that invited more car-company money to produce faster cars and more promotion, which attracted yet more spectators. Drivers of the factory teams, highly funded by boards of directors who demanded returns on their investments, faced huge pressure and took more and more risks.

The wheels came off in 1986. An estimated 300,000 people attended the Rally de Portugal, and swarms lined the route. When a Ford RS200 spun off the road, it plowed into the spectators, killing three and injuring dozens. Two rounds later, at the Tour de Corse on the island of Corsica, Finnish driver Henri Toivonen, in an extremely quick Group B Lancia Delta S4, slid off the road and flipped into the forest. The car caught fire, and Toivonen and his co-driver, Sergio Cresto, died. High speeds best confined to closed circuits rather than uncontrolled public roads were blamed, and Group B was banned for 1987.

The Group B cars, however, and the subsequent models inspired by the era remain. Today, they’re commonly called “homologation cars” because they existed primarily for racing. Just like the coveted factory-special drag cars of the ’60s, these homologation cars are the upcoming prized models fueled by the next generation of collectors who grew up watching these cars in thrilling videos and driving them in video games. They’re also now recognized as technological proving grounds during a fast-evolving 15-year period that stands in stark contrast to the moribund 1970s. None of the three cars here was directly sold in the U.S., but since they’re all older than 25 years, they can be legally imported. After our day with them, we can see why more arrive on our shores every year.

1985 Audi Sport Quattro S1 E2

The odd little five-cylinder that lives in the wrong place lights with an unexpected WHOMP! It idles at a frenetic 2000 rpm that vibrates the whole car, magnifying the deep-throated exhaust cacophony. Yet the steering and clutch are surprisingly light. To familiarize myself, I first trundle behind our photo car, alternately backing off and accelerating. Even at those low speeds, the engine feels like a volcano about to pop. Squeezing the throttle results in a brief moment of turbo whistle and then BOOM!, the car gallops forward. It’s impossible to maintain a slow speed. This thing is either on or off, the byproduct of a small engine breathing into a big turbo—until that huge fan gets turning, it’s like you’re dragging the ship’s anchor, a reason Audi’s drivers in the period didn’t lift if they could possibly avoid it.

When Audi’s four-wheel-drive advantage evaporated with the arrival of competitors, the company hacksawed a foot from the wheelbase in 1984. The long, luxurious Quattro evolved into the stubby Sport Quattro, and the car here is the heavily modified racing version.

The surgery only partially alleviated the Quattro’s porky nose; designed with production cars in mind, the Quattro’s peculiar powertrain layout places the engine, mounted longitudinally—bumper to windshield—ahead of the front axle to make room for the transmission and front half-shafts, which concentrates the weight up front. Most of the other new Group B cars, excluding the exceptionally weird and uncompetitive Citroën BX 4TC, positioned the engine just in front of the rear axle. Shrinking the wheelbase, the distance between the two axles, shifted the weight rearward, and for the racing car, Audi also crammed the radiators into the trunk.

The carbon and Kevlar composite bodywork shows how far competition versions were changed even from their low-production street versions. The fenders flare a comically wide 11 inches from the bodyside, and huge front and rear wings produced downforce to further aid traction.

Even with four-wheel drive, the turbocharged engine can easily spin the tires on loose surfaces. Fitted with four valves per cylinder and a massive KKK turbocharger, the 2.1-liter mill produced roughly 500 horsepower in the day. That figure, however, was adjustable thanks to an underhood knob that alters the turbo boost pressure, producing at times whooshes and exhaust bangs that echoed through the 1980s forests.

This particular car had an unusually easy life for a rally car, running only one event in 1985 with 1983 WRC champ Hannu Mikkola behind the wheel. It then briefly served as a practice car until moving into private hands, where it was occasionally street-driven. One of the compelling advantages of a rally car over other vintage racers is that they were originally made street-legal because they were driven on public roads between the race stages. The current owner purchased it last fall in England for $2.3 million and brought it stateside. The odometer reads 20,000 kilometers, which means this one averaged 300 miles a year.

The odo resides in a busy, utilitarian dash. Fuses and relays live in the middle for easy repair. They’re labeled in German. A bevy of unmarked gauges present engine functions to the driver. The passenger, or co-driver, whose job was to call out the severity of upcoming turns plus several other tasks, monitored a bank of radios, precise distance computers, and the fuel level. The cars were often miles from their service areas, so there’s a handheld mic to communicate with the crew. Coolant lines travel through the passenger footwell.

The five-speed transmission runs through a conventional H pattern, and there’s a button on the shift knob that automatically operates the clutch. Pressing the button engages a system that pushes the clutch to the floor. Releasing the button lets the clutch out. This system allowed drivers to change gears while left-foot braking, a widely used rally technique employed to drift the car sideways and also reduce turbo lag by lifting completely off the throttle as little as possible.

The car rides tall on its spongy springs and it feels like it’s on ball bearings ready to pivot in either direction, yet it’s somehow planted, too. There’s a toughness to the machine that’s more tractor-like than racing skiff, a feeling that it can take a beating over dirt, rocks, jumps, or whatever else the woods of Europe or the grasslands of Kenya had to offer.

After a few laps, the shooter pulls off, and I do what any sane human would do: I stand on it. There’s that turbo-fueled explosion and then, oh no, it sputters. The assembled crew empties debris from the fuel filter, but the problem never goes away. Later, we learned that gunk from the aged tank had fouled the fuel pump. Damn.

No car likes to sit. Let’s hope the new owner keeps the cobwebs off and invites us back.

Specs: 1985 Audi Sport Quattro S1 E2

• Engine: 2.1-liter DOHC I-5
• Horsepower: 500 hp @ 8000 rpm
• Torque: 435 lb-ft @ 5500 rpm
• Weight: 2400 pounds
• Power-to-weight: 4.8 pound/hp
• 0-60 mph: 3.0 sec

1984 Peugeot 205 T16

From the driver’s seat, only the large red “Turbo 16” lettering on the steering wheel gives a clue that this is no ordinary 205. The short, downward-sloping hood and thin pillars provide vast visibility. The seats rest on a shelf, which covers the fuel tank, and the relationship between the seats, the steering wheel, and the shifter all feel perfectly natural.

The first sign that you’re in a different sort of car is the stiff clutch pedal. The manual steering is firm, too. Firing the engine brings a mechanical clatter to the cabin and loping idle. Once underway, the whole car feels a bit leaden and surprisingly not that quick. Unlike in the Audi, there’s no huge hit from the turbo, but rather a gradual buildup that doesn’t really get going until the tachometer is 2000 rpm short of the 7500 redline. In that range, the engine musically howls like an F1 car.

Peugeot was on its heels before the compact 205 model that debuted in 1983. Shoved by the French government into a shotgun marriage with bankrupt Citroën in 1976, Peugeot was losing almost a million dollars a day by 1981. It needed a slam dunk in a high-volume segment like the economy hatchback.

Back then, Peugeot sold only the 504 and 604 sedans stateside; we never got the cut-price 205 because the company feared a bottom-feeder slugfest with Japanese and VW imports. That was probably a mistake, as the European press widely lauded the smartly styled 205—especially the GTI version of 1984, which would have been a credible alternative to the VW Rabbit/Golf GTI. Perhaps if Peugeot had found the money to federalize the 205 in the U.S., the company wouldn’t have left our shores in 1991.

In 1981, Peugeot hired former rally co-driver Jean Todt to start a new racing division, Peugeot Talbot Sport. Todt—who later engineered Ferrari’s last F1 glory days with Michael Schumacher and Ross Brawn, then went on to run the FIA—commissioned a 200-unit run of 205s to homologate the car for Group B rally racing.

Renamed the T16, the car cost about the same as a Porsche 911. The economy car-turned-racer was expensive because the T16 shared almost nothing with the standard 205. Starting with a two-door 205 body shell, fabricators cut the car in two behind the front seats, threw out the back half, and welded in a steel powertrain and suspension sub-frame. The four-cylinder motor, which used the block from a diesel engine and a 16-valve cylinder head, sat crossways behind the passenger seat. The transmission, from a Citroën XM, was behind the driver and routed power to both the front and rear axles. A large clamshell that hinged at the front provided generous access to the rear. The suspension was thoroughly reworked and widened, which required fender bulges at every corner.

Racing versions of the T16 had upward of 500 horsepower, but there’s only 200 in this street version. A heady figure in 1984, it feels sedate today and not enough to reliably drift the car on asphalt. Perhaps, however, all 200 weren’t present on our day. All the action in this car is where the weight is concentrated, out back. In contrast, the front end feels light and underloaded. If that sounds unbalanced, the combination works, and the T16 is an extremely predictable and correctable handler.

That well-sorted suspension is the shining light in a car that has a bit of a homebuilt feel. There’s an overall coarseness to the machine, a reminder that it was polished just enough to sell the required 200 units and that’s it. The car’s role was, after all, to go racing. You have to wonder, though, how good it could have been with more development.

It could also be said that the T16 oozes character, the rough edges a reminder of a time when a set of rules gave us a mid-engined economy car that we wouldn’t have otherwise had. With that lens, the T16 is a gem.

Specs: 1984 Peugeot 205 T16

• Engine: 1.8-liter DOHC I-4
• Horsepower: 197 hp @ 6750 rpm
• Torque: 188 lb-ft @ 4000 rpm
• Weight: 2670 pounds
• Power-to-weight: 13.6 pound/hp
• 0-60 mph: 5.7 sec

1994 Lancia Delta Integrale EVO II

A suede-covered throne with large side supports cradles the driver of the Lancia. You wear this pissed-off little box as much as sit in it. The wide and unobstructed view, thanks to the low beltline and thin pillars, is a refreshing departure from today’s cocoon-like safety cockpits. The gauge cluster features a graph-paper motif, so ’80s. The only weirdness is the position of the nonadjustable steering wheel; it’s low and far away, a setup made for the short-legged. That minor discomfort disappears when slinging the Evo through corners. The front tires faithfully bite when turned and the rears drift just enough to assist the rotation. Flicking the car through a series of left and right bends comes easily, like the chassis is eager for the workout.

Lancia’s World Rally Championship success started with the Stratos, a squat limpet of a car with a Ferrari V-6 that was arguably the first car built specially for the WRC. The Stratos won the laurels in 1974 and followed that up with two consecutive winning seasons. So it was no surprise when Lancia’s longtime motorsports chief, Cesare Fiorio, leaped into Group B—first with the rear-drive 037, loosely based on the production mid-engine Lancia Montecarlo (Scorpion in the U.S.), and next with a four-wheel-drive version of the Delta family hatchback.

Introduced in 1979 wearing a crisp, Giugiaro-designed body, the Delta was positioned as a premium small car. The tube-frame, Kevlar-bodied Group B Delta S4 version first raced in late 1985, and when driver Henri Toivonen trounced the field at the first event of 1986, Lancia became the front-runner. A few races later, however, Toivonen was dead. The Lancia team, which likely lost a spiritual edge after the accident, soldiered on to finish runner-up behind Peugeot for the championship.

The tragedies obviously overshadowed the S4, which was probably the best of Group B. As with the T16, the S4 carried its 1.8-liter engine behind the seats. The car’s main trick was a novel induction system that combined a crank-driven supercharger for low engine speeds and an exhaust-driven turbocharger for boost on top, thus flattening the power delivery with the goal of making this rally monster easier to drive. The car made some 500 horsepower and weighed just 1 ton.

For 1987, Group B was replaced by the more production-based Group A. Under these new rules, eligible cars needed to have four seats and a manufacturer had to produce a whopping 5000 examples within a year. There were few allowed modifications, so rally cars once again hewed close to what people could buy. This cost-saving change suited Lancia, as well as Subaru, Mitsubishi, and other newcomers that were future stars on the circuit.

However, Lancia already had an ace, the Delta HF 4WD with a 2.0-liter turbocharged engine. The HF won nine of 13 races in 1987 and the championship. With the Delta, Lancia won the manufacturers’ championship every year until the factory pulled out after the 1992 season, an incredible run. Over that period, the Delta was continually massaged with improvements like fender flares that accommodated larger wheels and tires and a 16-valve cylinder head for more power. The last of the line, the car with every lesson learned, is the car pictured here, the Delta Integrale Evo II.

The Evo is a flared, shaved, and squared-off hot rod. Giugiaro’s clean lines gave way to a hood bump to clear the 16-valve head, and those lovely fender flares, which weren’t fiberglass but stamped sheet steel. The long list of exterior accessories added to the Evo over the standard Delta, which included a small rear spoiler and round headlights to replace the production Delta’s rectangular ones, reads like Lancia went a little nuts with a JC Whitney catalog. Yet those bits combine to make the Evo look aggressive yet distinguished and smaller in person than it does in photos. The Integrale is just under 13 feet long and within a few inches of a first-gen Mazda Miata.

Within that svelte dimension, Lancia fit four-wheel drive, a 215-hp turbo engine with intercooler, rear seats, air conditioning, and a reasonable luggage compartment under the rear hatch. Kudos for the packaging genius, but God help whoever has to fix one.

Above 3000 rpm, the engine remains wide awake. Unlike many turbo cars of the era, there are no lurches or peaks in the power delivery. It doles out thrust in a long frenetic rush to the redline. The smoothness is no doubt aided by the dampening effect of four-wheel drive, which means there’s plenty of rubber to turn horsepower into acceleration and not wheelspin. The engine also has balance shafts, which smooth the vibrations that are common with four-cylinder engines.

There’s harmony to the car, a just-right and consistent effort for all the inputs, that remove distractions so the pilot can simply enjoy driving. By 1994, the Delta platform was 14 years old and the constant refinement brought forth a frisky, taut, and supremely entertaining street car. Only reluctantly did I hand back the keys.

The Integrale is considered the cream of the hot hatchbacks, a term assigned to souped-up versions of economy cars like the VW GTI. There’s truth there, with a footnote: When new, the Evo cost about 30 grand, or double the contemporary VW GTI. Today, the Hagerty Valuation Tool puts the value for good-condition Evos over $100,000, even though like Skyline GT-Rs, they’re not particularly rare. Some 2500 Evo IIs were made between 1993 and 1994. They’re probably not going to get cheaper.

Specs: 1994 Lancia Delta Integrale EVO II

• Engine: 2.0-liter DOHC I-4
• Horsepower: 215 hp @ 5750 rpm
• Torque: 232 lb-ft @ 2500 rpm
• Weight: 2954 pounds
• Power-to-weight: 13.7 pound/hp
• 0-60 mph: 5.7 sec

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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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When we drive our cars, they collect signs of that use—patina, in collector-car speak. The latest issue of Hagerty Drivers Club magazine explores the delight found in such imperfect cars. To get all this wonder sent to your home, sign up for the club at this link. To read about everything patina online, click here. 

Everything is somewhere. That simple belief has kept treasure hunters going down through the ages, from the first people who searched for Blackbeard’s hoard to that one guy who, back in 2019, pulled a 500-year-old gold Tudor pendant out of the English mud. Everything is somewhere, waiting to be found—though Randy Carlson has come to believe that “this one found me.”’

What found Carlson at his compound out in the rural inland hills southeast of Los Angeles is a couple of tons of unrestored prewar Mercedes-Benz. If cars could talk, this one would have some tales, starting with its years as a limousine in wartime Berlin, then as the recipient of a sporty new cabriolet body by an obscure German coachbuilder, then as a traveler in the New World that took it as far west as Albuquerque, thence to a barn in Michigan, now back to California and Randy Carlson. After eight decades, the Mercedes manages to wear its years with a battered dignity perhaps only possible in a car built by the world’s oldest surviving car company. That silver star on the radiator cowl still means something, even when showing some serious patina.

***

The story begins the summer of 2021 when Carlson’s son came home with Covid. It quickly rampaged through the house right as Carlson was about to leave on his annual pilgrimage to Pebble Beach. “It’s August, I’m supposed to be in Monterey, and instead I’m stuck at home with Covid and pissed off,” he recalled. “I’m spending the whole time watching everything going on up there on the internet and also trolling Facebook pages, looking at car stuff and saying, ‘Why the f*** am I not up there playing with my friends?’”

Carlson is a familiar face in the online VW community, frequently posting VW and related content on YouTube and Instagram and running a VW ad-listing website called Oldbug.com. He describes his profession as “playing around with this stuff,” and he had no idea that he was about to be reminded that everything is somewhere, waiting to be discovered. If you look close enough.

It happened totally by chance, while he was hacking and sneezing and scanning a Facebook group for barn find cars. A fellow Facebooker named Mike Coyer in Portage, Ohio, posted some pictures of a 1934 Packard that he had just extracted from a barn in rural Michigan. Carlson posted a comment, as he still owns a ’34 Packard that has been in the family for decades. The two got to talking online, then on the phone.

“I bought a truck and then sold it to a trucking scrapyard,” explained Coyer of the series of chance encounters that instigated the affair. “The guy who bought it said he knew of some cars in a barn in Michigan.” Coyer buys and sells things, and he plays a long game. He waited 30 years for an old quarry truck to come down to a price of his liking. Naturally, he was curious, and he went to see the farm where, besides a barn full of cars, there were also more than a hundred antique tractors.

“Eventually I asked Mike if there was anything else in the barn,” said Carlson, and he replied that there was a similar vintage Rolls-Royce. Carlson asked for some photos and, upon seeing those, noticed some slivers of an old red convertible buried in the barn behind the black Rolls. Carlson asked his new internet friend about that, “and he says, ‘A Mercedes.’ And I said, ‘Tell me about that.’” Coyer sent another picture that wasn’t much more revealing. “I said, ‘Are you interested in that car?’” recalled Carlson, “and Mike said, ‘No I don’t want anything to do with a Mercedes.’ And I said, ‘Well, can you help me get it?’”

Coyer agreed to drive the few hours back to Michigan and take more pictures and a video “that was low light, you couldn’t really see it,” said Carlson. “It’s a red Mercedes convertible and supposedly from 1940, and I said, ‘I don’t care, it may be rotten from the bottom down, I’m in. What do they want for it?’”

The family was reluctant to sell at first, but with Coyer acting as an intermediary, a price was agreed upon. Carlson wired off a substantial cache of money, including a 30 percent finder’s fee, “to a guy I never met before, that I only talked to on Facebook and one phone call, for a car that wasn’t his, that was in the next state over from where he was. I wired the funds off and thought, ‘I am the biggest idiot in the world.’ I couldn’t sleep for three days.”

Coyer was an honest actor, however, exchanging money for the bill of sale—the only hitch being that nobody could find a key for the car. Then they started pulling cars out of the barn to free the Benz. Carlson was still at home recovering from Covid and anxiously awaiting texts and photos. “They pulled the Rolls out, which was actually a pretty nice-looking car. Then they get this Ford Model A out, and I get the first picture I’ve seen of the profile of the car, and I lost my mind. I’m like, ‘Gah! What did I get?’”

Carlson didn’t know the model, but he could tell the Mercedes was unique, not just from the elegant shape and exquisite trim but from the unusual rear-wheel arch. Then Coyer sent him some detail pictures including one of the coachbuilder’s placard. Carlson said, “Then I completely lost my s**t.”

***

By 1940, British bombers were already in the skies over Germany, attacking industrial targets such as aircraft factories and plants that built airplane components. Daimler-Benz was one of them, a supplier of V-12 engines to Luftwaffe fighters and bombers even as the company still built trucks and passenger cars for the domestic market. At some point that fateful year, one of the final Mercedes-Benz 320 civilian models, a Pullman limo, rolled off the line at the company’s sprawling Stuttgart plant, headed for Berlin and most likely government runabout duty.

The 320, known in Benz-speak as the W142, launched in 1937 as a ’tweener car between the company’s entry-level 170 and its “Grosser” 770 luxury models. Mercedes offered a wide range of body styles, the sexiest being the Stromlinien-Limousine, a streamliner coupe that was dubbed “a pocketbook 540K.” But the car was all flash and no bang; the initial 3208-cc flathead inline-six put out a wheezy 78 horsepower, not much for propelling a car weighing over 4000 pounds. And the power figure didn’t change much when Mercedes upped the displacement to 3405 cc in 1938, mainly to compensate for deteriorating fuel quality in the Reich. Even so, a garden-variety 320 sedan can fetch more than $100,000 on today’s market, with special body cabriolets going for over half a million.

So far, no amount of digging has turned up the story of what happened to this particular 320 after it left the factory for Berlin, or how the car survived a war that flattened much of Germany’s cities. Or, indeed, who in 1948 brought the car—likely somewhat the worse for wear—to the offices of Karosserie F. Rometsch in Berlin’s western Halensee neighborhood to be lavishly rebodied into the graceful cabriolet you see here.

The glorious irony of Randy Carlson’s chance encounter with this car is that he was already a knowledgeable fan of Rometsch, a somewhat obscure name in the rich pantheon of European bespoke coachbuilders. The firm, established by Friedrich Rometsch and his son Fritz in 1924, is best known today for producing a series of special bodies for postwar Volkswagens, including a sporty coupe and convertible based on the Beetle that was a precursor to (and perhaps an inspiration for) the later Karmann Ghia. Rometsch also built a stretched four-door Beetle that was sold to taxi companies.

One of the firm’s designers, Johannes Beeskow, was a veteran of the more well-known Erdmann & Rossi coachbuilder that in the 1930s draped spectacular teardrop bodies over Mercedes-Benzes and Rolls-Royces. Before he went on to work for Karmann in later years, Beeskow is thought to have penned the body for Carlson’s car even as Berlin lay in ruins and its population foraged for basic needs. At Rometsch, while the Soviets commenced a blockade of Berlin in 1948 that led to the Berlin Airlift, during which aircraft shuttled vital supplies to the besieged city for 13 months, the Benz’s new body took shape from hand-beaten steel and copious lead filler.

It’s hard to imagine anyone in that city living under those circumstances wanting and paying for a handmade, 1930s art deco–style coachbuilt body on a used 8-year-old Mercedes chassis. But somebody did, and they weren’t alone. Photos of the finished Mercedes as well as a rebodied Maybach in front of Rometsch’s workshop in 1948 are believed to have come from Beeskow’s personal album. (That book, according to Carlson, went to Karmann and then disappeared into the vast Volkswagen archive after Beeskow’s death in 2005. He would love to get a peek at it but figures it’s hidden away in some “Indiana Jones–like warehouse at Volkswagen.”)

***

Carlson has seen a photo of a personal list kept by Beeskow of his projects, the Benz as well as the Maybach listed next to a hand-scrawled notation in German: “The last.” Perhaps, guesses Carlson, because they were the last of the one-off coachbuilt cars done in the prewar style. Years ago, Carlson visited the former site of Rometsch in Berlin—that’s how big of a fan he is. After the Karmann Ghia arrived in 1955 to wreck Rometsch’s business modifying VWs into sporty coupes, the coachbuilder turned to making ambulance bodies and the occasional modified Range Rover, then was a body repair shop before finally going under in 2000. “I had two Rometsch [VWs] in this garage at one point, and it’s literally the most obscure car you can have. They made maybe 100 cars, and with the Mercedes, I’ve now owned three of them.”

At some point in the late ’40s or early ’50s, the Mercedes made its way across the Atlantic—again, the story is unknown, but Carlson suspects it was a U.S. serviceman or possibly even a German rocket scientist who brought over the car. After the war, a coterie of the Reich’s missile men immigrated—along with their leader, Wernher von Braun—to work on rocket development at the U.S. Army’s ballistic missile range in remote White Sands, New Mexico. The fact that this car’s known owner history begins in Albuquerque is tantalizingly suggestive, as is an old business card that Carlson found in the car for a chrome shop just across the border in Mexico, where German rocket engineers used to go regularly for weekend benders.

The story really firms up when a new owner from the Midwest bought the car in the mid- or late ’50s. The car’s new custodian had relocated to New Mexico from Wisconsin, according to Coyer, and there assembled the bulk of his car collection, including both the Mercedes and the Rolls-Royce. In 1968, he decided to move his family back to the Midwest, to Michigan. All of the cars were driven except, for some reason, the Benz, Coyer says he was told. Instead, the owner widened the holes in the front fenders where the bumper brackets poke through to fit a homemade tow bar and flat-towed the Mercedes all the way, there to go into a barn and wait for Randy Carlson to grow up. And for the internet to be invented. And for Mike Coyer to come along. And for a pandemic that would unite the three for a spontaneous rescue.

After the money changed hands, Carlson was so keen to get the car that he arranged for a truck to pick it up the same day it was extracted from the barn and to haul it out to California. What you see on these pages is not that car, exactly, but the car after Carlson went to work on it. When it arrived, it was in a sad state and missing quite a few parts. The semaphores, or mechanical turn-indicating trafficators, were missing, as were the bumpers, fog lights, and door handles. Luckily, a subsequent trip by Coyer to the Michigan barn turned up a previously overlooked wooden box that contained many of the missing bits. “I had the parts air-freighted,” said Carlson, “because it’s not like you can go to AutoZone and get semaphores for a coachbuilt Mercedes.”

The doors were completely disassembled when it arrived, so he put them back together while he waited for the lube he sprayed into the cylinders to free the rings so he could lever over the 3.4-liter flathead-six. Eventually the engine seemed ready to execute combustion, and Carlson put fuel and spark to it. It fired up for likely the first time in five or six decades with a cloud of smoke and a sporty snore from its long, thin tailpipe.

Since then, Carlson has fixed the brakes, fitted new tires, rebuilt the radiator, replaced the exhaust, and done a host of other small jobs to make the car drivable, confining the cosmetic work to cleaning and waxing it and throwing blankets over its rotting upholstery. It does move under its own power, if not with a lot of alacrity, and on a short drive from his compound, it proved a stately and smooth cruiser with a lot of what the marketers used to tout as “road-hugging weight.” Unlike American cars of the same period, Mercedes had all independent suspensions in the 1930s, with swing axles in the rear supported by two pairs of coil springs. It makes for a relatively sophisticated ride, especially over rough surfaces.

And this is about all Carlson plans to do with it. “It would take the rest of my life to restore it and a crap-ton of money. While I could pull it off to some level, it wouldn’t be to the level it deserves—it wouldn’t be a Pebble-quality restoration.” Besides, he’s got a lot of other projects, including a rare Brubaker Box, an iconic VW-based kit car from the 1970s of which perhaps 28 were made, that needs a few bits to get going.

So far, the old Mercedes has given him plenty of joy in the heavily patinaed state it’s in. “The goal was to get it together, get all the pieces on it, make it run and drive, and take it places. The couple events I’ve taken it to so far, it gets a ton of attention just like this. So as far as restoration goes, what is the point?”

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Chevy folks relish pointing out that their beloved small-block V-8 often powers hot rods from other makes. Yet Ford fans have a riposte: Crawl to the back of many of those rides and you’ll spot the Blue Oval’s nine-inch rear differential. For years, it has been preferred among customizers. But why?

A rear differential, regardless of manufacturer, is a work of mechanical genius. Inside a bulbous metal housing known as the “pumpkin,” an intricate ballet of gears converts the driveshaft’s longitudinal rotation 90 degrees to drive the rear wheels. There are three main components: First, there’s a grooved-metal mushroom affixed to the driveshaft, called the pinion gear. It drives a ring gear, which looks like, well, a ring. In some drag-racers and rugged off-roaders, that ring essentially drives the wheels. But in most passenger vehicles, power is transferred via another set of gears that allow the wheels to run at different speeds—as happens when turning a corner—without binding. (Hence the word differential.)

In early cars, the ring and pinion gears meshed at a 90-degree angle, with the pinion positioned at the ring’s 3 o’clock mark. However, in the 1920s, a Rochester, New York–based inventor figured out that angling the pinion’s teeth would allow more of them to engage with the ring at once, thus imparting more strength. This new setup (hypoid offset in engineering speak) also allowed the pinion to be mounted lower on the ring, meaning the entire car body could sit lower without a huge driveshaft hump inside. Middle-seat passengers everywhere can be thankful.

The Ford nine-inch, introduced in 1957, incorporated all that smart thinking but had distinct advantages. First, there’s the diameter of its ring gear at—you guessed it—nine inches. That’s larger and thus stronger than most contemporaries. Ford engineers increased the angle of the pinion’s teeth, as well. The diff was largely created at the behest of designers who were obsessed with lower floorpans, but the real benefit was quickly discovered by drag racers: The angle of the teeth imparted the strength to stand up to high-horsepower engines and fat rear tires.

Plus the unit was easy to work on. You access its guts by removing the driveshaft and 10 bolts, and the gearset drops out of the housing like a (heavy) printer cartridge. That means gear swaps can be done at a workbench rather than under the car. Some racers even carried multiple dropout diffs in their trailer for quick substitutions.

Ford phased out production of its nine-inch in the 1980s. Yet 30 years on, the rear end remains a favorite among enthusiasts for its strength, abundance, and convenience.

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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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I’m still stunned when I see Jaguar XKEs go for over $200,000. Not because the Jag isn’t one of the most beautiful cars ever made—it absolutely is—but because I will always think of them as cheap cars. I remember my friend Greg had one in high school. I think he paid $800 for it, and it was nothing but problems. He got so fed up with it that one day he drove out to a state park near Andover, Massachusetts, thinking he would set it on fire, say it was stolen, and collect the insurance money. And literally right as he threw the match on it, a police car came down the road. Because everyone knew everyone in my town, the cop said, “Greg, what’s going on here?” Of course, the officer could see what was going on, so Greg had to tell the truth. He was out the car, the money, everything.

Anyway, one day last year, a couple of local police officers came by, and they said, “Hey Jay, a guy up the street was a hoarder and recently passed away. He’s got some kind of car in his garage, and the family wants to know if you’re interested.” I asked them what it was, and one of them said, “Dunno, but it’s something English, and it’s been in there since probably the late ’60s.”

Intrigued, I went over there with some of the guys from the shop. It was less than a mile away, a house I go by every day. The owner had no heirs, so he left the house and all the contents to people in the neighborhood who had befriended him and taken care of him in his later years. The garage was so filled with junk, you couldn’t see the car because the guy had piled old televisions and water heaters on top of it, among other things, and we had to dig it out. Finally, it started to take the shape of a Jaguar, and after investigating some more, we learned that it’s not only an XKE, but a ’63 Series I roadster with all of 17,500 miles on it.

It was still in its original paint, called Opalescent Golden Sand, and it still had the original top and original interior. All the factory bits that get lost over the years, like the little clips and grommets that hold the wiring in place, were all there, along with the original hoses and clamps. It even had the original exhaust system on it. When we opened the hood, we saw that it still had the blue chalk marks from the factory. The jack, tool kit, and even the old-fashioned Dunlop bleeder valve were in the trunk, along with all the books and delivery papers.

Well, I had to have it. They don’t come along like this—ever. And it really is one of the most beautiful cars ever made; even Enzo Ferrari thought so. I don’t know anyone who doesn’t respect them, even non-car people. As a 20th-century kinetic art form, it’s gorgeous, with both a masculine and a feminine element that appeals to everyone.

The sellers could see that they had a live one on the hook, and I paid what I think is the going rate for an E-Type in this condition. All we’ve done is clean it up, replace the tires and wire wheels with half-inch-wider rims, and rebuild the rear end. We put some ATF and acetone in the cylinders because, while the engine turned, it didn’t make any compression. Then we let it sit for a couple of weeks, and the cylinders all came back and now it starts on the button, runs beautifully, and doesn’t smoke. All the gauges work, even the clock!

It has a couple of dings from the television sets thrown on it that I’m going to get the Dent Master guy to roll out, but otherwise we’re not going to touch it. It’s just too original, and the patina is beautiful. You start restoring a car like this and where do you stop? It’s like trimming sideburns; pretty soon, you have no hair.

One of the great things about living in Los Angeles is that you had all these aviation companies building airplanes here. And where airplane people go, generally you find interesting cars, too. I bought my 1927 Duesenberg Model X out of a garage not far from here, and it was also an original car that we didn’t restore because the patina was too good. I know more are out there because when I drive around Burbank, I pass these small houses, and about every seventh or eighth house has an enormous garage, so somebody is up to something back there. Let’s hope the good ones, like this XKE, find their way to people who will preserve them.

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When we drive our cars, they collect signs of that use—patina, in collector-car speak. The latest issue of Hagerty Drivers Club magazine, in which this article first appeared, explores the delight found in such imperfect cars. To get all this wonder sent to your home, sign up for the club at this link. To read about everything patina online, click here. 

Detroit knows a thing or two about patina. We’re not talking about ruins. Please. The abandoned buildings that dot the city’s 139 square miles will always infatuate national media but have little new to tell you about the place or the resilient people who live here. We’re referring instead to the passion and creativity that pushes through the cracks. This is a city where you can have the best meal of your life adjacent to an oil refinery, where grimy clubs have nurtured new musical genres. Detroiters understand that things can be better in spite and sometimes because of their imperfections.

That attitude extends to cars. Although the classic car scene here is best known for the pristine muscle machines that crowd Woodward Avenue each August, clubs have emerged in recent years that celebrate age and wear. There are differences in the cars they welcome, but no one takes the differences, or themselves, too seriously. Members include young blue-collar guys, married couples, and at least one librarian. Everyone helps each other out—a GM engineer who commutes in a 1980s Suburban (aka “Shot of Burban”) lays killer pinstriping.

We invited members from multiple clubs to hang out in Corktown, Detroit’s oldest neighborhood. It’s anchored by Michigan Central Station, the imposing Beaux-Arts building that once symbolized the city’s despair but is now owned by Ford and is nearing the end of a $740-million restoration. Consider it a massive barn find and proof that the best stuff is always worth saving.

1952 Oldsmobile Ninety-Eight

Owner: Dean Beattie — Machinist
Owned since: 2017
Patina level: Cultivated Crust
Patina philosophy: “Rust is cheaper than chrome.”

The Detroit car scene means a lot to Dean Beattie—so much so that he started a podcast dedicated to it. He has been a gearhead since high school, and he has fond memories of working on Chargers and Road Runners with his friends. But life happened, and Beattie had to get rid of his muscle cars. Looking for a cheap way to get back into the hobby, he picked up his well-worn Ninety-Eight, added some personal touches like pinstriping, and joined a local car club. “I just fell in love with it because of the patina,” he explains. “Plus, it would cost a fortune to fully restore this car, with all the chrome.”

1966 GMC Series 1000

Owner: Tommy Perry — Technical writer
Owned since: 2023
Patina level: Aging like Clooney
Patina philosophy: “Every scratch and dent was earned.”

Tommy Perry used to work at a restoration shop, so he appreciates concours-level cars. But for his personal vehicles, he isn’t interested. “It’s possible to appreciate the history of a vehicle when it’s kept mostly as is.” Perry, a Mopar guy at heart, took a chance on his GMC because it had a compelling story. It was owned by farmers in Rochester, New York, who used it as the “good truck,” rather than a work truck. They sold it to Perry’s family friend, who held on to it for 32 years. “I’m lucky to be its next caretaker, hopefully for the next 30 years, too. I plan to keep it mostly stock—except maybe lowering it a few inches—and use it as our club’s push truck for our race car.”

1964 Mercury Comet

Owner: Clifton Darnell — Snap-On dealer
Owned since: 2011
Patina level: Rode hard and put away wet
Patina philosophy: “Shiny cars are cool, but driving your car is cooler.”

When you look at this rough-and-ready Comet, you probably wouldn’t guess that owner Clifton Darnell moonlights as a custom painter. “Rule of thumb is a painter never has a nicely painted car,” he quips. Yet he insists he’ll eventually get around to transforming it into a 1960s-style custom. “A lot of people tell me to leave it alone, but I want to make sure that the car is still here in a hundred years. To save it, I have to replace all the sheetmetal, do the bodywork, and paint it.” But there’s a lot of downtime that goes into paint and bodywork. So, rather than let it sit uncompleted, Darnell continues to drive and enjoy his Comet, warts and all.

1949 Cadillac Series 62

Owner: Jim & Joyce Krom — Engineer / Librarian
Owned since: 2013
Patina level: Zombie in a tux
Patina philosophy: “We have no philosophy—we just think it looks badass.”

Cadillac’s Clark Street Assembly plant stood for decades just a few blocks from where we conducted our photo shoot, so this ’49 was built by people who lived right here in this neighborhood. Clearly, they built it to last. Jim and Joyce Krom found it in 2013 in nearby Milford, Michigan, and have since attested to its hardiness by driving it 1146 miles to Tennessee and back. As for its appearance, the Kroms have done precious little aside from replacing the original front bumper and swapping tattered wheel covers for aftermarket chrome caps and rings.

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I hadn’t seen or even spoken to David Sosebee in at least 25 years. We met in the late 1980s when he was an aspiring NASCAR Cup driver and I was signing up teams to compete in the Christmas 500 on a NASCAR-style speedway called Thunderdome in Melbourne, Australia. David competed in his ex–Junior Johnson Monte Carlo festooned with Dawsonville Pool Room sponsorship decals, and even though he didn’t win (Bobby Allison took the checkered), we struck up a friendship as we chatted about old cars while sitting on the Thunderdome pit wall.

David is a colorful character, and I was to discover he came from a colorful family. Back in the States, he invited me down to Dawsonville, Georgia, to see his “yard full of old race cars.” At the time, he owned several older NASCAR race cars, including those previously driven by Darrell Waltrip and Tim Richmond. So, a few months ago when the Hagerty film crew and I began planning a Barn Find Hunter trip to north Georgia, I called David to see what might remain of his old cars.

“I don’t have too many race cars anymore, but I have an old Ford I think you’ll like,” he said.

Soon I was standing on Sosebee family land deep in the north Georgia mountains. David reminded me that his father, Gober, had been an auto mechanic by day and a local stock-car racing legend and moonshine runner nights and weekends. He was also a visionary: Following World War II, Gober had plans to carve the first high-banked superspeedway into the side of a mountain on the family’s property years before the Darlington track claimed that title in 1950.

Gober raced mostly Ford coupes beginning in 1939 at Lakewood Speedway in Atlanta until retiring in 1964. “He won the last three races he ever drove,” said David. By then, Gober had also quit hauling “’shine” from the mountain towns of Dawsonville, Dahlonega, and Cleveland to suburban Atlanta.

His hauling days behind him, Gober decided the family needed a new car to replace the old 1957 Chevy. Interestingly, the new car he ordered could have easily been converted into a more modern liquor hauler.

“Dad ordered the Fairlane in 1964 directly from a Mr. Johnson at the Ford Motor Company assembly plant in Atlanta,” said David. “Dad liked peppy cars, so he ordered it with a 289 Ford engine.” It was also equipped with a four-speed gearbox, dual exhaust, and heavy-duty suspension. All those high-performance parts in a rather pedestrian four-door sedan. “But he didn’t want any power-robbing accessories like power steering or air conditioning, because he wanted it to go,” said David.

“When the car was finished, my father got his insurance papers and went directly to the Ford assembly plant to pick it up,” remembered David, who was 9 years old at the time. “They told my father he’d have to pick up his new Fairlane at the dealership, but Daddy was adamant that he was going to drive it home from the factory.”

Before things got heated with assembly-line personnel, Johnson appeared from his office and instructed his plant workers that Gober would indeed drive the new car home. It has been tucked away and well cared for ever since.

Young David and his brother, Brian, rode in the Fairlane’s back seat to holiday and family events. “Dad mostly drove. My mother, Vaudell, was used to automatic transmissions by then,” he said. This car is likely the only four-door Fairlane ever built with so many high-performance options. The Fairlane was seldom driven, accumulating a mere 69,687 miles in the ensuing 60 years.

I asked David why his father didn’t order a sportier two-door coupe. Was it because the four-door sedan could more easily haul the family? “Probably not,” he said. “By the 1960s, most moonshine haulers were using four-door sedans, because they were easier to unload when they got to the destination.” Gober probably just wanted to cover his bases in case his retirement plan didn’t work out.

***

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When we drive our cars, they collect signs of that use—patina, in collector-car speak. The latest issue of Hagerty Drivers Club magazine, in which this article first appeared, explores the delight found in such imperfect cars. To get all this wonder sent to your home, sign up for the club at this link. To read about everything patina online, click here. 

Why the obsession with patina? What’s wrong with fresh and new? My real issue with patina is that I find the general understanding of what actually qualifies as such to be a bit, shall we say, slippery.

A story: While at an auction in the 1990s writing up cars for a magazine, I found a friend’s Porsche that was about to go under the hammer. It was a 356 ragtop, and it’s important that you know that my friend was extremely parsimonious. Which is a nice way of saying cheap. So cheap that when it came time in the late 1970s to paint his car, he balked at paying $2500 for a professional job, taking it to one of those “any car, any color, $69.99” places. The paint lasted a little over a weekend until it started to fade. And there were flaws, like bugs in the paint that you could see from 5 feet away. His solution? First, he ignored it. Then, after a year or so, he started sanding the finish, but—because sandpaper costs money—he used kitchen and industrial cleaners that he “borrowed” from businesses he frequented: Comet, Bon Ami, Scrubbing Bubbles, whatever.

After a few weeks, his Porsche showed a very mellow red, and, in all fairness, he had done a good job both masking and “sanding,” so one could imagine it was a paint job from the 1960s that had faded. He also had the seats retrimmed in the very cheapest vinyl he could find. The floor coverings were trash, so when another friend had his car’s carpets re-done, he asked for the used carpets for his car.

At auction, the punters were, to say the least, excited. “Look at that—my gosh—it’s almost untouched!” I heard another potential bidder wax poetic about the seat vinyl. Another, assuming the paint was original, speculated that “if the Porsche factory knew of the car, they would surely buy it back!” My friend, who was present at the auction, sat back, said nothing, and watched as his car sold at near a record price for the model.

I have seen a respected restoration shop use what’s called trompe l’oeil, or “deceive the eye” painting, on brand-new, out-of-the-box suspension components, which is intended to give the viewer a “convincing illusion of reality.” It would have fooled me, at least from a distance, had I not been forewarned. The car in question went on to win first in its class—the survivor class, that is.

Here is my takeaway with patina: Trust, but verify. Actually, forget the trust, and double down on the verification. Just like all the other idols we car collectors tend to fall over backward for (“low miles,” “matching numbers,” celebrity ownership, and “clean” Carfaxes), these issues are only as important as they are to us, the potential buyer.

Fresh and new is how virtually all cars enter this world. And that’s how they looked when most of us fell in love with them. When I was a kid, I dreamed of walking into the Datsun showroom and buying a new 1972 240Z. Buying one today with sagging seats and dirt on the carpets from 50 years of other people’s tushes and feet might not scratch the itch. Aside from the ick factor, the wear and tear is a constant reminder that I’m driving someone else’s dream. I want to fulfill my dream—the one from 1972. The classic car industry has that power: It’s called a restoration.

Keep in mind, these aren’t necessarily my feelings, but that clearly is the way many people feel about their old cars. So, as we celebrate patina, let’s not dismiss the enduring appeal of a pristine car or the enthusiasts who spend the money to turn back time.

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Mike McCluskey was out on his driveway tinkering with his Sunbeam Alpine one day in 1969 when Carroll Shelby rode up on a Yamaha motorcycle. “He lived three blocks away, in a three-level house with a killer view that he got for 50 grand because it had had a fire in a room on the ground floor,” McCluskey recalled to me. “He said, ‘I like what you’re doing on your Sunbeam. I’ve got four Cobras that I want to go through. You want the job?’”

McCluskey wanted the job, and today he’s known as one of the nation’s preeminent restorers of original Shelby Cobras. His shop at the end of the runway at Torrance Airport in Los Angeles is just a few miles from my house. Occasionally, mechanics from the airport take him tough jobs they can’t do themselves. I once brought him the exhaust manifold off my Cessna because a slip-joint was galled and wouldn’t come apart. McCluskey is 75 and so soft-spoken that you sometimes don’t realize he’s talking until he has finished the best part of a sentence. But he attacked the manifold with a torch and pounded on it like Conan the Barbarian until it separated. Then he quietly went back to making old Cobras perfect.

McCluskey grew up by the beach, in a part of Westchester that was flattened to make way for new runways at LAX. His family then moved to nearby Playa del Rey, near the Hughes Aircraft factory and the private hangar where Howard Hughes for decades hid away the Spruce Goose. He worked at Hughes during his high school summers, sneaking off on Saturdays to run a big-block Chevy at Lions Drag Strip down by the port. Then he worked at a shop that made hydraulic presses. “That’s how I learned machining, from a German foreman who was a hardass. He would say, ‘You’re doing this for the rest of the day until you do it right.’ Very perfectionist guy.”

A fortuitously high draft number kept him out of the army, and his parents had hoped he would make a career at Hughes or nearby North American Aviation, but McCluskey’s heart was in cars. He spent three years working on a contract basis directly for Shelby restoring Cobras out of a four-car garage in Inglewood, reporting occasionally to the head office that Shelby had (once again) stolen for cheap because two brothers had gotten into a deadly gunfight in it. “He knew how to delegate; he would find good people, point them in the right direction, and say, ‘I’ll call you once in a while to yell at you.’” Shelby supplied McCluskey with a 427 automatic beater. “It only got 8 miles to the gallon, but back then, you could buy premium for 30 cents.” Every time he ran to Shelby’s pad to swap cars, “there’d be a new girl living at the house.”

McCluskey worked on and off for Shelby for more than 20 years, being hired to build several Daytona coupes as well as the infamous “completion” cars, a handful of 427 Cobras built 25 years after the originals but stamped with leftover CSX3000-series serial numbers. He watched warily the rise of the Cobra replica, starting with the first fiberglass copies from Steve Arntz in the 1970s. “I remember telling Shelby, ‘If you don’t step on this bug, he’s going to start taking over the market.’ Shelby said, ‘Well, you know what, nobody is going to buy a plastic car.’”

He was wrong, and by the time Shelby decided to hire lawyers and do something about it, “the cat was out of the bag,” said McCluskey, who eventually decided that the thousands of fiberglass replicas had only helped drive up prices of the originals. Today, he only works on copies from select brands. He once owned a pair of real 289s but sold them in the late ’80s when prices of everything were zooming. He watched lots of Cobras get converted into 427, Super Snake, and S/C replicas, then did a decent business restoring them back when the fashions changed and originality became more important.

The late Phil Hill introduced McCluskey to the wonders of high-end self-playing pianos called “reproducers,” and he restored a bunch, along with a huge, 900-pipe theater organ that fills most of a separate hangar at the airport. As if that weren’t enough, he also built a few aerobatic aircraft, imported a number of Russian military jets, and is currently hankering not for a Cobra but a Stanley Steamer. You’ll find him at the shop pretty much every day of the week, showing the rest of us what a full life really looks like.

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When we drive our cars, they collect signs of that use—patina, in collector-car speak. The latest issue of Hagerty Drivers Club magazine, in which this article first appeared, explores the delight found in such imperfect cars. To get all this wonder sent to your home, sign up for the club at this link. To read about everything patina online, click here. 

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Hagerty Drivers Club magazine sat down with member Richard Vaughan, a designer who has 30 years of experience in a variety of automotive product development roles at Ford Motor Company, General Motors, and Rivian, to ponder the question: Will Radwood-era (post-1980) cars develop patina?

Vaughan, a graduate of Detroit’s College for Creative Studies and a lifelong car enthusiast, has written six books on Rolls-Royce, Bentley, and Aston Martin and has been a concours organizer and judge for decades. He currently serves on the Advisory Team for the Detroit Concours as well as on the board of directors of the Rolls-Royce Foundation Museum and the Rolls-Royce Owners’ Club.

Hagerty: Tell us what you think patina means in the classic car hobby.

Vaughan: Patina means worn in as opposed to worn out. It’s like if you buy a Ralph Lauren leather club chair, and over the years it becomes worn in and it looks like you’ve enjoyed it, but it’s still beautiful. That’s different from being worn out. Worn out looks like something you need to throw away and replace.

Cars made before the ’80s have several sensory cues that communicate that they’re worn in: smell, touch, feel. For the interior, leather, fabric, carpet, and wood are probably the four primary materials that create these sensory perceptions. On the exterior, it’s metal and chrome. Acrylic lacquer paint was commonplace from the immediate postwar era through the ’70s. Cars had a lot of paint, and it wasn’t quite as glossy as modern paints. When you polish and polish acrylic lacquer over the years, it gets thinner and thinner, and you get those beautiful areas where you can see that someone has maybe polished through the paint a little bit. It has what I would call a luster. That changes the more you polish it, and the cars can take on a really lovely look of being worn. You can tell somebody’s loved it and they use it.

Radwood cars don’t have it?

Vaughan: You can’t get that patina because the technology just doesn’t allow it. Radwood cars all have urethane, or polyurethane, paint finishes, which is a two-stage paint: base coat, clear coat. When the clear coat fails, it starts peeling off and looks like crap. It never looks worn in; instead, it looks great until it looks bad. You’ll see the paint peeling off the clear coat in sheets.

How will exterior plastic trim age?

Vaughan: Plastics for urethane bumpers and that kind of thing often are painted, but the black-molded-in-color plastics just turn gray and look awful and then you’re trying to put Armor All on it. I mean, if you ever see an old Pontiac Aztek or Chevy Avalanche where half the car is covered in that cladding and it’s really faded—you see these little, like, lines? That’s the mold flow of the liquid plastic as it enters the injection molding tool.

Are there any remedies?

Vaughan: The idea that you could preserve it and it’ll look like it has patina? That is not going to happen. To make the car look good, you’d have to paint the parts, which is kind of weird, as it’s a deviation from the original, but you could paint with a matte finish; it doesn’t have to be a glossy paint. But then it’s not original patina; it’s something else.

So, exterior plastics will not have patina as we know and appreciate patina?

Vaughan: It would be a compromise thing. In the ’80s and into the ’90s carmakers, especially of mass-market cars—this doesn’t apply to a Ferrari or a Bentley—but cars like a Corvette or a Pontiac 6000 STE—they use a lot of PVC—polyvinyl chloride—and a lot of polypropylene, which is the hard material that turns brittle and breaks. In the ’80s, most of that polypropylene, or PP as we call it in the industry, was painted. If you had a beige interior, they would mold the plastics in beige and they would also be painted beige. And, so, two things can happen. You can have the paint starting to separate from, or delaminate from, the substrate, or you can have the plastics getting so brittle that they break and are not repairable. When you’re shopping for a used car from that era, you have to ask: What was the climate where that car lived? If the car came from Texas, every time you take a plastic part off the car, you might as well be sure you have a replacement when you need to put it back on. A car from a place like Seattle where it’s not incredibly hot and there’s not a lot of UV damage, because there’s a lot of cloud cover, might be OK. But eventually time will get all these polypropylene parts.

Is it possible that 25 years from now we collectively might decide that it’s charming when those 1990s plastics turn gray?

Vaughan: I’ve been wrong about a lot of things in life, but I don’t think anybody will value that.

Does that mean that in 2050 we will clearly know the difference between a patina-era and a non-patina-era car?

Vaughan: A lot of it will depend on the car. There may be within a certain car community an appreciation for some aspect of the degradation of the materials, like we do today for cars in the ’50s and ’60s that are original. But it’s going to depend on how those materials were used in a particular vehicle.

Here’s another example: leather, which people value a lot, but which has changed and evolved. If you look at a car from the ’60s or ’70s and into the ’80s, leather seating was literally leather sewn together, which can be repaired. And if it’s a really nice car with a thick hide properly dyed rather than simply sprayed with a topcoat of color, you can get a beautiful patina as the leather wears in and you start to see some of the layers of the material. These leathers didn’t have coatings to prevent moisture from getting in. So you could put a cream on the leather, what we call “hide food.”

But in the ’90s, car companies started laminating the leather to protect it and add softness. The leather is laminated to a foam scrim, or backing, to provide some initial softness when you touch the material. But over time, the foam backing starts to break down and de-laminate. And then the leather seat looks like a sleeping bag. Look at, say, a 2007 Aston Martin V8 Vantage or DB9 or an ’07 Bentley Azure convertible. You peer into the interior and you say: My goodness, these seats look terrible, loose and baggy. It’s because the foam has de-laminated and turned to dust. It’s common across most premium automakers—I have this conversation all the time with the Rolls-Royce community.

What if that coated leather cracks?

Vaughan: Putting hide food on modern leathers is a waste of time and money because the coatings are designed to prevent, to repel, absorption.

The leather that we of a certain generation loved because of the way it looked, felt, and smelled, and its incredible durability? That traditional material is not considered to have a premium haptic anymore. Today’s luxury buyer would find it to be too hard and firm to the touch. That all changed due to the consumer desire for this sensory perception. It’s also worth pointing out that the cost of leather is very high in more than mere dollars. Leather is extremely heavy.

Foam lamination is also used for vinyl. When we say vinyl, what we usually mean in the car industry is a PVC-coated cloth. And when you talk about synthetic leather that you might find in a modern upscale car like a Lucid or Rivian, that typically is polyurethane. In the business, we would always call that “PU” or “PUR” for polyurethane. And the technical term for these treatments, by the way, is polymeric films.

If we say vinyl, that’s internally [inside car companies and suppliers], because we know that the consumer doesn’t like that word, so we don’t use the word vinyl if we’re talking about the higher-end product that’s polyurethane-based, even though it is indeed just vinyl.

Everybody would consider it vinyl, but the industry often draws a distinction between PVC vinyl and PUR by calling PUR “vegan leather”—but they’re both just petroleum-based polymeric films. The main difference is that the PUR feels more like leather.

None of these plasticized interior materials is going to age well?

Vaughan: Well, that’s one benefit of PVC. It looks good and lasts forever. Everybody’s heard of MB-Tex. You can see a 50-year-old Mercedes and the seats look brand new.

Is PVC vinyl a candidate for patina?

Vaughan: No. Patina implies that it has a worn look. This stuff just doesn’t wear; it can last a very, very long time. Now, of course, like everything, there are really cheap versions where you can wear off the topcoat. But, you know, a car that has a really nice PVC vinyl will keep a new look or good condition look for an extremely long time.

You mentioned Corvette earlier. If we’re talking C4 through C8 Corvettes, in 2050, will there be aftermarket replacements for both interior and exterior plastics?

Vaughan: I think the cost of injection-molding tooling is lower and lower all the time, and 3D printing will allow people to replace parts that would have otherwise not been available. But these are going to be like-new spec. There’s no way in 2050 to make a C7 Corvette have patina as we currently perceive patina.

So, back to our earlier thesis, patina may die after 1980 …

Vaughan: I think your thesis is accurate.

***

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The post Will modern cars, and modern materials, age gracefully? appeared first on Hagerty Media.

When we drive our cars, they collect signs of that use—patina, in collector-car speak. The latest issue of Hagerty Drivers Club magazine, in which this article first appeared, explores the delight found in such imperfect cars. To get all this wonder sent to your home, sign up for the club at this link. To read about everything patina online, click here. 

Back in the mid-1950s, there were lots of great unrestored cars in barns and carriage houses. At the time, if someone bought an old car in decent condition, it was common to have it completely restored.

My father loved Model A Fords and was constantly on the lookout for cars and parts. On weekends, we’d hit the road in his ’49 Plymouth wagon, towing a trailer. We’d stop at Ford dealers all over New England and ask for new-old-stock Model A parts in the rafters or on shelves. During one trip to Vermont, he asked if there were any old Ford parts out in the dealership’s storage area. Dad walked out back and saw a Model A 400 with roll-up windows and bucket seats. Built in 1931, it was one of the rarest Model A’s. It was totally original, and he bought it on the spot for $300.

Once home, Dad cleaned it up and took it to a Model A Restorers Club meet at Greenfield Village in Dearborn, Michigan. It was so nice that in judged competition, it was beaten only by a perfectly restored car. At the time, my parents were having a house built and needed the money, so my dad sold the car to a Michigan doctor.

We’d also go all over the Northeast to car shows, and there were a couple of show regulars who were really into original cars. They were often shunned because their cars weren’t as shiny and bright as the recently restored ones. Dad and I visited the Harrah Collection in Reno before it closed down and saw that many displays included restored and unrestored cars of the same model. Dad found this useful because he was always learning from the original cars: Are the stripes the right width? What kind of plating was used on the nuts and bolts?

Dad was in the restoration business—which sometimes meant restoring pretty decent examples—but he appreciated originality. One guy brought a big Packard 745 or 840 to my father’s shop to be restored. Instead, Dad suggested repainting the fenders and splash pans and restriping the car. The Packard looked great with freshly painted black fenders, and he’d saved a mostly original car.

I’m a painter and restorer, but I’ve developed a real love for unrestored cars. To this day, I contend that nothing drives better than a well-maintained original car. Though my father used the originals as a guide—to learn the correct way to restore a particular car—I learned to appreciate these original cars as art. When I’d visit a girlfriend in Boston, we’d go to museums and galleries and just gaze at the paintings and sculptures. That, along with the visits to Harrah’s and the Long Island Automotive Museum—which also featured unrestored cars—reinforced my appreciation of originality. Additionally, over the years, I learned when not to restore a car.

Back when I was painting a lot of Ferraris, an owner wanted a full repaint of his 250 GTE. Instead, I buffed and detailed it, and I persuaded him to stick with the original paint. That project helped me realize that there are several ways to bring a car back to life.

I first saw an unrestored Hudson Italia when I was about 15. I stayed in touch with the owners until it finally became mine, 38 years later. Upon seeing the cracks in the original paint, most collectors would have restored it, and I might have, too, had I managed to buy it when I first saw it. Years later, it is the only original Hudson Italia, and I truly appreciate it for its originality.

Over the years, I’ve had more than a dozen unrestored cars. The best was a 1921 Stutz Bearcat. Bought new by a Boston surgeon and found in Georgia with its cylinder head off, the car still had its original documentation stored under the seat and all its tools remained. When I saw it, I knew I had to have it, and I had the transporter there before the seller could change his mind. After assembly and lots of cleaning, I took the car to Pebble Beach, where it won the coveted FIVA trophy for unrestored cars.

I no longer have the Stutz, but I’ll never let the Hudson Italia go, and I’m thrilled to have an unrestored 1954 Arnolt-Bristol Deluxe, a 1953 Hudson Hornet, a 1956 Fiat Viotti Sport Coupe, a 1910 Chase truck, and a 1953 Studebaker Starliner coupe with just 7000 miles. Restored cars can always be restored again, but these jewels will only be original once.

***

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The post Carini: My dad taught me to love original cars, not just perfect ones appeared first on Hagerty Media.

When we drive our cars, they collect signs of that use—patina, in collector-car speak. The latest issue of Hagerty Drivers Club magazine, in which this article first appeared, explores the delight found in such imperfect cars. To get all this wonder sent to your home, sign up for the club at this link. To read about everything patina online, click here. 

Once, on the way to school, I looked over at my father in the driver’s seat of our battered Suburban and asked him how he knew the past was real. He snorted a laugh, his eyes never leaving the road ahead, and said, “Because I have the scars.” It was the kind of answer that tumbles from a tired father’s mouth without a second thought, laden with heavier truths than he likely realized. Over the years, I’ve found it applies to more than busted knuckles. When it comes to cars, so much of our fascination is wrapped up in questions of authenticity and honesty. In proof of the past. Did Fangio sit here? Did Chapman put his hand on this panel? Does the machine have the scars that prove it suffered the slings of time and survived anyhow?

When I brought home my ’67 Mustang, I knew better than to believe it would ever be concours perfect. The original straight-six and three-speed automatic had long vanished. The cowl and floors had been carved out and replaced with cheap patch panels. There were at least eight layers of paint, some of it covering finger-thick Bondo. There was rust. There were dents and dings. The interior looked like someone had loaded a 12 gauge with self-tapping screws and pulled the trigger, but despite all of that, I loved it immediately.

I didn’t want a $100,000 pony car with mirror-finish paint and panels straighter than anything that ever came out of Dearborn. I wanted something I could use. Something I could beat on with a hammer without batting an eye. A canvas for spray paint and cut springs that I could street-park with the windows down or fling at a curled mountain pass in the rain. I wanted a car that would remind the world why we all fell in love with these things to begin with, back when they weren’t investments or heirlooms. When they were simply the key that unlocked the brightest moments of our lives.

***

The idea was pretty simple: What would a former Trans-Am racer-turned-PI drive in 1974? Probably a hammered notch. The day after I got the car running, I unbolted the pony from the grille, pulled off the crooked fender emblems, and discarded the rocker trim, not bothering with the holes left behind. I tossed the dog dishes on a shelf in the shed and was left with a car that looked half a shade less grandmotherly than it had an hour earlier. Over the next few months, I threw a rash of speed parts at it, the only concession to modernity being a five-speed gearbox from a Fox body.

I raided Shelby’s cupboard for handling tricks, relocating control arms and cutting down coil springs with a hacksaw until the front hunkered low and right. A pair of reverse-eye leaf springs in the rear brought the back down, the car suddenly hunched over tall rubber and 15-inch Torq Thrusts sprayed gray. Magnesium 15s are a king’s ransom, but Rust-Oleum is still cheap as chips. I rolled the fenders, hammering them out until the body filler popped and the arches accommodated the Mustang’s new posture.

But this wasn’t just an aesthetic exercise. Sure, I’d spent hours scrolling through images of grainy SCCA events, the Terlingua cars hammering through corners. I’d watched and rewatched Bullitt. But I wasn’t building an Eleanor or some cosplay racer. My garage is half an hour from the Tail of the Dragon, U.S. Route 129. I needed this car to be capable of hounding a tourist in a new Corvette up and down the hollers between Tennessee and North Carolina. That meant Porterfield pads and a Borgeson steering conversion, gracing the car with a steering ratio quicker than a Miata. It meant an aggressive limited-slip differential and a 3.55 gear. An aluminum driveshaft and a 13-pound flywheel. Tri-Y headers breathing out barely muffled side-exit pipes. It meant giving the car all of the menace that the exterior promised.

Inside, I abandoned the factory gauges. I wanted the Stewart-Warner dials found in the Cobra, but modern reproductions don’t have a sterling reputation, so I settled on AutoMeter’s take on the same. And because this car pulls double duty as both back-road weapon and road-trip darling, it needed to have a decent stereo. I sent the previous owner’s gross single-DIN CD player to the dumpster, sourced a factory FoMoCo FM unit, and had its innards replaced with an Aurora Design Bluetooth system.

So much of modifying a car comes down to feel. Sometimes that’s the physical touch of the thing. Does the sideview mirror telegraph cold chrome or cheap plastic? Does the shifter notch into gear or flop over, lifeless? Other times, it’s what the components evoke inside you. The emotions they stir up in your chest in spite of yourself. When you’re behind the wheel, your field of view narrows to a handful of bits: the gauges, the wheel, a mirror or two. Get those wrong and it’ll feel like a poorly tuned guitar. Maybe that’s why it took me so long to find a steering wheel.

Having spent some time in a friend’s 289 Cobra, I knew I wanted a Moto-Lita, but a wood-rimmed hoop seemed out of place in the all-black cabin. Half a bottle of Willett and some eBay scrolling returned an immaculately hammered leather-wrapped tri-spoke. All black, with the cursive “Excalibur” barely visible just below the horn. Perfect.

***

Somewhere along the way, I accidentally built something I hadn’t had since I was 20 and sold my street/track Civic to buy our first family vehicle: my car. A machine built expressly around how I enjoy spending time. My wife, Beth, and I began taking it everywhere. Finding excuses to pile in and head off for the hills for impromptu overnights in Highlands or Asheville in North Carolina. Daring January snows and mid-June rainstorms. Arcing this ancient, hammered Mustang from one glorious apex to the next, the tired 302 shouting at the river and trees along the way. Or picking up our daughter from school, letting her slot that cue-ball shifter from one gear to the next from the passenger seat.

The shock is not how well the car drives or the wide smile of everyone I put behind the wheel. It’s how the world responds to this tattered old Mustang. It is universally loved. Regardless of age, gender, race, or creed, people smile at it. Have a kind word for it. The old guys who had one in high school see something more accurate than the Barrett-Jackson beauties that clog our Instagram feeds. The baristas see something more genuine than the usual parade of Teslas. In all my days of driving, I’ve never experienced anything like it. Sure, the Mustang is an American touchstone, a bit of the blood and bone of us, but it’s more than that. This car shows its faults and bruises, and despite its black hat stance and antisocial exhaust, that makes it approachable.

Makes it a thing worth loving. Maybe that’s what all of this chipping paint and dented metal offers us: a measure of honesty. Proof of the past. In a world so obsessed with the appearance of perfection and brighter futures, that’s more valuable than any concours trophy.

***

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The post My ’67 Mustang is imperfect, just the way I want it appeared first on Hagerty Media.

If you watch too many automotive cable shows and read too many articles on collecting, the mantra that gets beaten into your brain is to buy the best car in the best possible condition, as that’s what’s likely to appreciate the most. Another way this sometimes gets phrased is, “You can’t spend too much—you can only buy too soon.”

That’s all well and fine if you have the disposable income to spring for the best of the best. However, many of us don’t.

One way out of this trap of a surplus of passion and a deficit of funds is to buy a car that doesn’t even attempt to be a shiny lust object and instead is one that proudly wears its age and experience out in the open.

I’m talking about patina.

If you’ve made it this far, you’re probably aware that patina can be desirable. Battered-looking goods have their own appeal, even apart from the monetary value that untouched originality occasionally brings. That’s why home furnishing stores are full of new cabinets that have that distressed French farmhouse look and why Fender sells a “Time Machine” line—new electric guitars pre-distressed at the factory to simulate decades of stage wear. This “relic-ing” has spread into the car world as well. Some of it may have been kick-started by the rat-rod movement that began in the hot-rod world 30 years ago, where a backlash against the cost of shiny customs resulted in home-built cars with oxidized body panels, no chrome, and steel wheels. Ironically, the term “rat rod” has now morphed into a moniker for any car with an outrageously distressed finish, even if it’s sitting atop expensive oversize alloys.

Yet one of the biggest selling points of patina—the “real” kind, at least—comes down to dollars and sense: Worn cars are usually significantly less expensive than those in excellent condition and a bargain compared with those where every inch of the car has been brought up to like-new standards. This makes it possible for someone of modest means to buy their dream.

I’ll caution, though, that if you go this route, you need to be absolutely honest with yourself and aware of the fact that if you’ll never be happy unless you own a car in condition A, you should buy a car in condition A and not buy one in condition C and try to put it into condition A. Aside from the financial havoc that will likely cause, there’s a very real risk of mucking up the car.

Here’s the deal: A car’s appearance is a synergistic thing where the condition of the paint, the brightwork (the exterior chrome), and the interior all hang together and project a certain image. If you have a well-patinaed car that you want to “restore” (and I use that word in quotes because it means so many different things), you slide down an expensive slippery slope because you need to address all of the items that project that image. If you just paint the car, all the old chrome looks like hell. Replace the bumpers and trim with new, and all the rubber and glass look old. Complete the exterior refurbishment, and the interior shows its age.

It’s much easier—and less expensive—to live with a car where both exterior and interior already have a certain amount of wear on them. Since the car is nowhere near perfect, you’re not constantly chasing perfection because you’re not under the illusion that you’re going to reach it. And, since you’re less worried about dings from driving and parking, you’re more likely to use the car.

For these reasons, I’m a big believer in cars with patina. My 1973 BMW 3.0CSi is the only car I’ve ever had an outer-body restoration done on. All my other vintage cars have some degree of patina. My ’73 2002 and my Bavaria are lightly dinged survivors wearing original paint. The previous owner of my ’72 2002tii sanded off the rust spots and touched them up with doesn’t-quite-match, rattle-can Rust-Oleum. My ’75 2002—known as “Bertha”—has rust spots the size of dinner plates on the hood. My ’74 Lotus Europa Twin Cam Special was stored under a tarp in a storage container for over 30 years, which carved some interesting patterns into the dried-out, fragile paint.

Personally, I love the look of surface rust blooms against light-colored paint. It looks so organic—like flaming but done by nature. Of course, there’s a line between patina and just plain beat up, but most of us know that line when we see it. When it’s at its best, patina has the natural sensibility of Monet’s Water Lilies or the inherent rhythm of a Jackson Pollock abstract.

One misnomer about patina is that, since the car is already imperfect, you can drive it in any kind of weather. Any vintage car is inherently rust-prone, and a car that already has exposed patches of surface rust is even more so, so storing it outside, driving it in the rain, or—God forbid—in the snow and salt is likely to cause the rust to explode.

But this does raise the reasonable question of how to protect the surface rust that’s already there and prevent it from spreading or deepening. There are four basic approaches. Be aware that only the last won’t alter the patina’s original, baked-in-the-Arizona-sun look.

The first is to sand down any scaly rust that will fester, then spray clear coat. Make no mistake—this is painting, and as such, the quality is proportional to the amount of preparation. If the surface isn’t clean, the clear coat won’t adhere well and will eventually start to peel (hey, maybe you want peeling clear coat as part of the patina). And presumably you’re clear-coating the entire car, not only the surface-rusty area you want to preserve. If there’s flaking paint in addition to the rust, you can’t just clear-coat over it and trap it like a fly in amber; you’re going to need to sand it. Personally, I’m not a big fan of clear-coating patina, as it seems to me that if you’re going to prep a car and then shoot a hard coat of anything, you might as well go all in and paint it. Plus, “shiny patina” seems like an oxymoron.

The second and widely popular approach is to wipe on an oil-based product such as boiled linseed oil (mainly a wood preservation product) cut with mineral spirits, or Penetrol (an additive for oil-based paints to help lessen brush and roller marks). Both work as rust inhibitors by providing a layer of oily protection and helping the surface to shed water. After treatment, the surface looks wetter, shinier, and darker, which can make both the paint and the rust colors pop more, though all these effects will fade within months, depending on the level of exposure.

Be aware, though, that this approach has downsides. The creeping nature of oil is good for getting into rust pores and inhibiting corrosion, but if in the future you want to have the car painted, it can be difficult to get the surface oil-free. Linseed oil and Penetrol will eventually harden, but until they do, they can be gooey, so don’t wipe them on when the pollen count is high. Even after hardening, they can get tacky on a hot day.

The third approach is to do what you’d do on a car whose paint was simply faded—compound it and wax it. The idea is that the compounding will bring out the shine on the remaining paint, and the wax offers rusted areas some of the same moisture protection and water-shedding as the oil-based products while not penetrating as deeply into the metal and thus not being potentially troublesome if you later wish to paint the car.

After reading the above approaches, you can appreciate that, when you see a heavily patinaed car that’s shiny and whose colors pop like an exotic bird’s plumage, that’s not how it rolled out of the junkyard—work has been done on it to give it that look.

The fourth method is the one I prefer: Don’t touch it. I’d no sooner change the worn look of any of my cars than get plastic surgery on my own scarred and craggy face.

Find an imperfect car and then resist the urge to “fix” it. You’ll smile like an idiot when you drive it on a Sunday instead of bemoaning the fact that you always wanted one but couldn’t afford it.

***

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

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

The post Can you live with patina? appeared first on Hagerty Media.

When we drive our cars, they collect signs of that use—patina, in collector-car speak. The latest issue of Hagerty Drivers Club magazine, in which this article first appeared, explores the delight found in such imperfect cars. To get all this wonder sent to your home, sign up for the club at this link. To read about everything patina online, click here. 

Look up at the night sky to see one of the best examples of patina in the known universe: our moon. It has been rolling up miles for the past 4.5 billion years and it is sun-faded and totally blasted with stone chips. Who knows, maybe someday we’ll get around to restoring it. In the meantime, we all know that the hands of the clock move in only one direction, and so far, nobody has figured out how to freeze time or, better yet, turn it backward. This despite thousands of years of noodling on the problem. And it is a problem because time marching on means age and decrepitude creeping in. We are aging and so is our stuff, giving rise to multibillion-dollar industries that promise—and uniformly fail—to stop it.

Patina. It’s the Italians, renowned for their metalwork going back to the Middle Ages, who get the credit for the word. It literally refers to a shallow dish but in common usage describes the layer of tarnish on metal—often a dish—due to oxidation or reaction to chemicals. Of course, patina goes back much further than the Middle Ages. Not long after some unknown artisan cast the first glittering object in bronze around 6500 years ago, it started turning green. And you can bet that the customer was pissed, initiating both the first warranty claim and a centuries-long assault on patina that traces a direct blood lineage to the Eastwood catalog.

The question we are attempting to raise is whether we should even bother. Because patina can be a lovely thing. Indeed, the second definition of the word patina in the Merriam-Webster dictionary is “a surface appearance of something grown beautiful especially with age or use.”

What makes an old, used thing more beautiful than a new, clean thing, exactly?

“You’re like the 400th person to ask me that question,” said Steve Babinsky, founder of Automotive Restorations, a Pebble Beach–quality restoration shop in Lebanon, New Jersey.

“I have no idea. There is no intelligent answer to that question. Personally, I like patina, but my customers don’t.”

Along with Henry Ford, who crammed a sprawling museum full of unrestored machines in the belief that technology should be preserved in exactly the condition in which it was used, Babinsky is a kind of disciple of patina. Meaning that he owns numerous original prewar classics himself, including an unrestored 1928 Lincoln with a Locke & Company–coachbuilt body that is currently buried in the shop behind a couple of freshly restored Duesenbergs. “People will walk right past the Duesenbergs to see this Lincoln,” he said. “It’s just more interesting to see how the old dead guys did it back then.”

Babinsky also helped start the preservation class at Pebble Beach in 1998 by entering a Belgian-made 1927 Minerva. It has a unique, impossible-to-restore fabric body, and it was the first original-condition car to enter the famed concours in decades. The preservation class was the institution’s recognition that patina (being the handmaiden of originality) has a place at the pinnacle of the classic car world.

Since then, it has earned a place at other rungs on the ladder, from Magnus Walker’s shaggy “urban outlaw” Porsches to the turbocharged, nitrous-fed rust buckets built by YouTubers like the Roadkill crew. Every year, the Antique Automobile Club of America features a class at its events called HPOF, for Historic Preservation of Original Features, which welcomes cars from all eras with original equipment. Originality is king and patina is no handicap. “People obviously come at this hobby from different directions,” said Steve Moskowitz, executive director of the AACA. “There are a whole group of us who enjoy being transported back to a kinder and gentler time than it is today. And seeing something unmolested is pretty cool.”

Patina on a Radwood (1980–99) car can especially be appreciated when it’s on a rare or high-dollar car. The key is wear, not neglect. Think Ferrari F40 with pitted paint on the nose and rear quarters and faded event participation stickers on the rear glass. — Art Cervantes, CEO and cofounder of Radwood

In common car parlance, “molested” refers to what happens to cars after they leave the factory. It’s perhaps an overly punitive term that can mean anything from miles on the odometer to a roof that has been sawed off. To be fair to earlier generations, pretty much every car built for the first half-century of the automobile’s existence experienced only depreciation. So nothing much was at stake. Cars didn’t really start appreciating in value until the past 40 years or so. Until then, a vehicle was there to be used in whatever manner the owner saw fit until it had no use, then it was scrapped. Indeed, during the two world wars, it was considered a dereliction of your patriotic duty not to scrap worn-out old cars.

And the real prizing of unrestored originals is an even more recent thing, growing in importance over just the past couple of decades. Maybe it’s simply another frivolous indulgence stemming from our postwar peace and prosperity. Nostalgia is the privilege of those who aren’t starving or fighting world wars. Another take might be that it’s a reaction to our modern throwaway society, where nothing seems to last except things made in the old ways (and which testify to that fact by bearing the patina of long and faithful service).

The most famous Barn Find patina car I’ve had was my Ford Country Squire wagon with a 428 and four-speed. I drove it across Kansas with a surfboard on the roof and half the people gave me thumbs up, and the other half thought I was homeless. — Tom Cotter, Barn Find Hunter Extraordinaire

Lance Butler of Los Angeles is 30 and daily drives a ’65 Mustang notchback that he bought from the original owner, the proverbial little old lady from—not Pasadena, in this case, but nearby Pomona. “Original cars are charming because they have a different spirit from a restored car,” said the McPherson College auto restoration program grad and professional mechanic and collections manager. “I’ve owned restored cars. Original cars show function and use—the history hasn’t been washed away.”

Butler likes the evidence of the Mustang’s previous owner. “You can see her habits in the car, where she put her arm on the armrest and where she scratched the steering wheel with her rings.” Butler also has a ’36 Ford that he bought from a guy who had owned it since 1950. “There’s a sticker on the window for his World War II squadron, and there were a bunch of pins in it, like ‘Vote for Willkie.’ There are stains in funny places, where people probably spilled a 5-cent cup of coffee. If you offered to trade me for a freshly restored ’36 Ford, I would say no.”

One of the foremost experts on and enthusiasts of patina is Miles Collier, founder of the Revs Institute in Naples, Florida, a museum and research archive devoted to collecting, preserving, and telling the story of historically significant road and racing cars. Many of the Revs cars wear their wear and tear with pride. “Patina is essentially everything when we’re dealing with relics from the past,” says the reliably quotable Collier, whose book, The Archaeological Automobile: Understanding and Living with Historical Automobiles, attempts to prove that there is indeed an intelligent answer to the question of why patina matters.

“One way to think about it is when objects are created, they are analogous to human children when they’re born,” Collier told us by phone. “We all look the same, we all look like Mr. Magoo. But by the time we’re in our 50s and 60s, we’re all palpably different from every standpoint.”

Likewise, said Collier, objects made in a mass-produced industrial environment are essentially all the same when they come off an assembly line. By the time they have experienced “the vicissitudes of life, they’ve been used, consumed, modified, changed, crashed, updated—all the things that happen to cars. They have gone from being one of a series of mass-produced products to being a one-of-one. They are uniquely transformed by their experiences, and those experiences are manifested in the patina.”

Patina isn’t like rain, descending from the heavens and wetting all objects the same, Collier continued. Every bit of patina on a car is unique and speaks to a very specific incident in its past, whether you know what the cause was or not. Patina gives an object a temporal dimension as well as a spatial one, which makes that object far more interesting, he believes. “That is as close as we can get to the reality of that object’s experiences over time. Why on earth would you ever mess with it?”

Besides, it’s important to remember that the clock never stops. A freshly restored car is the same as a freshly built car, in that both start aging the moment they are assembled. The scientific term is “inherent vice,” which is defined as the tendency of objects to deteriorate over time because of the basic instability of the matter from which they are made. In cars, plastics get brittle and crack, iron and steel rusts, rubber rots, glass hazes, and so on.

I think there’s an appreciation for a 200,000-mile Ford Pinto and there’s an appreciation for a completely restored Pinto. I don’t know that one is, you know, more respected than the other, because they’re equally as ridiculous. — Alan Galbraith, founder of Concours d’Lemons

A car is in motion even when it’s not—even if it’s parked on ceramic tile in a climate-controlled vault. “They all are on a downhill slide to oblivion at some point,” said Collier, “and that is something we need to know, and it makes owning these cars more of an obligation and at the same time is immensely freeing.” How so? Because any car acquires patina, whether it’s used as living room decoration, as a locked-away financial investment, or as it was intended, as a tool for mobility. Rather than fret about it and fight it, we really should be celebrating and participating in it.

OK, but if they were selling tickets in time machines to go back to 1965 and buy brand-new Mustangs out of the showroom, wouldn’t people like Lance Butler be first in line? Well, obviously that is impossible, and a car that attempts to go back in time through restoration, no matter how good or accurate the job is, “is for all intents and purposes a reproduction, a replica, a simulacrum, a facsimile,” said Collier. “All restoration is fictitious. I’m not saying that it’s a bad thing, I’m just saying that’s how it is.”

One reason is that any restoration done in the year 2023 brings with it a 2023 sensibility. “That sensibility automatically makes anything we do fictitious. Because we don’t see the world the way the maker saw it, or the way the user saw it, or the way the person who left it under the apple tree saw it.” Even if you can procure the exact correct paint, and paint it exactly as it was done originally, and chrome the bumpers with the exact same technique and materials, and so on, eventually you will come to points in the restoration where there is no choice but to “stick your finger in your mouth and put it up in the air and see which way the wind is blowing,” Collier said. Because you can’t go back in time and know everything that the people who originally built the car knew.

Yeah, but why does that even matter? A sizable contingent of the old-car world thinks like Babinsky’s customers and would argue that cars are best when they’re shiny and spotless. If not exactly new, then they’ll take a “fictitious” like-new on any weekday plus twice on Sunday. Certainly if the alternative is chipped, scratched, faded, dented, and fritzy. To be sure, owning and operating an original car brings its own pains. “They’re fragile things,” acknowledged Babinsky, whose oldest unrestored car is a 1903 Pierce-Arrow. “They are gradually falling apart.”

Fine, agrees Collier, there’s no problem with wanting shiny and reliable—that’s the owner’s privilege. And at some point, if the car is decrepit enough, it may tell its story better if it’s restored than if left original. That car’s journey toward patina, toward having a fresh story, will begin as soon as you back it out of the workshop.

But if everyone demanded shiny and new, we would be scrubbing away our own fingerprints on time. Patina “is the thing that humanizes cars,” said Collier, and that’s really what it’s all about for people who think like him. Machines in and of themselves are interesting, but like every other machine, a car is merely a tool, and “it’s the human-machine interaction, the human-tool interaction, the human-object interaction that is the critical thing that engages us. We love to see the tool, but we want to know how it was used, why it was used, what did the guy who made it think, what did the woman think, what were their fears, their interests, and so on. Those are the things that add flesh and blood to the object.”

So go out to your garage or driveway and behold your collection of rare, unique, ones-of-one. They are your fingerprints on time, your own flesh and blood as reflected in a machine, your proof that, like the moon, you rolled up a lot of miles and have the stone chips to prove it.

Then come back inside and keep reading.

***

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

The post Life is imperfect. Why should our cars be any different? appeared first on Hagerty Media.

From the time a car rolls off the assembly line, it accumulates signs of aging and use—patina, in collector-car speak. The latest issue of Hagerty Drivers Club magazine, in which this article first appeared, explores the delights found in fading paint, rust, and other such imperfections. To read about everything patina online, click here. To get Hagerty Drivers Club magazine sent to your home, sign up for the club at this link.

“Cars come to me to die,” I joke. I’m allergic to polishing, buy cars to use them, and search for machines with a few blemishes or troubling history in hopes I’ll pay less to land the experience I’m after. Then I drive them.

I’ve long admired those who fastidiously detail their cars and am often embarrassed that my own cars look comparatively disheveled; I’m like the parent who sends his kid to school dressed in rags. A friend finishes a long drive with a full day of cleaning. Since his cars always look amazing, I asked him to take me through his process. When he got to the part where he removes not just the wheels but the fender liners to access the unseen areas under the body, I knew we were done. Even if I had the time, I certainly don’t have the patience. Hey, as Aristotle said: “Knowing yourself is the beginning of all wisdom.”

I know I don’t want a perfect car because I won’t feel bad about the inevitable nicks and scratches that come from use. The car community, however, celebrates the perfect. We see it in the high prices paid for older cars that have barely been used, the so-called wrapper cars that are close to showroom new, and the pristine restorations awarded ribbons at car shows. I admire them but then think, “Oh man, will that thing ever get driven?”

I wanted to highlight the less than perfect, which is how we decided on the theme for this issue. Patina, the word that has emerged to describe a car with warts, is itself imperfect. It feels highfalutin to me, but people know what you mean when you use it. Another term is “driver quality.” Whatever. We’re here to indulge the joy of owning—and driving—a fun used car.

There’s a growing appreciation for patina cars. High-end car shows often feature unrestored machines, a trend from Europe. Other car shows, like Concours d’Lemons, emerged specifically to celebrate junkyard dogs. We’re not uncovering a trend in this issue, but rather acknowledging what’s already happening.

Our goal, as always, is to help you get more from your hobby. I also wanted to relieve myself of my guilt that I don’t keep my cars perfect. I’m sure many of you can relate. If you read these patina-related articles over the next few weeks and feel more freedom to go drive your car, then we’ve done our job. Let me know.

As usual, we relied on many generous folks to help us pull together the group of stories you’ll see over the next several weeks. About six months ago, the people at AI Design, a shop you’ll read about soon, alerted us to a trio of rally machines. The generous owner of the cars wanted us to get behind the wheel and share his love for them with you. Wow. The owner asked not to be named, but you can follow him on Instagram: @teamchampagneninjas. Then Alan Wilzig stepped up to provide a venue for driving and photography. Wilzig built a car nut’s dream on his farm in upstate New York: a private racetrack with a museum-quality garage, replete with kitchen and locker room. If there’s a heaven and I get in, I hope it’s Wilzig’s compound. We couldn’t have done the piece without their generosity. As I often say, car people are the best people.

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

You probably know the cautionary tale of Eastman Kodak, the photography giant that failed to embrace the transformation to digital and thus declined into bankruptcy. You might not be aware that the tale is mostly untrue.

“In fact, Kodak invested billions to develop a range of digital cameras,” recounted a 2016 article in Harvard Business Review, which noted that Kodak also bought an online photosharing platform “before Mark Zuckerberg wrote a line of Facebook’s code.” An argument can even be made that Kodak overinvested in digital—a new field it scarcely understood—rather than try harder to sustain the highly profitable photo chemistry business it had spent a century perfecting. Perhaps the lesson is simply that it’s impossible to predict the future, no matter how much you spend trying.

That lens, properly focused, is useful for examining General Motors’ announcement earlier this year that it will invest nearly $1 billion to retool several factories for a new generation of small-block V-8 engines. The announcement, which contained no details about the engines themselves or their timing, was immediately distilled into politically charged narratives. For those in the Who Killed the Electric Car? corner, it was evidence that nefarious Detroit intends to do business as usual. For those at the other extreme, it has been greeted as tacit admission from “Government Motors” that the top-down push toward electrification is doomed to fail with real consumers.

Certainly, there’s wiggle room in GM’s oft-repeated climate pledge, that it “aspires to eliminate tailpipe emissions from new light-duty vehicles by 2035.” Aspiring doesn’t necessarily mean achieving, and the transition away from internal-combustion vehicles will be an extremely complicated issue for established car companies.

There are technical reasons to keep the V-8s fresh. In the short term, it’s towing. The electric Chevrolet Silverado EV can pull an impressive 10,000 pounds, but that eats into its advertised 400-mile range. Those who regularly tow long distances—everyone from your landscaper to retirees pulling Airstreams—will be buying fuel-burning trucks until battery technology and charging infrastructure greatly improve.

An investment in V-8s is also a hedge against uncertainty about the long term. The next decade will likely belong to EVs, but beyond that, who knows? “In the distant future, you might find things like hydrogen becoming available and fueling an internal-combustion engine,” said K. Venkatesh Prasad, senior vice president of research and chief innovation officer at the Center for Automotive Research.

The biggest reason to update a V-8, though, is a counterintuitive one: GM needs V-8s in order to build EVs. Battery electric vehicles accounted for only 5.6 percent of new vehicles sold in the United States last year. Developing EVs that will appeal to the remaining 94.4 percent will require massive investment. GM says it’s spending $10 billion a year on capital investments, “the majority focused on our EV portfolio.”

Electric vehicle startups have turned to the markets to raise the necessary R&D money, as have some established automakers—VW took its Porsche subsidiary public last year, raking in $72 billion. However, the Wall Street route has been largely a dead end for Detroit; Tesla, even after a bruising year for its stock, still has a market capitalization some 15 times that of GM. “Tesla gets lots of cash coming from investors. As an incumbent, you don’t have that,” said Prasad. “So, you create that cash flow using the goose that lays the golden eggs.”

The goose for GM is full-size trucks. Chevrolet, Cadillac, and GMC collectively sold more than a million of them in the United States in 2022. Some 60 percent of those were equipped with small-block V-8s, an engine family GM has perfected over the course of seven decades, five generations, and more than 100 million units. The relatively small investment in a sixth generation is a gambit to keep the goose fed. The Catch-22—the same kind that ultimately bankrupted Kodak—is that eventual success for the EVs will come at the expense of those V-8 trucks. “That goose is going to get smaller and smaller,” predicted Prasad.

In the meantime, there’s a delicious and instructive irony in the fact that buyers of V-8 trucks and buyers of EVs will, for the foreseeable future, need each other. Maybe we can get along, after all. Let’s also not ignore the obvious good news for enthusiasts: One of the greatest engines ever will live to rumble for another day. Mama isn’t taking our Kodachrome away just yet.

***

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Our man Stefan Lombard stammered a bit when asked how he came up with the idea—which we have gone to enormous lengths to execute—of gathering a 1973 Pontiac Trans Am SD-455 and a 1973 Porsche 911 Carrera RS 2.7 in the central Texas Hill Country. “They are kind of the same shape,” he began. “Well, they both have ducktails. The Firebird was the pinnacle of Pontiac production, the 911 was the pinnacle of… you know… Porsche.” He’s on a roll now, hand on chin, eyes at the ceiling. “They have enough small similarities that added up in my mind to—it was just kind of a ‘what-if’—plus, it’s Porsche’s 75th anniversary, and there will be a lot of stories, but not this one.”

At least that last part is certain.

You can classify cars a lot of different ways—by make, by body type, by price, by size, by national origin. Here are two cars joined pretty much solely by year. And the fact that they are both coupes. And they both have four seats (the Porsche is debatable on that point). And they both lean on the sporty side. OK, that’s an understatement; the Porsche was as close to a street-legal factory racer as you could buy in 1973, and even crazier cars were ahead in the company’s future, which is what helps make the ’73 RS so ridiculously valuable today. More on that in a minute.

The Pontiac, meanwhile, is also pretty special, practically a factory hot rod championed and steered through GM’s red-tape forest by a dedicated group of engineers. It is one of just 252 Super Dutys built in 1973 and one of just 73 with a four-speed. Plus it was the final act, practically the end of the road for the division’s decade-long craze for shoving its largest engines into its smallest cars. In 1973, the optional $521 Code X engine, the Super Duty 455, had an 8.4:1 compression ratio and was rated at 310 horsepower. Two years later, the Code X was gone, the Code Y 455 offering a pale 200 horsepower via a 7.6:1 compression ratio. By 1978, the big 455 was extinct.

What the ’64 GTO wrought, the ’73 Firebird Trans Am SD-455 effectively finished, as Pontiac’s performance cars thereafter lost their punch to emissions regulations and oil embargoes. Pontiac as a division still had a few good years left in the ’80s and ’90s, but in between, the so-called widetrack Tigers were tamed and shackled into toothless kittens.

Thus, one empire, Porsche, rising; one empire, Pontiac, in decline. Ever has it been so. The Egyptians gave way to the Greeks who gave way to the Romans, all of whom left behind a lot of stuff we would classify as condition #4 or worse. As Pontiac began its long glide toward eventual mothballing in 2010, Porsche ascended to heights in sales and profitability that would have been unimaginable to founder Ferdinand Porsche (as would the modern SUVs that largely did the heavy lifting).

And the troubled year of 1973—sample newspaper headlines: “Nixon Claims History Will Justify Viet War;” “Inflation Our Big Problem Now;” “Cold Weather Could Intensify Energy Crisis;” and “Stories on Watergate, Syphilis Top Journalism Award Winners”—seems as likely a year as any to be considered the crossover point. Hence, this matchup. You’re welcome, Stefan.

On a gloomy Tuesday in March with a blanketing overcast sky bringing forth wind and spurts of rain, we rolled out of Kerrville, Texas, a town about two hours west of the state capital in Austin. The Mooney Aircraft Company once built small planes here with their famously distinctive forward-swept tails. The Porsche and the Pontiac both have rearward-swept tails, plastered with 3-inch-high lettering shouting their names at the traffic. Because you could do that back in the 1970s, pizazz up your most macho models with bright paint and colorful graphics. You could even paste a flaming blue bird on the nose and everyone up to and including the Marlboro Man thought it was cool.

But then, GM was pretty fearless back in those days. Unlike today’s glacially slow ooze of design evolution, the second-gen Camaro/Firebird, delayed until early 1970 after slowdowns caused by a strike, was a clean break from its predecessor. Pontiac’s then-design chief, Bill Porter, and his team channeled European themes by leaning and visually lowering the car while stripping off most of the chrome and traditional Detroit gimcrackery. The new polyurethane front bumpers supplied by Detroit’s McCord Corp. and its Davidson Rubber Division—GM called it the “Endura” bumper when it debuted on the ’68 GTO—had looked somewhat grafted on when it was applied to the ’69 Firebirds. Now, for 1970, the stylists were able to shape a whole new front end around the bumper, crafting a long and low sportster with alluring proportions behind twin flaring nostrils that defined a clean and all-business nose.

Our Trans Am owner, Keith Sasich of Dallas, certainly likes the look. A lifelong drag racer who started in Pontiacs and still owns his first car, a ’67 Firebird 400 that he laid his eager teenage mitts on in 1974, Sasich walked away from a chance to buy a ’73 Super Duty in 1979. The car was $3500, and the mistake haunted him down through the decades. Just a few years ago, he put up his paddle at Barrett-Jackson for the numbers-matching example you see here, adding it to an all-American collection that tilts toward Pontiac and includes a ’69 GTO Ram Air Judge four-speed and a ’71 455 H.O. Judge. “Many a true Pontiac fan wants these cars,” he says of the Super Duty, conceding he probably paid too much (funny, our Porsche owner said the same thing), but hey, what the hell. He really wanted that four-speed, even more than his preferred color of Brewster Green.

There’s nothing subtle about the Firebird, which is all thundery bravado when you pry open the single 800-cfm Rochester Quadrajet to let the 455 (technically, it’s a 456) inhale. The retro remanufactured Goodyear Steelgards fitted to this car can’t maintain grip against the tidal wave of torque any better than the originals did back in the day, and the ’Bird shakes its tail feathers reliably and hilariously at the slightest provocation. Much finesse must have been required for magazine testers to pull out a 13.7-second quarter-mile in period. Hands up, those who think drag racing isn’t hard.

Buick, Oldsmobile, and Pontiac offered 455s in 1973, but because this was old GM, before bean counting all but eliminated the independence of the divisions, the three engines were completely different except for displacement. The cast-iron Super Duty outwardly resembled the Pontiac 455 available in other Firebirds, but Special Projects engineer Herb Adams along with Skip McCully and Tom Nell labored to make the oily innards feature improvements gleaned from NASCAR, NHRA, and Trans-Am racing, all while still meeting new emissions limits. They include thicker internal block bracing, four-bolt main bearing caps for greater crankshaft support, connecting rods and pistons that were forged for more strength, and an 80-psi oil pump for better lubrication at higher revs.

GM’s suits had by this time banned multi-carb induction setups like the famous GTO Tri-Power, so the Super Duty ran the single, lunchbox-size Rochester four-barrel under a Shaker scoop poking through the hood. The twin forward-facing ducts of the lesser Firebird Formula’s hood were said to be better for breathing, but the Shaker, as always, puts on a better show.

GM automatics in this era had developed to a reliable state of creaminess, which helps explain why so few of the Super Dutys were built with a stick in ’73. There’s no particular joy in shifting the Muncie M20 four-speed with its Hurst shifter about as long as a Texas copperhead. Unless, like Sasich, you were raised on them. Mile-long and trucklike throws along with a heavy clutch are what you remember most, as well as the amusing fact that—per some GM lawyer most likely—you can’t pull out the ignition key unless the shifter is moved to reverse. As you do it, you can hear the cables and pulleys of this Rube Goldberg safety interlock sliding and spooling behind the dash, all part of the charm of this rare car.

Everything feels bigger in the Pontiac, especially the expansive dash trim that salesmen claimed at the time was easier to remove thanks to it being mounted with a total of five screws. Lightbulb swaps in the new F bodies were said to take a mere 60 seconds. In contrast, the delicately spoked and leather-wrapped steering wheel seems small for a car weighing close to 2 tons, a lot of it engine. Our relatively gossamer Porsche was fitted with a plastic rim at least an inch larger. But alas, there is power steering, something the Porsche doesn’t have—or need.

That’s because the Carrera’s creators in 1972 targeted a weight for their RS homologation special of slightly under 2000 pounds. As has so often been the case with Porsche, what the company said it was going to do, it did with aplomb. The result is a glorious little corner eater you drive with your fingertips and toes, the center-mounted tach—where else?—effortlessly zinging on a crescendo of air-cooled clamor to its 7200-rpm redline.

The Carrera feels just as small and light as it looks sitting next to the Pontiac, with that classic upright seating position putting you in perfect relation to the pedals and five-speed shifter. If you bemoan the acres of plain, hard plastic in the Trans Am, you won’t find much relief in the spartan Porsche, even though its price new was more than twice that of the Pontiac. This Porsche isn’t a car as much as it is a tool, and to murder a phrase about a hammer, when all you have is a Carrera, all your problems look like racetracks.

Especially the narrow scribbles that interconnect Texas Hill Country burgs such as Barksdale and Leakey by cutting through the hillsides of limestone and clay, providing undulating, constant-radius joy for drivers and cyclists equally. Having at one time or another owned 35 Ferraris and too many Porsches to remember them all, our Carrera’s custodian, Mike Green of Houston, isn’t easily impressed, but he does like these roads and knows them well.

A longtime exec with the Sysco food distribution giant, Green was out buying hot stuff when it was just lukewarm. But he got bit by the Carrera bug too late and, as mentioned earlier, “paid too much. But I wanted to make sure I got a good, genuine car. I like my cars to be factory spec; taking the original seats out [they’ve been substituted with more comfortable chairs] is kind of a big deal for me.”

Porsche by 1973 was no longer the cottage German firm that seemed to uneducated eyes to make nothing more than hyper Volkswagens. It had only a few years earlier taken its first 24 Hours of Le Mans victory—not in class, but overall, with the outlandish 917K, which instantly elevated the Stuttgart stable above so many of its longtime British and Italian rivals (granted, Alfa Romeo won Le Mans in the 1930s, but that was already ancient history)

However, Porsche’s 240-mph, cost-no-object racing program couldn’t be sustained for long. Thus, when engineering leader Ernst Fuhrmann took over the top technical job in 1971, he was determined to refocus the company’s racing efforts back on production-based models and especially the 911, the better to remind buyers what Porsche mainly sold in its dealerships. As one door closed—1973 was the final year for the 917 in Can-Am—another door opened with a car that took its name from Porsche’s 904-through-908 racing Carreras of the 1960s as well as its long-ago campaigns in the famous Mexican road race, La Carrera Panamericana, which ran from 1950 to 1954.

Key to the effort was getting the 911 accepted for the newly revised FIA Group 4 “Special Grand Touring” competition class, which required that at least 500 units be built for sale to the public. A then-young engineer named Norbert Singer, not long out of the Technical University of Munich, was put in charge of developing the 911 Carrera RS. If Singer’s name is familiar even to non-Porschephiles, it’s because he went on to blaze an illustrious career in the ensuing decades as the company’s brilliant racing czar.

Aerodynamic enhancements like the famous fiberglass Bürzel, or ducktail, were shaped in Porsche’s new wind tunnel while Singer and his colleagues went to work on the chassis and engine, stripping the 911 of carpet and other sound insulation. Out went the bolstered door panels, replaced by simple flat panels with pull cords, as well as the sun visors, clock, under-coating, exterior trim, glovebox, even the gas struts holding up the front trunklid. Anything that could be yanked out without impeding the car’s performance was yanked, though some luxuries crept back in later in an optional Touring trim. The magic of the RS, however, is in the stuff you can’t see from the sidewalk; engineers spec’d thinner sheetmetal and glass for the RS to shave pounds, as well as lighter Bilstein shocks, the first Porsche production car to wear them and the beginning of a very long association between that brand and Porsche.

It’s not entirely wrong to say the 2.7-liter flat-six is half of a 917 flat-12. The Carrera’s 210-hp fuel-injected mill was bored out from the regular 911 S’s 2.4-liter to eventually share its bore and stroke measurements with the later 917/10 Can-Am car (and who didn’t have the Corgi model of that white wedge with its red and black L&M cigarette logos?). The Carrera’s engine employed a then-radical spray-on hardening process called Nikasil, developed by the German supplier Mahle for strengthening an aluminum engine’s otherwise fast-wearing cylinders.

So many important firsts, so many distinguished fingerprints; the 1973 Carrera RS ranks among the cream of the Porsche collector car elite. Though at the time, writes eminent Porsche chronologist Karl Ludvigsen, the company worried that all 500 units would not find buyers, especially since the 2.7-liter engine hadn’t been certified for U.S. sales. The price was thus kept artificially low, at the German deutsche mark equivalent of around $10,000. However, the initial run was sold out within a week of the Carrera’s debut at the Paris Salon in October 1972, and the company went on to produce three times as many as originally planned—1580—thus launching a dynasty.

Of course, that’s not nearly enough cars in a world of 8 billion people, so the Carrera RS, like the even rarer Super Duty, trades hands for many multiples of what lesser—but really, not that much lesser—versions go for. Here are two cars from the very unsentimental year of 1973 that prove that no matter what, in the collector car world, it’s all about sentiment. And personal choice informed by your own history, your own experiences, and your own tastes.

Mike Green and Keith Sasich both unquestionably fall under the title of “car guy,” but, as with their cars, they don’t have much in common beyond that. Sasich likes his thrills one quarter-mile at a time and doesn’t own a foreign collector car. And Green has never owned an American muscle machine—or, indeed, any American collector car beyond a modern Ford GT. We tried to persuade him, but no luck.

Different passions inflame in different directions, and 1973 was a crossroads year in which two storied brands found themselves on vastly divergent trajectories reflected in this pair of special, limited-production cars. The good news is that a half-century later, in times that are perhaps equally fraught and uncertain, you still have some excellent choices. Perhaps 50 years hence we’ll be publishing a comparison of the Porsche 911 GT3 RS and Dodge Challenger SRT Demon 170, both new for 2023. Stefan is already working on the pitch.

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

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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.

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When I was hired at Car and Driver 34 years ago, editor-in-chief William Jeanes said: “P.J. O’Rourke has fled to D.C. to interrogate politicians. You’re replacing him. Try to be funny. Try.” I immediately phoned P.J. to ask, “You got any unused material stuffed behind the refrigerator?”

We thereafter remained friends, at least until February 2022, when P.J. hit life’s ultimate blind curve. “Not blind so much as deeply nearsighted,” he’d earlier told me in front of a bonfire at a Subaru introduction in Vermont. We were right then sipping Wild Turkey that had rendered us both groggily nearsighted. Before P.J. exited this fitful realm, he and I were trading favorite road-trip books. “Gotta be a bunch we’re not remembering,” he said at least three times, and I’m sure that’s true. Anyway, what follows is what first came to mind, apart from, “Watch that spark, I think your pants are on fire.”

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On The Road

by Jack Kerouac

Any list of American road-trip books must begin with On the Road (1957) by Jack Kerouac. It is neither what today’s youth would describe as “accessible” nor particularly welcoming. These pages relate the tale of Kerouac (calling himself Sal Paradise) and pal Dean Moriarty’s sometimes numbing peripatetics in, first, a mud-splattered 1949 Hudson, in which they may have motored (I lost track) from New York to San Fran to Denver to San Fran to Sacramento to Denver. Then in a ’47 Cadillac limousine they aimed at Chicago but not before sinking it in a ditch, ensuring that “girls were frightened of our big, scarred, prophetic car.” By then it was neither prophetic nor stopping reliably, given its scorched brakes.

That was followed by a bus trip to Detroit, then via Chrysler to Long Island, then via ’37 Ford sedan (with the right door attached by rope) to Mexico City, where Kerouac contracted dysentery, eventually nursing his weary corpus back to his New Jersey home to complete what he describes as “pointless driving with minor adventures at intervals.”

On the Road is nonetheless important. It is said to have spawned the Beat Generation (well, maybe) as well as the New Journalism practiced by Tom Wolfe and Hunter S. Thompson (almost certainly).

***

Blue Highways

by William Least Heat-Moon

And now, of course, having suggested that On The Road comprises the quintessential road book, I must report that William Trogdon (aka William Least Heat-Moon) asserts, “Kerouac was in no way an influence.” That’s in reference to Blue Highways (1982), in which the author drives a 1975 Ford Econoline van (with failing water pump) 13,000 miles over three months, encircling the country, starting and ending in Columbia, Missouri. “I can’t say, over the miles that I had learned what I wanted to know,” he offers, “because I hadn’t known what I wanted to know. But I did learn what I didn’t know I wanted to know.” Following this opaque Rumsfeldian introspection, the remainder of the book emerges somewhat clearer.

Reading Blue Highways, you’ll pick up U.S. history, even though one of its characters opines, “American history is parking lots.” Although the author rarely dips his brush in humor—a criticism of all Least Heat-Moon’s books—he sometimes stumbles upon it: Says John Steadman, in the Dorr Rebellion of 1842: “Boys, when you see the enemy, fire and then run. And as I am a little lame, I’ll run now.”

Adds the author, “Part of the purpose for the trip was to be inconvenienced, so I might see what would come from dislocation and disrupted custom. Answer: severe irritability.” Living in a van, often down by the river, turns out to be a festival of pestilence.

***

Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance

by Robert Pirsig

And now to Robert Pirsig, who can be difficult even at idle, and he idles often in Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance: An Inquiry Into Values (1974). As is true with James Joyce’s Ulysses, you don’t read Zen. You reread Zen. You should know that Pirsig was influenced by Kerouac. So, there, I told you so.

In this celebrated door stop, Pirsig travels westward—dallying longest in Montana—atop a Honda motorcycle showing 27,000 miles (year and model annoyingly unspecified) with troubled son Chris clinging to his waist. Pirsig’s description of the route is vivid, but at least half the text is a philosophical treatise in which he teases out the definition of “quality.” Mind you, that’s Pirsig’s former mentally ill self at work, a persona he’s named Phaedrus. Unfortunately, neither Phaedrus nor the electroshock-cured Pirsig is particularly likable. His cerebral voyages often feel preachy—“So, listen,” Pirsig begins a graf—and the answers to his questions are often found in the Japanese word mu: neither yes nor no.

The author eventually settles on this: “Quality is the continuing stimulus which causes us to create the world in which we live.” Says who? Pirsig? Phaedrus? Jay Leno?

Pirsig mentions Zen koans but should have contemplated the most famous: “What’s the sound of one hand clapping?” Well, clapping, by meager human definition, stipulates two hands, so the question itself contains the flaw that makes it unanswerable. It’s like asking, “Why isn’t infinity only half as far?”

Two books are complicatedly commingled here—a road trip and a philosophical crossword puzzle—yet Zen endures.

***

Great Plains

by Ian Frazier

Setting out in a rusty van freshly serviced at Mike’s Sohio and occupying motels every third or fourth night, Ian Frazier investigated Wisconsin, Minnesota, South Dakota, Montana, and just about everything as far south as western Texas. From his notes emerged Great Plains (1989): “Just grain silos and flat brown fields with one cow in them, and wheat fields and telephone poles, and towns with four or six buildings, and a ‘No U-Turn’ sign at each end.” It’s a 6000-mile ramble on byways as flat as road-jiggled beer, unremarkable terrain for most of us. Yet Frazier emerges as an enthused historian and advocate for our geographically least celebrated region. And his writing informs: “In all of the years of the cattle boom, fewer people were shot or stabbed in Dodge City than die violently in New York City in three days.” OK, faint praise, but Midwesterners will take it.

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Road Fever

by Tim Cahill

There can be no road trip more faithful to the unvarnished ideal than Road Fever (1991). Driving a 1988 GMC Sierra diesel pickup, Canadian driver Garry Sowerby and Montana author Tim Cahill attempt to set a Guinness record driving 15,000 miles through 13 countries, beginning at Tierra del Fuego and concluding at Prudhoe Bay, Alaska. You just know the text is authentic: First, in response to Sowerby’s criticism of his driving, Cahill fantasizes about how hard and exactly where he will punch his codriver in the face. Second, Sowerby says, “Every time, and I mean every time I modify a vehicle, the aftermarket stuff craps out on me.”

Cahill and Sowerby arrive at their destination in 23 days, 22 hours, and 43 minutes. They are filthy, sleep-deprived, hallucinating, and not embodying what you’d call acceptable security risks. Road Fever caustically captures the frustration and frequent futility of long-distance driving.

It’s always less fun than it sounds.

***

Uneasy Rider

by Mike Carter

I’ve read Mike Carter’s Uneasy Rider (2008) three times, yet the twists and turns still delight. Drunk at a Christmas party, Carter boasts of riding into the sunrise to quell his then-aborning midlife crisis.

Then actually does it. First, however, he must purchase a BMW R1200GS and enroll in a course to learn to operate it. After which he more or less immediately finds himself in Calais with no idea which way to turn.

That’s because he’s sober by then.

Six months and eight worn-out tires later, he’d ridden 19,950 miles through Scandinavia, Eastern Bloc Europe, Turkey, and Greece. He lost his underwear twice, cruised through 27 countries, and recorded this memorable notation: “Number of countries where I was informed that the next country was dangerous: 27.”

Mixing alcohol and party-time braggadocio is always fun, but mostly for onlookers. For readers, too.

***

The Road to Little Dribbling

by Bill Bryson

Another acutely observant road-trip celebrant is Bill Bryson, whose The Road to Little Dribbling (2015) is a follow-up to his Notes From a Small Island. Bryson was born in Iowa, noting, “America… has become spectacularly accommodating to stupidity.” He thus tours his adopted country, the U.K., mostly on foot, in buses, and on trains, with a brief bout in a rental car that is not described. Still, he’s road-bound for weeks and his narration is droll, dry, and diabolical. Plus, he finds plenty of Brit-flavored stupidity. This book should be a movie.

***

Driving Mr. Albert

by Michael Paterniti

Michael Paterniti’s Driving Mr. Albert: A Trip Across America with Einstein’s Brain (2000) is equally shadowy and darkly amusing. The author sets out from New Jersey, chauffeuring the doctor who performed Einstein’s autopsy and afterward refused to give up the great man’s brain. That particular organ, sloshing in a Tupperware container in the trunk of a teal Buick Skylark, is to be delivered to an Einstein heir in Berkeley. Thus the cross-country poke.

Included is a surreal interlude in Kansas to visit writer William S. Burroughs, who has just downed his daily dose of methadone while chugging five Coke-and-vodkas. What follows—fasten your shoulder belt—goes a long way toward explaining Naked Lunch.

***

A Life on the Road

by Charles Kuralt

Charles Kuralt’s A Life on the Road (1990) appeals in part because, while on assignment, I drove his final CBS “On the Road” and Sunday Morning motorhome from Chicago to The Henry Ford Museum. I yet possess Charlie’s mittens and four of those little airline boozeettes he secreted in cubbyholes.

His TV team’s first motorhome, in 1967, was a Travco on a Dodge truck chassis. Kuralt replaced cracked wheels weekly. After a second Travco proved equally obese and happy to fail, the crew switched to a Revcon. Then to an FMC whose wiper flew off upon first use, whose A/C blew every single fuse, and whose carburetor was so prone to icing that they attached to its housing a Clairol hair dryer.

Kuralt stayed in touch with me for a couple years. I worshiped the guy, the storytelling happy-go-lucky uncle every kid covets. Of course, he was briefly married to two women, a not-so-legal ménage that none of my own uncles ever achieved. I’d wager that Kuralt is more than half responsible for Bill Bryson.

***

Driving Like Crazy

by P.J. O’Rourke

Even though Mr. O’Rourke objected—heehawed as if a judge had directed me to professional counseling—I must recommend P.J.’s Driving Like Crazy: Thirty Years of Vehicular Hell-Bending (2009). This volume includes his archetypal tale of driving a 1956 Buick Special from Florida to LA, with Brit photographer Humphrey Sutton frequently offering advice. In this tale, published in C/D, so many mechanisms broke on the Buick that P.J. abandoned that list in favor of enumerating parts that merely fell off. During this 11-day misery-infused excursion, Sutton usually coped with roadside disasters via alcohol. Quite a lot, actually.

The book includes a second story, one that I assigned, in which P.J. was to drive a new Ford Flex from LA to his home in New Hampshire. In attendance were wife Tina and three toddling offspring. P.J. abandoned all hope in Denver. Don’t try to read Driving Like Crazy on an airplane. Your convulsions will draw the attention of air marshals.

I should note that P.J. and I had second thoughts about a few otherwise celebrated candidates. Among them was Che Guevara’s The Motorcycle Diaries (2003), the tale of Mr. Revolutionary’s 1952 trip with pal Alberto Granado, both riding a not-so-fast but fast-deteriorating Norton 500 dubbed La Poderosa II, or the “Mighty One.” It was in no way mighty. Heading north from Buenos Aires, Che and pal reduced the bike to fractured oil-smeared shards of alloy suited only for a Nicaraguan smelter. And that’s on page 63. So, not even half a road trip.

Our other notable discard, surprising both of us, was John Steinbeck’s Travels with Charley: In Search of America (1962). Driving a GMC pickup he named Rocinante, accompanied by prissy poodle Charles le Chien, Steinbeck set off from Long Island. He thus did not have far to begin his search for America.

Know what? The writing of one of this country’s literary treasures doesn’t stand the test of time. Moreover, sections of the book are, uh, dodgy, such as Steinbeck’s one-time cook claiming to have attached deer “horns” (they’re antlers, sir) to a tree, subsequently harvesting the lead from errant hunters’ gunshots. “Some seasons he got fifty or sixty pounds.” OK, whatever. Or Steinbeck’s whirlwind 50-hour toot in which he claims to have driven 800 miles in Montana and Idaho while undergoing alcoholic therapy in six Big Sky dives. “Never happened,” Montanans unanimously assert. And yet, the guy is actually, you know, John Steinbeck.

***

John Phillip’s latest book is Four Miles West of Nowhere: A City Boy’s First Year in the Montana Wilderness, published by Pronghorn Press.

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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When I first saw Bill Rutan’s hill-climb special back in the late 1970s or early ’80s, at the Mount Equinox Hill Climb in Vermont, it was in its final form. On first impression, I thought it was an unusual-looking homemade thing with a VW Bug hood. But when I walked around to the back of the car, I realized that it had a four-cam Porsche engine, which made it a lot more interesting.

I introduced myself to Bill and soon found out that he was an experienced road racer and hill climber. Later I discovered that he was a two-time SCCA C-Class national champion and had logged hundreds of hill climbs, where he and his special proved tough to beat. His ultimate conquest with the homebuilt car he called the “Bathtub” was to set the fastest time of the day at the Mount Washington Hillclimb in 1961, beating a previous record set by a race-prepared Ferrari driven by one Carroll Shelby. The road was paved before the climb returned, which meant that Bill’s record of 9 minutes and 13 seconds on gravel still stands, although times on the paved surface are quite a bit faster.

He built several cars in addition to the Bathtub, but to me, that one took the cake, with its stark bodywork and its many hill-climb victories. He told me about its Beetle origins and that he started with a 1952 VW floorpan and a 1948 Beetle body. Although it was originally powered by a highly modified VW engine in the rear, by the time I saw it, the special had a mid-mounted four-cam Porsche engine from a burnt-out Speedster and a lot less bodywork than when it first rolled out of the shop.

I was really taken with the car, and over the years, I had talked to Bill about buying it—as had David Winstead, one of his neighbors in Centerbrook, Connecticut. When Bill finally decided it was time to sell the Bathtub, he approached Winstead, who jumped at the chance. Soon, the tired race car was stripped down for restoration, during which the floorpan was straightened, and new aluminum panels were fabricated. Although the completed car was pretty much ready for competition, the owner decided not to race it.

Once the car was finished, Winstead asked me to help market it. To give it exposure, I took it out to the Hershey Hill Climb and ran up the hill three times. It was a hoot to drive—I loved the mechanical sounds coming out of the engine and the way the car squatted down under hard acceleration. Even on the aged tires that Bill had used to set the record at Mount Washington 62 years earlier, it held the fastest time of the day until the closing minutes of the hill climb, when a friend’s Lotus Super Seven beat my time by 2/10ths of a second.

Following the hill climb, we shipped it, in 2012, to Mecum’s sale in Monterey, California. With Winstead on hand, I drove it onto the stage, yet bidding ran out of steam before it reached the reserve. I asked Winstead how much he would take, and I made an offer that he accepted. While I was still at the auction, I fielded offers from several interested people, but all they wanted was the engine. As long as I own it, the engine will stay with the car.

Once the car was mine, I took it back to the Hershey Hill Climb. Figuring that the ancient racing tires had cost me those 2/10ths, I mounted some sticky Hoosiers and trundled up to the start of the climb. When I was waved off and let out the clutch, those tires stuck so well that several gears in the transmission shattered, leaving me right where I started.

Back in Connecticut, I called Bill. He came up and said, “If you take the transmission out, I’ll repair it.” He grilled me on how I’d actually broken the gears. Looking at the tires, he said, “You put these tires on? There was nothing wrong with those old tires; you just don’t know how to drive.” With that, he went home, made a new set of gears, and the car was once again race-ready.

Bill passed away in April 2018. I wanted to have the car at his funeral, but I didn’t have it ready in time. Although I’m sorry that the old character is gone, I’m happy to have his car as an important piece of automotive racing history. Thanks, Bill.

***

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Bowie hates trucks. Bowie hates cars. Bowie hates vans, riding mowers, Radio Flyer wagons, canister vacuums—pretty much anything with wheels. He is a willful, nervous little terrier mix, and riding in a vehicle generally turns him into a panting, vibrating mess. Bowie sure does love me, though. And maybe even more than me, he loves his ball. So when I tossed it into my 2003 Nissan Xterra last summer and climbed in after it, against his shaky better judgment, Bowie jumped in, too.

“To Canada!” I yelled.

“What have I done?” Bowie said, panting, vibrating.

There’s something to be said for owning a vehicle you love but don’t care about. You’re not actively interested in getting it scratched, dinged, or dented, while at the same time none of those scars will cause you to lose a moment of sleep. This Xterra is losing paint by the flake. Its dumb plastic is faded—or missing entirely. There are layers of rich compost in its shadiest crevices. There are colonies of moss now, too. Outwardly, my Xterra is fast approaching “hunk of crap” territory, and I am grateful to be the steward to take it there. It sure is a champ, though, and I’m even more grateful for the territory to which it has taken me. Like Canada, for instance.

There are a few ways to get there from my home in Oregon. The five-hour straight shot up I-5 is fast and easy, but I’d recently learned about the Washington Backcountry Discovery Route (WABDR), a series of interconnected dirt roads that takes you to Canada the slow, hard way. I could think of no better summer adventure than off-roading to a sleepy international border crossing. I just needed an accomplice. Who’s a good boy?

With the Xterra’s trademark rear-hatch first-aid kit fully stocked, some beer and steaks in the cooler, camping and recovery gear packed into the cargo area and onto the roof, off we went, midday on a Tuesday, into the Columbia River Gorge to grab a burger and fries at the Eastwind Drive-In before shuffling across Bridge of the Gods, WABDR’s official starting point.

A small group of adventure motorcyclists established the Washington Backcountry Discovery Route in 2010 when they decided to see if a course could be charted on existing forest roads from Washington’s southern border with Oregon to its northern border with Canada, all while visiting some of the most majestic spots in the Evergreen State. They scouted by plane, then explored it with 4x4s, and finally they completed it on their bikes. The result was a six-stage, 600-mile adventure that absolutely lives up to their mission. It also sparked an effort to create more routes via the nonprofit organization Backcountry Discovery Routes.

“It became clear from the beginning that the BDR stumbled on a magic formula of creating off-pavement routes that make backcountry exploration on public lands inspirational and attainable,” said Inna Thorn, executive director of the group. Today there are routes all across America, including 10 western states, the mid-Atlantic region, and the Northeast, with three more BDRs in the works, including Montana and the Southeast. All of which means that no one is ever very far from easy access to well-managed off-road adventure.

Once over the Columbia, we picked up the Wind River Highway for a short section of blacktop before getting onto the dirt of Forest Road 68, our entry into the depths of the 1.3-million-acre Gifford Pinchot National Forest. We’d be bucking around for the foreseeable future, so I took the opportunity to air down my tires while Bowie played with his ball.

The sky was cloudless and the sun relentless. The makeshift thermometer in the truck read 95. Despite the heat, which would accompany us with an added digit as the trip progressed, I was leery of the Xterra’s air conditioner. It functions—not quite crisply. But it also seemed like a potential trouble spot on my marginally fettled truck. Besides, if there is anything that reassures Bowie that he won’t die at any moment, it is having the windows down—just enough to taste life at speed with his face, but not enough for self-defenestration. He is small-brained and jumpy, and it is a fine line. “We’re gonna get dusty, my friend,” I told him, but I knew he didn’t care. Dirt suits him. Up we went, a long steady climb through Douglas firs and spindly alders, around the southern end of a big 8000-year-old lava bed called, appropriately, the Big Lava Bed.

The first stage would take us to the town of Packwood, 119 miles up the trail, but because of our midday start, there was no way we’d make it in daylight. No matter; the BDR loosely prescribes a section per day, and most folks on the WABDR Facebook page claim it’s a trek of three to six days. I’d set aside a full week. As we plodded along at 14 mph, the twisting road opened to big views over hazy, dense conifer forests. There was 11,240-foot Mount Hood to the south and 12,276-foot Mount Adams to the north, both of them still bright with snow. The slow pace gave me time to whittle off some math in my head (a subject for which I have a dog’s brain), but it got me wondering how anyone could do this trip in three days. And why they would want to.

Now, the first-generation Nissan Xterra is almost nobody’s idea of a classic rig. And by most accounts, they’re still in the flat, “just a used car” arc of their collectible trajectory. They certainly lack the cachet presently attached to Japanese 4x4s like the Toyota Land Cruiser and first-gen 4Runner, the Mitsubishi Montero, and the Isuzu Trooper, to say nothing of XJ Cherokees and even more vintage-y vintage trucks like Series Land Rovers and original Broncos.

But the body-on-frame Xterra was conceived and built with hard-to-reach places in mind, and young, cash-strapped Gen Xers were the intended audience. “We hope these outdoor enthusiasts will think of Xterra as part of their gear,” mused Jed Connelly, Nissan’s vice president and general manager at the time. “Xterra is a vehicle that will help them enjoy their outdoor passions to the fullest and then get them home safely again.”  With its stadium rear seating and matching stepped roofline topped by a handy roof rack, plus that funky bulge in the tailgate to accommodate the first-aid kit, the Xterra could not be mistaken for anything else.

In addition to being everyone’s 15th choice in a fun off-roader, the 2000–2004 Xterra falls down in nearly every practical comparison against its own second-gen sibling, built from 2005 to 2015. Chiefly, they are gutless, cramped, and devoid of amenities and gizmos that indicate status or technological advancement. The 3.3-liter V-6 cranks out 180 horsepower and 202 lb-ft of torque. A 210-hp supercharged version was also offered, but both return about 13 mpg. All the power of a four with all the thirst of an eight. But they are sturdy, nimble, cheap, and reliable, and I had no qualms putting my 194,000-miler to the test in the backcountry.

Darkness settles quickly in the forest, long before the sun does, so that first night, we found ourselves a nice flat spot along Trout Lake Creek to camp. I cooked pasta and meatballs and treated Bowie to some of his favorite gross wet food, and after playing ball, we fell asleep easily in the tent to the steady rush of the creek. A great joy of America’s national forests is that anyone can camp just about anywhere, at any time, no permits or reservations required. It’s up to you to do it right, which at a very basic level means: Tread lightly. Stick to established roads, camp at least 200 feet from water, store your food properly, pack out your trash, pick up after your dog, leave your camp cleaner than you found it, and fully extinguish your campfires.

Day two began early, the forest still cold, and as Bowie paced the front seats, into and out of my lap, every time I petted him, I could feel the starch of fine dust in his hair. Mine felt the same. Soon we reached intermittent snow and the 4350-foot Babyshoe Pass, so named for nearby Babyshoe Falls. The etymology beyond that is unclear, but I appreciated the tongue-in-cheek approach previous travelers of Forest Road 23 had taken by nailing dozens of actual baby shoes to the signpost. Bowie chased his ball before he, too, stopped to appreciate the signpost.

At this point, we hadn’t seen anyone else in the forest, a remarkable bit of solitude that is difficult to appreciate until you stop to appreciate it. I began to give some thought to the minimum requirements for driving the WABDR. Broad accessibility of the forests relies on good roads, and so far, they had been gentle enough to navigate in a Prius. But as the climbs got steeper and the sharp basalt rocks embedded in some of the smaller roads became more menacing, all-wheel drive and good all-terrain tires seemed like the minimum. A little clearance never hurt anybody, either. Subarus, AMC Eagles, Chevy Astro vans, that sort of thing. A short while later, as we shook and rattled along at a cool 9 mph, as if to challenge everything I’d just determined, parked in a small trailhead turnoff was a filthy Acura RSX, miles from nowhere and sitting low on its 16-inch P-metric rubber. “I don’t get it either, Bobo,” I said.

A quick stop for ice and gas in Packwood, population 319, marked the end of the first stage and the start of the second. One of the great things about WABDR is the ready access to food, fuel, and lodging, should you need or want them, at the end of every stage. Paris to Peking it ain’t, but the regular interval of amenities allows for as much or as little self-reliance as you’re willing to tolerate. If you’re out of water, it won’t be long. If you want doughnuts, hey, buy some doughnuts. The sequence of towns—and the highways that connect to them—also means that you don’t have to do WABDR in one go. Do a stage or two one weekend, follow up with a couple more the next month, or the next summer. Such flexibility removes some of the stress and uncertainty that can accompany a backcountry trip.

Still, just as one does not simply walk into Mordor, one does not set off on a drive like this without some level of forethought. The WABDR Facebook group (and WABDR for 4x4s) are fantastic resources for everything you could need, from the best time to go and what to bring to how to prep your vehicle and what sorts of damage you might expect (minimal, with scratches, or “trailstriping,” generally the worst of it). July through September is the ideal time; any earlier and you risk running into deep snow. Any later and you’re headed into dangerously dry woods, which means no open flames and no easy escape routes.

Beyond the “when,” I sorted out the “where” with a combination of paper and digital maps. Washington has tens of thousands of miles of forest roads, and it is easy to get lost if you’re not careful. Butler Motorcycle Maps makes an exceptional companion for all BDRs, with detailed section information, elevation charts, history and local color, plus alternate roads around particularly challenging parts. I brought a Washington Atlas & Gazetteer as a backup, but largely I relied on the Gaia GPS app, to which I downloaded the entire route, complete with points of interest and potential campsites, all populated by those who have come before.

The second stage begins with a 36-mile trip east up U.S. Highway 12. The realities of topography and private land ownership mean that some “tarmac stages” are baked into WABDR—a hundred miles or so overall, though this stretch was one of the longest. I didn’t bother to air up the tires, so we just floated slowly on down the road until the turnoff to Bethel Ridge. By this point, we’d traded the spongy emerald mosses and ferns and the shaggy red cedars of the Gifford Pinchot for the drier Wenatchee National Forest, with its pale greens of sagebrush and tawny grasses towered over by ponderosa pines. All of it framed by giant blue sky and punctuated in every direction by wildflowers at the peak of their blooms. Golden balsamroot and pale pink bitterroot and purple lupine bells—millions of them—lining the two-track for miles on end.

Our slow, methodical jouncing up the steep switchbacks of the ridge lulled Bowie into his calm place and he swayed himself to rest, a hot potato in my lap. Butterflies and the shadows of butterflies were our constant companions. We camped that night on the edge of the ridge—the side of the world, practically—and watched the lights of Yakima twinkle to life before the July supermoon rose massive and bright over everything.

Just before noon the next day, crossing an especially wide-open section of shrubland, we finally encountered fellow travelers. Through the dust plume in my rearview came a fast-moving headlight, and by the time I looked again, it was beside me, a black-clad biker on an orange KTM who showed me his left index finger with great emphasis—ONE MORE! Off he went, and before long, I saw in the mirror his partner, who was just as quickly by me in a rolling dust storm. They were easily tripling my speed, standing upright on the pegs the entire time to absorb the motorcycles as the motorcycles absorbed the terrain. It looked exhausting, punishing. But in that moment, I got it: Experienced riders on big bikes, those are the folks capable of crushing this trek in three days. Certainly not an old cash-strapped Gen Xer and his dog sucking dust in a 20-year-old slug and fumbling across the earth on overburdened leaf springs.

Despite their speed, we encountered Phil Edgerton and Nik Amyx several more times before trip’s end, in that way people on the Gringo Trail just seem to keep running into one another. “Heyyyyy! It’s you again!” There they were later that afternoon, in fact, resting their bodies and snacking in the shade of some pines off of Bear Mountain Road. And an hour after that, when they’d caught and passed us on the miserable slog up Baby Head Hill—no relation to Babyshoe Pass, but so named because of the specific size of the eleventy billion wretched, punishing chunks of volcanic rock that comprise that bit, and all made worse by an absolute lack of shade, by swarms of biting flies, by a sweltering lap dog, by the compression of my spinal cord.

Packwood to Ellensburg. Ellensburg to Cashmere. Cashmere to Chelan. Chelan to Conconully. Day after day, we settled into a bumpy slow dance that saw us crawling up and then down, up and then down, a hundred miles here, a hundred degrees there, never really topping 30 mph and more often working to maintain half that. The route took us past a small logging operation up Nahahum Canyon, where we plowed through dirt so deep and so fine, like sifted flour, that it permeated every crevice everywhere. It took us to the bald granite summit of 5810-foot Chumstick Mountain, with a 360-degree view of the whole of Washington.

On the descent, I found a bag of industrial-looking dehydrated meals—cheesy broccoli rice and creamy potato soup, some chicken thing, and lots of oatmeal, all good until 2048! We treated ourselves to a hotel room in Wenatchee, “Apple Capital of the World,” where Bowie and I had a contest to see whose bathwater was browner (tie). And where the mosquitoes were so wretched that the hotel had printed out a big sign apologizing for them—and please, here’s some bug spray on us.

The gnarliest section of the trip, on section 4, plunges to the deep, glacially carved finger of Lake Chelan. Called “The Jungle,” it was noted on the map as “overgrown but passable.” It’s a precarious path for sure—overgrown indeed, uncomfortably narrow, with death by a thousand tumbles on your right. I pulled the stubby shift lever into 4Lo to stay off the brakes, clutched the wheel to stay on the road, and as we ground our way down, listened happily to the great shrieking wail of thick and heavy trailstripes liberally applied by a tunnel of unruly brush and the lanky dead branches of long-ago burned trees. One of them was even clever enough to open my door as I passed. Up and then down, for hundreds of miles, day after day.

By the morning of our last day, on section 6, when I had essentially forgotten about them, there they were once more, Phil and Nik, rejoining the route on their bikes after camping before the climb up to 6700-foot Lone Frank Pass, the highest point on the WABDR. They squirted away and easily beat us to the finish, the loneliest international border crossing in the world, at Nighthawk. And yet there they were again, one last time, late in the day as I sat in the hot shade of a defunct Chevron station in tiny Oroville, airing up the tires for the long drive home. Up they rode, quite serendipitously in need of an air pump. “Heyyyyy! It’s you again!” I said. Bowie barked furiously at them. He hates motorcycles, too.

Washington was Phil’s second Backcountry Discovery Route, he told me. He’d ridden Colorado in 2020—for his bachelor party, losing one guy to a concussion after just 5 miles. “This one’s tamer,” he said. “Colorado is full of fourteeners, and the rocks are bigger.” He looked quickly at the Xterra’s saggy back end, then added: “You’d need some taller suspension for that one.” Phil’s goal is to do one BDR per year, and he already had his eyes on Wyoming. “Six hundred thousand people in the whole state,” he said. “If you want to get remote, that’s the place to do it.” Then he looked at the Xterra one more time. “Seeing guys in trucks, though, with coolers and beers and steaks, maybe I’ll buy an old Jeep and fix it up, bring the family.”

An old Jeep. An old Xterra. An old Explorer. Whatever. Love it but don’t care about it on a Backcountry Discovery Route near you.

Bring the dog.

***

Gear up and go

Anytime you venture into the woods, you need to make sure you can get back out—or that you’re prepared to spend the night in case something goes wrong. In addition to a shovel, a chainsaw, a tow strap, and traction boards for any particularly hairy situations, I brought along the following gadgets, which provided peace of mind or simply made life easier.

***

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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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Metallic exhaust roar echoed through the hillside as I wound along Ohio’s Kokosing River. Overhead cams whirred and the engine swept through its sweet spot between 4500 and 6500 rpm. Shifting at redline, I was rewarded by another eager rush in the meat of the powerband. It’s hard to believe this is a big American V-8. Now, as in 1990, the Chevrolet Corvette ZR-1 is a revelation.

So revelatory, in fact, that it shocked General Motors’ own engine division into a frenzy of activity. GM engineers were so taken aback at the decision from on high to hire Lotus to design the ZR-1’s high-performance LT5 engine—and Mercury Marine for its construction—that they quickly got to work on new small-block V-8 designs. The result was in the car behind us, a 2004 Corvette Z06.

These two bygone bosses of Bowling Green obviously have a lot in common—flip-up headlamps, about 400 horses under their hoods, and capable handling. Here’s something else: Both can be had today in excellent condition for around $45,000, according to the latest Hagerty Price Guide. That’s quite a steal considering the recent run-up for other performance cars of the era (a roughly contemporary Toyota Supra Turbo, for instance, will easily run you six figures).

Of course, we couldn’t help but wonder which Vette is better. Father and son Hagerty members Rick and Rocky Yusi own pristine, low-mile examples of each and graciously shared them to help us understand what sets these cars apart. Together, we disappeared into the hills of southeast Ohio to find answers.

C4 ZR-1

Engaging with a C4 Corvette is an exercise in immersion. Or maybe it’s contortion. Slide over the famously large sill and slither down into the deeply bolstered bucket seat, and you’re completely enveloped by a high transmission tunnel and driver-oriented dash. You’re now of this Corvette, not merely in it.

Nowadays this cockpit—complete with orange-over-charcoal analog gauges, digital display, and acres of small buttons—screams RADwood. But in period, the futuristic design ethic was intended to break completely with prior generations of America’s sports car. “The C4 was a modern statement: It didn’t look back at heritage,” retired GM designer John Cafaro told me in a phone interview.

Brash as it is, there’s not much to the cabin or the design as a whole that tips off the casual observer that this version of the Corvette is a supercar slayer. “I love the way it looks and all the subtle ways it’s different from the base car, but I do wish Chevy made it stand out a bit more,” admitted Rick, who bought this ZR-1 new in 1990. The tachometer’s 7000-rpm redline is the only hint at the marvel that is under the clamshell hood.

The standard Corvette in 1990 had a pushrod, iron-block 5.7-liter L98 V-8 that produced 245 horsepower at 4000 rpm. The ZR-1’s engine, known as the LT5, carried over only the displacement and bore spacing. Its block and cylinder heads were aluminum. Dual overhead cams actuated 32 valves (versus 16 in the standard car). It made 375 horsepower at 5800 rpm—around the fuel cutoff for the standard car.

I fired up the LT5 and left the college-town charm of Wooster via a sweeping state route dotted with Amish farms. The bucket seat cosseted me with a vast array of power and pneumatic adjustments. Meanwhile, the three-way adjustable Selective Ride Control dampers—a feature that debuted on the ZR-1 and paved the way for similar tech in later models—impressively blunted road imperfections when set to Touring, the softest mode.

Along with that comfort, though, comes some softness in the controls. This is a car from a different era, after all. Initial application of the brake pedal is 1990s-GM squishy, although it firms up with increased pressure. The weighty, mechanical shifter atop the ZF six-speed box has a rubbery give as you reach each detent.

The asphalt roller coaster bends began south of Millersburg, where the scenery evolved from undulating corn and soy fields to rocky, rolling hills. I stiffened the ZR-1’s damper settings to Sport and then to Performance. Even in modern cars, selectable drive modes can be more gimmick than substance, but not here. The dampers deftly responded to imperfections and helped the car stay utterly poised as I pitched from left to right.

The harder you drive the ZR-1, though, the more it reveals the one dynamic trait that belies its age: the chassis itself. At anything more than about 6/10ths pace, the frame flexes through camber changes. The car never gets upset, but when pushed, the compliant chassis’ additional motion distracts from the experience. Turning the ride control setting from Performance down to Sport softens the dampers, enabling smoother, less wobbly transitions, yet I found myself wondering how much more dynamic the ZR-1 would feel had its structure been further stiffened to let that superb suspension more effectively do its job.

Despite that, I emerged from the twisty river-bottom roads with some newfound respect for the ZR-1. Remember: Less than a decade prior to this car’s debut, the Corvette was a still 190-hp weakling. This car made clear that Chevrolet wanted to build a world-class sports car, and the seriousness of that intention still shines through when you’re driving it today.

C5 Z06

On to the Z06. The design is clearly less of a departure from what had come before than the C4. The General Motors that developed the C5 in the 1990s was more cautious—and had a considerably smaller pocketbook—than the one that had spawned the C4 in the early ’80s. Cafaro, who was chief designer for the C5, noted that special care had to be taken to appease various departments, including what he affectionately calls “the toothpaste and detergent folks” in marketing. “One little controversy could’ve killed the car,” he said. By 2004, the C5’s last year, Chevy had relaxed enough to allow a carbon-fiber hood and stripe package for the Commemorative Edition, as on the Yusis’ car. Today it’s worth slightly more than other C5 Z06s.

Styling aside, the generational difference from the ZR-1 immediately presented itself upon opening the door: Those massive side sills are gone. You can simply get into the car without first having to practice yoga.

Those sills shrank because the C5’s chassis, four times stiffer, incorporated hydro-formed frame rails and a strengthened center tunnel. The concerted effort to increase rigidity went hand in hand with making the C5 accessible to a wider array of people. A longer wheelbase increased cabin space, as did repositioning the gas tanks to behind the seats.

Most of that practicality carried over to the high-performance Z06, which debuted in 2001. The Z06’s flat, wide seats surely did better in focus groups than the ZR-1’s, since they’re able to take in a broad swath of humanity, although they don’t hold you nearly as well in aggressive maneuvers. (Sport buckets, available in the base coupe and convertible, didn’t make it into the Z06 due to their extra weight.) Those same focus groups also nixed the pseudo-digital gauges, so you stare at more traditional analog gauges. As a result of the efforts to make the C5 more approachable, the Z06 feels more utilitarian and less of an occasion than the ZR-1.

At least, until you fire up the 405-horse, 5.7-liter V-8. The standard, lightweight titanium exhaust emitted a docile burble that turned raw and throaty when I rolled onto the throttle. The LS6, as this engine is known, is on its face less exotic than the ZR-1’s LT5: It’s a pushrod engine and makes only 55 horsepower more than the contemporary base Corvette. Yet that only speaks to how profoundly the tried-and-true small-block had changed in the intervening years. The LS-series V-8, which debuted with the C5 for 1997 and eventually proliferated to millions of trucks and SUVs (not to mention hot rods and restomods of all stripes), was the most significant update to GM’s bread-and-butter V-8 since it debuted in the 1950s. An aluminum block was baked in from the start, as were high-compression aluminum cylinder heads.

The LS6 was the first true rock star of this engine family, with even higher (10.5:1) compression, better-breathing intake manifold and cylinder heads, and myriad tweaks to the internals. The result is an engine that pulls linearly—and hard—from about 2000 rpm and barely lets up by its 6500-rpm red-line. You can rev it out or stick the gearbox in third or fourth and count on low-end torque to muscle through a corner.

The Z06’s controls would be at home in a current sports car. Moderately heavy steering offers feedback but isn’t particularly lively—for better and for worse, it’s similar to many modern racks. The shifter’s throws are long but crisper than in the ZR-1. The brakes inspire confidence with a firm and linear pedal. And, thanks to the relocation of the transmission to the rear of the car, the Z06’s footbox allows plenty of room for fancy pedal work.

Returning to the route along the Kokosing, I discover how progressive and predictable the Z06 is, especially for something with this much brawn. The nonadjustable suspension allows for plenty of body roll in assertive driving, but it’s always well composed. You quickly get used to this trait, and it becomes part of how you set the car through a corner. The chassis does exhibit some flex, but it’s dramatically less than the ZR-1’s. Overall, the 3100-pound Z06 feels big but never unwieldy, even on tight, technical roads.

As the day ended, I slotted the Z06’s shifter into sixth gear and settled into a cruise. The car quietly soaked up the miles and nosed close to 30 mpg at the speed limit. It was almost funny; in contrast to the ZR-1, the only thing I needed to adjust to bring out the Z06’s differing personalities was what gear I was in.

***

What we have here, despite the apparent similarities and comparable values, are two very different slices of apple pie. The ZR-1 is more complex and full of character. It is also, from a design and historical standpoint, more significant—we’re talking about the first Corvette in decades that truly went toe-to-toe with the best in the world. Perhaps for those reasons, trailer-queen ZR-1s tend to fetch considerably more than similarly pampered Z06s.

If you’re looking to drive a lot, it’s hard to argue with a Z06. Say what you will about GM’s obsession at the time with metrics and ergonomics; it yielded a sports car you can still easily use every day to fetch groceries—and then embarrass younger and more expensive cars at a weekend track day. It’s truly a Goldilocks car. That versatility and usability help explain why it’s generally appreciating faster than the ZR-1—and why we put it on our most recent Bull Market List.

Ultimately, both exude “Corvette” and offer heaps of performance and personality. I end the day still wondering which $45K classic I would choose, but more so, I’m grateful to have experienced them both.

***

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

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By the 1990s, the full-size, rear-wheel-drive, American family sedan was an endangered species. The automotive industry had embraced front-wheel drive due to the layout’s advantages in efficiency, cabin space, and manufacturing costs. Accordingly, cars like the Ford Taurus, Honda Accord, and Toyota Camry had almost completely taken over family-hauling duties. Chevrolet’s redesigned Caprice Classic was one of the few rear-wheel-drive holdouts in 1991, but it was a slow seller that appealed only to fleet buyers and traditionalists.

Jon Moss, the head hot-rodder of GM’s Specialty Vehicles Group, was tasked with reinvigorating the Caprice. His solution was simple: Put a big engine in it, make it look cool, and revive an iconic nameplate. A 260-hp version of the Corvette’s LT1 V-8 engine was added to a 9C1 police-package Caprice, and the 1994 Impala SS was born. The trim was painted body color, the hood ornament was removed, five-spoke wheels were fitted, and a BMW-like kink was added to the rear-most pillar. Black was the only color available. “Lord Vader, your car is ready,” the ad copy went.

It was an instant hit. Chevy sold more than 69,000 examples during the car’s short three-year production run and didn’t see the need to change much on the Impala SS. Two new colors, Cherry and Dark Green, were offered in 1995, but most buyers still went with black. The 1996 model received full analog instrumentation and a console-mounted T-handle shifter, as opposed to a column shifter.

If you’re in the market for an Impala SS, beware of clones. It’s not difficult to convert a regular Caprice to SS spec. Look for WX3 on the Service Parts Identification located in the trunk to verify if it’s the real thing.

Mechanically, the Impala SS is pretty stout, but there are a few things to look out for. Opti-Spark, the LT1’s optically triggered ignition distributor, can fail, and replacement is labor-intensive. The four-speed automatic transmission—4L60E in GM speak—has a mixed reputation. Failures seem to happen north of 100,000 miles or with prolonged hard use. Owner Mike Reily grenaded the 4L60E in his Impala at a track day. Instead of replacing the autobox, he swapped in the six-speed manual transmission from a contemporary Camaro. “Jon Moss let me drive the GM Specialty Vehicles 1994 six-speed prototype Impala SS in 2001 at the Dreamapalooza car show,” he explained.  “At that point, I knew I needed to do the manual transmission conversion.”

Unmodified Impalas are worth more to collectors, but Reily is probably having more fun in his car. Rowing through the six-speed’s gears is immensely delightful, like giving the torquey V-8 a firm handshake. Even with its sport-tuned suspension, the Impala SS is not light on its feet. You are always aware of how substantial this 2-ton behemoth is when you pitch it into a corner. Not to say that the SS won’t stick to the road—Car and Driver reported an impressive-for-the-time 0.86 g figure in its skidpad test.

GM unceremoniously killed the Impala SS at the end of 1996, when its Arlington, Texas, assembly plant was retooled for SUV production. But the cars have enjoyed a cult following. It turns out Americans think a big rear-wheel-drive sedan with a big engine is still a timeless recipe for cool.

1996 Chevrolet Impala SS

Engine: 5.7-liter V-8
Power: 260 hp @ 5000 rpm
Torque: 330 lb-ft @ 3200 rpm
Weight: 4036 lb
Power to weight: 15.5 pound/hp
0–60 mph: 7.0 sec
Price when new: $24,405
Hagerty #3 (Good) condition value: $13,900–$19,800

***

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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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If the Ferrari had ignited and burned to ash, I might have been relieved. After some 20 minutes of constant running, my newly rebuilt engine was still puffing out a smoke bomb that completely filled the rearview mirror. If there was an upside, it was that the emissions lent character to an otherwise drab industrial complex in Commerce Township, Michigan, on a chilly January day. For a moment, the damp parking lot was a reasonable facsimile of a fog-laden English moor. You don’t see that every day.

If you’ve been keeping up with my semi-DIY restoration of a 1975 Dino 308 GT4, it had its first drive in February of 2022. By November I had retrieved the Ferrari V-8 after a $20,000 rebuild, the most difficult body repairs were finished, and I naively assumed my effort had morphed from physical work to simply writing checks to the professionals who would paint the car and remake the interior. After almost two years, however, Easy Street remains miles away.

Last fall, I installed the engine twice. The first time, the four engine mounts—which, on brief inspection, look the same but are not—were in the wrong positions. We had to crane the engine back out and reinstall the mounts, then lower the engine back into the tight engine bay. Beyond stressful. What if a chain breaks? What if, as we wrestled the 400-pound engine into position, it smashed into the impossible-to-replace rear window? My 20-year-old son and another friend were helping. What if one of us pinched a finger between the motor and the frame?

We got the motor into the bay without injuries. Whew. After wrestling with the exhaust headers and bolting up the ancillaries, I gingerly twisted the key. The moment of truth! The V-8 eagerly sprang to life, but a quick spin of the neighborhood revealed that my Ferrari had morphed into a crop-duster. A neighbor called and said he hadn’t seen me drive by, but he knew it was me because my smoke trail was still in the street.

New and newly rebuilt engines often burn oil. The oil path is typically the tiny gap between the piston and the cylinder it rides in. The oil, frothed by the spinning crankshaft, is propelled upward to the top of the piston, where it is burned with gasoline. Even a small amount of oil can cause thick exhaust smoke. Older motors, even when they were new, burn more oil than modern engines. A rule of thumb used to say that a motor that burns less than a quart of oil every thousand miles is just fine. Today, we hardly check the dipsticks on our new cars.

Rebuilt engines require breaking in, a period when the new moving metal parts microscopically machine themselves into proper fit with each other. The gap between the piston and the cylinder wall is sealed by metal piston rings, which fit into grooves cut around the pistons. The rings sometimes require time to properly seal and that’s what I thought was the case for my new engine, but I needed to run it more to find out.

Problem was, I had removed all the lights from the car and it wasn’t street-legal. Winter—and salt trucks—had arrived, so my only option was to take the car to a chassis dyno, a device that connects to the driven wheels and allows an operator to simulate driving while the car stays stationary. A half-hour of dyno time would break in the engine and stop it from burning oil, I figured. No dice. I drove the belching Ferrari back onto my trailer and considered my options.

Without knowing the cause of the excessive oil burning, I realized the finish line had just been moved further away. The joy I felt for my new toy when I’d purchased it was replaced with dread. How much more work, time, and money would I need to finish the car? Did I even want it anymore?

The following weekend, my son and I carefully removed the V-8 and taped reminders such as “Put the exhaust in before the engine” to the rear window. A friend drove the engine from Ann Arbor to Al Pinkowsky’s shop in Milwaukee, Wisconsin.

Pinkowsky—who had rebuilt the engine—and I had spent many hours on the phone as he remotely coached me to check certain things, both of us hoping for a simple fix. The engine arrived at his shop in mid-January, and despite a backlog of cars in his one-man business, he jumped on it, eager to stand by his work.

The culprit was some bad piston rings. Pinkowsky disassembled the engine and then reinstalled just the rings into the empty cylinders. Shining a light under the rings revealed tiny gaps between the rings and the cylinder wall. He had my old rings, and they, conversely, blocked the light.

Neither Pinkowsky nor any of my other professional mechanic friends had ever heard of faulty rings, but all noted the general decline in the quality of available parts and were not surprised. In early March, I trailered the car to Milwaukee, and we installed the engine.

Pinkowsky did not whoop like I did when the newly started engine ran without the smoke trail. He knew he found the problem, he fixed it, and he didn’t charge for this second rebuild. I gave him two grand, however, a 10 percent token to recognize that we’d both been hit here, he more than I.

Pinkowsky’s shop is filled with Ferraris and Lamborghinis owned by people waiting in line for his experience and honest reputation. If you are lucky to have access to a similar craftsperson, I recommend that you take care of them. Few of these people, if any, get rich keeping our old cars on the road. Things happen. Not only do I now have a purring motor, but I also spent two instructive days working alongside a pro. I often say that I love car projects for the people I meet and the things I learn, and that certainly proved true in Wisconsin.

Back in Ann Arbor, the man I hired to do the bodywork, Sam Sturm, passed away. His wife told me that they found him in his shop—he, too, worked alone—and did not know the cause of death. Sturm, who was 61, and I had a handshake arrangement for a part-time job he mostly did in his personal garage. My car was part work, part social, and I would often stop by to discuss the project. Our visits were fun, and I considered us friends. He’d stripped the paint, fixed the rust spots, and applied primer before returning the car so I could install the engine. I’d paid him $1000 and knew that didn’t come close to covering his time. His wife did not find any records, so I offered another $3000 when I went to the shop to pick up the hood and trunklid.

Then I learned how few local body shops would take a job like mine. Most collision shops only fix newer cars, and the ones that do restorations were booked until early 2024. Would I finish this car in my lifetime? According to the TechForce Foundation, a nonprofit charged with promoting vocational careers, the demand for body and paint technicians far exceeds supply. In 2022, the foundation reported that there was demand for 35,000 new collision techs but only 4500 vocational-school graduates. More than half of the people presently in the collision-repair industry are over 50. See what I mean about taking care of these essential craftspeople?

I asked around and found another body and paint guy who, like Sturm, was semi-retired and was choosy about the cars he worked on. My cheapo Ferrari fit the bill, and my new friend had an opening this spring. The week before I was due to deliver the car to him, a fire burned down most of his shop.

***

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

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I have owned my 1972 Mercedes-Benz 600 for about 20 years, and until recently, it still had the tires on it from when I bought it. I have done just about everything to the car except change the tires because, hey, they looked fine. So, not long ago, my friend Dave Killackey and I went out in the 600. We were going down the 210 freeway here in LA and I ran it up to 80 and—BAM!! An explosion like a shotgun shell.

The car started veering all around. “What the…!” I said to Dave, and I managed to get it over to the side and we got out to take a look. One of the front tires had disintegrated, and all the wire from the radial was hanging out in shreds. Thankfully, the spare, jack, and tools were all in the trunk, so we jacked it up and changed the tire.

Then a thought occurred to me, and I said to Dave, “You know, we should turn around and go home because this is probably going to happen again.” We got about another 5 miles up the road and—BAM!! Another tire exploded on the other side, just blew right off the rim. After we pulled over, you couldn’t even pick up the remnants of the tire because the wires would cut your hand, and I realized in that moment that I had reached the absolute ultimate shelf life of those old radials. So we had to flatbed the Benz back to the garage, and I ran out and bought four new tires.

All of us who collect cars have vehicles we can’t or don’t drive every day, so consequently their tires age out before they wear out. I looked around the garage the other day and realized that I need about 1200 tires. Even stuff in here like the 2005 Ford GT has tires that are “brand new,” but obviously they’re not. So lately I’ve been going through and changing tires.

Boy, have tires gotten seriously expensive. So have McDonald’s hamburgers, but unlike hamburgers, tires are essential to your safety. And when you’re dealing with older cars that have tubes, there’s another risk factor because you can’t see the tubes to know if they’re going bad. In the old days, it was easy to get good tubes, but now a lot of tubes come from China or India; the slightest scuff inside the tire wears right through them, and it’s dangerous.

Buying tires is like buying shoes: It’s not the time to be cheap. I used to go buy—you know—shoes. Didn’t know what they were, didn’t care. But I was doing two back-to-back 90-minute shows in Vegas, and at the end of three hours on stage, my feet were killing me. Then someone at The Tonight Show gave me a pair of Ferragamos, which were $300 when normal shoes were $60. And years later, I still have that same pair. I get them resoled every so often, they’re comfortable, I wear them all day, and my feet don’t hurt.

It’s the same thing with tires. I’m always amazed when I meet people who are driving some sort of supercar that they’ve put cut-rate tires on. I think, “What are you doing, besides putting a cheap clutch on the car?”

I generally like Michelins, in part because I know they’re round. Which sounds odd, because you assume a new tire will be round. But when you buy some of these retro tires for old cars, they’re really for trophy cars that don’t move much, and often they’re not quite round, so they have to be shaved. When I bought my 1932 Packard from Phil Hill, it had a shimmy, and we tried all kinds of things and couldn’t figure out what the problem was. Finally we found a guy with a tire shaver, and he took a pound of rubber off each tire. After that, it rolled perfectly. There’s nothing wrong with the car—the front end was fine.

I have to admit that the Benz wasn’t my first reminder that tires age even while you sleep. One day, I was driving down the center aisle here at the garage and I heard a really loud BANG! I about jumped out of my skin. I looked around to see where it came from, and my ’66 Hemi Coronet was moving. Why would a car be moving—well, sinking, really—on its own? And it was also going SSSSSSS! The tire blew just sitting there, and it was like a gunshot. All right, I thought, we have to get four new tires there. Well, that was 10 years ago, so now those tires are also old!

***

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

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We dedicated the May/June 2023 issue of Hagerty Drivers Club magazine to the deep connections between music and cars, including several fun lists featuring your favorite car songs. Click the Music & Cars tag to catch up on all the stories, or jam with our custom Music & Cars playlist on Spotify, available here.

For our final installment of car songs, we’re looking to the open road for inspiration. Here are 11 tunes focused on that long black ribbon of freedom.

Nat King Cole
“ROUTE 66”

Now you go through St. Louis
Joplin, Missouri
And Oklahoma City looks mighty pretty
You’ll see Amarillo
Gallup, New Mexico
Flagstaff, Arizona
Don’t forget Winona
Kingman, Barstow, San Bernardino

Fun fact: Outside of this song, no one has ever accused Oklahoma City of being mighty pretty.

Deep Purple
“HIGHWAY STAR”

Nobody gonna take my head
I got speed inside my brain
Nobody gonna steal my head
Now that I’m on the road again

Meth—not even once.

Willie Nelson
“ON THE ROAD AGAIN”

On the road again
Goin’ places that I’ve never been
Seein’ things that I may never see again
And I can’t wait to get on the road again

It’s literally impossible to come up with something snarky to say about this song. Try it.

The Doobie Brothers
“ROCKIN’ DOWN THE HIGHWAY”

Ford’s about to drop, she won’t do no more

And I smell my motor burnin’
Underneath the hood is smoke

Somewhere, a billion Chevy owners are nodding their heads and laughing.

Golden Earring
“RADAR LOVE”

When she is lonely and the longing gets too much
She sends a cable coming in from above
Don’t need no phone at all

Even in 1973, these guys knew that driving and cell phones didn’t pair well.

AC/DC
“HIGHWAY TO HELL”

I’m on the highway to hell
Highway to hell
I’m on the highway to hell
Highway to hell

No one has ever captured a weekend trip to Ikea better than AC/DC did.

Lindsey Buckingham
“HOLIDAY ROAD”

I found out long ago
It’s a long way down the holiday road
Holiday road
Holiday road

A catchy jingle to be sure, but this song really comes alive when you’ve got your dead aunt Edna strapped to the roof.

Talking Heads
“ROAD TO NOWHERE’”

They can tell you what to do
But they’ll make a fool of you

Nice, subtle nod to parents everywhere.

Kraftwerk
“AUTOBAHN” (This was actually a Beach Boys homage)

Wir fahr’n, fahr’n, fahr’n, auf der Autobahn
Wir fahr’n, fahr’n, fahr’n, auf der Autobahn
Wir fahr’n, fahr’n, fahr’n, auf der Autobahn
Wir fahr’n, fahr’n, fahr’n, auf der Autobahn
Wir fahr’n, fahr’n, fahr’n, auf der Autobahn
Wir fahr’n, fahr’n, fahr’n, auf der Autobahn
Wir fahr’n, fahr’n, fahr’n, auf der Autobahn
Wir fahr’n, fahr’n, fahr’n, auf der Autobahn
Wir fahr’n, fahr’n, fahr’n, auf der Autobahn

They’re driving on the Autobahn, in case that’s not clear.

Canned Heat
“ON THE ROAD AGAIN”

You know the first time I traveled out in the rain and snow
In the rain and snow
You know the first time I traveled out in the rain and snow
In the rain and snow
I didn’t have no payroll, not even no place to go

Poor planning on your part does not constitute an emergency on mine.

Tom Cochrane
“LIFE IS A HIGHWAY”

This is the road and these are the hills
From Mozambique to those Memphis nights
The Khyber Pass to Vancouver’s lights

We’re not going to say this drive is impossible, but you really need to keep an eye on the tides.

***

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The post 11 songs about the highway appeared first on Hagerty Media.

We dedicated the May/June 2023 issue of Hagerty Drivers Club magazine to the deep connections between music and cars, including several fun lists featuring your favorite car songs. Come back often or click the Music & Cars tag to stay up to date on these stories as they roll out online. You can also jam with our custom Music & Cars playlist on Spotify, available here.

Countless songs address the freedom of driving. Among thousands of candidates, we’ll start by nominating two seemingly disparate numbers, both of which illustrate a great through line of American song—the liberating spirit of adventure and exploration that hitting the highway represented. “See the U.S.A. In Your Chevrolet” was made famous by Dinah Shore in 1950, though the jingle—written by Leo Corday and Leon Carr—was originally sung for the TV show Inside U.S.A. with Chevrolet by Peter Lind Hayes and Mary Healy. Later covered by Pat Boone and even the cast of Glee, after decades of service as a recurring Chevrolet jingle, its luster has by now largely worn off. Conversely, the status of the once-obscure garage rock classic “Roadrunner”—by Jonathan Richman and the Modern Lovers—continues its ascent to musical standard-dom, its popularity growing like the sprawling suburbia that its narrator simultaneously celebrates and seeks to escape.

And, of course, no discussion of the freedom that cars offer would be complete without “Born to Be Wild,” made famous by Steppenwolf and its appearance in the 1969 film Easy Rider, which is about two meaning-seeking, drug-dealing Californian rebels on an impromptu trip across the American Southwest and South on old Harley choppers. Amusingly, this all-American standard was written by a Canadian sessions musician, Mars Bonfire (real name Dennis Eugene McCrohan). He was broke and out of work and planted in Los Angeles when he penned the timeless anthem, a ditty that turned out—in the way these things do—to be just as useful for breathless corporate marketers as for nonconformists quitting their jobs and hitting the road.

Here are 14 more songs that celebrate the freedom of driving…

Bruce Springsteen
“THUNDER ROAD”

There were ghosts in the eyes of all the boys you sent away
They haunt this dusty beach road
In the skeleton frames of burned out Chevrolets

Somewhere in Maine, Stephen King is listening.

M.I.A.
“BAD GIRLS”

Cover me, cause I’m changing lanes

That’s not the purpose of driver aids and you know it, M.I.A! They’re meant to complement proper use of mirrors, not replace them completely.

Sonic Youth
“SHOOT”

Can I have the car keys? I wanna go for a ride
Can I have the car please? I’m going out for a while
Can I have the car now? I wanna drive all around
Can I have the car, dear? I’m gonna leave this town

This feels like the lyrical equivalent of Mom? Mom? Mom? Mom? Mom? Mom? Mom? Mom? Mom? Mom? Mom? Mom?

Iggy Pop
“THE PASSENGER”

He sees the sight of hollow sky
He sees the stars come out tonight
He sees the city’s ripped backsides
He sees the winding ocean drive
And everything was made for you and me
All of it was made for you and me
‘Cause it just belongs to you and me
So let’s take a ride and see what’s mine

Someone sure is selfish.

The Allman Brothers Band
“RAMBLIN’ MAN”

Leaving out of Nashville, Tennessee
They’re always having a good time down on the bayou, Lord
And Delta women think the world of me

Yes, but the JetBlue women can’t stand you.

Wilco
“PASSENGER SIDE”

Hey, wake up, your eyes weren’t open wide
For the last couple of miles you’ve been swerving from side to side
You’re gonna make me spill my beer
If you don’t learn how to steer

Team Wilco lasted exactly one stage before the FIA banned them from ever competing in the WRC again.

Foghat
“SLOW RIDE”

Slow ride
Take it easy
Slow ride
Take it easy
Slow ride
Take it easy
Slow ride
Take it easy
Slow ride
Take it easy

I hear you, man. Now tell it to all the bozos over on r/idiotsincars.

Pearl Harbor and the Explosions
“DRIVIN’”

(Drivin’)
Back on the streets when it feels so right
(Drivin’) Drivin’
(Drivin’)
It’s just tonight, I feel the only cure is drivin’
(Drivin’) Drivin’
(Drivin’)
I’ve got no time to think of how you feel
(Drivin’) Drivin’
(Drivin’)
Behind the wheel, so now I gotta drive it, drive it
(Drivin’) Drivin’

Contrary to popular belief, this is not a song about golf.

The Modern Lovers
“ROADRUNNER”

With the radio on
I’m in love with Massachusetts

With the radio off, however, I prefer South Dakota.

The Cars
“DRIVE”

Who’s gonna hold you down when you shake?
Who’s gonna come around when you break?

Such a subtle nod to the Plymouth K-car.

Chuck Berry
“NO PARTICULAR PLACE TO GO”

Ridin’ along in my calaboose
Still tryin’ to get her belt aloose
All the way home I held a grudge
But the safety belt it wouldn’t budge
Cruisin’ and playin’ the radio
With no particular place to go

And that, friends, is why we heed recall notices.

War
“LOW RIDER”

All my friends know the low rider

Yeah, but so does Karen from the neighborhood watch, and you just know she’s got 911 on speed dial.

Gary Numan
“CARS”

Here in my car
I feel safest of all
I can lock all my doors
It’s the only way to live
In cars

Is it, though?

The Breeders
“DRIVIN’ ON 9” (Ed’s Redeeming Qualities cover)

Drivin’ on 9
Drivin’ on 9
Drivin’ on 9

Also not a song about golf!

***

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

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The post Hit the Road: 14 songs about driving appeared first on Hagerty Media.

We dedicated the May/June 2023 issue of Hagerty Drivers Club magazine to the deep connections between music and cars, including several fun lists featuring your favorite car songs. Come back often or click the Music & Cars tag to stay up to date on these stories as they roll out online. You can also jam with our custom Music & Cars playlist on Spotify, available here.

Hard-partying musicians are certainly well represented among the millions who’ve died in car crashes, but perhaps none of the songs written about such accidents has been as eerily prescient as Jan & Dean’s “Dead Man’s Curve.” A 1963 hit about a street drag race gone wrong, it echoed loudly in memory when, in 1966, band member Jan Berry drove his Corvette into the back of a parked truck not far from the dangerous corner whose legend he and partner Dean Torrence had helped to cement. Berry and the band’s career were never the same.

The pride of El Sobrante, California, Primus scored its first hit in 1991 with “Jerry Was a Race Car Driver.” Penned by the punk-funk band’s virtuoso bass-playing leader, Les Claypool, it concerns an “I’ll show them” type of guy who’s in over his head and meets his end driving an Oldsmobile 4-4-2 too fast after many too many beers.

Here are seven more hits about fender-benders—and worse.

Jan & Dean
“DEAD MAN’S CURVE”

Well, the last thing I remember, Doc, I started to swerve
And then I saw the Jag slide into the curve
I know I’ll never forget that horrible sight
I guess I found out for myself that everyone was right
Won’t come back from Dead Man’s Curve

Sounds a lot like the automotive equivalent of “you’ll shoot your eye out!”

Ray Peterson
“TELL LAURA I LOVE HER”

He drove his car to the racing grounds
He was the youngest driver there
And the crowed roared as they started the race
‘Round the track they drove at a deadly pace
No one knows what happened that day
How his car overturned in flames
But as they pulled him from the twisted wreck
With his dying breath, they heard him say . . .

” . . . I probably should have eased into this whole racing thing. Maybe some SCCA Solo, or just a high-performance driving experience to see if racing was right for me.”

Dave Edmunds
“CRAWLING FROM THE WRECKAGE”(Graham Parker cover)

Crawling from the wreckage, crawling from the wreckage
Bits of me are scattered in the trees and on the hedges
Crawling from the wreckage, crawling from the wreckage
Into a brand new car

How’s about you crawl into that ambulance first? Then we can talk about a new car.

David Bowie
“ALWAYS CRASHING IN THE SAME CAR”

Every chance,
Every chance that I take
I take it on the road
Those kilometers and the red lights
I was always looking left and right
Oh, but I’m always crashing
In the same car

Maybe less looking left and right, and more eyes forward? Try that for a while.

Mark Dinning
“TEEN ANGEL”

Teen angel, teen angel, teen angel, ooh
That fateful night the car was stalled upon the railroad track
I pulled you out and we were safe, but you went running back

PSA: Don’t tug on Superman’s cape. Don’t spit into the wind. Don’t mess with the Lone Ranger’s mask. And never, ever, crawl back into a car when a train is barreling down on it.

The Beach Boys
“A YOUNG MAN IS GONE” (about James Dean)

For this daring young star
Met his death while in his car
No one knows the reason why

Obviously, The Beach Boys don’t read Wikipedia, because it says exactly why right there.

They Might Be Giants
“MINK CAR”

I got hit by a mink car
Hit by a mink car
Driven by a guitar
And the silver chauffeur says
That it’s all in your head

Or . . . it might be in that toad you just licked.

***

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

Ken Levin writes:

My 1960 Ford Country Sedan runs hot, particularly in traffic on warm days. The car is rebuilt to stock specs and equipped with the original radiator and four-blade fan. No air conditioner. What are my options to improve the cooling, and which do you recommend?

Hot running can be caused by many things (stuck thermostat, rusted water pump impeller, sediment in the water passages of the block), but overheating in warm weather usually means that the radiator’s cooling capacity is insufficient. Running additionally hot in traffic is a classic symptom of inadequate airflow.

Since your radiator is 62 years old, I’d recommend upgrading to something with a three- or four-row core. I’m not a big fan of re-coring radiators, but if you want to keep yours original, and if you know of a good, old-school radiator shop, you can certainly go that route. Replacing the radiator is a bit confusing, as the 1960 Country Sedan doesn’t appear to be as well-represented in databases as its Ford brothers. I believe the radiator is the same as that for a 1960–63 Galaxie. However, unless you’re certain that something is a correct replacement, I’d recommend calling Eckler’s Automotive (877-305-8966), as it should be able to confirm fitment, and it has both original-looking copper radiators as well as aluminum. Personally, I don’t care for the look of aluminum radiators in vintage cars, but they’re usually a less expensive option.

Regarding the airflow, a shroud around the mechanical fan should improve cooling in traffic, but I’m seeing conflicting information on whether your car had one. Some folks would advise an aluminum radiator with one or two electric fans directly attached to it, but I’m not a, er, fan of this approach. The electric fans that come on inexpensive radiator-fan packages are usually junk. They often move less air than advertised and don’t last. Also, I resist the deletion of a reliable belt-driven fan, unless there’s no alternative.

I’d update the radiator and see how much of the problem that solves. If it still runs hot in traffic, try changing to a five- or six-bladed fan inside a full shroud. If that doesn’t work, then try shrouded high-quality electric fans.

Randy Mertz writes:

I have a ’64 Chevy Impala with an original 140,000-mile 327 engine. It runs and drives after sitting 15 years in the barn, although the power brake booster is shot. I can get the car started, but after warmup, it smokes oil terribly and oil drips out the exhaust pipes. Mechanics have told me the rings are bad, but there’s no blowby coming out of the oil-fill tube, and the engine is pretty peppy when I step on the gas. Is it the valve guides and seals that are letting oil into cylinders?

Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but I have to agree with the mechanics.

Fog-like oil burning usually is caused by something in the cylinder-piston-ring interface, and if the car sat for 15 years, it could be that the rings are stuck. Sometimes they free up with use, sometimes they don’t. In contrast, worn valve guides and leaky valve seals usually result in oil burning at start-up and during deceleration.

I’d recommend performing a leak-down test to get as much information as possible. Since you note that the power brake booster is shot, you should check that what’s dripping out the exhaust is oil and not brake fluid. It’s possible for brake master cylinders to fail, leak brake fluid into the booster, and for the fluid to get sucked into the intake manifold. When burned, brake fluid smoke is white (oil smoke is bluer) and has an acrid, bitter smell.

***

Rob’s latest book, The Best of the Hack Mechanic: 35 years of Hacks, Kluges, and Assorted Automotive Mayhem, is available on Amazon here. His other seven books are available here on Amazon, or you can order personally inscribed copies from Rob’s website, www.robsiegel.com.

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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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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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Seventy-five years ago, former car salesman Preston T. Tucker was on the verge of changing the automotive world with a “Car of Tomorrow” that challenged not only Detroit but the U.S. government. We chronicle his rise and rapid downfall, examine his legacy, and celebrate the Tucker motorcars that survive. This article first appeared in Hagerty Drivers Club magazine. Click here to subscribe and join the club.

The summer of 1948 should have been a victory lap for Preston Tucker. The Tucker 48 sedan was finally starting to come off the assembly line at a gigantic former airplane engine factory on the South Side of Chicago. He had been riding a wave of tremendous publicity from an adoring public, who were dazzled by the vision of this singular man to put them behind the wheel of something new and different, a better car than the warmed-over versions of prewar designs that Detroit was peddling. His stock offering had been a tremendous success, 44,000 Americans buying into his dream and helping the Tucker Corporation raise some $15 million in development funds.

Tucker was just getting the taste of that success when, on June 6, 1948, Drew Pearson, a well-connected muckraker in Washington, D.C., told listeners of his widely distributed radio show that the Securities and Exchange Commission had launched an investigation into Preston Tucker and his stock plan that would “blow Tucker higher than a kite.” Four days later, Pearson followed up in his national newspaper column, The Washington Merry-Go-Round, declaring that “the ax is falling on Preston Tucker, the revolutionary automobile man, and falling hard.” The War Assets Administration, Pearson gleefully wrote, had denied Tucker’s bid to purchase a steel factory in Cleveland, which the automaker desperately needed to provide sheetmetal for its cars, and that Tucker the man and Tucker the company were also being investigated by the FBI, the SEC, and a U.S. Senate committee.

This was the beginning of the end of the Tucker Corporation, which had been formed only two years earlier, but Preston Tucker, ever the optimist, went on the offensive, continuing to advertise the impending mass production of “the Car of Tomorrow—Today!”

It was not to be. Only 51 cars were produced. Tucker, rather than overthrowing the automotive establishment, became the cautionary tale—worse, a footnote—of what happens to those who try.

But he was clearly onto something. Seventy-five years later, 47 of his 51 cars remain, including car No. 50, photographed here. Looking back, we can now see that the Tucker legend is as much about Preston Tucker the man as it is about Tucker the car.

***

Born in rural Michigan in 1903, Preston Thomas Tucker was fascinated with the emerging world of cars and spent much of his childhood hanging around service stations and garages. He was, for a brief stint, an office boy at Cadillac. After graduating from Detroit’s Cass Technical High School (which would later produce another automotive upstart, John DeLorean), he spent his 20s bouncing from job to job, including as a police officer for the Detroit suburb of Lincoln Park. Like so many young men in Detroit at the time, he served on an assembly line, at Ford. But at the age of 22, he landed on his innate skill: selling. First in Detroit and then in Memphis, he hawked Studebakers and Chryslers using on-the-street methods such as setting up a fleet of cars and collaring passersby with sales pitches. By his late 20s, he was a zone manager for Pierce-Arrow in Buffalo, New York.

Later he moved his family to Indianapolis for a job with Packard. Tucker began hanging out at Indianapolis Motor Speedway with Harry Miller, whom he’d known for years. Miller had transformed the Speedway with a series of brilliant, all-conquering engines, but he was not much of a businessman. Tucker’s natural salesmanship and promotional acumen complemented Miller’s engineering skills, and by 1931, when the two floated the idea of a four-wheel-drive race car for Indy, news reports referred to Preston Tucker as Miller’s manager.

The relationship continued to flourish, and the pair even flirted with the notion of taking over Marmon, an Indianapolis-based carmaker that was on the verge of bankruptcy. (A Marmon Wasp won the first Indianapolis 500 race in 1911.) In 1935, Miller and Tucker formed their own company, Miller-Tucker, and Tucker persuaded Henry Ford himself to fund the development of 10 race cars for the 1935 season. The project was a disaster, with Tucker’s initial budget of $25,000 ballooning to $117,000. Only four cars qualified and all DNF’d in the race. The failure was serious enough to cause Henry to forswear racing sponsorship for the rest of his life. For Preston Tucker, it was merely a bump in the road, but the long-standing relationship with the highly regarded Henry Miller was a crucial pedigree for his future endeavors.

By the late 1930s, Tucker and his wife, Vera, had settled in Ypsilanti, Michigan, not far from Detroit, where he established Ypsilanti Machine and Tool. These were comfortable and productive years, the family living in a splendid house on Park Street, with a two-story garage behind that was “bustling with draftsmen,” mechanics, and engineers, according to one report. From this successful but modest base, Preston T. Tucker launched multiple entrepreneurial efforts to help with the war effort, including a rear-engine aircraft, a gun turret for B-17 bombers, and a high-speed combat vehicle. None made it beyond the prototype stage, but his ideas received fair hearings from various branches of the government.

As the war was ending, Tucker hoped to become a carmaker, capitalizing on his visceral understanding of car buyers plus the technical knowledge he had gained in the racing world. A less ambitious man might have been deterred by his lack of money, education, or experience in the auto industry. That industry, by 1948, had firmly evolved into an all-powerful Big Three of General Motors, Ford, and Chrysler, and a few secondary players like Packard and Studebaker, with little room for newcomers. But Preston Tucker would not be thwarted by such conventional concerns.

***

It is worth pausing here to reflect on the scale of Tucker’s ambition. Since Tucker, the only significant new attempts at creating an American automotive brand have been by John Z. DeLorean in the 1970s and, more recently, Elon Musk with Tesla.

Then, as now, it was nearly impossible to start a new automaker from scratch. It simply takes too much start-up capital, not to mention the right combination of brand, marketing, engineering prowess, manufacturing might, and, quite frankly, an undefinable coherence with the zeitgeist.

Musk managed to succeed where Tucker did not. But even Elon recognizes how unlikely that success is and what it can take. When I interviewed him in 2012, as the Model S was just hitting the market, he emphasized the dough he had already burned through. “It’s an extremely capital-intensive industry,” he said. “So, unless [you] have some compelling non-monetary reason to create a car company, as I did, then this is not a good use of capital.”

Tucker ultimately lacked for cash. But non-monetary motivation? He had that in droves.

***

Preston Tucker, like Elon Musk, had no desire to build just a car. He would conceive and construct one that, in his words, “opens a new era in motoring”—a comfortable, efficient, safe, and affordable sedan with technological leaps in suspension, body engineering, and powertrain efficiency.

Tucker brought on George Lawson, an experienced Buick designer, to draw up a sleek sedan. One of the signature elements was to be fenders that turned with the front wheels of the car to illuminate the way through corners. Lawson made a quarter-scale clay model, which was photographed against a background to look realistic enough to be full-size. With photos and drawings in hand, Tucker began his publicity campaign, cozying up to a sympathetic automotive journalist named Charles T. Pearson, who sold an article about Tucker and his proposed car, known as the Tucker Torpedo, to multiple magazines.

Tucker had correctly assessed the mood of the American public—they were starved for new cars after the wartime production shutdown. Throughout 1946, word spread across America of the impending “Car of Tomorrow—Today!” It would feature disc brakes, independent suspension, streamlined styling, and, most notably, a center headlight. And the engine would be in the rear, mated with a new “hydraulic fluid drive” transmission with a torque converter at each rear wheel.

That was the easy part. Raising the capital to manufacture at scale would be a much bigger task. Floyd D. Cerf, a Chicago financier, was enlisted to handle the stock prospectus. “Preston, you are selling yourself,” Cerf advised Tucker. “But we also need a car and a plant.”

Tucker Corporation was officially founded on July 8, 1946. The federal government was sitting on a plant it had built in Chicago for Dodge to build B-29 bomber engines. Now idled, the plant, with its tool shop, foundries, and forging facilities, was ideally located, with ready access to a workforce and close enough to Detroit to tap industry suppliers. The War Assets Administration agreed to lease the plant to the smooth-talking Tucker at favorable terms, with only $25,000 down.

Cerf would seek $20 million in investment as soon as Tucker had a prototype in hand, so speed was of the essence. Alex Tremulis, former styling chief of Auburn Cord Duesenberg, refined the Lawson drawings into a more production-ready design. He also convinced Tucker that the steerable front fenders were unsafe. Tucker gave him 60 days to come up with a prototype, a near impossibility, but Tremulis and his team built one in metal straight from his drawings in 100 days, using the chassis of a junkyard Oldsmobile (there was no time to sculpt a full-size clay model).

An air-cooled, six-cylinder horizontally opposed engine displacing 589 cubic inches, based on each cylinder having a bore and stroke of 5 inches by 5 inches, was cobbled together and installed, with great difficulty, at the rear of the prototype. Tucker claimed the 589’s massive dimensions were recommended to him by Harry Miller when the engine designer was on his deathbed. Whether that truly reflected Miller’s final wishes or Tucker’s love of a great pitch is hard to parse.

The prototype, which became known as the Tin Goose, was unveiled to the public at the Chicago factory on June 19, 1947. The car was rough, with body panels that required hundreds of pounds of lead solder. The front bumper was made of wood, painted black, with metal inlays to give the appearance of chrome. The engine could not easily be started, and the presentation was delayed to the point that the crowd grew restless. Finally, four gowned models sounded a trumpet fanfare, and the curtains were drawn to reveal the Tin Goose.

The crowd went wild. Sure, the car wasn’t ready for the road, but it was real, and it was stunning and looked like no other car of the period. Tucker’s break-neck pace in developing the car was essential to getting distributors and dealers to sign up and investors to write checks.

Not that the SEC, which had issued strong cautions about the unknown company, wanted to make it easy for Tucker or investors. But at no time was Tucker trying to understate the challenges that his fledgling company still faced before mass production could be achieved. “Though the SEC seemed to think its negativity was a necessary counterbalance, the Tucker Corporation’s own assessment was hardly starry-eyed,” wrote Steve Lehto in his superb 2016 book, Preston Tucker and His Battle to Build the Car of Tomorrow. As Lehto relates in detail, Tucker’s prospectus makes clear the “risks and difficulties” in the company’s plans to make a “radically different” car.

The stock prospectus also laid out the technical details of the car: It was to be a four-door, six-passenger vehicle weighing about 3000 pounds, with a 128-inch wheelbase and a selling price of between $1800 and $2000. It would have a 24-volt electrical system rather than the standard 6-volt. Further, the rear-mounted engine would be easily replaced in service, rather than repaired. The prospectus concluded, realistically, with the warning that “Some of the major features representing departures from the conventional automobile have not been tested sufficiently to demonstrate their performance characteristics.”

At the time of the stock offering, Tucker already had 49 distributors and 363 dealerships in the United States, with plans for 100 distributors and 2000 dealerships within two years. By June 1947, the company already had 725 employees.

Preston Tucker decided to take the Tin Goose on a promotional tour to drum up interest in stock sales. This was a delicate balancing act: trotting out a rough prototype (which had to be flown or trucked everywhere) in hotel ballrooms, fairs, and other venues, in a sort of traveling circus—all while engineers, designers, fabricators, and draftsmen frantically developed an actual car back in Chicago. But the roadshow was crucial for implanting the seeds of desire in American consumers. In August 1947, New York’s Museum of Science and Industry displayed the Tin Goose, and as many as 15,000 people per day paid 48 cents to view the Car of Tomorrow. Among the visitors was a man named Carmine Coppola, whose son Francis was with him.

Back in Chicago, a young designer named Philip Egan went to work on interior drawings and concepts. Tucker wanted to emphasize safety. Some of his ideas were, to modern eyes, quite zany: He demanded a “safety compartment” under the dash so a passenger could dive into it in the event of a crash. Yet other features, such as a pop-out windshield, a padded dash, and simple controls within arm’s reach of the driver, were groundbreaking and innovative. There was no time to design and develop a custom steering wheel, but a batch of Lincoln Zephyr steering wheels were sourced from a friend at Ford Motor Company. Seat belts were considered but rejected because it was decided that their mere presence could telegraph to buyers that the car was not safe.

Meanwhile, the 589 engine, despite its enormous displacement, made only 83 horsepower, and its hydraulically actuated valves were not ready for prime time. Preston Tucker set up a skunkworks engineering team back at Ypsilanti Machine and Tool. Among the crew was Preston Tucker Jr., then an engineering student at the nearby University of Michigan. Tucker gave them 90 days to come up with a powertrain, then as now a ridiculously short time frame but a common theme at the Tucker Corporation.

The team evaluated various engine manufacturers, seeking a boxer six-cylinder, and eventually chose a helicopter engine made by Aircooled Motors, formerly Bell Aircraft, of New York. It was known as the Franklin engine, after H.H. Franklin, who had developed a car with an air-cooled engine back in 1902. The crew purchased and tore down four Franklin engines, then rebuilt and re-engineered them for use in the sedan, reconfiguring from air cooling to liquid cooling. Miraculously, the Franklin engine worked so well that the Tucker Corporation purchased Aircooled Motors outright.

There was still the not-insignificant challenge of getting the Franklin’s power to the wheels. The rear location of the engine presented packaging problems for a transmission, and the fluid drive transmission remained more fantasy than reality. The short-term fix was a Cord transmission that had been developed to sit in front of the engine in a front-wheel-drive, front-engine configuration. The team scavenged 22 such Cord gearboxes from junkyards, tore them down, and built 18 transmissions from the parts pile. This was a “pre-selector” gearbox, wherein the driver would operate a delicate lever on the right side of the steering wheel, then depress the clutch, then wait for an orchestra of electromagnets and a vacuum system to shift the gears.

So, with steering wheels from Lincoln, engines from Aircooled Motors, and transmissions from 1930s Cords, the Tucker factory was ready to build its first real car, No. 1001, in time for the first shareholders meeting on March 9, 1948. As with the Tin Goose, the final fittings for No. 1001 came down to the wire, but the mad scramble to develop a powertrain paid off. The Franklin engine produced 166 horsepower and 372 lb-ft of torque.

During this period, dealers and distributors who had signed up with Tucker Corporation were kept abreast of the company’s progress in a series of monthly newsletters called Tucker Topics. These lavishly produced brochures trumpeted Preston Tucker’s executive leadership and the company’s media coverage and made fervent, but often vague, promises about production plans. As noted in the April 1948 issue of Tucker Topics, an assembly line was starting to take shape inside the vast halls of the Chicago factory, and the 52 pieces of stamped sheetmetal required to assemble each car were being positioned. The same issue reprinted an article from the industry trade magazine Automotive News in which the reporter practically genuflected at the altar of Preston Tucker:

“No. 1, of course, is Preston Tucker himself—ebullient, tall, good-looking—he gives the impression of a long knight taking on the giants of the industry. At times he sounds crazy as a loon. After looking over the layout [of the factory], you wonder if maybe he isn’t crazy like a fox.”

Against this backdrop of optimism loomed yet another hurdle: Tucker needed a steady inventory of steel. Fearing that the Detroit makers could easily shut him out of the supply chain, he decided to buy his own steel plant and made a competitive bid for one owned by the War Assets Administration in Granite City, Illinois. Denied that plant, Tucker set his sights on another in Cleveland, which was also being offered by the WAA. Although he was the high bidder, beating out Republic Steel, his bid came to the attention of Senator Homer Ferguson of Michigan, who had previously created obstacles to Tucker getting the Chicago plant and was no friend of the Tucker Corporation. This time, Ferguson went after the WAA itself, accusing it of “gross mismanagement” of government properties. It was clear even then that Ferguson was simply acting to protect the interests of the Detroit Big Three.

On May 28, 1948, the WAA advised Preston Tucker that his bid for the Cleveland facility was “inadequate.” Later, the Cleveland plant would be awarded to Kaiser-Frazer, another fledgling automaker whose co-founder, Henry J. Kaiser, had built Liberty ships for the U.S. Navy. On the same day, Preston Tucker learned that the SEC was launching an investigation into his company.

With time and money running out and a key source of production materiel denied him, Preston T. Tucker was feeling the noose tightening around his neck. Less than two weeks later, the Drew Pearson smear campaign pulled the thread that caused the entire Tucker Corporation tapestry to unravel. Author Lehto succinctly summarized the effect of the negative publicity: “June 6, 1948, marked the end of America’s love affair with Preston Tucker.”

The unraveling was swift. Tucker Corporation stock fell by half, with investors immediately losing some $10 million in value. Banks froze credit, and on June 14, the SEC subpoenaed the Tucker Corporation’s records.

Despite those setbacks, on the factory floor, work continued apace on the first 50 Tucker 48s, and development was underway for an automatic transmission. A prototype called the R-1 was demonstrated to media in Detroit.

With SEC investigators swarming his factory and Ypsilanti Machine and Tool, Tucker went on the offensive, writing an open letter to the automobile industry and publishing it in several national newspapers in mid-June. Without naming Homer Ferguson, Tucker clearly lay the blame at the Michigan senator’s feet:

“Most of the political pressure and investigations we have had to face these last two years can be traced back to one influential individual, who is out to ‘get Tucker.’ If he acts from honest conviction in his efforts to prolong the motorcar shortage and block the introduction of a new and better motorcar, then I hope he will have the courage to tell the public.”

One could view the thinly veiled attack on a powerful senator as foolhardy, or one could view it as the action of a man who was backed into a corner through no malfeasance of his own and who knew that the collective forces of both the American auto industry and its friends in Washington were now fully in league against him. Making his case in the court of public opinion was his last hope to stave off these unwarranted attacks and return to the business of getting the Tucker 48 into production.

There were glimmers of positive media coverage amid that summer’s sea of crushing blows, including an enthusiastic review by the then-dean of auto writers, Tom McCahill. “Tucker is building an automobile! And brother, it’s a real automobile!” McCahill, never one to hold back on the purple prose, effused in the August issue of Mechanix Illustrated. “I want to go on record right here and now as saying that it is the most amazing American car I have seen to date; its performance is out of this world.”

Few would ever experience it. By Thanksgiving 1948, Preston Tucker had idled his plant completely while he looked for a financial savior. Rumors that Howard Hughes was interested in bailing out Tucker were false, but Francis Ford Coppola could not resist a minor Hughes storyline for his 1988 movie, Tucker: The Man and His Dream. Meanwhile, the legal forces being marshaled against Tucker culminated in the announcement on February 14, 1949, that a federal grand jury would begin investigating Tucker.

On June 10, 1949, the grand jury indicted Preston Tucker and seven of his associates on charges of mail fraud, conspiracy, and SEC regulation violations, alleging that the Tucker Corporation had raised $28,000,000 but had spent it all on promotion and building a car while making “false and fraudulent statements.” Tucker, according to the Associated Press, responded, “I have a clear conscience, a marvellous car and the will to fight to success.” He continued, “When this case comes into an open court, I will reveal startling information which will call for an explanation from Detroit and many of our public servants.”

Yet the media piled on, with the influential Collier’s magazine publishing a Tucker takedown on June 25 containing information clearly gleaned from the SEC report, which was supposed to be a sealed document and which Tucker and his attorneys had never seen. Anti-Tucker fever was pitched by the time the federal trial in downtown Chicago began on October 5, 1949. The previous day, a judge had voided the Tucker Corporation’s lease on the Dodge plant. When it rained bad news on Preston Tucker, it poured.

The prosecution called 73 witnesses in a case that dragged on into the new year, but on January 22, 1950, Preston Tucker and the other defendants were found not guilty of all 31 counts. The trial was reenacted in the highest dramatic fashion in the Coppola film, which was highly sympathetic to Preston Tucker, painting him as an automotive David against the Goliaths of Detroit and Washington.

There’s no glossing over the fact that Goliath won. Although Preston Tucker was acquitted of all charges, he was a vanquished man. A bankruptcy court began picking over the remains of the Tucker Corporation, and the physical assets, including the fleet of fully and partially assembled Tucker 48 sedans, were sold at auction in October 1950.

Preston Tucker spent the rest of his life trying to clear his name and floating other automotive production capers, including one in Brazil, but failing health and his lingering reputation scuttled such plans. A heavy smoker, he died of lung cancer in December 1956.

The Tucker factory, which was so huge its kitchen could feed 27,000 people a day, went back to building aircraft engines, under Ford Motor Company, during the Korean War. By 1965, part of the site on Cicero Avenue had been turned into the huge Ford City Mall. Today, the north end of the complex is a Tootsie Roll factory, while the mall, like so many in America, is in decline, with a weedy parking lot encircling a long-closed Sears store.

As for the Tucker cars, Florida hotelier Nick Jenin began collecting them and by 1960 owned a fleet of 10. He took them on tour, charging admission to see “the Fabulous Tuckers.” In the 1970s, a Virginia collector, David Cammack, bought and restored three Tuckers and became a veritable Tucker guru. When he died in 2013, he left his collection of Tucker cars, powertrains, factory blueprints, and other archives to the AACA Museum in Hershey, Pennsylvania.

After the Coppola movie was released in 1988, interest in Tucker cars increased, as did values. (It’s also worth remembering that by this time, upstart Japanese automakers had largely achieved what Tucker had aimed to do four decades earlier—building more innovative cars than the complacent American giants.) Today, Tuckers routinely change hands for more than a million dollars. If you are buying, selling, or restoring a Tucker 48 in modern times, chances are good you’ve crossed paths with Mark Lieberman, a Michigan-based Tucker savant and owner of Nostalgic Motoring Ltd., which specializes in the restoration of Tuckers, Chrysler Turbines, and other low-production treasures. Lieberman has owned six different Tuckers over the years, buying his first, No. 1006, in 1991, which he owned for 15 years. The car photographed here, No. 1050, is his latest and is also the last to be built and the one with the lowest mileage, with only 29 miles on the odometer at the time of our photo shoot in Rochester Hills, Michigan, last November.

“No one had done the research to restore one of these correctly,” Lieberman recalls of his first car. “And although the Tucker movie accelerated interest and value, the Tucker 48 still hadn’t proven to be concours-worthy. I was the first person to restore a Tucker so the concours world and the collector car community would embrace it.” Indeed, a Tucker class appeared at the Pebble Beach Concours in 2018.

Lieberman collaborates with restorer Rob Ida, who was profiled in the November/December 2020 issue of HDC magazine, and Mike and Sean Tucker, twin great-grandsons of Preston, to help interested parties buy, restore, and maintain Tucker 48s. The Tucker twins recall visiting collector David Cammack when they were kids and have drawn heavily on his archival materials to become remanufacturers of Tucker 48 parts such as interior knobs, upholstery, fasteners, weather stripping, hoses, wiring harnesses, and various and sundry other secondary components.

“Our hands-on involvement really started with Tucker No. 44, Howard Kroplick’s car,” Sean Tucker, an industrial engineer, told us. “He loved the fact that the family was involved.” Kroplick bought his Tucker from none other than Lieberman. Stunning in Andante Green paint, it’s known as one of the best Tucker restorations to date and further established that the quartet of the Tucker twins, Lieberman, and Ida is indeed, as Lieberman likes to say, “the Tucker dream team.”

It’s cool when you can engage the knowledgeable great-grandchildren of a carmaker’s founder who, primarily as a passion project to honor their forebear, will ensure your car is as historically accurate as possible. “We’re not millionaires,” Mike and Sean hastened to tell me. “Because [the laborious restoration research] is certainly no way to make a living. Every single one of the cars was different from the others, and we’re very intent on making sure our work is authentic and correct.”

Sean and Mike, whose paternal grandfather, John Tucker, was the youngest of Preston’s five children, are now 42 years old. (Their father, John Jr., was the longtime president of the Tucker Automobile Club of America.) Mike’s three sons, 12, 15, and 18 years of age, “are all very much into what we do,” their father said, and the eldest is being trained in automotive collision at a technical college. If their great-great-grandfather did not live to see his vision vindicated, his heirs are determined to keep the Tucker flame burning. “If you aren’t old enough to have seen the [1988] movie,” Sean said, “the story was kind of dying. We want to get our generation more interested in Tuckers. We want this thing to stay relevant.”

The Tucker Automobile Club of America, in association with the AACA Museum, will celebrate the 75th anniversary of the Tucker 48 the weekend of June 16–18, 2023. The event will draw Tucker family members, Tucker cars and owners, family members of Preston Tucker colleagues, and other marque specialists and enthusiasts to Hershey, Pennsylvania (an easy drive from the NYC, Philly, and Washington metro areas). Of course, there will be a special screening of the Coppola film. See aacamuseum.org for details.

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Further Reading

Preston Tucker and His Battle to Build the Car of Tomorrow — Steve Lehto