I'm currently wrapped in denial. Actually, avoidance might be closer to the mark, but either way I'm currently not in a good mental state. For the past two decades Saab has been my favorite automaker because it so enthusiastically embraced three of my favorite automotive attributes: an individualistic philosophy, the magic of turbocharging, and characteristically hunchbacked profiles. The result? Magic, in the form of magnificently funky and atypically useful sporty cars like the Sonett, 99, 900, and 9000. Long-time readers may remember that the 1986 Saab 900 SPG is my personal Car Lust high-water mark.
Now, of course, Saab's future is in doubt. After two decades of generally benevolent General Motors ownership, Saab is up for sale. Over the last few months, I have been generally and perhaps unrealistically optimistic that Saab would land on its feet, perhaps with an owner that would give it both ample funding and a license to regain its uniquely Swedish mojo. Now, though, I'm no longer as sanguine.
Saabs United is all over the story, and its reporting describes the three bidders currently in the running for Saab. From a car-development perspective, the best scenario is probably a purchase by Koenigsegg, the Swedish supercar manufacturer. Based on the latest news, Koenigsegg and Norwegian investors are reportedly Saab's "preferred candidate." But it's not as if Koenigsegg has an easy road ahead of it. The other two parties are less-well-known, and regardless of who wins, what does it mean to Saab's future if venture capitalists take over?
Anyway, this is where my avoidance comes in. While I am cautiously optimistic about the Koenigsegg group, that optimism does not prevent me from being terrified that Saab will either disappear entirely or simply lose any semblance of relevance. The whole experience reminds me far too much of losing my beloved Seattle Supersonics last year, and I'm not sure my psyche could handle the slow, protracted loss of Saab as well.
So, in an attempt to sooth my jangled nerves while this story unfolds, I'd like to honor the impending end of Saab's stint as a GM subsidiary by featuring my favorite Saab made under the GM banner--the 9-3 Viggen.
It should surprise exactly nobody that the Saab 9-3 Viggen gets my blood boiling; after all, as the compact high-performance turbo hatch in Saab's lineup, it had all the elements of greatness. It was fast, rare, and, most importantly, boasted the same lasciviously lumpy profile as its predecessors. While I prefer the less aerodynamic, more chiseled lines of the older Saabs, the 9-3's smoothness and a tasteful aero package were compelling in their own right. The 9-3 Viggen was essentially the spiritual successor to the 900 SPG, and that fact leaves me completely helpless to its charms.
Before I get into the Viggen's performance credentials, let's keep in mind that it came to market in 1999. As hard as it is to believe for old fogies like me, 1999 is now a decade in the past--and the performance market back then was very different. This was before the recent horsepower boom, before Hyundai family sedans were available with 250 horsepower, and before SUVs accelerated like exotics. At that time, cars that could make the 0-60 run in the low 6-second range and hit a 155-mph top speed were considered special, and in putting up those numbers, the Viggen could nip at the feet of such brawny and expensive high-performance stars as the BMW M3 and Audi S4. New Viggen buyers even received a two-day training course at Georgia's excellent Road Atlanta road course.
Unfortunately, the combination of high horsepower with front-wheel drive resulted in major-league torque steer, a condition in which the steering wheel tries to twist to one side when the driver accelerates rapidly. This unfortunate characteristic marred the Viggen's handling and prevented it from competing seriously with the M3 and S4. Even back in the late 1990s most major manufacturers had figured out how to infuse horsepower into front-wheel-drive cars without creating torque steer, but Saab chose a different path. Instead of getting the engineering right, Saab tried a bald-faced marketing maneuver in which the carmaker claimed the torque steer was intentionally left in to pose a "challenge" for "advanced drivers." Um, yeah ... like kicking a marathoner repeatedly in the shins is a desirable "challenge" for "advanced runners."
Nowadays a V-6 Nissan Altima can run in stride with the Viggen, but despite that and the torque steer I'd love to have a Viggen in my garage. After all, it's fast, rare, and sports a bloated profile. It just doesn't get much more authentically Saab than that, and heck, its Viggen moniker was even borrowed from Saab's background as a military jet fighter manufacturer.
It is impressive to me that the Viggen contains so much undiluted, earthy Saab flavor despite being born during GM's ownership. In fact, unlike many other Saab devotees, I haven't especially minded Saab's time under GM's thumb. The 9-3 and 9-5 are still fast, interesting cars, with at least some residual 900 and 9000 flavor. The 9-2X was just a rebodied Subaru WRX, but as a turbocharged, AWD wagon with a rally flavor, it's a car that I can at least imagine Saab producing. Obviously I prefer Saab as an independent company creating oddly compelling cars with strong character, but things could have been much worse.
After all, GM could have forced Saab to manufacture a SUV ... say, a rebadged, generic, pointless version of the Chevy TrailBlazer. Can you imagine how unbelievably soul-crushing that would have been?
Sigh. Come on, Koenigsegg. For the sake of the small bits of hope remaining in the soup of my anguished psyche, please make it all better.
You knew this was coming. Is it gutless? You betcha. Is it cheap? Of course--it's designed to be the cheapest production car on the planet. Does it prove, like somany before it, that necessity truly is the mother of invention? Absolutely.
So, Car Lust material? Well, yeah. I mean, c'mon - it even comes in hot pink! How lusty is that?
But wait - it gets better. As numerous newsoutlets are pointing out, Tata is planning on bringing this little bastion of affordable motoring to the United States. Naturally, this begs the question--will it follow the path laid down by the VW Beetle, burrowing a place into our automotive hearts, or will it simply rust out of our consciousness like the Citroen 2CV? To help us answer that question, let's run through the specs:
2 cylinder, 33 horsepower engine
4 speed manual transmission
0-43 mph in 14 seconds
Top speed of 75 miles per hour
47 miles per gallon
Drum brakes all around
Seats four
If any of this sounds familiar, it should. Consider the following specs:
2 cylinder, 28 horsepower engine
4 speed manual transmission
0-60 mph in a glacial epoch or two
Top speed of 75 miles per hour
34+ miles per gallon
Byzantine power brake system with weird and proprietary green goo
Seats four... I think
Those would be the specs for the Citroen 2CV, which was nearly as successful in the US market as Gamelin was against the Wehrmacht, and that was against '50s and '60s competition. Though I have no doubt that the Nano is nowhere near as agricultural as the Deux Chevaux, it still doesn't change the fact that a stock Yugo GV could run circles around it. The only advantage the Nano would have against other new cars would be its price, which I guarantee you would be well above its legendary $2,500 price after US emissions and safety equipment are bolted on. None of this, however, means that Tata's first effort in the US is completely doomed. Honda originally made a modest living in the US selling kei cars, after all. Assuming the Nano's price tag doesn't swing into Smart ForTwo territory (or, realistically, Nissan Versa territory) and assuming its reliability doesn't drift into Warsaw Pact territory, the Nano could be a small hit among the East Cost urban-dwelling college student crowd. I doubt it, though. What are your thoughts? Does the Nano have a prayer, or is it just going to be a strange footnote in American automotive history? For whatever it's worth, I still want one. The pink Nano pictured above is from Flickr user bbjee; the more conservatively colored one comes from Flickr user ethnu. --David Colborne
My wagon fever has been largely dormant of late, but this saucy minx from Cadillac has re-ignited it. There's something about the combination of Cadillac's crisply folded styling and a rakish wagon profile that puts my adrenal glands on red alert.
The CTS Sports Wagon joins the Dodge Magnum in a uniquely lustful place in my heart reserved for lascivious sports wagons that, somehow, put me into a tuner mindset. I'm the farthest thing one could imagine from a tuner or a customizer, and no other car triggers that response from me. But I look at the Magnum and CTS and think, "Wow, just imagine that car in deep glossy black, with bigger rims, maybe lowered just a smidge. ..." I don't even recognize myself when it happens.
I have always liked Cadillac's "Art and Science" design ethic; it's genuinely fresh and distinctive, without relying on retro callouts or a mishmash of design cues. On the STS and the new CTS, I think the look has evolved and matured into something truly beautiful--completely new and genuinely Cadillac. It looks gorgeous in wagon form. One request for Cadillac--not that I'm unhappy with 305 available horsepower, but I'd love to see a Sports Wagon version of the CTS-V that could challenge the legendary Audi RS6 Avant for mega-wagon supremacy. Please?
"Fill my eyes, with that wagon fever ... No disguise, for that wagon fever ... Ooh, when it gets through to me, it's always new to me ... My wagon fever gets the best of me!"
Even among the palm trees, stretch limos, and aggressively customized tint-windowed Escalades of this tropical crazy car heaven, this little red thing stood out as unique:
In fact, I am reasonably certain that it's the only one of its kind in the United States.
So what is it, and where did it come from?
What it is is a Peugeot 206 CC. The 206 series is a "supermini" FWD automobile platform first produced in 1998. Though Pugeot introduced the 207 as its replacement in 2005, the 206 remains in production, and is Peugeot's best-selling car model of all time.
The "CC" version is a convertible with a power-retracted steel top, introduced in 2006. It's theoretically a four-passenger car, but unless you're under age ten or have a surname like "Baggins" or "Brandybuck," you're not going to fit in that rear seat. The 206 CC has a curb weight of around 2,500 pounds and is available with a variety of four-cylinder engines ranging from 107- to 138-horsepower. Those who have direct experience with them say that the 206 is lively and fun to drive--though a bit cramped and noisy, with a few minor build quality issues and an arguable lack of refinement.
In other words, the 206 CC is perfect Car Lust material.
At this point, you might be wondering how you can get one. The short answer, if you're in the U.S., is that you probably can't. Peugeot abandoned the U.S. market in 1991, and I am unaware of any "gray-market" importer bringing 206 CCs into the country.
So how did a 2006-or-later Peugeot sneak into the U.S. and end up parked on a street in Miami Beach? A partial answer to that mystery can be found on the license plate:
It's a consular license plate, issued by the U.S. State Department, which identifies this car as one registered to a foreign diplomat. There is a lot of international business done in south Florida, and nearly every country with which we have diplomatic relations maintains a consulate in Miami. There were some Spanish-language stickers on the windshield, so I assume the owner is from a Spanish-speaking country. The 206 CC is assembled in Brazil and Argentina for the Latin American market, so it is likely that this particular car was built in one of those two places.
Foreign diplomats posted to a consulate are entitled to a form of diplomatic immunity known as "consular immunity." It appears that consular immunity permits a diplomat to bring in a set of wheels from the home country for personal use without having to "federalize" it.
I didn't get to meet the driver of this car, so I can't tell you anything more than that about it. I'll always wonder if the 206 was shipped here, or if it was driven in from the home country on an epic road trip. I'd like to think it was the latter.
As for Señor or Señora Diplomat, driving around the "Sun and Fun Capital of the World" on official business in this little red drop-top--whoever you are, you have a delightful little car, and what must be a fascinating job. If we ever meet, I'd love to hear all about it, and the mojitos are on me.
Over the last year of increasingly dire news coming out of Detroit, it has become trendy to dismiss General Motors as a company operating without inspiration--a bland, risk-averse company in difficult financial straits because it has been building bland, risk-averse cars since 1975. It's an easy stereotype, but, like most stereotypes, it doesn't stand up to scrutiny. For one thing, GM has built genuinely innovative and risky vehicles--it's just that most were also fatally flawed (among them the Pontiac Fiero, Chevrolet Citation, Cosworth Vega, Pontiac Aztek ...). And there have also been some truly world-class cars; unfortunately, they are tainted by the company's public failures. Not even the bright light of the Cadillac Seville STS could escape the abject black hole of awfulness created by the Cadillac Cimarron (excuse me, Cimarron by Cadillac).
But even more than the noble failures and the legitimate stars, the truest evidence of GM's inspiration comes in its spurts of odd, unexpected greatness. Every so often GM puts out products so weird and fantastic that they must have horrified the company's stifling layers of bureaucracy. I can't help imagining a team of wild-eyed enthusiasts caged up within the corporate monolith who periodically escape and produce irrationally fun cars before their masters track them down and sedate them.
For a 15-year stretch, from the late 1970s to the early 1990s, these fanatics used the black magic of turbocharging to energize GM's ubiquitous but dull pushrod 3.8-liter and 4.3-liter V-6s. And likewise, those newly swaggering engines served as the smoking and bubbling chemical elixir that morphed the stolid, soft, Dr. Jekyll vehicles of the GM lineup (Buck Regal, Chevy S-10) into the wild, animalistic Mr. Hydes (Buick GNX, GMC Syclone/Typhoon). From the original Buick Regal Turbo through to the Grand National and GNX, and finally to the Syclone/Typhoon, the formula of a turbo V-6 and some subtle tweaks turned completely ordinary cars into wonderfully unlikely Ferrari-killers.
After watching the heroic turbo 3.8-liter V-6 transform the meek Regal personal luxury coupe into a beastly, asphalt-consuming muscle car, I wondered exactly what that glorious engine could do under the hood of a real performance car. You know, something low, aerodynamic, and fundamentally built for speed in a way that the Regal simply was not.
Enter the Pontiac Firebird. When I posted about the third-generation Pontiac Firebird back in 2008, I lauded the 3G Firebird's threteningly wedgy lines thusly:
"There wasn't a cheesy bone in the new Firebird's body--at least not yet. Pontiac would eventually tart up the Firebird with screaming chicken decals and goofy scoops, but when the new Firebird debuted in 1982, it was deadly serious and a bit evil. Its European-inspired low wedge design evoked threat; its hidden headlights and serious "face" imparted a sinister aspect, and its front turn-signal "eyes" glittered evilly. Imagine glancing up in your rearview mirror and seeing that Firebird--it was a look designed to inspire damp-palmed terror."
Unfortunately, the Firebird only looked sinister; in terms of performance it had all the menace of Ned Flanders. Even as Pontiac pumped up the Trans Am's visual horsepower, adding back the screaming chicken decals and goofy overdone details, it lagged behind the Camaro and Mustang in the front line of the 1980s muscle car wars. Sure, the Trans Am eventually received the big 5.7-liter V-8; but it was a detuned version of the Camaro's--which was itself a detuned version of the Corvette's. The Firebird was a good handler; it was just lacking the Vitamin H to back up its gorgeous lines.
In 1989, the GM struck again; they applied the GNX's world-beating turbocharged and intercooled V-6 to the underpowered Firebird with spectacular results. Unlike the Regal or the S-10, the Firebird was born to run, and with the turbo V-6 it ran with the best in the world.
The turbo Trans Am finally had the grunt to match its looks. Car and Driver managed a 4.6-second 0-60 run; that's still extreme performance today and simply mind-blowing in 1989. It also handled well and topped out at more than 160 mph. Forget about bit players like the Mustang and Camaro--they weren't even in the same game. The turbo Firebird smoked the nominal GM performance icon, the Corvette, and out-accelerated the expensive Italians, the Ferrari Testarossa and Lamborghini Countach. Again, that's serious speed. If you wanted a clearly faster car in 1989, you had to step up to the unavailable exotics--the Porsche 959 and Ferrari F40.
It's hard to believe that such performance was possible simply by turbocharging the same trustworthy but somnolent 3.8-liter V-6 that could be found under the hood of my grandmother's 1985 Buick LeSabre. With turbocharger and intercooler affixed (and, obviously, some other internal modifications), the turbo V-6 was very conservatively rated at 250 horsepower. Most think the true number was somewhere north of 300 horsepower. Even through the TA's four-speed automatic, the turbo V-6 delivered its thrust like an F-15 on afterburner--smooth, but with an impact like a sledgehammer to the chest.
One of the best things about the 20th Anniversary Firebird Trans Am was that somehow, magically, it was a sleeper. Try to wrap your mind around that--it was a sleeperTrans Am, if such a thing is possible. The turbo Firebird was comparatively unadorned, without graphics or ostentation--it only came in sleek, clean, white trim.
Compare it to its V-8 Trans Am sibling; the Trans Am had the V-8 brawn and all the visual braggadoccio, but the turbo TA was a cold, remorseless killer. The Trans Am was Mr. T; the turbo TA was Robert Patrick's T-1000 from Terminator 2. One looked tough; the other would rip the tough guy's head off without breaking stride changing expression.
Maybe it's just me, but I think the 20th Anniversary TA is a stunningly compelling car. The car was quicker than even the mighty Trans Am SD-455 of yore and upstaged the Corvette; doing that with a turbo V-6 Trans Am in a plain white wrapper took some audacity. The turbo TA also has rarity in its side; the fanatics only produced 1,555 examples before the corporate no-fun police were able to restrain them.
Now that GM is, for the most part, producing genuinely good cars, I find myself missing the oddballs--the Regals, Firebirds, and S-10s turned into superheroes with an application of turbo pixie dust. Before you go bankrupt, GM, would you please scrounge up some of those 1980s-era 3.8-liter turbo V-6s and drop them into something completely unexpected? Like a Buick LaCrosse, perhaps, or a Saturn Aura? just for old times' sake? Please, just one last time, let the turbocharging fanatics out of their cage.
The lovely 20th Anniversary Trans Am pictured here was listed at cars-on-line.com for a cool $39,850 and recently sold. That's a lot of money for a 1989 Trans Am, but given the rarity, the perfect condition, and the fact that it has only 1,210 miles on the clock, it sounds reasonable.
The below video below pits a Turbo Trans Am against a new Mitsubishi Evo on the drag strip. As usual with YouTube drag-race videos, the probability of major modifications makes drawing any broad conclusions pointless. Nevertheless, it's still rather satisfying to see yesterday's all-but-forgotten muscle car completely eviscerate one of the fastest representatives of today's trendy Fast and the Furious generation. It makes me smile every time I watch it.
It may sound odd today, in a world in which the Pontiac Grand Am is considered dull rental-car fodder, but there was a time in the mid-1980s when the Grand Am was a stylish, desirable car--even, in fact, a semi-credible American response to European sports sedans like the BMW 3-series and Mercedes-Benz 190E. I'll pause for a moment to allow the cognitive dissonance to clear. Still with me? Good.
When the Grand Am debuted in 1985, its clean good looks, rorty V-6, and sprightly personality overshadowed both its Grand Am ancestor (an incredibly ungainly clone of the lovely 1973 Oldsmobile Cutlass) and its Buick Somerset and Oldsmobile Calais stablemates. The motoring press sat up and took notice; the attention turned to outright praise when the sporty SE trim arrived in 1986, followed by a turbo in 1987 and the 16-valve Quad 4 engine in 1989.
Within this context, the 1986 Grand Am SE, especially, was a knockout. Like a BMW 3-series, the Grand Am had a trim, purposeful, shape, and small overhangs. The SE package added composite headlamps, a front air dam, aerodynamic skirts, and, of course, a monochromatic color scheme evocative of the legendary AMG Hammer. The Grand Am's monochromatic duds were as stylish in the mid-1980s (and as laughably gauche today) as Sonny Crockett's white jacket, pastel T-shirt, linen slacks, and loafers worn without socks. The look was very fashion-forward, very European and very now.
The look was the highlight, but the rest of the package matched up better with the contemporary BMW 3-series and Mercedes 190E than one might expect. The Grand Am SE's sport suspension provided good grip on smooth roads, though not a lot of sophistication on rough surfaces. The 3-liter V-6 was fairly willing and sounded good, but the Grand Am really found its legs with the introduction of the Quad 4 engine. The Quad 4, GM's most sophisticated engine since the ill-fated Cosworth Vega, boasted 16 valves and dual overhead cams, features that had previously only been available in European and Japanese high-performance engines. The Quad 4 was frequently criticized for being loud and thrashy, but it revved like a race car and cranked out 180 horsepower in high-output form. That was serious power for the time; more, for example, than the much-praised Honda VTEC engine that powered my 1994 Acura Integra GS-R.
Unsurprisingly, Grand Ams armed with the HO Quad 4 were very quick, with low 7-second runs from 0-60--in line with such sporting hardware as the later Subaru SVX, the 1985 Nissan 300ZX Turbo, or even its big brother, the Pontiac Trans Am. More to the point, the HO Grand Ams were as quick as the late-1980s BMW 325i and even the special hot-rodded Mercedes-Benz 190E 2.3-16. The Grand Am didn't just look like it belonged with the expensive German compacts; it ran with them too.
Of course, the whole success story eventually fell apart. The Grand Am's durability and build quality too often ruined a positive initial impression; and while BMW transformed the 3-series from performance laggard to performance legend, the Grand Am twisted in the wind. GM was enamored with the positive response to the Grand Am's styling but ultimately learned the wrong lesson. Rather than keeping the Grand Am European and contemporary, GM kept rehashing the same body-kit look well past the point at which it became tacky. In fact, we can probably blame the mystifying preponderance of plastic Pontiac body cladding over the past two decades on the Grand Am's initial success. It's as if Don Johnson was still wearing pastel T-shirts and Ray-bans in 1996.
I have always been fond of Grand Ams. A young, hip co-worker of my father's drove a Grand Am SE back in the 1980s, he kind of had the Sonny Crockett thing going on at the time and helped drive home to me what a stylish, in car it was. My aunt and uncle still have an early 1990s Grand Am that they bought new; I sorta-kinda learned how to drive a manual transmission in that car. When traveling a few years ago, I used to request Grand Ams as my rental cars. Sure, their body kits and faux-jet-fighter interiors were cheesy, but something about them just felt more aggressive, more together, more right than the other GM small cars.
The first commercial below shows off the 1980s Grand Am's unique monochromatic look, as well as one of the most annoying pitchmen in commercial history. It took me roughly 1.62 seconds of the commercial to begin hating him. What's with the slow, over-casual tire kick at 0:13? Frankly, I don't want to be associated with any car this guy likes.
The second commercial is actually for the next generation of Grand Am, which I didn't really discuss here in any detail; but I include it because I love what the guy does at the 0:27 mark. His wife(?) asks him, "We like the Grand Am better anyway, right?" and he gives what can only be described as a half-hearted sigh of grudging assent. Unfortunately for Pontiac, that's probably how most people felt about the car.
Most recent pictures of 1980s Grand Ams show the cars as dilapidated beaters, so I'm using original advertisements to accompany this post instead. They, at least, show the Grand Am in its original glory.
Ladies, you may stop reading right now. Avert your eyes, if you must, because this post is about men. Real men. Manly men. Who do manly things in manly ways, that only manly men can do them. Men who mow their own lawns, fix a leaky faucet, and change their own oil. Men who brew up a pot of battery acid every morning. Men who use after-shave, not "post-shave skin conditioner with aloe, seaweed extract and Vitamin E with a subtle scent of coriander." Men who wouldn't touch a quiche with a 10-foot fork. Men who only drink whiskeys that are named after animals or people. Men who only cry when their father or best hunting dogs die. Men who frankly, my dear, don't give a damn. Men who know every manly cliche from the last 30 years and aren't afraid to use them.
These men drive a particular type of car. A car that drips testosterone like a leaky gasket. A car that says, "I know what I need, and this is it." These type of men know that they'll never drive the length and breadth of the Kalahari, but they will sure as hell be hauling 4-by-8s home from the lumberyard (note: not the "home improvement store"). Men who don't need fine Corinthian leather or a station wagon dressed up as an Urban Assault Vehicle. No, this is the Steve McQueen of cars: no entourage, no workout video, and no froufrou drinks with umbrellas in them.
I jest, of course. The lack of a Y-chromosome doesn't disqualify anyone from appreciating these fine cars, let alone owning or driving one. There are no doubt many men who just don't have the ... um ... good taste to rate this kind of car, and plenty of women who do. It's far more about the mindset than which restroom door you come out of.
Now, I know what you're thinking. "Is he talking about one car or two?" Well, to tell you the truth, in all this excitement, I've kinda lost track myself. Read on, but only if you feel lucky, punk.
Generally referred to as utility coupes, these beasties are simply a standard coupe cabin with a cargo bed in the back. This most American of vehicles actually got its start in Australia in 1935 when Ford Australia put a cargo bed on the back of its new Ford Coupe body. It quickly went out of style Down Under but was resurrected by Ford in North America as the Ranchero for the 1957 model year. It was based on the Custom sedan and was produced on the same factory line as the regular models, but sold through Ford truck dealers.You could get one in either a very basic trim level--marketed mostly to those who would ordinarily buy a pickup truck--or a fully optioned version. And despite its origins as a car, it actually had a slightly greater cargo capacity than the half-ton F-series pickup; no slouch when it came to hauling.
The Ranchero was a hit with the press and the buying public and was so successful that it prompted GM to launch a ute of its own, the iconic El Camino. The El Camino ("The Street" in Spanish) was first produced for the 1959 model year and was based on the Brookwood station wagon. Like Ford, Chevy offered every option available on its normal car lines for the El Camino. Despite this, the El Camino did not sell very well, perhaps due to its rather flamboyant styling, which probably detracted from its utilitarian function. Chevy canceled the model after the 1960 model year after selling less than 37,000 units.
The El Camino was re-launched for 1964, and went head-to-head with the Ranchero for a number of years. In its second incarnation the El Camino was based on the Chevelle; throughout the 1960s and into the early 1970s it followed many of its siblings through the muscle car era. A Super Sport version was available using engines up to the 454 LS6. The Ranchero followed suit, though it was initially downsized in 1960 using the Falcon as its base, generally a much more utilitarian vehicle than the Chevy. But by 1968 the Ranchero was based on the Torino and received many of the muscle car options Ford was doling out, including the 428 Cobra Jet engine.
The Ranchero and El Camino followed their sedan bretheren out of the muscle car era and into the Age of Visual Excess in the 1970s. The Ranchero continued to be based on the Torino until that model was phased out, and it then switched to, of all things, the Thunderbird/LTD-II. How much do I love this one? A lot, thank you very much. Like everything else, power went down while luxury options went up, and the Ranchero quietly ended its life after 1979 as Ford migrated its truck business to the light-pickup line.
The El Camino stayed with the Chevelle through 1977 and then made the switch with the rest of the Chevy line to smaller designs, now based on the Malibu. It had the more sharp-edged styling of the New Chevrolet. Engines were generally small and didn't crack the 200 horsepower mark again. Unlike the Ranchero, the El Camino soldiered on until 1987, when it was finally laid to rest.
What killed the Ranchero and, eventually, the El Camino? Most likely the CAFE fuel mileage regulations. Both of these vehicles were car-based and thus came under mileage regulations; since they needed the extra weight for their cargo-carrying roles, there was little incentive to continue building them. This was especially true for Ford, which had already started to transition over to a light truck with their Courier and eventually the Ranger lines which were not covered under CAFE.
The El Camino is generally considered the archetype for this type of vehicle even though it wasn't the first. There were plans by GM to revive the type, though this time based on the Pontiac G8, itself an import of the Aussie Holden Ute, but these plans have apparently been shelved. At least one other manufacturer has had a go with this type of vehicle, in the form of the Subaru Baja, a utility version of the Legacy/Outback wagon. Generally, however, the market has concentrated on extended-cab small pickups which are not covered under existing CAFE rules ... yet.
Were utes a good idea? Well, maybe. They certainly were popular for quite a while, and they offered a nice combination of occasional hauling capability with the day-to-day driving niceties of a standard car. They were probably the best combination for the suburban guy/gal who used it mainly for commuting but occasionally had a load of brush to haul to the dump. They had better ride and handling than a pickup but were still practical. I really have no idea why these came to be known as "guy cars", but such is the automotive life.
I know you’ve been to them; those stodgy, cookie-cutter, unrealistic car museums are everywhere. You know the routine. Oh look, another Porsche 911 behind velvet rope! Don’t touch that ‘57 Chevy! Gaze longingly at the billion dollar Bugatti!
Enough of that; it’s time to take a walk on the museum wild side at the Lane Motor Museum, nestled into an industrial and stripmalled area of Nashville, Tenn.
With an unassuming title like that, you’d be tempted to drive on by, but you shouldn't. The Lane museum is unlike any other. In fact, I think it caters to every one of us Car Lust frequenters. It features the largest collection of unobtanium in the U.S. By that, I don’t mean cars you’d see on the auction block at Barrett-Jackson. This is the home of the misunderstood, the unusual, and the bizarre. If you savor all European automotive flavors, welcome to your new favorite destination.
The Lane Museum has the largest European car collection in the U.S. on display. Approximately 150 cars are on the floor at any given time, with many more in storage. The exhibits rotate frequently, so it’s never the same museum twice. One of the first things you’ll notice is the complete absence of velvet rope. You may walk up to (and drool discretely) on all of the vehicles on display. This makes for great views of vehicle interiors you may not get to see easily at other venues.
Founder Jeff Lane built the museum out of an old Sunbeam Bakery plant; to say his automotive tastes are eccentric would be putting it mildly. He got his start wrenching on MGs at an early age, but he continued to expand out into the unusual; his primary interest is microcars of the world, but there is also a wonderful focus on French cars.
Aside from the cars themselves, there are also motorcycle displays and a wonderful poster/vintage advertisement collection neatly framed for viewing. Nissan U.S. headquarters are nearby, so there are rotating displays of Nissan's past as well. Currently it features some of the first Infiniti models built. If you ever want to see perfectly preserved M30 coupe or convertibles and an original Q45, all with less than 2,000 miles on the clock, this is your chance. A previous display focused on the history of the Nissan Z-car, with a display encompassing all generations of that pioneering sports car.
Let’s focus the stars of the building, the oddball cars worthy of our lust. This is just an idea of what can be seen on one random trip:
Citroen 2CV - Several can be seen at any given time; right now there is one awaiting restoration that visitors are allowed to touch and sit in. They’re flimsier than they look.
Nissan Figaro - One of my holy grails ever since seeing it in Car & Driver ages ago. Cookie The Dog’s Owner wrote a fantastic Car Lust post that has only enhanced my longing to own one. I never thought I’d see one in the flesh. The details are even more perfect in person.
Nissan S-Cargo - Another quirky retro/oddball Nissan creation, the S-Cargo is a mini box van with a Gastropod theme. Practical, but very fun. The hubcaps have cartoon snails on them. A friend of mine commented that it looks like a villain from the Mega Man videogame.
Fiat 500 (old & new) - Lane features several variations of the original 500, as well as the third-ever built new-style 500. We need the 500 in the U.S. now!
Assorted microcars - Lane owns the Peel P50, as featured by Jeremy Clarkson in this hilarious Top Gear episode. He also has the Peel Trident and too many other microcars to list. It is mindboggling to see how many of these actually came to market and still exist. You’ll also see Japanese kei-cars such as the Honda Life Step Van.
Citroen M-35 - The highlight of the day, even beyond the Figaro, was this 1970 Citroen I had never seen or even heard of before. Besides its crisp hatchback style, it is notable for what is in the engine bay; Citroen’s first rotary engine was not a complete success, and this car was sold in small numbers. Due to engine troubles, many were bought back by the factory and crushed. The character swoop in the hood is a unique touch.
Supercar failures - Any car museum worth its salt should have some Italian bedroom poster-worthy exotics to see. Lane satiates our need to see Lamborghinis and Maseratis with two of the lesser-known models: the Urraco and the Bora.
BMW 3200S - This graceful large early BMW is unusual for having a V-8 engine. BMW soon moved its focus to inline-6 engines, a focus that continues on today.
The WTF Department - Last but certainly not least is the amount of cars that cause you to utter this phrase. Is it not enough that we have communist Czechoslovakian Tatras to see? No, it clearly is not. Why not throw a Tatra ambulance in the mix? How about an Audi World War II jeep? Or maybe a Citroen DS rally racer? Such are the random delights of the Lane Museum.
(from Bo Zolland) This is a idea of how a Volvo V70 might look like as a contender to 2010 Pontiac G8 ST and Holden Ute cars. This could use Volvo XC90 V8 and rear wheel drive.
Over the past few months, while other commitments have kept me from venting in this venue, my far-flung colleagues have heaped much praise on a succession of flimsy econoboxes. I take comfort in knowing that most of these objects of their misguided car lust have long since been consigned to junkyards, landfill, and recycling plants. I take even more comfort in knowing that a representative sampling of these turkeys have found homes in the garages of borderline fanatical owners, and that those owners gladly spend non-trivial sums to keep the objects of their obsession in what passed for tip-top condition when they were new. To see a “Cadillac” Cimarron in the wild, so to speak, can serve as a reminder of the kind of thinking that led GM to its current state. Similarly, to see a Datsun B210 with an intact body shell, and in any kind of drivable shape at all, serves as proof that rust is no match for a big pile of money.
I wasn't a fan of these sad little vehicles when they were new, and time hasn't caused me to change that opinion. Indeed, I prefer my tin foil to be wrapped around leftover pizza, rather than turned into a car’s body panels. With that in mind, I’d like to heap some well-deserved praise on a car that belongs on any list of the best, and most important, cars ever built. That car is the Mercedes-Benz E-Class of the W124 generation, which was introduced in 1986 and remained in production through 1995. Given the huge success of the model that it replaced, the W124 needed to bring something very special to the table. Fortunately, in those pre-Lexus days “something very special” was nothing more than “business as usual” at Daimler-Benz AG.
When Lexus hit the scene it seemed as though Daimler-Benz lost the formula. The models developed in the post-Lexus environment overtly skimped on overall quality in order to accommodate ever more complex gadgets and subsystems. And, taking a page from the GM playbook, they used paying customers as the test bed for those gadgets. Rumor has it that, after a couple of decades in the wilderness, the company is back on track. We’ll see.
The W124 debuted to worldwide acclaim, receiving accolades for its ride, handling, and bank vault solidity. Over the course of its lifetime, the W124 was available as a four-door sedan or wagon, a two-door pillarless hardtop, and a convertible. Worldwide, the W124 was equipped with gas and Diesel engines ranging from 2.0 to 6.0 liters, and between 1989 and 1993 the car could be had with 4Matic all-wheel drive. Through 1993, the model names consisted of a number (roughly indicating engine size) followed by a letter code whose meaning sometimes described the body style, and sometimes didn’t. In 1994 the letter/number position was reversed, and the letter described the position of the platform in the Mercedes-Benz line. So for 1994, the 300E became the E320.
At its introduction in the U.S., the W124 was available only as a gas-powered sedan. In 1987 the W124 lineup was expanded to include a Diesel-powered station wagon, and I was given the use of a brand new one for a week. Here’s what I had to say about that car 22 years ago:
The introduction of a new Mercedes-Benz thrills me all of out proportion to the immediate effect it will have on my life. This is no big trick, because new Mercedes-Benzes have no immediate effect on my life. I am, in fact, as likely to actually buy a new Mercedes-Benz as to carry one across the Alps on my back. So why am I so thrilled each time a new Benz is introduced? Simple: forward planning. I look at every new Mercedes as a future used Mercedes, and I’m a sucker for used Mercedeses.
In fact, I’d rather have a used Mercedes-Benz than a new anything else. My recently acquired 1971 300SEL 3.5, which cost less than a well-equipped Hyundai, is as satisfying a four-door sedan as I have ever driven. It’s got a forest’s worth of burled wood, several cows worth of leather, a wonderful air suspension, and more sheer elegance than Cary Grant and William Powell put together. That it’s also burdened with some truly ancient technology, including king pins and a trick-or-treat automatic transmission, matters not a bit. If you offered to swap me a brand-new Audi 5000 for my 3.5 I’d show you the door.
I feel the same way about my 1976 450SL. At age 11 it is worth more than its original sticker price, which in turn is more than I paid for it a couple of years ago: about the same as Toyota wanted for a full-tilt Supra. Granted, the Supra is faster, quicker, handles better, and uses less fuel. But does that sleek hardtop come off in the summer? No! And will it be as rust- and rattle-free in the mid-1990s as my SL is today? Check out the average 10-year-old Japanese sports car--if you can find one--for the answer to that question.
I’ve even got a soft spot for the old “slash 8" models: the 220s, 230s, and 250s of the late 1960s and early '70s--the Ford Falcons of Mercedes-Benzes. You can buy one today for a couple of grand and with reasonable care it should take you well into the next century.
Fairness requires that I present an opposing point of view, and as it happens, I have one. First: you can keep the Diesels. They’re slow, noisy, and hard to start. And the smoke is embarrassing. And second: the W123 wagon--the 300TD through the 1985 model--could be the most boring vehicle of its type since the first generation International Travelall. That it was burdened with a Diesel engine can only be ascribed to our government’s Draconian CAFE regulations. But regardless of motive, the Series 123 300TD was doubly cursed, and I don’t want one. And here in Scarsdale, where Mercedes-Benzes are fairly thick on the ground, neither does anybody else.
It’s not that nobody in these parts needs a station wagon. (Everyone, everywhere, needs a station wagon; most folks just don’t know it yet.) No, Scarsdale has plenty of station wagons, just about every one of them a Volvo. My guess is that the locals see the 300TD as being about as exciting as yesterday’s yawn. Since station wagons themselves are perceived as being pretty dull, it’s only natural that the less boring ones get the nod. That staid old Volvo finds itself in that position indicates that some of the Turbo’s panache has rubbed off on the lesser models.
At any rate, unless I miss my guess, the station wagon demographics in Scarsdale are going to change. You see, Mercedes-Benz has a new wagon, and despite its Diesel engine I want one. It’s an all-new wagon, with an all-new engine, and in one fell swoop all of my objections to Diesels and Mercedes wagons have been swept away. The new 300TD is flat out gorgeous. It’s no surprise, these days, for wagons to be better-looking than their sedan counterparts: look at the Volvo 700 and the Audi 5000. But in the case of the Mercedes Benz 300 series the transformation is astonishing. Its body could have been created by a glass blower. We have our share of interesting cars up here, and it takes something special to rate a second look; the 300TD was openly and obviously admired by pedestrians, and by the drivers of some of pretty slick machinery. (A trip through Manhattan, where you could drive nude in a motorized hot tub without attracting much attention, evoked several positive comments from the natives, two of whom insisted upon a demonstration of the headlight washers.) To my mind, you buy the 300 sedan in spite of the way it looks, because it is such a terrific piece of engineering. The wagon, by contrast, can (and in many cases probably will) be bought on looks alone, the engineering being a nice bonus.
But what a bonus. After putting some serious miles on the 300TD I’ve come to the conclusion that it is the car that Cadillac should be (maybe is) trying desperately to build. Let me explain. Cadillacs have, for years and years, been prized for their ability to provide a sense of splendid isolation. Remember that “The Cadillac Hour” ad campaign? Driving home in the Cadillac was portrayed as being second only to a handful of Valiums as a means of calming down after a hard day at the office. And it was true. The tradeoff was control, which under all but the most serene circumstances was something you were likely to be out of. In recent years, Cadillac has done an admirable job in remedying this situation. The current Seville, for instance, handles pretty well, but as far as comfort is concerned you’d be as well off in a Cutlass Ciera. The new Cadillacs have all but forgotten they’re Cadillacs!
The new Benz, by contrast, combines isolation with control in a way that is both uncanny and a bit eerie. The car is exceptionally quiet. At speed on a smooth, straight road, wind and road noise are virtually non-existent, and the only mechanical noise to be heard is the very satisfying muted hum of the engine. So far, very Cadillac-like, no? But in the 300TD a most un-Cadillac thing happens when the road gets rough: the isolation remains! You know that the road is rough, both because you can see it, and due to the almost subliminal signals coming from the suspension, but the car continues to track straight and true, and there’s a not a hint of a squeak or rattle.
The same thing happens when you need to turn. Without telegraphing any harshness into the interior, the 300TD’s suspension provides the feedback that permits precise control of the car’s position, regardless of road surface. This is a car that doesn’t fight you. It doesn’t even reveal that the suspension is working hard, which means that the driver doesn’t have to!
The only clue to the 300TD’s lack of spark plugs comes when accelerating from rest. The engine’s torque curve is virtually flat between 2000 and 4000 RPM, but that initial run from idle to 2K, before the turbocharger gets into the act, can be tense if you’re used to the more direct response of a conventional engine. It’s not that the 300TD’s overall acceleration from rest is terribly slow; zero-to-60 is perfectly satisfactory. It’s zero-to-10 that can ups the pucker factor by an order of magnitude. That caveat aside, the new engine is terrific, with plenty of mid-range punch for passing, and a top end that makes for relaxed high speed cruising. Speaking of top end, this is one Diesel that really has one. I backed off at an indicated 100 and there was plenty left, so Mercedes’ claim of 123 mph is probably realistic. As important, I think, is the fact that the engine sounds good. Unlike most Diesels, which sound as though they’re working hard even when they aren’t, the 300’s in-line six hums contentedly at any speed.
Returning for a moment to the Cadillac analogy, let’s look at the amenities. Expensive cars, regardless of their strictly mechanical credentials, should be equipped with all sorts of doodads designed to cosset and coddle their occupants, and those doodads should work well and without fuss. The 300TD’s seats and headrests, for instance, adjust electrically via door-mounted seat-shaped controls. You move the part of the control that corresponds with the part of the seat you want to adjust. Associated with the seat controls are a pair of buttons which automatically recall two favored seating positions, along with that of the electrically-operated telescoping steering wheel. That’s clever, but even better is the fact that all adjustments takes place silently; the last time I adjusted a Seville’s seats, it sounded like a 727’s landing gear being raised.
While we’re on the subject of seats, the 300TD is available with “MB-Tex” or, for a ton of money, real leather. In years past, the choice could be made solely on a financial basis, because MB-Tex was pretty dismal stuff. No more: the wonderful world of vinyl has evolved to the extent that MB-Tex, 1987 style, is as close to the real stuff as you’re going to see. Close enough, in fact, that you could describe it as leather without being called a liar more than one in ten times. Regardless of covering, the 300TD’s front seats are a fine place in which to spend time. True to Mercedes tradition, they’re firm, but in all the right places. Because the seats have so little "give" they keep your muscles from having to make constant adjustments in order to keep you in position. This, in turn, virtually eliminates the fatigue that is inevitable after several hours on plush, but non-supportive, seats.
Is there anything bad to say about the 300TD? Absolutely: it’s got a digital outside temperature gauge, the sensor for which is mounted in a place that insures a wrong reading. In fact, the owner’s manual points this out. It does, however, read in Fahrenheit, so even though it’s wrong, it’s wrong in a number that has some meaning. The climate control, by contrast, is calibrated in Centigrade, which has nothing to do with temperature as we know it. When I was too cold I turned the dial to a higher number, and vice versa; but to me, 20 and 22 are temperatures I want to escape from, not encourage.
Beyond that, the 300TD combines more virtues in a single vehicle than any other that I’ve encountered. It handles like a sports sedan, rides like a luxury car, sips, rather than gulps fuel, and packs like a U-Haul. Its structural integrity is awesome, and if my experience is typical should remain so for years and years to come.
The big question is whether the 300TD -- or any car -- can be worth $42 grand. The answer, of course, depends upon who is doing the asking. But if you want the best sedan in the world, and need a station wagon, there’s no other choice. I can’t wait for them to appear in the classified ads!
OK, that's what I had to say in 1987. And sure enough,in 1998 I bought a nearly-mint 1988 300TE, which was the gas version of the car described above. A decade old, and with more than 100K on the clock, it was as tight, smooth, and silent as the brand-new 300TD I drove in 1987. Now, 11 years on, I’m once again thinking that a W124, maybe even one of the convertibles, deserves pride of place in my garage.
Given that the last one built is now 14 years old, you might be inclined to warn me that this could be a risky proposition. By way of reply, I commend your attention to these four videos, which document the attempt by British TV’s Fifth Gear to destroy one. (And remember, if you see it on TV, it has to be true.)
