As a boy in the pre-internet early sixties, I became obsessed with unveiling the secrets of that inexplicably alluring object of male interest. I had a general notion of what transpired within: the rhythmic in and out motions, the frenzy of moving members, the rapid inhalations, the (hopefully) synchronized explosions, and in their wake, the murmur of exhalations. Yes, the inner mysteries of the internal-combustion engine sang their siren song, and I was powerless to resist.

Three days after our psychedelic nocturnal journey to America, my family arrived at our final destination: Iowa. The transition was a rude awakening, from a fantastic dream straight into a bad nightmare. We’d traded Austria’s alpine vistas for New York’s towering skyscrapers and wide freeways, and then watched the modern world evaporate in the blazing sun, replaced by endless corn fields and arrow-straight gravel roads.

My first glimpse of America: looking down on a freeway at night, with glow-worm toy cars and a perfect cloverleaf. It was just like the picture of GM’s World of Tomorrow exhibit at the 1939 New York World Fair that I’d seen in an old book. We were circling to final approach at New York International airport, having left Austria (and micro-cars) behind forever.

Back in the day, Subaru couldn’t afford to build a new vehicle to compete in the smoking hot SUV sector. So they took an Impreza, jacked it up a couple of inches, raised the roof and reskinned the body. The result was a hit, and helped define the modern small CUV. Ten years later, the Subaru Forester battles on, facing its third gen competitors (Honda CRV and Toyota RAV4) with nothing more than a few questionable sheet metal creases, a spiffed up interior, and the addition of the turbocharged XT model. The CUV pool’s getting more crowded by the day, and, compared to the Subie’s well-worn REI fleece, the competition looks like its wearing designer duds. We checked out an XT to answer a simple question: is it a classic or a relic? 

My first memories are of the womb. The enveloping warmth, the soothing sounds that correlated to alien activity. I remember the sensations of being propelled: forward, stop, turning, forward again, the gentle g-forces rolling me delicately from side to side, ensconced in my snug compartment on all sides, conscious of the rounded form that surrounded me. My first ride was a VW.

It’s easier to convince an Evangelical that Christ was a grifter than to persuade pistonheads to give up their regular oil change. Yea, verily, the maniacal motorists believe in the healing power of regular visits to the Church of St. Pennzoil. And they certainly have the Gospel of Jiffy Lube on their sides: Thou shalt change thy oil every 3k miles or your engine will blow up in an explosion of fire and brimstone. Well I hereby give pistonheads permission to skip their next regularly scheduled motor oil change. And the one after that one. In fact, if you’re not planning to keep your car for all eternity, consider forgetting oil changes altogether.

When dairy cows go dry, farmers have them “freshened” (that’s what bulls are for). Chrysler’s long-time cash cows, its minivans, have gone dry. After an eleven year hiatus, the bulls have been busy. The embattled carmaker will reveal the long overdue “freshening” of their once mighty Dodge Caravan / Chrysler Town and Country models at the Detroit auto show in January. The re-styled ’08 minivans are critical to Chrysler’s profits. Will they restore their fruitful dominance or produce a mere blip on a sales chart with a decidedly downwards trajectory?