Driving in London just for fun is as sensible as rollerblading on the autobahn. Enlisting a young fresh-off-the-boat Yank to indulge in such folly should be a felony. Yet there I was, strapped behind a steering wheel located where the glove box should be, with a carload of norteamericanos who had entrusted me with their sightseeing and their lives. As an avid reader of British car magazines who watched BBC documentaries on PBS, I convinced myself that I possessed the knowledge required for such an undertaking. I'd already shown courage under fire, surviving several days as a pedestrian on these streets without being hit, not even once. All we needed now was more petrol, and a bank loan to pay for it.

The driving truths Americans hold to be self-evident are nowhere to be found in the Land of Hope and Glory. English traffic engineers appear blissfully unaware of grid systems and four-way stops. Using street names to navigate can only lead to despair. Someone saw fit to bolt all those placards to the sides of buildings, out of eyeshot where they wouldn’t spoil the view. 

You couldn’t design a street plan like this without a hangover and a sense of humor. That centuries-old monument dedicated to King Somebodyoranother commands your immediate attention. As luck would have it, it’s in the middle of the road, and we’re heading straight for it. This marble relic has no patience for ambiguity. Choose sides. Left or right. NOW. No wonder we’ve been driving only ten minutes, and we’re already lost.

No matter. Losing your bearings doesn’t get much better than this. Stateside rental cars of that era were often shaped like soap bars and didn’t smell nearly as good. But in Old Blighty, even a mundane family saloon like this Ford Sierra could connect with your inner Schumacher.

For a kid raised on Tempos and Festivas, this shade of blue oval was nothing short of a revelation. The 1.6-liter mill wound out in ways that would have left many a bulkier Detroit four-banger for dead. The dash displayed Teutonic earnestness, controls placed where they should be. The shifter was nimble, albeit a bit awkward to an unfamiliar left hand. (Slam your customary shifting hand against the car door enough times, and you figure things out eventually.) While the passengers gawked at old buildings, my heel and toe enjoyed a workout on the roundabouts. This $4 gas was worth every pence.

Urban architecture gave way to suburbia, then to rolling verdant countryside as we barreled southward through Surrey toward West Sussex. The tourist office was kind enough to quarantine the English rain, replacing it with a glorious, warm sun. We’re not in Kansas anymore, and they’ve got the blacktop to prove it: tidy, properly paved tarmac, an invitation to dance. A Crown Vic would have been left flummoxed, but the Sierra remains composed, a willing partner for sharing this music.

We happen upon Arundel, a village known for a well-preserved castle doing double-duty as a tourist trap attraction and family home. (Note to self: Life in a drafty old house with a cover charge is overrated.) At the local café, my order of breakfast tea at 2PM was scandalous enough to unravel decades of Anglo-American diplomacy. At least we still had the car.

Back on the highway, I acquired a newfound appreciation for yellow paint. In the New World, we use it to separate opposing traffic from unplanned encounters. The Brits, however, reserve this shade to demarcate their omnipresent parking restrictions, preferring white striping for virtually everything else. Seemed like a harmless cultural difference, until a large lorry began playing chicken with us in what I could have sworn was my passing lane. With the aid of divine intervention, I hastily found fourth gear, redline and a slot on the left, barely avoiding a nasty rendezvous. One life down, eight to go.

Thankfully, the motorway spared us from further overtaking trauma. The limit was allegedly 70 mph, yet the natives took no notice. The speediest traffic easily surpassed the century mark, as slower members of the species respectfully dived out of the way. I had stumbled upon an exotic land where turn signals, courtesy and lane discipline were ways of life. As the lights of London loomed ahead on the M4, I prayed that I could be granted citizenship and a parking space. 

But alas, that England is one for the history books.  The new Cool Britannia is choking on the gristle of speed cameras, more speed cameras, congestion charges and $8 diesel. At this rate, it’s a matter of time before the Brits will have to pay just to think about driving.

Living in the past is looking like a better bet. It’s much faster there, and I can almost afford it.

Pop quiz, hot shot: What's longer than a Ford Excursion, older than the Beatles' Revolver, blacker than midnight, totally devoid of seatbelts and soon heading to the Czech Republic? The pictures don't lie: a 1965 Buick LeSabre 400. Yes, the lure of a small finder's fee and my irrational obsession for anything with four wheels has once again seen me purchase a hunk of Detroit iron for a mysterious man somewhere north of Prague. Who am I to resist?

Luckily this Buick was being held behind the Orange Curtain, which is only a 30-mile jaunt from my hilly compound near Downtown Los Angeles. As fate would have it, I still have the 1981 C3 Corvette. Cashier's check in glove box, a friend and I decided to set off to retrieve the LeSabre.

First, we decided that he should test out the 'Vette to make sure my driving companion was comfortable with the ‘Vette's thirteen inches of clutch travel and tractor-like controls. He wasn't. So we hopped into the WRX.

Thirty minutes later we were in Irvine staring at nineteen and a half feet of utter darkness, punctuated by chrome and brass. I've seen surf boards smaller than the bumpers. You could stash the entire Gambini family in the trunk. Talk about a back seat; the original wheels were passengers. All four of ‘em. With tires. It seems ludicrous that the LeSabre front seats accommodate as many as the four-door BMW X6-or is that the other way around?

Title in hand, I fired up the LeSabre and pointed it in the direction of a gas station. And then stalled. And stalled. And stalled. And stalled seven more times. The seller had warned me that the carburetor was "a little funny." Apparently, I needed to double pump the pedal to mix the fuel and air properly. Trouble is, the throttle is bottom hinged and the seat is so deep and far back that I kept messing up the mix. And stalling.

Finally, I removed my right shoe and got the big black beauty moving. Seventy-five dollars and at least a dozen stalls later, we're off.

Other than bored, alcoholic housewives who celebrate their uniqueness on reality TV, long, wide empty streets that cut straight through what used to be citrus groves are Orange County's defining feature. I pushed the Buick up to an indicated 50 mph and called my friend (who's worriedly following me) to ask how fast we're actually going. "50 mph." Well alright then, we're good to go. Or, as Farago would say, not.

You see, the aforementioned scenario occurred just before I learned that the Buick doesn't have brakes. Well, OK, there are four tired, 43-year-old Detroit drums, but they don't actually stop the car. All they do is ask nicely if the Buick LeSabre feels like slowing down. Sadly, the car's deaf.

So there I was, blissfully unaware of this mechanical deficit, about to make a 90-degree right hand turn. Long story short, apparently curves weren't a feature of American roads when the second generation LeSabre was penned. I now know what it's like to pilot a submarine. I made a mental note to increase braking distances by 1,000 percent and hopped on the freeway, heading towards Disneyland.

Traffic was light. The Buick's tweaked mill (Holley carb, Edelbrock headers) was shockingly capable of motivating nearly two tons of vintage metal up to and past freeway speeds. In fact, with the Super Turbine 400 slushbox in "D" and my foot off the gas, the LeSabre was happy to plod along at 30 mph. A light toe-tap summoned 70 mph; a decidedly comfy cruising speed.

Despite a complete lack of handling and the persistent feeling in my gut that I'm about to die, the Buick was fun. While only sporting two doors, the LeSabre has six window cranks (side quarter vents, window, rear window) and my favorite all time feature: kick-on brights. There was so much cavernous space that I could put my right arm across the back of the seat and not even get kinda close to the passenger door. And of course everybody was staring at me.

My biggest gripe was with the Buick's ride. Sure, the suspension's dropped (and shot), but the tackytastic, uber-low profile tires on massive donks make potholes feel like severe fender benders. I hit two patches of nastiness in a row and was certain I'd been rear-ended. But here's the good news. As soon as this baby hits continental Europe, my Czech benefactor will be ditching the ugly wheels and installing a disk brake kit.

Despite my rep as TTAC's resident treehugger cum racer (go figure), the LeSabre is my kind of car: a machine with genuine American style. Too bad our Ameri-Pesos are only worth seven swizzle sticks, ‘cause this baby's a keeper.

“You’re free to go.” With those hackneyed words, the Goldendale police officer returned my license. They were the very same words I’d heard in my head just a few hours earlier. At one-thirty last Sunday, my older son Ted called: “If you can drop Will [(his brother) here by three, we can take him back with us to Portland for a few days.” Cabin fever was at 103. The ninety minute deadline to pick a destination and pack the xB was just the tonic I needed. Time to head for… (flings open the atlas)… Wenatchee! Read More >

For some people, climbing into a car, starting it on the first try and driving off with reasonable confidence in actually arriving somewhere is as sacrilegious as getting communion wafers out of a vending machine. These zealots (let’s call them Tinkerers) regard motoring as a religious experience filled with arcane ritual, unfathomable mystery and fervent prayer (or at least frequent blasphemy). To members of The Church of The British Sports Car, there are few better altars than the MGB upon which to sacrifice one’s time and money. But perhaps MGB ownership is not so much automotive-hair-shirt-wearing as it is Guy Fawkes emulation: brilliant plan, ‘orrible execution.

The MGB arrived in 1962 with lightweight unibody construction propelled by literally dozens of horsepowers. It did zero to sixty miles per hour in roughly eleven seconds. It could pull a respectable 9/10ths-of-a-G on the skid pad. And the MGB would hit a top speed of 100mph “without fuss” (early evidence of journalistic pandering).

The MGB’s ever-so-British styling was simple and appealing: long hood, short deck, two seats and a drop-top; keep ‘er low to the ground and add lashings of chrome. Compared to the lead-bottomed behemoths of the time, the ‘B was a frothy delight. My Dad bought a used one. He cheated death when a gravel truck ran a red light and smacked the MGB.

Our bent MGB spent several decades in a bramble-covered barn on a corner of a neighbor’s property while several generations of rodents ate the upholstery. (Marinating a car in a medley of rust, dust and time is an important step in creating a classic/relic.) Dad would periodically check in to see how things were getting on. There was much standing around with arms folded and grand plans that never materialized. It wasn’t until the neighbor decided to knock down the barn that my father was forced to come and shift the corpse.

While the MGB was hauled off to the rack for some chiropractic frame-straightening, Dad cleaned out the garage and tried to find all the errant components of his socket set. I soon learned that automobile restoration is not so much a project with a definite ending point as it is an ongoing process, like self-improvement or, more accurately, continental drift. What other possible reason could there have been for investing several days in painting each engine component a different colour of rust-proof Tremclad?

I seemed to be primarily involved in shining the trouble light on what was, invariably, the wrong bolt. And yet what an education I was receiving! Not in the inner workings of the combustion engine, nor the basics of tool use; I learned the language of automotive repair.

Being of Irish extraction, my father was blessed with the knack for inventive cursing. My young ears soaked-up his best material. To this day, I find no salve as soothing to a crushed fingernail as the ability to earn oneself a few extra years in purgatory with an ingenious epithet.

As the years passed, and perhaps despite my father’s best efforts, the MGB drew nearer completion. And then that fateful day arrived. There was nothing left to do except fire it up. Which couldn’t be done.

“Aha!” cried Dad with barely-disguised glee, “The carburetors must need adjustment.”

Out came the wrenches. There was some last-minute choke-cable difficulty. And then the indignant spluttering gave way to a muffled roar. And that was just Dad. Still, when the bluish smoke had cleared, there she stood: a gleaming, candy-apple red Lazarus, purring as she would have done brand-new in 1967. Then she stalled.

Eventually we got her running rather lumpily. After several test-circuits, my father decided to reward all my hours of semi-incompetent grease-monkey-ism by letting me get a feel for late ‘60s motoring, UK-style.

Grasping the yacht-sized, somewhat floppy Bakelite wheel, I felt a twinge of unease. I soon discovered that the brakes favoured the Neville Chamberlain approach to forward velocity: they preferred appeasement over action. To avoid becoming a tree-ornament, constant forward planning was required. Still, with the wind in my hair, careening around a blind bend with the narrow tires squealing, I couldn’t help feeling alive; perhaps even going so far as to shout, “I don’t want to die!”

The MGB sleeps in a shed (where else?) waiting for the sunny morning when Dad will begin the pre-flight preparations necessary for taking an autumn blast through the leaves. Wherever he parks it, it will mark its territory with scattered oil patches, like an elderly and incontinent dog.

Should it unexpectedly rain, Dad will find its convertible roof as pointlessly complicated and time-consuming to assemble as the Millennium dome. My mother will need to have the phone nearby if/when an emergency SOS comes through. As for me, I’m off down the pub. On the bus.

When we last left our hero, I was dodging post-wine tasting Buicks and Caddys in a hair-brained sprint to Los Angeles before the sun went down. My steed was a sparkle-blue 1981 Corvette with non-functioning headlights. Until this point, I’d been lollygagging along in the right lane. I assumed that the ‘Vette’s engine would crap-out on me if I gave it the boot. But the fear of getting caught with no lights– and then watching the DEA strip the car to the frame– forced my foot to the firewall.

Chevy small blocks are amazing. Yes, this C3 left the factory with just 190 horses. But the mini mill stumped-up 280 ft-lbs. of torque at 1600 rpm. Sadly, I can't tell you how much of a toll the intervening 27 years exacted on the Corvette’s performance– or how fast I was going. Not because the Nixonian speedometer tops out at 85 mph. Because it wasn't working. Regardless, y'all would have loved the burble.

Amazingly, the Corvette was behaving flawlessly. The engine was strong. Sure, you can get more handling from a photograph of a Miata. But around the gentle twists of Paso Robles, the car was aces. Braking? Not so much. And when you hit 'em the car shot left and then right. But I didn’t need any stinking brakes. I had no intention of stopping.

Suddenly, just north of Santa Barbara the right headlamp popped up. As fate would have it, I had left the lights on. You could almost hear the opening bars from Flight of the Valkyrie. "Come on, come on you little shit," I started screaming at the left lamp. "Pop!" Fifteen long, gut-twisting seconds later it did. Sure, I could have got more illumination sitting on the hood and holding a Zippo, but the lights were up! I was going to make it.

If you've never been through Santa Barbara, there are two things you need to know. 1) Eat at Taqueria Super Rica 2) Don't speed.

I've received six speeding tickets in my life. Three were in Santa Barbara. Case in point: as soon as I passed the sign welcoming me to Goleta (once again travelling at sane speeds) I saw a CHP officer climbing back on his hog and a blue BMW taking off from the shoulder. Then I saw a Highway Patrol car. Then another. I would have been toast. Or tased.

Now that I was back to cruising, I had some neurons to spare to contemplate the C3. What a brilliant little car. How did it know to pop those lights then and there? And maybe those neurons were cooked a little, but I realized what was going on. The Corvette knew.

This was it: the poor thing's swan song. It's death rattle. The last chance the tri-decade dog would have to be flogged California style. Sure, they have roads in Euroland. But 'Vettes — especially C3s – were built for the Golden State. Somehow, like a race horse about to be put out to stud, the Corvette knew. This was its victory lap.

Respect. I like how the Sting Ray makes you feel dangerous. And sleazy. It's akin to driving a van with a waterbed in back. You're a bad element; daughters' mothers know it. I can't even tell you how many times I looked in my rearview and caught a wife in the passenger seat checking me and my 'Vette out. Seriously, they couldn't take their eyes off the long, sleek, blue-speckled phallus.

I stopped at the beach to snap some photos and got mobbed by surfers. I've never heard "Dude!" so many times in my life.

I didn't dare turn the engine off, for fear of losing the headlights, but looking at the C3 nestled next to the Pacific Ocean, the zeitgeist of this machine became clear. It's the 70s, man. Sex couldn't kill you. Cocaine couldn't kill you. Rock and roll would never die, but you could get more coke and sex at the disco. The world has since moved on, but this Corvette? Still super awesome.

Before I got home, I stopped off for some tacos. The locals loved the 'Vette. "Dude, that is a beautiful car." Indeed, it is. The C3’s lines are timeless, as aesthetically spot on as anything from Italy or Britain from the 70s. And light years ahead of Japan and Germany.

In fact, I'm sorry my time with this C3 was so short. The seats are comfortable, the engine can get out of its own way and the looks– to paraphrase Vince Neil– can kill. With just a little TLC I could see owning this 'Vette big time. The C3’s currently parked in an undisclosed location, awaiting the Czech's further instructions. I bet I could make Mexico in a matter of hours.

[Read Pt. 1 of 440 Miles by clicking here.] 

By most accounts, I’m a good citizen. I work, I pay taxes, I keep my crimes to myself and I call my mother at least once a week. But I have a wild side. Like a vintage race, this part of my personality just begs to be taken out and let loose from time to time. I’m not going to tell you what I spent my first Bush tax rebate on. But I will tell you that when the $600 arrives in June, I will be at a $10/$20 No Limit table. So, when I was contacted by a guy in Prague to transport a 1981 Corvette from Oakland to a container ship in Los Angeles, I jumped at the chance. How could I lose?

It gets worse: The purchaser– whom we’ll call “Bob”– was actually a middle man for another Czech guy. The plan: wire transfer me the money for the merchandise, a one-way plane ticket and a small fee. You haven’t lived until you’re emailed your bank account info to a former communist country. I telephoned the seller to ask if he wanted a money order or a cashier’s check for the ‘Vette. “Cash,” was his not entirely unpredictable answer.

As I was unsure of the feasibility of a big cash withdrawal on a Saturday, I boarded a flight in Burbank with fifty-five $100 bills burning a worry-hole in my pocket.

Aside from a horrific speckled blue paint job, the Vette’s exterior looked ship shape. The interior was in remarkably good condition, too, with just the usual litany of malaise era Detroit bugaboos — shot HVAC, busted electric seats and a sun cracked dash. After handing over the bankroll, the seller fired her up.

As I headed out on the 880 towards the 101, a Led Zeppelin rock block started. Talk about apropos. “Hey hey mama said the way you move, going make you sweat, gonna make you groove!” Man, I was loving this. And felt just like a Jersey pot dealer. Hey, for all I knew, the gas tank was half-filled with smack.

By the time the last few chords of California ended, I was miserable. The turn signal lever had come off in my hand. There was no way to stop the hot air coming out of the vents, which meant I had to keep the windows down. On the freeway. The clutch literally has 14 inches of travel, and someone in the Czech Republic will be rebuilding a Chevy tranny sooner than later. Did I mention that the shocks are completely blown, and that the T-Tops sound as if they’re about to crack over every single road imperfection? Anyway…

My plan was to do the deed during daylight hours on a Saturday. I opted to take the slower, longer and more congested 101 because I’d be better off if the Corvette broke down. I also wanted to stop along the way and take some pretty pictures of the car along the coast, in a vineyard and maybe even parked in a mustard field.

Besides, the wind was a lot less annoying at 65 mph than at 80 mph. Also, why push it? The poor thing’s nearly as old as I am. All of that changed when I got to the Madonna Inn.

Figuring the garishness of the Corvette could only be matched by the surreal boorishness of the Inn, I stopped to snap some photos. And since C3s look so cool with their headlights up, I figured I’d pop ‘em. Only they wouldn’t pop. It was 3:00 pm, the day before daylight savings kicks in. I had 200 miles to go, and the last 30 of those were through Saturday night LA Traffic. I was now racing the sun.

Murliee Martin had been nice enough to check the Corvette out a few weeks before I showed up, so I called him. “There’s no headlights!” I shouted. “OK,” he replied. “You need to build up vacuum pressure. Take it up to 95 mph, shift into second, and let the engine haul you down to 40 mph.”

I’ve heard a lot of bad noises come out of cars in my day, but nothing quite like this. Imagine whacking a dozen circular saw blades with a crowbar. You get the idea, kinda.

I called Murilee back. “Nothing!” I screamed. “It’s probably a fuse,” he said. “You don’t have taillights either.”

So let’s recap: At this point I’m flying through wine country traffic without turn signals, headlights or taillights in a nearly 30-year-old example of the UAW’s finest work that’s titled to some guy in central Europe. And the gas tank’s (probably) stuffed with heroin. Yeah, this was big and dumb.

[Read 400 Miles Part 2 by clicking here . ] 

For me, driving bliss is all about the setting. Give me an empty road, spectacular scenery, good company and the freedom to explore without an itinerary or time constraints, and I’m in Heaven. Sure, a nice set of wheels enhances the pleasure. But if it came down to it, I’d take an inexpensive reliable car and an endless open road over a garage full of under-used toys that never really get off their leash. I knew the basic formula intuitively in my youth. Read More >

The Buick Roadmaster Estate Wagon was God’s gift to Perry Como fans and the very last of the great all-American trucksters. It was also my gift to the family for last year’s Christmas road trip. I figured I’d nix my penchant for narrow European wagons to forestall the cantankerous habits of our two darling creatures. They needed space. We needed space… and boy, did this car have space!

The plan was to put my kids in the third seat, which was nearly a mile away from the Roadmaster’s front seats. Of course, I’d forgotten one important detail: no child tethers in the way back. So, there was to be no parole for Mom and Dad. On the positive side, by the time we were ready to take the Woody out of port, my wife had taken one look across her endless prow (the car’s) and decided that I would be the sole captain of the good ship Roadmaster.

Back in the day, the Roadmaster was an automotive mastodon. When the big Buick appeared in the late 90’s, large, bulbous, body-on-frame rear, wheel-drive wagons were about as fashionable as plaid pants and pipe tobacco. SUV’s, minivans and four-door pickups were all vying for the title of the all-American family vehicle. The Buick and its sister cars gathered dust in GM showrooms, lonely and unloved. Not even an LT1 small block V8 (transplanted from the Chevy Corvette) could save these siblings from instant obscurity. By 1997, the Roadmaster had gone the way of peckerwood golf clubs. It was, literally, history.

But what a piece of history. If ever a car represented the great American “living room on wheels” style, it was the Roadmaster. The expansive leather seats are thick and comfortable enough to turn the most aggressive pistonhead into a laid back Lay-Z-Boy. It came with electric everything, of course. The interior wood trim is made from a real tree, and the controls make iDrive seem like what it is (a ridiculously complex piece of equipment of dubious utility). You won’t find steering wheel buttons, and the GPS is a Rand-McNally map moldering in the glove box, but didn’t someone say “space is the ultimate luxury?” Or was it something about screaming?

Anyway, the Roadmaster’s a packrat’s dream. Big or small, short or tall, there’s plenty of space for it. The Buick’s rear glass window (close to the size of a solarium) slides up and down and the tailgate swings out or lowers. The fold down second row seats liberates a good hectare of cargo space. In fact, there’s more space in the back of a Roadmaster than entire small cars of its era. If the roof were high enough, a Geo Metro would fit inside.

When it comes to driving dynamics, the Roadmaster was built for drivers who understand both the metaphorical and literal meaning of staying on the straight and narrow. The 350 V8 and four-speed automatic will cruise all day at 85 to 90 mph, and never even see 2500 rpm.

Finally there’s the issue of exterior aesthetics. Contrary to what the modern day sewing circles and soccer contingents say, a woody wagon is indeed a beautiful thing to behold. Forget all those anodyne crossovers, minivans, SUVs and CUVs. The Roadmaster is American. And not just a ‘me-too’ American. A feel good, “I dig all things America!” American.

Maybe that’s why people smile at the Roadmaster, give it a thumbs up, and even mouth out the loving words (with and without irony) “Nice Woody!” A well-kept woody wagon is the equivalent of a well-lighted Christmas display during the holiday season. My kids fell in love with all the attention they got from the passer-by’s, which helped keep things on even keel during our sojourn. While my wife used the words “cold dead hands” when I asked if she would ever be willing to exchange her Volvo for the Buick, it’s not an inconceivable choice.

IF you’re willing to do without an LT1 engine, Buick Roadmaster wagons are reasonably priced. Taxis and police cars from that era were blessed with interchangeable parts; there were literally millions of parts for this powertrain combination, and they were all built to last. A car like the Roadmaster would in fact be the perfect cheap car for the long haul– if only you lived near an oil well.

Most owners of modern day trucks and trucklets won’t be fazed by the Roadmaster’s penchant for petrol. Still, as a daily commuter over long distances, as a vehicle that you have to, at some point park, the big Buick is all kinds of wrong. A Woody Roadmaster wagon is best for road trips, Home Depot runs and weekend rides with the family. It will give you a hankering for old cassette tapes and Norman Rockwell paintings. It’s Americana incarnate.

What eye-candy poster was pinned up on your bedroom wall when you were thirteen? A black Lamborghini Countach sprouting numerous spoilers? Farah Fawcett-Majors with blindingly-white teeth? Metallica? KISS? What I gazed lovingly upon– whilst sprawled across my bed– was a giant detailed cross-sectional drawing of a Chrysler hemi engine. Thus was the spell that the mythical engine had on me. Read More >

One of the rare examples of altruism in pistonheads concerns the (nearly extinct) American station wagon. They passionately defend the one automotive genre that the vast majority of American consumers wouldn’t be caught dead in (excepting a hearse). Why so much love for a car shape that’s been fading from the American scene for the best part of 25 years? The passion comes from recognition. The reality we’ll have to blame on Darwin and his stupid birds.

Wagons increase a car’s cargo space without altering the donor car’s fundament shape. They’re a bit heavier and generally a little shakier than their sedan siblings, but still offer car-like driving dynamics. This is important to enthusiasts, who value driving dynamics sur tout. Ironically, pistonheads hate compromises; generally speaking, they don’t buy wagons. But they recommend them to others– especially SUV owners– based on the combination of handling and hauling.

The other reason American pistonheads root for the station wagon: foreign car magazines and websites are full of them. They have them, we don’t. So they must be really good, right? Well, maybe, but first we need to have a little talk about the birds.

When Charles Darwin was hanging out down in the Galapagos, he had a thing for finches. While there were many different types of finches on the islands, Darwin figured they were all descended from a single type of bird. Responding to their environment (a.k.a. natural selection), one species had expanded into a dozen [car word now] niches. 

Most foreign car markets divide cars into classes based on some combination of size and engine power. These classes are taxed at ever steeper rates as you move “up” the list. And the roads upon which they drive are narrower than our American highways and byways. This creates a demand for getting as much “bang for buck” on the smallest possible platform. Natural selection favors Eurowagonophilia.

On this side of the pond, save the gas guzzler tax and the ongoing financial penalties imposed by low mpg vehicles, the US has no size-related vehicular fees. If an American non-pistonhead wants a bit more space, there’s very little reason not to buy a SUV/CUV/Minivan. The price difference between a “normal” size (two-row) station wagon and a small “box” vehicle is minimal. 

The old rear-drive (three-row, with a penalty box) wagon has no advantage on a minivan/big CUV other than cornering. And who buys a people-hauler for that? This also explains why “small” three-row haulers (MPV/Villager, the old Odyssey, Tribeca) have such low sales; there isn’t enough price “room” for them to compete with the big boys.

It’s not that manufacturers haven't tried– and tried again– to sell station wagons. Fifteen years ago, the first car Honda designed in the USA was the Accord Wagon. For years, it was the most-exported American-built car. Back in Ohio, the most common sales drivers for the Honda wagon were transplanted Japanese employees encouraged to “drive local.” When the Accord design was split into USA and “rest of the world,” the Acura TL was brought to the states and the wagon was kept small and built overseas.

If this seems like the destruction of a tradition, it really isn’t. The “classic” large American wagon was a fairly recent development, dating from the “new” car designs of the late 1940s. Earlier “station wagons” looked a lot like modern SUV/CUVs. The Chevy Suburban was called a “station wagon” at its introduction.

Right from the beginning, these new wagons were criticized for their lack of utility. The classic 1960 book “Insolent Chariots” not only criticized contemporary vehicles for being all flash, it also ripped station wagons for being useless for camping and other duties (he wanted a Jeep, before Jeeps were that big). While VW buses, International Scouts, and “custom” vans cut into the “utility” market for the next 20 years, it was the minivan that killed the large wagon segment. 

The “secret” to the minivan was packaging. By using a “car-like” uni-body and transverse engine, minivans could haul like a wagon on a much smaller platform and offer genuine rear seats to boot. If you still needed to tow, there were always an SUV. As gas stayed cheap through the mid ‘80’s into the ‘90’s, more people moved into the “safer” (and much more commodious) SUVs and the new uni-body CUVs. The wagon had been well and truly “niched.”

Is the wagon due for an American revival? Doubtful. There’s always demand for a more space-efficient car– especially if utility not performance is the major selling point. Subaru and Volvo still sell a lot of wagons, but they are not in the heart of the market. The heart of the market either wants a car to drive or something to haul stuff. They don’t like to pay extra to do neither as well.

If there’s any doubt that the ’57 Chevy is THE iconic American car, it’s been erased. Long the favorite with the hot rod and collector crowd, the classic Chevy has now attained automotive immortality: they’re making new ones again from scratch. For $180k, you can buy a brand new 1957 Bel Air Convertible assembled from reproduction parts. The story of how the ’57 Chevy (and its ’55 – ’56 predecessors) became a living legend is worth repeating, since it includes some lessons still relevant today. Read More >

The Big Three entered the 1980’s in typical Three Stooges fashion. GM (Moe) knocked the other two automakers’ heads together, and then gloated over the market share he’d stolen– oblivious to the imports stealing it right back from under his nose. Mild-mannered Larry (Ford) scratched his professorial pate, and cooked up a brilliant scheme to avoid getting hit in the coming (import) brawl. And buffoon Curley (Chrysler) lay on the floor, doing his dry-swimming antics in a desperate attempt to draw attention to his only product: K cars.

GM’s ability to outspend Ford and Chrysler in the first round of seventies-era downsizing paid off, Big Style. In 1978, GM enjoyed a 48% share of the domestic market. During the eighties, Uber-Moe Roger Smith (of Roger and Me fame) staged one of the greatest tragi-comedy acts in industrial history. By 1989, GM’s market share fell to 35%.

GM’s efforts to re-invent their compact cars crashed. Literally. The company claimed their 1980 front wheel-drive X-Bodies (Citation, Phoenix, Omega and Skylark) offered “BMW-like performance and handling.” Note the omission of “braking.” Bereft of a $14 weight-sensing proportioning valve on the rear brakes, X-Bodies were known for their tell-tale kamikaze rear-tire screech– and the subsequent crunch as they found their next victim. Smart buyers/drivers gave them a wide berth.

Two years later, GM introduced their J-car sub-compacts (Cavalier and clones). Chevrolet General Manager Robert Lund announced their arrival with characteristic pugnacity. “We’re tired of hearing how the domestic auto industry let the Japanese take the subcompact business away from us. The whole Chevrolet organization is spoiling for a fight.”

Yes, well, the Cavalier’s design wasn’t particularly hot or competitive; pitting it against the increasingly sophisticated imports was like bringing a rubber band to a knife fight. Keeping it essentially unchanged for 23 years was like watching that same fight on an endless loop.

Mid-decade, GM embarked on an unprecedented act of auto self-mutilation. In the first bloody stroke, the Cadillac DeVille, Buick Electra and Oldsmobile 98– The General’s grandest luxury sedans– were reduced to Camry size, and fitted with front wheel-drive, 125 hp, 14” tires and tinny fake-wire hubcaps.

The Seville, Eldorado, Toronado and Riviera were next. GM reduced them to puny “eunuch-mobiles” (Oxenado?). The $27k Eldorado was now virtually undistinguishable from a $9k Buick Somerset compact, in both styling and size. Build and interior quality were equally miserable. The Cavalier-based Cimarron, Skyhawk and Firenza destroyed any remaining premium value of the once proud Cadillac, Buick and Oldsmobile divisions. Enter Lexus, BMW, Mercedes and Infiniti.

During the eighties, Ford was Camelot. CEO Donald E. Peterson was a smart, modest and plainspoken “car guy”. He motivated the Ford troops like no one since, instructing his minions to focus their efforts on higher quality, smaller, more efficient cars.

Peterson gambled the precariously-weak Ford farm on the pioneering aero-look ’83 T-Bird and ’86 Taurus. The T-Bird soared again and the Taurus went to the top of the charts– to become the bulls-eye for the Japanese darts Camry and Accord.

Ford also introduced a dumbed down version of their first “global-car” (the diminutive Escort) and the Tempo. While both models were forgettable, they sold well enough.

When Peterson left Ford in 1990, Ford’s Big Boss expressed grave concerns about the future of the U.S. auto industry. A reporter wrote “The word survival came up a lot [in our discussion]. It’s no joke to ask how much of our home-grown auto industry will exist in a generation from now.”

Peterson’s successors dropped the ball. By 1992, Ford’s lackluster line-up led the company into a $7.39b loss and a potential Chapter 11.

The 1979 government bail-out left Chrysler a shell of its former self. Development budgets evaporated. The K-car, Omni-Horizon, and the ancient hold-over RWD Diplomat (nee Volare) were the only toys in Lee Iacocca’s box. The seemingly endless stream of photo-chopped variants gave testimony to his fertile but tasteless imagination.

Fortunately for Chrysler, its “K-car in a box” (a.k.a. the Caravan/Voyager mini-vans) were an instant hit. In 1987, Iacocca went two-for-two, spending a measly $1.1b to buy AMC/Jeep.

And yet, by the end of the decade, the import brands were devouring The Big Three’s passenger-car lunch. The Three Stooges didn’t really care. By that time, the domestic market had become SUV and truck mad; the profits were phenomenal.

Once again, Detroit thought themselves triumphant. They failed to realize that they’d been lucky; cheap gas and the marketplace had evolved in their favor, rather than the other way around. When safety, rising gas prices and environmentalism eventually convinced American buyers to abandon the SUV genre for smaller, more efficient alternatives, Detroit suddenly found itself at an evolutionary dead end.

GM, Ford and DaimlerChrysler are now looking abroad, trying to marshal their global resources to develop passenger car salvation to their union-influenced domestic woes. Live or die, the past has finally caught up with Detroit.

Those of us who lived through the 1970’s have thrown out, remodeled or psycho-analyzed away any lingering echoes of those economically, socially and politically divisive years. But the decade of pet rocks, big hair, anti-war protests, moon landings, presidential pardons, drug-addled introspection, Middle Eastern war and convulsive oil shocks left the Big Three’s collective psyche permanently altered. In some ways, they never recovered.

The Big Three entered the bushy-sideburns decade with the super-size-me version of the formula they’d been frying up for decades. Mega-full-size cars (longer than today’s Suburban), double-pattie mid-sizers, and quarter-pounder “compacts” were deemed the ideal diet for “real Americans”. And for those financially challenged unpatriotic import lovers: a barely-edible gruel of half-baked Pintos, Vegas, and Crickets.

If you had to pick a moment when The Big Three’s hegemony ended, it’s October 17, 1973. On that day, the Organization of the Petroleum Exporting Countries (OPEC) initiated an embargo that effectively doubled the cost of crude oil. And the resulting price shock tipped the U.S. economy into recession. Even worse, Americans experienced massive gas shortages.

Overnight, the American gas guzzler ceased to be an unassailable statement of personal prosperity. For many, it became a symbol of individual and national vulnerability, irresponsibility and weakness. Without warning, The Big Three’s big car dreams had become a nightmare.

As big car sales plunged, the federal government began tightening safety and emissions regulations. CAFE regulations were born. The rules uglified bumpers and choked the life out of Detroit’s V8’s. Imports, especially Japanese, flooded into the U.S. And this time the cars were well-built, durable, efficient, and backed by nationwide dealers. There was no getting around it: Detroit’s way of thinking was under serious attack.

The General launched a wave of Vegas and badge-engineered clones, and derivatives: Pontiac Astre and Sunfire; Buick Skyhawk, Chevy Monza and Oldsmobile Starfire. The engine choices were an abomination: Vega’s shake, rattle and blow four, Buick’s “odd-firing” V6, and a small-block Chevy V8 sleeved, de-stroked and strangled to 110 hp. All these H-Bodies came with a 24 month “will-rust-through” guarantee (36 months in CA) and a crow bar to pry out rear-seat passengers.

GM’s answer to the Toyota Corona and Datsun 510, for buyers looking for an economical 4-door compact? The not-so-small Nova and its clones the Pontiac Ventura, Buick Apollo, and Olds Omega. Just the ticket, especially with the 5.7 V8 and 16 EPA-optimistic miles per gallon. A practical wagon version? No such luck.

Ford (predictably) imitated GM’s genetic-engineering experiments. Unfortunately, their stem-cell line was no more distinguished than GM’s. The Pinto was cloned (Mercury Bobcat) and genetically-modified (Mustang II) with unpalatable results.

Chrysler’s Omni-present daydreams about a small, modern FWD car were still on the far Horizon. In the meantime, their desperation-driven hook-up with Mitsubishi set a pattern for the Big Three’s “if you can’t fight them, hop into bed with them” anti-Japanese import strategy.

Or was it a reverse Trojan horse deal? While the arrangement put Japanese-made Colts into Dodge showrooms, Mitsubishi eventually hung out their own shingle. Ditto for Suzuki, Isuzu and Mazda. These tenuous trans-pacific affairs wouldn’t be resolved for decades, but it’s pretty obvious who walked away smiling from the inevitable divorce.

Nineteen seventy-six saw two significant car introductions: Honda’s Accord and Chevrolet’s Chevette. They weren’t direct price-range competitors, but they were prescient examples of their respective manufacturer’s best shots in the small-car arena.

The Chevette arrived in celebratory red, white and blue bi-centennial bunting. Its only claim to fame: it single-handedly created (and dominated) a new category– pizza delivery vehicle. Chevette-amnesia became a national phenomena in the 1980’s.

The Accord threw down a gauntlet that literally shocked everyone– including Toyota– with its sophistication, refinement and poise. The Accord set the enduring template for the modern American car.

Suffering from rapid-onset ADD, GM was distracted by its big-car problems. In the largest US industrial investment since WW II, GM and Ford retooled their factories to “downsize” their range of cars. Chrysler, the perpetual poor relation, couldn’t match the spending spree.

Their solution: kill the big cars, and transfer their names unto the mid-size range. This shell-game strategy landed them on the Capitol steps with hands outstretched.

GM’s first round of downsizing was relatively successful, especially with its full-size models. Case in point: the new 1977 Impala was within inches and 200 lbs. of the classic ’55 – ’57 Chevy. The Impala looked clean and handled well. And it became an evergreen– until the 1991 “blob-mobile” Caprice reverted to old habits.

The economic recovery of the late 70’s and GM’s enormous downsizing investment paid off (for a few short years). In 1978, GM reached its all time US market share high of almost 50%, and the Feds were seriously talking about splitting up the company. Once again, cigars were passed. Kool-Aid drunk. This time Chrysler abstained.

“You’re not like other adults. You’re like a big kid.” My nephew made this observation after I’d guided my Porsche C4 through an impossibly tight corner, accompanied by a rebel yell. Max’s assessment of my temperament was not entirely correct. In my forty-seven years, I’ve met a few souls who also experience frequent bursts of child-like enthusiasm. In fact, one of the main reasons I love cars is that I love people whose love of cars keeps them young. Of course, the flipside of that ‘tude is that it can kill you dead.

I learned this lesson in The Land of Hope and Glory. Back in the day, sports car ownership was booming. Nigel Mansell (and then Damon Hill) were tearing up F1 racing. Evo magazine had just launched. The UK government had decided that the world’s second safest roadway system required thousands of hidden speed cameras and an armada of unmarked “Talivans.” And companies had discovered that hooning about on a race track qualified as a tax-deductible “team building” exercise.

There was plenty of scope for said hoonery. As one of motor racing's original homes, the UK is lousy with racetracks. The majority of these automotive arenas pre-date the Jackie Stewart-inspired safety era by a considerable margin; run off areas are conspicuous by their absence while cement "barriers" abound. Speaking of which, most of these competitive crucibles hadn’t been properly paved since the Korean war– if ever. 

Inexperienced owners of overpowered automobiles drove to these ramshackle racetracks in droves. As did F1 aficionados, desperate to live out their Walter Mitty fantasies. And purist pistonheads questing for the perfect racing line. And chronic speeders. And testosterone-crazed corporate slaves, trying to bolster their water cooler status. The end result was fairly predictable: a smorgasbord of barely controlled speed, with a side table of crumpled metal.

The “open track day” was the ultimate expression of the UK’s petrol-powered amateur hour. After watching a Ferrari slam into a guardrail, I began the morning in question with a track familiarization session.

So there we were, Speed Racer and three helmeted acolytes, banging around a racetrack in a, wait for it, Ford Mondeo. The fact that Speed was driving a bog standard family saloon didn’t fool me for a second. I wedged myself into the door and hung on.

The first couple of laps were placid enough, filled with a barrage of barely comprehensible instructions: “Turn in here. Use that tree for a braking point. Don’t overcook it through this turn.” Etc. And then Speed shut up and did what failed race car drivers do best: scare the shit out of civilians.

Actually, given my ability to make peace with the possibility of death, I wasn’t scared. But I was nauseous. When Speed finally turned off the track, I felt like I’d just stepped off the Pepsi Max Big One roller coaster. 

The training session did nothing to curb my enthusiasm. Obviously, I drove my F355 around that track with none of Speed’s skill; missing braking points and stringing together corners like a two-year-old describing her day. But I had a hundred times more fun. I mean, Speed hadn’t cackled once. And I bet he never dove into a corner with Little Feat’s Fat Man in the Bathtub blaring out of his radio.

To make a long story 800 words, I parked the Ferrari (slipping clutch and all) and went looking for a ride. The possibilities were mind-blowing. Ferrari F50, lightweight Jaguar E-Type, Lamborghini Diablo, Porsche Turbo, TVR Chimera, AC Cobra– ALL the cars of my adrenal dreams were there, lining up for action. I was hopping up and down like a little kid.

For some reason, the effete owners of these mad machines were reluctant to accommodate a rabid American with a bad case of helmet hair. And then a dentist offered me a ride in his Lotus Esprit V8.

From the moment we took off, I knew I was in the hands of an expert. I’m not exactly sure how he did it, but we were passing everyone. Oh my Lord, it was fun. And then we powered into the straight for the second time.

Actually, it was more like a 185mph corner. And somewhere in the middle of the “bend” the Lotus twitched. Badly. The dentist swore. “That was close,” he pronounced. And that was it: fun gone.

In that single instant, I grew up. I suddenly realized that race tracks are NOT all fun and games. That putting my inner child behind the wheel was a direct route to infanticide.

I still get excited about cars and driving fast and driving fast cars fast. But I now have an inner parent. I’m not saying I always listen to it, but it’s there. Well, some of the time.

The Big 2.5 are floundering about, looking for new product ideas. And no wonder. Does anyone really think the beleaguered domestic automakers have the time, talent, energy and money to develop a Camcordima beater? A [profitable] B-segment car that can take on the Fit, Yaris or Versa? A luxury car to rival the Germans? As the founder of Federal Express said, the trick in business is not to do something a little better than the other guy. The trick is to do something different. Anybody remember the El Camino?

The iconic Chevrolet El Camino– half car, half truck– arrived in ’59. The original was based a full-sized Chevrolet Impala, sidewise tailfins and all. In 1964, the El Camino returned from hibernation as a variant of the mid-sized Chevelle/Malibu in ‘64. In ’68, the El was joined by the GMC Sprint, complete with an optional LS6 V8.

As “real” trucks increased in popularity, sales of the GM twins dwindled. Twenty years ago, after producing some 537k "elcos," GM pulled the plug on the Caballero (nee Sprint).

The El Camino was preceded and then mirrored by the Ford Ranchero. From ’57 onwards, the Ranchero’s development followed a similar theme, evolving atop the Fairlane, Falcon, Torino and Thunderbird/LTD platforms. The Ranchero faded from the scene in the mid-‘70’s, probably slinking off the automotive stage from the sheer embarrassment of having to wear imitation wood siding like a Country Squire.

There have been more than a few attempts at a nouveau camino. Most prominently, Subaru offered US consumers the BRAT (Bi-drive Recreational All-terrain Transport) and Baja (which bowed out last April). Chrysler served-up the Dodge Rampage and Plymouth Scamp (based on the Omni/Horizon platform). It must be said that none of these models set the American sales charts on fire.

The Honda Ridgeline is, perhaps, the only remaining modern equivalent, and it's WAY too ugly to consider a bona fide member of the "elco" family. Of course, the minivan platform sharing Ridgeline is [officially] a truck, which points to one of the main reasons why the El Camino disappeared from the scene.

When federal CAFE standards were introduced in ’75, the emissions and mileage requirements were far tougher on cars than “light trucks." A burgeoning selection of small pickups (e.g. the Ford Ranger) helped put the last nails in the El Camino's coffin compatible coffin.

New CAFE legislation bases required mileage on a given vehicle’s footprint, rather than averaging out an entire fleet. So, while trucks are still less hampered than cars, an El Camino shaped door has opened. The fact that Ford has completely neglected the Ranger and Dodge has supersized the Dakota only helps matters.

Ford has all the ingredients in its corporate cupboard to resurrect the concept. The Mustang needs only a little rework from the driver’s seat back. Use the same doors, quarter panels and rear floor; chop the roof, add a vertical window and the interior of the load bed, and there you have it. (The ‘Stang’s “antiquated” rear axle would become a genuine advantage/selling point for load luggers.)

For less than FoMoCo pays Carroll Shelby to sign a few autographs, a Ford is born. Call it the Ranchero and brag that it’s the fastest pickup on the market. That would spike up Mustang sales, just in time to help fight off the two C’s (Camaro and Challenger).

Chrysler could also resurrect the genre. The 300/Magnum/Charger platform is rear wheel-drive (a must if a truck is to have any kind of macho credentials) with a wide variety of engine choices. Of these, the Magnum is the best candidate for “caminoization.

Since it was designed as a station wagon (despite whatever DCX wants to call it), the Dodge Magnum already has the required length. Get rid of the back doors, truncate the roof (but keep the “chopped” appearance), and finish off the bed. Voila! Instant niche vehicle. While they’re at it, DCX should reinforce the chassis a bit and offer a towing package. With the Hemi, the Magnamino could easily pull ski boats, jet skis and small camping or utility trailers.

FoMoCo and DCX will have to move fast if they want to be the first on the retro elco block. GM is set to import their Australian division's Holden Commodore as the new Pontiac G6. Holden sells an El Camino-like variant called the Ute that's just begging for an American passport (both the paper and the radar detector). If they don’t badge it a Chevy and sell it as an El Camino, I'm going home. And yet…

The Chevrolet SSR reminds us that niche vehicles are a risky business. But the Big 2.5 have their collective backs against the wall. If they make a few low-cost bold moves sideways, they just might find some of the new product salvation they seek.