Welcome to The Department Of Past Issues. I started this because it combines both my love for writing and my affinity for automotive literature, primarily past issues of “Buff Books,” the magazines that were so very popular in the twentieth century, the means by which car news and culture was transmitted. Not instantaneously, like today, but with lead times and deadlines and postage costs, as opposed to cable or internet access fees.
The waning days of the nineteenth century saw the beginning of the transition from a livestock based system of individual transport to externally and internally powered means of getting around. Of course writers, seeing an opening to scribble about something new, seized on the opportunity, and the automotive press was born.
Here in the U.S., it was The Horseless Age, which became The Automobile in 1909, then changed to Automotive Industries in 1917, which it has kept to this day. In Britain, it was, and is The Autocar, with ‘the’ being dropped in 1962. Both of those venerable publications were founded in 1895.
To know something about the cars is also to know something aboout the man.
L.J.K. Setright, from the introduction to “The Designers.”
But, we’re not here to speak of those publications- much. I grew up devouring the popular American magazines, Car & Driver, Road &Track, as well as Hot Rod, Car Craft, and some of the more exotic British titles, and sundry others.
Have I mentioned the hardcover books yet? Lurking in the stacks of the libraries of my 70’s and 80’s youth were some amazing books, filled with illustrations, called Plates, photos of the subject vehicles and personalities that the text discussed. If you’re wondering what this place is about, that’s part of it. But books, mostly, and cars. And books about cars. And magazines about cars, and because this is the 21st century, websites about cars.
Her name was Karen, before it became an epithet. She lived in a corner of California called Burney, a spot between Redding and Nevada on 299. She worked at a radio station, spinning country greats for the folks who lived in the burg, along with a guy whose name I forget who had the morning shift at the Burney radio station. A.M. , I forget the call sign.
It’d been a couple of weeks since we’d seen one another, and this particular week, her boys were with their father, so she asked me to attempt the drive, since it was snowy in the mountains. I agreed and made plans, one doesn’t need to imagine the warmth of a love against the cold.
The weather in the valley and the mountains was clear and cold, no precipitation expected; but this was over forty years ago, and weather was a VERY educated guess then.
Bag packed, warm clothes, gloves, a hat, a few bucks, and I was on the way. The directions? Go to Redding, turn right.
Redding was dry and cold. I may have topped the tank there, or maybe it was at the truck stops on 5, again, no recollection of those mundane things.
What I do recall were my emotions, primarily my anxiety at having no chains on a snowy road, and my lack of experience driving on said surfaces. But as the snow thickened, I remembered what I’d read: no abrupt moves, gentle throttle, smooth input.
The car’s rear swung out, and I caught it, but the inevitable oscillation due to inexperience began. I lifted off, then shifted up to fourth and modulated the throttle and breathed. The road began its climb, and the 2 liter’s torque almost had its way with the car, but a bare lift off the gas, letting torque have its way saw me up the grade, and past a CHP Blazer driven by a residential officer. I tamped down my panic and proceeded, relieved that I drew no official attention.
What is late? What is early? The housemate was somewhere else with his partner, and I had a key, and I was expected.
The kid was in the office, his lube tech duties done for the day.
“So what’s your next car?” The kid asked. Kiddo had just traded a ratbucket Jetta for a ’21 Camry XSE. A Camry that’s fast, and handles.
Fast Camrys that went around corners weren’t a thing a decade ago, so I was quite surprised at the car’s speed and poise after driving an XSE at the local auto show in 2019.
“I’m good right now.” I answered, adding that the Infiniti ticked all of the boxes for me. Roomy enough, good-sized trunk, adequate power, and a suspension that filled my corner-carving needs.
“Haven’t you thought of anything else?” The kid continued, obviously not satisfied with the current answer and looking for what was rattling around in this old guy’s head.
“No, not really.”
What else can you say when you’re at a point in life where you’ve either owned or driven the cars that matter most to you, and nothing is on the horizon that you find remotely interesting or exciting.
Okay, admittedly, there may be a car or two that still piques my interest, like a well- kept SL of the R230 variety, an example of which is known to me and yes, there may be a candle lit regarding it.
Not a fully-fledged flame, just a single tea light.
There’s no AMG tuning involved here, just a Grand Touring convertible that will devour miles in a reasonable manner, Sturm und Drang not needed. Heck, even the Minister of Finance voiced no objection to the float of the idea. I’ll take that as a positive sign, because it’s usually a preemptive “NO” whenever the idea of a 3rd car is put forward. The second slot is still open. Maybe an 80s Z-car.
I’ve been puzzling where to go from this point, car wise. I’d briefly flirted with the idea of a real oddball like a Slingshot, but the fire isn’t there, really, as it isn’t there for most cars. Or any car.
I’m calling it a good thing. It means that my needs are met, I’m content, and I have room for a dream whenever it comes along.
Or if it never manifests, that’s fine as well, and I’m happy to say it.
It’s natural and good to engage in reverie. I was remembering the sheer joy that I got from driving a 105/115 Alfa GTV.
An 80 pound lighter me would post in the close coupe and wiggle my nonexistent butt into the chair then cinch myself into the car. The shift was a handspan from the wheel, and needed only a bat with the fingers or a flick of the wrist to slot it into the appropriate gear. Steering same; it was wrists for minor changes in direction while movements of greater magnitude required only forearms.
Hooning required some shoulder involvement, primarily to catch that rear when it was unloaded by body roll. There are straps that will tug the inside of the rear axle ever so gently as the body rolls on the suspension, unloading the inside wheel and starting an oversteer condition that you control with the throttle.
Do it properly, and all you need are wrists and maybe forearms. I do miss the car.
That was the last spot of 2024. December 30, a bit after 8 in the morning, a cold (for the Sacramento valley) morning. It took a second for me to notice the old brick, because these things were everywhere when the world was a seemingly quieter place. The 200 series Volvo was the anticar of my era, an Ur-Prius if you will. It’s what all of the folks who hated cars drove, and slowly at that. I’d call it the preferred mode of transport for English teachers, but my high school’s staff put the lie to that. I think only one teacher in the department drove a Volvo- there was a Pinto, but most notably, there was a Sunbeam Tiger, an Alfa 105/115, and Maseratis, of the Bora and Khamsin variety. The Tiger was wheeled by everyone’s favorite English teacher, Mr. S, while Mr. M, the French teacher owned the Italian confections.
Forty years on, the brick is now an icon of the Radwood crowd, its virtues then virtues now.
Here’s a couple of links to entries regarding the stalwart brick:
John, like me, hates talking on the phone, but he’ll talk your ear off when it comes to the subjects he and I have in common, which are many. A shared passion is motorcycles and riding, with me gravitating towards the hotrod Kawasaki motos of the Era, while John stuck with Euro motos, BMW foremost, with Moto Guzzi second.
Dangit.
The above picture was what he sent me earlier this evening as I was lounging alongside Jen on the bed, cats upon and between. Two new tires this week, he’d said, a 750.00 hit to his bank account. John told me how one had caught a screw which he patched, then after he’d rotated the other bike into service a drill bit manifested itself into the tire, the image of which you see above.
John has long had cooler cars than I, but he’s also an unrepentant Europhile, which means he needs spares. Spares as in spare cars.
I won’t go into the august list of four-wheeled confections that he has owned but know that he’s had a 3.0 CS as well as a series 1.5 E-type. John’s cars are worthy of an entry of their own.
I asked him how many bikes were in the stable now, and he responded with these:
“When I want to get there, I take the BMWs. When I want to have fun, I ride the Guzzi”. I texted back that the Guzzi was still my sentimental favorite.
John has always been far more passionate about motorcycling than me. More than once he’d show up at the Ancestral Manor in Elk Grove, chilled to the bone because it was either raining, in which case he was wet and cold, or foggy, so damp and cold, or just cold, because in California in Winter in the Sacramento valley it very seldom snows, It just gets cold.
Well, it used to get cold. Elk Grove and The Ancestral Manor are at least thirty years in the rear views.
“Leather is a poor insulator” John would quip as I’d pour him a steaming cuppa joe.
Not that snow would impede John’s passion for two wheels.
The majority of rides John has had have been BMW’s . From his first, an R75/5, I think to an R 100 RS, to several others unknown to me, due to traveling and falling out of contact for a while, the Airhead has been his favored ride.
Come to think of it, the RS was the bike he’d kept longest. Can’t say I blamed him; it’s a gorgeous bit of kit:
From BaT.
I may have thought about buying it a time or two, but my relentless practicality, as well as my then peripatetic nature put a stop to that idea.
“I never really considered myself a motorcyclist, just someone who could ride”. John texted, then followed quickly with a call.
“But you are a motorcyclist” I said, by way of answering the phone.
“I’m definitely not a Biker”, he responded, telling me about the time in a Harley store, picking up a part for a co-worker and overhearing the talk between the bearded middle aged men, all dressed in that boutique’s clothing, discussing the next item of identity or personality that they’d purchase next.
“Like a bunch of fourteen year-olds” John lamented, adding that he was not noticed because his clothing was wrong, brightly colored clothing that was made to be seen, not to mark one as a rebel or an outcast. “When folks find out I ride, I get invited to ride along. It’s the worst thing that I can think of, riding in a group. It’s my time alone, time to be.” a pause.
“Has anything made you feel old yet?” John finished.
“You mean besides my knees, burgeoning waistline, worrisome blood work and general crankiness?” I asked.
“Tomorrow’s our thirty-second anniversary.” John answered, referring to his marriage. No kids, many cats.
“Still have the Alfa in the garage?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Fuck, we’re old.”
From 2015. Your dashing correspondent.
I was mentioning cool cars, wasn’t I? I’ll have to reestablish contact with John. It’s just the nature of our friendship- contact/quiet, contact/quiet, and in the quieting decades of my allotted time, there needs to be stories of the Really Cool Stuff that John has had.
99 NB. This was a Highway a decade back, but the sheer volume of traffic heading to the burgeoning Roseville area necessitated a limited access approach.
I missed last year’s drive, but headed out early for this one, meeting at the Rocktane Gas Station/Smokeshop/Lesser Den of Iniquity at the Hard Rock casino in scenic Wheatland, redeemed becuase you could pay for your purchases, rather than spin a wheel, pull a slot handle or otherwise make the mundane a game of chance.
I arrived at the meet point twenty minutes early and a touch hungry. While fueling my car, I saw a blue BRZ backed into a stall, its driver wiping clean the inside of the windshield. I figured that he was a participant because this area favors older American cars and giant modern pickups. Farming community.
Joining him while I fueled were a couple of Porsche Boxsters. I sealed my tank and found a stall, backing in as well and went inside to survey the offerings.
I’ve a weakness for crappy convenience store/gas station food, the hyperprocessed kind that will shorten lifespans simply by gazing upon it. It’s a habit and I will admit, a preference. Hot dogs are a particular fondness, the longitudinal protein product nestled in a sponge roll ideal for a mobile nosh.
Disappointment. No dogs on the rollers, just those dreadful Tornados rolling merrily along, getting neither warmer nor crispier, just maintaining meh. A Tornado is what I’ll eat when my self-esteem has taken a beating, usually from myself over some trivial thing that’s already been forgotten by my imaginary aggrieved party, the meh reminding me that things will get better.
Tornados, with the exception of the pancake and sausage variety, all taste the same; the differentiation is in the burn that the daily sodium requirement packaged in just one will deliver.
Anyway, over to the plexiglass box O’warmth that displayed jalapeno corn dogs and a new, friendly looking pillow of doom called a puff. I’ve just begun seeing these in warmers in California, but they’re well established in the Chicagoland area and the greater Midwest.
Pretty tasty for a puff of doom!
I grabbed the corn dog, sausage and egg puff, water and a can of nitro coffee. Saw someone who looked familiar who was having a problem with his pump. We both did a double-take, then I paid and headed out to the car.
At a pump, was the organizer of this event, Marronweber.
I called out to him and walked over, shaking his hand after rearranging my haul. He parked, and introductions were made among those that were there. The person driving the Toyobaru is Patrick Linkous, who up to this point I’d known only through the assembly of car fans called weirdcarbs- weird car Bluesky. The guys driving the Porsches are Patrick’s brother and father, Christopher and Ray, respectively. The guy I recognized in the store is Stu, short for Stupidasoh, his web name.
“We’re waiting on Tamarlane”, Marronweber said, using the web name for the last person to join us. Tamarlane was coming from the Bay Area, so yeah, a bit of a schlep.
A transmission input/output error sent Stu and the Jag home early on the first run. He was happy that it was a relatively minor problem as far as Jaaags are concerned, and he wasn’t expecting any issues today.
The Jag ran flawlessly, despite the invocation of the unmentionable law.
Waiting for Godot…Er, Tamarlane.
Anyway, our party’s last member arrived, fueled and our organizer ran into the only problem of the entire day: No batteries for the handhelds. After a bit of brainstorming, It was determined that our first stop would be at an Ace Hardware, Foothill Ace, about thirty minutes from the gas station. Marron’s little Fiesta ST lead the way, with Patrick following, then the remaining five cars falling in.
Detouring around the burned out Hotel Marysville, We joined Highway 20 and hustled to the hardware store where batteries were had and radios passed amongst us. Our arrival caused a minor stir at the Ace, all of these demographically incorrect cars pulling in at once.
I took the opportunity to grab some gum and a package of caramels and mention to Tamarlane, who is a fan of sketchy food as well, that Taco Bell was putting giant Cheez-its into a crunchwrap– Ray was passing around cheezy goodness, and who am I to say no?
Corporate knows about this? Tamarlane asked, somewhat incredulously, nibbling on a Dorito. “They started it.” I said.
T. went on to tell Stu and me about his BMW’s unscheduled consumption of coolant and how the car has not one, but two reservoirs for the stuff, and that BMW service said that the car does that. Eh, it’s leased.
Off to the next waypoint, La Porte, Ca. I took the last position, T and Stu were ahead of me, finding a comfortable speed for the cars on the secondary mountain road. We arrived in the village a few minutes after the two-door bunch, where we stretched our legs and looked around at a very quiet mountain settlement.
The group was parked close to a flagstone ruin with a brick plinth bearing a plaque before it.
Flagstone ruin, with plinth and safe,Story Time!A quiet settlement.
From there, we moved to the nearest potty house a touch up the road, in the same lot where Cal Trans keeps its road clearing media during the winter.
I cannot describe how horrorstruck I was by the deplorable condition of the right-hand unit; I may need to bring a gas mask next time. Patrick was gleefully describing to me in detail how bad it truly was after my stumble from the pissoir of death. “Thermite.” was what I think I answered. Vault toilets can be brutal.
Marron briefed us on the next leg, the narrowest, twistiest portion. The briefing went thusly: “We pause at the bridge after the pass to catch our breath.”
La Porte Road runs from La Porte to HWY 70. A tertiary road at best, it’s narrow and without guardrails. You’re already above 5000 feet when leaving the town. The road moves up through another 1400 feet along the ridge dropping you to a low of 4000 feet at the Nelson Creek bridge, built in 1890 and now a footbridge.
We met at Redbridge, near the campground of the same name, splendidly isolated from everything and a perfect setting for a bear to visit the campfire, if not other megafauna, both quad and bipedal.
You can almost hear Ralph Vaughn Williams. Well, I can. Leg stretchery. There was also bootyshakin’, but for decency’s sake, I’ll not subject you to that. Yet.
As usual, the sports cars beat us there. I know that M.Weber was definitely putting the Fiesta to the spur, he vibrating with excitement at the bridge, coming down from the adrenaline rush that a fast pelt over a treacherous mountain pass gives one. The rest of the sporting group were doing same, each in their own way. Stu was not pleased with the pass and all of the twists. I missed having an Alfa at that moment. The Nissan helped. (I loathe saying Infiniti. It’s a Nissan, FFS.)
Off to Graeagle and the Mountain Frostee, where lunch was had.
The Frostee menu. (downloaded from Yelp.)
The 1/3rd Lb combo was the favorite amongst the group. I surprised myself and ordered one as well, all the trimmings, and a coke. Instead of hollering out of the pickup window when an order is ready, an old stereo speaker is stood in another window to serve as a P.A. system. I was reminded of this while I was standing in line and Carl’s order was announced, propelling me into low orbit. After reentry, I ordered and went to a table to wait. There may be a small dining room in the Frostee; I’ve never checked.
With an expression of delight, Marron grabbed a copy of Wheels and Deals from a box next to the condiments table, where I swiped two mayo packs and a mustard and a plastic ramekin to assemble a dipping sauce for my fries.
Nibbling fries and going through slightly sketchy ads featuring cars seldom seen in our part of California at a reasonable price is a glorious way to spend an afternoon. Hell, there was even an Alfa GTV for a scandalously low price.
This car, 1200.00. I don’t think those are Cromodoras.
After lunch and the obligatory potty break it was the final leg of the drive, our final destination being Bullard’s bar and the scenic overlook, which in this case was simply a gravel pullout that provided the party with a mild case of vertigo.
Vertigo.
Radios were handed back, farewells made, and a plan to do it again next year.
Really, all Ol’ Shel was interested in was winning races and making a pile of money while doing so.
One of his first efforts was the Cobra, a hybrid of an AC Ace Roadster and Ford’s 260 C.I. V-8. This car was so successful that Ford helped engineer a bigger, faster Cobra called the 427
Along with posters, books and punditry, Cobra spawned an industry building replicas and continuation cars. The Arntz Cobra was the first one I was aware of, coming across an article in Hot Rod magazine sometime in the 80’s while bench racing with some friends.
The upshot is that the Cobra is so popular that replicas and continuations have now eclipsed the numbers of O.G. Cobras coming from the Shelby American factory.
What brought this grumpy little rant about are the sheer number of folks on Reddit posting pictures of Cobras that they’ve snapped and asking :”Izzit Real?”
No. it’s not real, if what you mean is a car that was built at the Shelby works, or by Ford’s Boffins. See that rough looking car above? That’s a real 427 Cobra. Owned by the late Tony Hogg, an esteemed former Editor-in -Chief of Road and Track magazine.
Mr. Hogg used the car regularly, and would cite its performance as a standard against which other cars would be compared. The car is currently in the collection of the California Automobile Museum, in Sacramento, California and is driven by Mr. Hogg’s estate- I’ve seen this car on Sixth street in Downtown, about to make the turn onto I street, into Old Sac and back to the CAM.
It’s a scruffy looking beast, no hood scoop, no leg burning side pipes, nothing really polished; ferocity personified.
The shiny things below are replicas and continuation cars. Factory Five is the best known of these manufacturers, offering both 289 and 427 kits as well as several interesting cars that one can clang together over a period of weeks to years in your garage if you’re so inclined. If you want Investment Grade stuff, then go to the source. Cars are mostly lousy investments however, because you’re dealing in memories, and what was iconic to one generation of gearheads is an afterthought to another.
It seems though, that the Cobra may defy this because of its sheer outrageousness which is what every young hotshoe aspires to- I can’t tell you how many first paragraphs I’ve scribbled and binned detailing how a 427 Cobra isn’t the car to start in a quiet Sunday morning cul-de-sac.
What’s “real” here? Everything, really.
Okay, so they weren’t built “In Period”, but that shouldn’t matter much to us. What matters is that I get to see and hear a bit of automotive history being used as intended, and giving its owner a hell of a good time in the process.
Is it real? Probably not in the way you’re thinking. Does it matter? Ultimately, no. Let’s have fun with the things without worrying about the provenance.
This is an import from my original Google Blogger space “Past Issues”. It’s been edited a smidge:
This is my Supra. Celica Supra properly, but it’s “The Supra” to me. I bought this car from a CL ad about four years ago. When I picked it up, it was suffering from those dreadful “TruWhite” headlights that glowed an annoying blue, a supertrapp without baffles and capacitors for the subwoofer that was placed in the luggage compartment hanging from the battery.
Nothing horrible, just petty annoyances that trips to the appropriate places took care of.
The Supra replaced my w126 S-class, a 300 SDL that was developing a terminal case of “European Car Entropy.” It was on its third injection line for #1 Cylinder, The transmission was forgetting to shift, the cables for the sunroof had just let go and it was time for me to let it go.
I’d a few grand in the bank and I wanted to keep most of it, so paying a mechanic was out of the question. There was very little space in the garage of the duplex that we rented in land park and honestly, I wanted something different. So to Craigslist. I really didn’t know what exactly I was looking for, I just knew I’d see it soon enough. And sure enough, there it was. I called, we drove, I bought it. And four years later it’s time to move on for a couple of reasons.
I miss having a four-door. While coupes are quite a bit of fun and some are dead sexy (like mine), they aren’t quite practical enough. When a third person is along, I hope that they’re under 5’7″ and flexible- there isn’t a lot of legroom back there.
With this version of Celica Supra, there’s also the smog check issue. Every two years, cars here in California have to be tested for emissions. Mine barely passed this year. Bad valve guides from the factory are a known issue with this engine, the 5-MGTE. The “Check Engine” light has been a constant companion since I’ve owned the car and if it doesn’t go out you don’t pass, and where it was once extinguishing, now it’s not.
It’s also blowing right at the limit on HC on the low speed portion of the test, which means a teardown of the top end at least is likely. However, with the work schedule and limited finances, the car will have to go. Still no money for a mechanic.
Smoggy bastard, part one.
As a Teenager and a young Gearhead, tearing into a vehicle to determine what was making it go “erk” instead of “Vroom” was normal and expected. A trip was a bit of an adventure, especially if you consider the cars I was fond of owning: Fiats, Triumphs, Alfas… I got really good at roadside diagnosis and repair.
That was nearly 30 years ago. Still fairly decent at the diagnosis, but less patient with the wrench turning part. Cars, basic, get-you-there commuter appliances are actually quite brilliant and fun to drive. And they don’t break. And California is making it harder for older cars to stay in the fleet. And dammit, I don’t have the garage space to keep the beastie happy, my tool kit has spread to the four winds, I love air conditioning and great stereo systems and things that start and run.
I was visiting the bird space. A rare visit since doofus took over and trashed the place, but I slum every now and again and while I was there, I saw a Car and Driver comparo from 1992.
One of the cars featured was the iconic Mercedes 500E which was appropriately oohed and aaahed over but still coming in second place to the BMW M5 only because the Porsche assembled Benz was monstrously expensive at 88k in 1992, which when converted to 2022 dollars via the CPI calculator is 186K- Luxury pickup truck money today.
A V-8 powered Mercedes in its natural environment.
But I’m not here to talk about the 500E. I’m speaking of its incognito sibling the 400E, one of which I owned for four years.
A few years before the 400E I owned a 300SDL. This car:
Central casting’s version of the villain’s car.
With its 3 liter turbocharged diesel, the 300SDL was no rocket by any means, but it was very reliable… until the vacuum operated transmission really began to act up. Aware even then that fixing Mercedes cars can easily run into the thousands effortlessly, I donated the rennpanzer to the California Automobile Museum and bought myself a MK2 Celica Supra P-type, but that’s another entry.
Fast forward to middle 2017 and all of a sudden I was the owner of a 400E, purchased from the original owner who kept all of the records but had grown disinterested in the car and had let it sit for the better part of a year. $1200.00
Didn’t seem like a lot for a car with one owner and 133k; Mercedes of this era were renowned for their ability to go many times around the odometer, and reliably.
Provided one kept up with the maintenance.
The first hit was when the ignition coils went out. Most manufacturers figure that an ignition system is gonna be there for the life of the car. Not Mercedes. The ignition system on the 400E , two coils, two distributors and other bits will wear out. That was 800.00 and a couple of months while I tried to loosen the 3mm allen screws that held the distributor rotors onto the distributors. Once those screws were free, and the rotors replaced the car was mobile again, until it came time to smog it.
The second hit was when it was discovered that the EGR passages were coked up and the cats were done. 3000.00 later, the car was smogged. In between were a few oil changes and replacement of a vacuum switch for the transmission, which cured the hunting between gears.
There was no third hit. I was contemplating the rebuild of the transmission and tracking down and fixing the many fluid leaks and replacing the window motors and sunroof cables and cabin fan motor and resistor when I figured that I was done with this rolling restoration project and found a newer car, one built in the 21st Century, and not in Europe.
Out with the old…
I sold the Mercedes soon after, listing it on FB marketplace and watching it drive off that night. I sold it for $700.00 to a bedraggled looking fellow heading up to Weaverville who arrived with his companions in a Chevy squarebody pickup with a weak battery.
I don’t regret selling the car, and I learned an awful lot from it, especially the adage: ” There is no such thing as a cheap Mercedes”. I already knew this, but sometimes a lesson needs to be paid for.
This list has been floating around in my head with various titles, but I’m just gonna say reconsider. This is also an ongoing list, with additions being made when the whimsy is there.
My criteria are simple: I must have either owned or driven said vehicle for a period of time, say at least six months. Again, whim.
K. Let’s start:
1976 Chevrolet Cosworth Vega. (Top photo from Motorious, bottom photos mine)
Blame Car & Driver for my foolish, romantic decision to obtain one of these exotic and rare cars. I was in a library one afternoon, I don’t know if it was the high school library or my local library, but I read about this car and thought: “That’s for me.” I graduated, got my basic training and AIT out of the way, and came back home when I thought that it’d be cool to have a Fiat 124 Spider. I presented the idea to my father, who vetoed the idea of the Fiat on grounds that it was foreign, and where were you going to get parts for it? Sacramento in the 80s was a foreign car owner’s paradise, with Fiat, Alfa Romeo, MG, Triumph, and more mainstream Euro brands well represented and supported by both the factory and aftermarket. I attempted to carry the argument further, citing those parts sources, but he was steadfast.
I spotted the car at a lot on Fulton Ave, which has always been a place full of car lots, the big franchises on the South end closer to Arden, while the second and third hand and buy here pay here places were clustered around the north end closer to Auburn Boulevard and Business loop 80.
I pulled into the lot and engaged the salesperson, and a couple of days later, the car was mine. Like any first love, the relationship was full of tumult, false steps, and plain idiocy, but that’s for another day.
Why would I reconsider this car? It’s delightfully odd, another Anglo-American hybrid with a Cosworth 16 valve head screwed onto a linerless aluminum alloy block with forged crank and pistons. It could be had with a Borg-Warner 5-speed with first gear on a dogleg heading south to a limited-slip differential with 4.10 gears, like mine. Use the entire tach, you’ll need it.
122 Cubic inches and 110 Shetlands. The headers were stock, and that’s a pulse-air emissions control system.Miniature Camaro. No Mullet required.
The Department Of Past Issues 