Spannerhead Dot Com

I’ve owned each of these at one point or another. I’ve loved them all, and miss them to varying degrees. But as much as I pine for one or more on any given day, they all have an Achilles heel. There isn’t a car, no matter how beloved, on which I wouldn’t change a thing.

First-generation Mazda RX-7: Recirculating-ball steering. Yes, I could go after the archaic live axle rear suspension, but somehow that becomes as much a part of the car’s charm as the notoriously vague steering and huge dead spot on center are disappointing. C’mon Mazda, really? It’s not even like the obsolescent British roadsters whose market you helped upend were still fitted with recirculating ball boxes. Not only that, but the 2nd and 3rd generation RX-7s’ steering remains among the sharpest and best in the world. Tell me they couldn’t have rolled that out a bit earlier and given us 1st gen enthusiasts a few model years of rack-and-pinion-y goodness. Unfortunate.

Audi 4000 quattro: Weight distribution. There’s so much right with this car that I just hate the fact that the engine hangs way out in front of the axle line. You certainly feel it when driving. Four wheel disc brakes, AWD, a close-ratio 5-speed, a raspy 5-cylinder engine, responsive rack-and-pinion steering, a commendably low weight of 2,800 lbs…let down by incurable understeer. The factory engine’s 110 hp may feel anemic, but a whole host of stronger Audi 5-bangers drop right in, more or less. It’s just a shame 65% of the weight over the front axle can’t be “modded away” as easily as the power deficit.

Datsun 240Z: Rear drum brakes. Yes, perhaps expecting a non-premium car made in the early ’70s to sport discs on all four wheels is a bit much. Still, Jaguar at least had been doing it for 10 years by that point, so is it really an unreasonable demand? The Z’s drums, while competent, are a massive pain to service, increase unsprung weight over discs and just look ugly. Mine are coming off as soon as I can afford the (expensive) disc conversion bits.

Mark 3 Toyota Supra (’86-’92): Weight. This car would be perfect…if it went on a 400+ lb diet. 4-wheel discs, smooth and powerful 6-pot engine, double wishbones all around, 5-speed, RWD, rack-and-pinion steering, great looks, and a few hundred pounds of unnecessary pork. I could really do without the power adjustable side bolsters. And the targa roof. And the gimicky electronic dampers. And a whole load of additional stuffing. If Toyota had put as much effort into weight control as they had the rest of the car, they’d have had a true world-beater.

Here’s a little edutainment for a scorching Saturday afternoon: One of the most incredible car-related videos I’ve seen. As much as we admire guys who meticulously chronicle their restoration or upgrade project, the builder of this Triumph Spitfire engine is on a whole other level, stringing 3,000 pictures together into a 2-and-a-half minute snapshot of his project.

One of the best things about the clip is the fact that’s it’s informative as well. Any seasoned shadetree mechanic has at least a basic understanding of the major jobs that go into rebuilding an engine, but there’s something about seeing the whole process packaged, as it were, into a bite-size morsel that helps bring the endeavor into perspective. As different as it is from my own restoration project, I have a feeling I’ll be coming back to the clip for inspiration more than once.

Earlier in the month, I took my kids to the Double SAARC/MAARS club race at Virginia International Raceway, or VIR, near Danville. I’d attended the annual springtime event before, thought not in years, but it was much as I remembered it: $10 cost of entry for a ton of racing action, all different classes of cars, free and easy access to the pits, drivers and teams, and wide open areas of the infield for the kids to run around in. I bought my dad along, too, and they all loved it.

The free parade laps of the track at lunchtime were a definite highlight. The kids loved spiraling down through the Rollercoaster and up through the Climbing Esses. It was great fun.

Click on the jump to view the photos!

Although not quite as intense as the recent controversy surrounding the automotive term “coupe” (set off by the introduction of so-called “four-door coupes”), the precise definition of the descriptor “sports car” has been debated for far longer.

Can a sports car have more than two doors? Does it matter which wheels are driven? Need it have only two seats? Is sports-car-dom the exclusive province of the classic convertible?

While (in my mind) the definition of “coupe” is far more objective—two doors, and no more—the meaning of the term “sports car” is more subjectively rooted in the philosophy that underscores a car’s raison d’être. Put succinctly, to me, a sports car uniquely prioritizes enjoyment in two areas: Driving enjoyment and looks.

In other words, a sports car is more of an idea than a cut-and-dried checklist of physical attributes a car may or may not have. That said, the idea does carry with it some inescapable connotations.

For one, the notion that a sports car places aesthetics above almost all else rules out four-door cars, since back doors and a somewhat usable rear seat are, in essence, compromises in the name of practicality. Also, for every attractive sedan (and there are many), I can just as easily find a more visually pleasing two-door shape. So while the sports car concept may not rule out four-door cars by definition, it does by implication.

The same goes for the attribute of driving enjoyment. Whatever the merits of worthy front wheel drive cars, their engineers compromised—they opted for packaging efficiency, or platform sharing economies with other models in an automaker’s range or a host of other reasons and denied the car the mechanical configuration best suited to maximizing driving enjoyment: Rear wheel drive.

Ironically, the subjective definition of a sport car in terms of its vehicular priorities becomes a far more useful tool than an objective one in establishing a car’s category. Rather than wondering, for example, whether a BMW 8 series should be considered a sports car, given its two doors and RWD chassis, we can apply the subjective test and observe that significant compromises were made in the name of luxury, concessions which effectively place it outside the circle of true sports cars. And the template can be applied to just about any car with ease.

I think it’s a workable concept. Let’s lay to rest the notion that “all sports cars must have X, Y or Z,” and think more deeply about cars’ priorities and their designers’ intentions.

As a designer, I’d like to think that my designs don’t stand or fall depending on whether or not a certain design element is present. Especially given that engineers have to comb over the design and alter it so that it’s able to actually be manufactured economically, it’s wise to not cling too tightly to any one particular element.

Unfortunately, many automakers all too often anchor their designs too firmly in a particular styling detail (the BMW E38’s rocker panels, for example), and frequently it happens to be one that isn’t integrated with the car’s proportions or worse, removable. The cars featured in this post fall into the latter category, and the absence of their factory-designed spoilers, or rear wings, completely compromises their styling integrity.

’93-’98 Toyota Supra: Notwithstanding its legendary status in the import tuner scene, this car’s styling was never warmly received by the automotive press at large. One publication aptly described it as a “pastiche of styling cues from other, more coherent cars.” And with its dramatic spoiler removed, the flaws in the Mark 4 Supra’s proportions stand out all the more.

Mitsubishi Lancer Evolution: Here’s an instance where a vehicle needs its spoiler not only for visual balance, but also to reinforce its “rally-ready” image. The Evo and archrival Subaru WRX STI wouldn’t be what they are without a liberal sprinkling of scoops, fins and wings. Bereft of its spoiler, the Evo’s econobox proportions scream.

Porsche 924: Credit Porsche for recognizing this problem, and tackling it head-on with the later 924 and 944, which were never, ever seen without their giant rubber spoilers. The early 924’s cool reception (owing mainly to its mixed Porsche/VW pedigree) was chilled even further by the car’s unfinished-looking, egg-like rump.

Mazda MX-6: With its fetching teardrop proportions, Mazda’s second-generation MX-6 is undoubtedly one of the loveliest cars of the mid-’90s era. All the more tragic, then, to witness a spoiler-less example, with its awkward profile. A winged MX-6 is such a study in taste and automotive grace that even a step away from that peak of design is a steep drop, visually-speaking.

Conventional wisdom says ubiquitous commuter cars like the Honda Accord and Toyota Camry should be the poster children for those among us who have absolutely no interest in what gets them from Point A to Point B. And while it’s true a large percentage of those who opt for either of those see their cars as nothing more than a transportation appliance, I’d like to suggest that it’s possible to go farther in the direction of not caring. There are others, but here I’ll spotlight three vehicles that communicate the notion that their owners have less than zero interest in cars.

Toyota Highlander. (shown at top) So this is essentially the “crossover” version of the Camry, a plain Jane family sedan on stilts. I can’t quite put my finger on what makes it so much more boring than the already-mind-numbing Camry; maybe it’s the typical drivers I see behind the wheel of Highlanders: Invariably women that look to be in their late 30s to early 50s, who like to “sit up high” as they drive and have always heard Toyota makes a reliable car. From there, it seems like they visited the first dealership they came across, found the first white or beige one on the lot and said, “Done.”

Kia Rondo. Completely anodyne, the Rondo is quite possibly the most uninteresting blob of metal and plastic on the road today. Nothing says quite as effectively “I really don’t give a crap what I’m driving” as sitting in one of these. It’s utterly inert and just kind of…pathetic. But—I suppose there’s a market out there. At the very least, its name is kind of interesting, in a silly way.

Honda CRV. If the Highlander is an elevated Camry, this is a jacked-up Civic. The styling is a bizarre mix of trapezoids and gentle curves, as likely to confuse an onlooker as anything else. And if it looks like the designers didn’t really care, what does that say about those who choose to drive one? I wonder if they could even remember what car they drive, if asked?

An interview with a philosophically-inclined Ferrari master mechanic in the April issue of Car and Driver provoked this question. In the midst of waxing philosophical about the “passion” and “artistry” designed into every Ferrari V12, the mechanic contrasted older, hand-designed, carbureted engines with modern, computer-controlled ones in the sense that the driver feels a connection with the older mills absent the newer powerplants.

Car buffs will discuss an older engine’s “character” from a number of different angles. On the one hand, they’ll talk about its operating quirks—flat spots in the power curve, awkward throttle tip-in behavior, vapor lock problems, tuning difficulties and the like. Conversely, they’ll praise its organic feel and the fact that its very unevenness in operation makes it feel more “alive.”

Engines developed beginning ten years or so after fuel injection became commonplace offer a much more polished experience. Gone are the days of hard winter starts, valve adjustments, points replacements and spark plug gapping. Most modern engines are completely linear and predictable in operation, from idle to redline, stone cold to normal temperature. And along with the engines’ refinement, chassis have come a long way as well, with better-designed suspensions and lighter materials allowing for more sound insulation. The upshot is that even the most raucously potent modern powerplant feels too polished, too inert, too—dare I say it—machine-like compared to its more “flawed” predecessors.

In light of all that, I’m going to go out on a limb here and postulate that modern engines have evolved to a point of relative perfection such that they can have character and even personality, but not soul. Soul requires more humanity than modern, vice-free, computer designed and controlled engines are capable of showing. And even in the midst of attempts to “program in” some of that quality, as in the case of the recent hubbub over BMW and Porsche’s decision to simulate engine noise in the cabins of some of their vehicles, it’s an inauthentic and transparent as the artificial “personality” engineered into a robot. No, in order to have soul, to forge a real connection with its owner, an engine has to be imperfect in design or operation. Perhaps we have to feel that the engine, like us, has aspirations, would like to be more than it is, but is held back by its inherent shortcomings. And maybe we like the feeling of “coming to its rescue,” of nurturing it by tuning and tinkering, and thus helping it to fulfill its potential. It’s difficult to pin down the reasons we feel the connection we do to obsolete tech.

What say you? Is it possible for a modern engine to possess soul in the sense older engines had it? Or at least offer a convincing facsimile of it?

Some just don’t care for the body style. As for me, I’m on the fence.

I realize the merits of the following bullet points depend greatly on the particular car under consideration, but nevertheless, let’s list some general pros and cons:

Pros:

• The wide open sky over your head. This is the biggest draw, and a revelation for those who’ve never ridden in a ‘vert. I remember my first ride in a Miata with the top down, and I remember saying to myself, “Ah, so this is what the big deal is.” There’s no substitute for the connection with the elements, the sensation of the road, the engine noise… I have very fond memories of blasting up and down Florida’s beachside A1A state road at night in my old Supra, targa top removed, stereo playing just loud enough not to distract me from the sensations outside.
• The style factor. Much the draw here depends on the environment—pulling up with shades on and the top down doesn’t command the same level of appeal in Minneapolis as it does in, say, San Diego, but the fact remains that convertibles do possess connotations of style and glamor in the larger public’s eye.

Cons:

• Chassis rigidity. This isn’t so much a problem for cars that were designed for topless activity from the outset, like the Honda S2000, Porsche Boxster or Mazda MX-5 Miata, where the rest of the structure can be optimized for the car’s configuration, but for most convertibles, based as they are on a corresponding hardtop model, shimmies and shakes are the order of the day. Even with additional (and heavy!) door and floor pan bracing, it’s impossible to make up for the loss of the roof as a structural component.
• All-season practicality. Even the most well-made, weatherproof convertible top fails to measure up to the insulation and soundproofing standards of a typical fixed roof.
• Complexity. And even if the car remains leak- and draft-free its whole life, there’s still a great deal of mechanism behind the front seats—linkages, hinges, clips and in many cases, electric motors to wear out, fail and add weight.

Would you take the plunge, throw caution to the wind and purchase a convertible? If so, which ones (or one) are on your short list?

I thought of the idea for this post the other day, just running errands with the kids in the back of the minivan. Pulling away from a stoplight, all the cars accelerated at roughly the same rate, and I thought, “There’s an expected g-force envelope that all cars fall into, more or less.” It’s true—even high-end sports cars with hundreds more horsepower than our lowly van still only “turn it up” a few notches over the average family sedan. They still play by the rules, so to speak; they’re just really good at the game. Driving or riding in one is fun and impressive, to be sure, but the experience isn’t different enough from an ordinary commute that it’s something our brain has trouble relating to.

And then there’s F1. Play the above video, if you haven’t yet. The location is the famous Eau Rouge corner at the Spa-Francorchamps circuit in Belgium, a track many famous F1 drivers have listed as a favorite.

In the left frame, track-prepped sports cars navigate down the hill, around the bend and up the hill to the Kemmel straight. Were any of us to ride shotgun, we’d feel g-forces throwing us around in our harness as the car skirted around the edges of the traction circle. It’d be fast and violent, but we’d still be able to keep our wits about us.

The right frame, on the other hand, holds a different world. Late model Formula 1 cars literally blast through the bend in a fraction of the time it takes the already-capable “regular” race cars to make it through. It’s just…I can’t even conceive of what it must feel like to be behind the wheel. Neither my daily commute nor even the most extreme “automotive situation” I’ve ever experienced offer me any kind of framework for understanding that kind of speed, that power, that neck-breaking grip… When I first saw the clip, I was sure the F1 half was sped up, but no; it’s real-time.

Watching F1 on television, it can be easy to become numb to the otherworldly racing environment F1 cars and drivers inhabit. Viewing a clip like the above is something of a reality check, and if anything, increases my esteem for the athletes that participate in the sport.