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Whatever your thoughts about the production version (too cute, not a real sports car, etc), there’s no denying Audi’s initial TTS Concept, unveiled in 1995, was groundbreaking.

Let me explain. The TTS Concept is an exercise in context—every single styling feature has meticulously thought-out relationships with the ones surrounding it, and the overall result is an incredibly cohesive-looking vehicle. Most significantly, Audi gave the car’s wheels a context—notice how the curve of the front and rear of the car neatly echoes the circular arc of the wheels. This has the effect of integrating the wheels more closely into the TTS’ overall look.

Big deal, you say; cars have had wheel arches and fender flares for ages. True, but to my knowledge the TTS was the first car to have such a tight connection between its wheel design and placement. Consider: If you changed the average car’s wheelbase by an inch or so in either direction, it would hardly alter the car’s look, but with the TTS, the wheels are located precisely where they are because of how they relate to the car’s front and rear styling; any change in their location would wreck the design.

With its chunky “baseball glove” stitching mated to clean, geometric shapes, the interior is a home run as well. Some elements didn’t survive the transition to production, primarily the aforementioned stitching, the gauge typography and the raw aluminum door bars, but Audi wisely kept most everything else intact. Between the color combination (chocolate leather and battleship gray paint), meaty switchgear and a perfectly laid out control arrangement, the TTS’ interior looks like a very inviting place to be.

I think what I appreciate most about the TTS Concept is its fusion of the beautiful with the rational. Every single line, curve and feature seems designed and placed with a definite sense of purpose; it’s the antithesis of the “Well, it just looks right” school of design. No, the best styling efforts have thought and intentionality behind them, and that design creedo shines through the TTS Concept.

Image credits: fourtitude.com

Editor’s note: This post is part of an ongoing series discussing Audi’s rich history of legendary concept cars. Read the other installments here:

• quattro Concept
• Rosemeyer
• Avus quattro

In anticipation of their reveal at the upcoming 2013 Geneva Motor Show, the automotive world is abuzz with talk of the latest offerings from perennial Formula 1 and road-going supercar rivals McLaren and Ferrari.

You can read more about their staggering technical specs here; for now, let’s examine them from a design standpoint and weigh in on which one is more aesthetically successful, or, to tip my hand a bit, which one is less ugly.

Our first contender is McLaren’s so-called F1 successor, the P1. Sinewy and organic, the eyebrow-like McLaren logo is echoed in many places throughout the bodywork. Like its little brother the MP4-12C, though, the P1 manages to look dramatic and somewhat anonymous at the same time. Its lines don’t strike me as being particularly resolved, and as such the whole car has a nervous, fragile, unsettled look about it.

Next up is the brand new follow-on to the Enzo, the ridiculously-named Ferrari LaFerrari. Unveiled in the past couple of days, the LaFerrari certainly looks more conventional than its British competitor. Still, the black roof and stock supercar proportions combine to make it look like a cutting-edge supercar for, say, 1994.

On the merits of its styling, which do you prefer? I honestly can’t pick a favorite. I appreciate the creativity of the P1, but the LaFerrari’s lines are more resolved overall. Until an automaker can pen a supercar design at once fresh-looking, well-proportioned, with exquisite detailing and above all, beautiful—yes, I do believe it can be done—I don’t know that I will have a dog the burgeoning supercar fight, a conflict that includes not only the cars featured in this post, but offerings from Porsche, Pagani and Lamborghini as well.

Image credits: netcarshow.com

Dovetailing nicely with my recent post about Nissan/Datsun L-series tuning lore, I came across this page featuring the OS Giken TC24-B1Z, a stroked 3.2l, 420-hp L-series topped with the legendary OS Giken DOHC, 24-valve cylinder head.

While it’s perhaps not the most romantic piece of machinery out there, the engine exudes a kind of precise beauty, sort of like an immensely powerful Seiko watch. The gear-driven cam arrangement, chosen for durability at the engine’s 10,000 (!) rpm redline, reinforces that analogy. Fuel injection is optional; the TC24-B1Z leaves the craftman’s bench with a lovely set of triple Webers, shown above.

The beauty comes at a price, though: Only nine have been built, and if the cylinder head alone is worth over $30,000, it’s not a stretch to imagine the whole package costs perilously close to 6 figures, if not more. Still, as the Bugatti Veyron of naturally-aspirated L-series engines, it’s a stunning sight to behold, and as a vintage Datsun owner, it’s affirming to know the platform is receiving such attention.

Image credits: Dino Dalle Carbonare for speedhunters.com

I actually wanted one of these back in the day. Yes, yes I did.

As a face-saving measure, let me clarify back in what “day” I wanted a Geo Storm: 1993. I was 14 years old. Surely there’s some allowance for my not knowing better at that age? Furthermore, the flirtation was exceedingly brief—the length of one month, during our annual trip back to the States from France for Christmas break. I had been around European cars all year, heaven for most of us, but the upshot for me at that time was that American cars like the Storm were the exotic, unfamiliar ones, so even the most mundane ones held at least some appeal by virtue of their novelty.

As for the hapless 1990-1993 Storm, as with so many sporty-looking FWD coupes, its peppy looks hid some pretty bargain-basement running gear. A stripped-down, badge-engineered Isuzu Impulse, the Storm’s engine choices ranged from a whizzpopping 95-hp SOHC 1.6l 4-banger to an indifferent 1.8l 140-hp 4-pot. Acceleration was merely adequate, although the handling of the lightweight 2,300 lb car was competent. Still, more than anything else, the car was a marketing exercise aimed at the younger driver set, so the resources directed toward its design naturally outweighed those earmarked for developing the Storm’s dynamics.

So why did I like it? The explanation isn’t very interesting: As with most of its buyers, I think I was simply drawn in by the Storm’s sporty looks, oblivious to mediocrity of its engine and chassis. If I had valued what was under the sheetmetal as least as much as its external appearance, I might have thought as poorly of the car as I do now.

Image credits: cars-database.com, edmunds.com, featuredcars.com

Editor’s note: This post is part of an ongoing series discussing cars we used to be fans of, but have since reconsidered our enthusiasm. Read the other installments here:

• Lincoln Mark VIII

Sandwiched between the block-ish B3 Passat and its upmarket, posh B5 successor, the 1994-1997 B4 Passat has always been a favorite of mine. I like its stance, its detailing, its “Euro-ness” and its variety of engine choices.

Fitted with the lovely 15″ 8-spoke wheels and adorned with a roof rack, the B4 Passat looks light on its feet, capable, about as mountain-goat-ish as you can get without going for a full-on SUV. The driving lights embedded in the bumper is a favorite detail, an element that echoes my old Audi 4000’s treatment in that area. The B4’s Passat’s proportions still scream “family hauler,” yet its lines have a little extra punch, a tautness that sets the car apart from its more turgid-looking peers.

The interior is all business, with VW’s then-standard dash design that placed all bells and whistles high up, within easy reach of the driver. The steering is pleasingly direct and the damping firm according to the European paradigm. A 5-speed was available with all engine options, which included the base 2.0l 4-cyl, a 1.9l turbo-diesel and the range-topping, muscular 2.8l VR6 engine. The wide variety of choices, along with the sedan and wagon bodystyles, gave the customer a full palette from which to mix and match their ideal family sedan.

No, I like the B4 Passat very much. Above all, it seems capable—a kind of car equally at home trundling to the grocery store, absorbing the daily commute, devouring some backroad twisties or taking my son and our camping gear up into the Appalachians for a few days of hiking and fishing. A companion, in other words. I like that impression from a car, even a FWD one.

Image credits: autoevolution.com, greasecar.com, cars-directory.net

Editor’s note: This post is part of an ongoing series highlighting FWD cars we think highly of, in spite of our RWD bias. Read the other installments here:

• Peugeot 205 GTI
• Lancia Fulvia Coupe
• Acura Vigor
• Mazda Millenia
• Citroën SM
• Fiat Coupé
• ’91-’96 Infiniti G20
• ’91-’94 B13 Nissan Sentra SE-R
• ’88-’92 Mazda MX-6
• Audi Coupe GT
• Volkswagen Corrado
• Peugeot 405 Mi16
• ’78-’93 Saab 900
• Volvo 850 T-5R
• 5th-generation Honda Prelude
• 1st- and 2nd-generation Volkswagen Scirocco

The perfect Porsche for me, that is. The German performance automaker’s history is so studded with greatness that it’s inevitable there would be almost as many different favorites as there are enthusiasts. But I remain a fan of the GT category, and as such, the ultimate 928—the 1992-1995 GTS—is it.

Sporting a front-mounted 5.7l, 345-hp water-cooled V8 sending power to the correct wheels via a rear-mounted transaxle, the 3,700 lb 928 GTS could hustle from a standstill to 60 mph in the high 5-second range—not jaw-droppingly quick, but the sheer thoroughbred competence of the chassis more than compensated for any dearth of straight-line speed. Besides, even though they occupied different niches—the 911 has always been more of a pure sports car—Porsche understandably wanted to position the big GT a suitable distance back from their evergreen icon, performance-wise.

The 928 GTS’s interior hold particular appeal. Perfectly complementing the space capsule exterior with its “command center” ambiance, the interior features the upswept-into-the-dash console I love so much and a lovely bank of instruments rendered in a pleasingly businesslike, no-frills theme.

In spite of its lack of success—production numbers for the 4 model years the GTS was produced only amount to a tick over 2,900—I love the final 928 for its handling composure, timeless “rocket sled” appearance, and especially the fact that it demonstrates Porsche’s commitment to a concept. In contrast to, say, yesterday’s post about the short-lived-yet-excellent Pontiac G8, the 928, whose future was in doubt more than once in the face of a changing marketplace, remained with us for 18 long model years, constantly improving until the final evolution was nothing less than a consummate GT car. In an automotive world of one-and-dones, Porsche bucks the trend, meticulously researching a particular corner of the market before throwing all its (considerable) engineering and development know-how behind the eventual car.

On a side note, it’s this resolve that gives me hope that the automaker will refine the technically peerless but aesthetically hideous Panamera to the point where I can actually stand to look at it. But that’s a topic for another post. For now, among all Porsches—yes, even over the 993 Turbo—give me a 928 GTS.

Image credits: cartype.com, cargurus.com, classicargarage.nl, 928registry.org

Pontiac should’ve built the G8 20 years before it arrived at dealerships in 2009. Instead, it lasted two whole model years and was axed along with the entire brand.

The GM marque’s cars’ bark was always worse than their bite. Notorious for ages for being festooned with sporty-looking plastic side cladding, amped-up interior trimmings and yet being decidedly lackluster to drive, Pontiacs arguably represented all that was wrong about GM’s approach to performance cars. Sure, they may have had big engines and moved respectably well in a straight line, but the automaker’s lineup—cars like the Grand Am and later G6, Bonneville and Grand Prix—were all built on FWD platforms shared with cars from other GM divisions. In addition to wrong-wheel-drive, conspicuous in their absence were the option of a stickshift paired with the cars’ higher-end engine choices as well as any semblance of being fun to drive.

A truly easy formula to master, after years of trying to convince the buying public, with varying degrees of success, that what matters vis-a-vis performance is the appearance of it, in the G8, Pontiac finally, finally had its first true sports sedan. And then killed it.

A rebadged version of the Holden Commodore (a front-engined, RWD sports sedan produced for years by GM’s Australian arm), the top-of-the-line G8 GXP was available with a 6-speed manual gearbox bolted to a 415-hp iteration of the Corvette’s LS3 6.2l pushrod V8. The car’s 4.6-second sprint to 60 and excellent road manners belied its 3,950-lb weight. After years of trying to compete with the likes of BMW and Audi on a superficial level, Pontiac finally had a sedan with the engine, driveline and chassis chops to take them on. Was it really that hard?

Even the interior is well laid-out and largely fluff-free. Coupled with the handsome, tailored, linebacker-ish exterior, the G8 was nothing less than the realization, in the flesh, of 30+ years of Pontiac marketing promises.

As for its demise, who’s to blame? GM has a history of misguided and shortsighted product development decisions, so it could well have been the penny-pinchers in upper management deciding that the perfect car for Pontiac really wasn’t worth it from a cost/benefit perspective. The more likely explanation is simply the fact that the G8 came out in 2009 in the throes of the recent economic downturn, when the Big 3 were holding their respective fire sales and axing anything and everything they could in order to remain solvent. Thus when Pontiac was selected for the block, the G8 was simply collateral damage. Shame.

Who knows; perhaps lightning does strike twice and GM will “get it” once more… But at the moment that’s too much to hope for.

Image credits: cars.about.com, netcarshow.com, autoevolution.com, neonista.blogspot.com

During Tuesday night’s Triad Z Club meeting, I listened to one of the older members give a quasi-dissertation on early Z-Car history.

Nudging my way into the vintage Datsun world as my 240Z restoration progresses, I’m amazed at the depth of knowledge about the cars and their engines.

Other makes have their tuning gurus and accepted bodies of expertise when it comes to performance enhancements, but in my mind, a few things set the vintage Datsun tuning scene apart:

• The Datsun 510 and Z-Car were the first performance cars from Japan that captured any kind of mass market appeal. From a tuning/racing standpoint, no Japanese import goes back farther.
• The racing Datsun was an institution in the ’70s and early ’80s, akin to the success of the Miata in recent years. If you wanted to get into racing, it was practically the only cost-effective choice.
• The cars themselves and their engines were, and remain, very robust and responsive to a wide variety of upgrades. Yes, there are preferred “paths” to unlock additional power, but the L-series engine also rewards creativity.

Thumbing through the classic How to Modify Your Nissan/Datsun OHC Engine reinforces the sense of standing at the foot of a giant accumulated mountain of knowledge. The book naturally covers tuning tips, tricks and rules of thumb in exacting detail, but the illustrations of vintage Datsun racers from the early ’70s through the present day really convey the impression that there are decades of L-series lore to draw from.

One of the “legends” covered briefly in the book is the part shown above, arguably the holy grail of vintage Datsun tuning: the OS Giken DOHC, 24-valve cylinder head. Produced in tiny numbers and only available in Japan, the OS Giken head will set you back north of $30K today. From a cost/benefit standpoint, it’s far from worth it, but just the fact that it exists supplies the vintage Datsun scene with one its “mythical beasts,” so to speak, a necessary pillar of any classic car tuning lore.

Image credits: datsunzgarage.com, Dino Dalle Carbonare

I often wonder why Japanese automakers decline to bring their some of their most desirable creations stateside.

The car that immediately comes to mind when pondering this reluctance is the Nissan Skyline, but there have been a raft of other very nice automobiles withheld from our market, among them the 1981-1989 Mazda HB Cosmo. The predecessor of the even more delectable JC Cosmo, it was Mazda’s rotary flagship, a slightly larger grand tourer complement to the RX-7 and a direct competitor to cars like the Skyline and Toyota Soarer.

Available with no less than 7 engine options during its 8-year model run, among them gasoline- and diesel-powered piston engines as well as the aforementioned rotary, the most exciting mill on the option sheet was the first production turbocharged Wankel, the 12A Turbo. A non-intercooled, lower-compression variant of the standard 100-hp 1.1L 12A, the 12 Turbo featured a so-called “impact turbo” designed to better harness the rotary’s unique exhaust pulse signature. With additional injectors and a sophisticated (for its time) knock sensor system, the 12A Turbo developed a highly respectable 163 hp, more than enough to move the 2,500-lb Cosmo forward at a brisk pace.

Naturally, the car’s rear wheels received the power, and Mazda blessed the chassis with their characteristically brilliant tuning expertise. A manual transmission was standard equipment, and the interior was clean and functional, if very “period.” Of note are the upright cassette player, the near-ubiquitous ’80s maroon cloth interior scheme and the faux-digital instrument cluster.

Of all the cars that could’ve but didn’t make the trip over the Pacific, the HB Cosmo is a real head-scratcher. The engine is smack dab in the middle of the chassis, and a quick glance at the interior layout leads me to think the cluster could very easily have been moved whole-hog over to the left side of the dash, eliminating a couple of reasons related to the potential difficulty of adapting the car to a left-hand-drive market. A more likely theory is that Mazda felt the HB Cosmo wasn’t a good fit from a marketing standpoint. After all, they had been burned by the failure of the previous Cosmo to catch on in the US, and there weren’t really any small-ish, quick GTs for sale here at the time, probably because there simply wasn’t any demand for them. Mazda also could’ve felt like sales of the Cosmo would have cannibalized those of their RX-7, which shared an engine, a mechanical layout and really wasn’t that much smaller. Still… As a rotary, GT and ’80s styling enthusiast, I say it’s a shame the HB Cosmo never made it here.

Image credits: Tennen-Gas