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The 1981-1991 Mercedes SEC is a bruiser. It’s an ostentatious statement of taste and worth, and it would be unbearably vulgar if it weren’t actually such a great car.

Built on the legendary W126 S-Class platform, the SEC encompasses the 380, 500 and 560 SEC, fitted with V8s of 3.8l, 5.0l and 5.6l displacement, respectively. The W126 has the distinction of being one of the last Merc model ranges built with a “money no object” mindset, with paint and interior material quality to outlast a nuclear winter and overengineering everywhere. Simply closing a W126’s door is one of the great simple pleasures of the automotive world; the bank vault *thunk* is almost worth the price of admission alone.

Take all the W126’s estimable attributes, including its torquey, insistent engine and absolutely unflappable ride and drape the excellent chassis in sheetmetal dripping with grace and taste, and you have the SEC. Let’s not kid ourselves: It really is all about the styling; there’s absolutely no reason to opt for the coupe over the W126 sedan except for that teardrop profile, thrusting grille and those pillarless side windows. It’s not gaudy, but it has presence in spades, and it certainly makes a statement wherever its driver chooses to pull up. If I had a nit to pick stylistically, it’s with the door handle surrounds—not that I think they’re ugly, just that I’m puzzled by their size. It’s a quirk unique the SEC; the sedan’s handle surrounds are conventional. Perhaps the designers felt the long flanks needed additional detailing to keep from being too boring? Who knows.

The SEC is no nimble corner-carver, and makes no pretenses of being one. Amazingly, in spite of the fact that it appears to have roughly the same mass as a medium-size asteroid, the SEC is actually fairly light compared with a modern “huge coupe” equivalent, tipping the scales at around 3,550 lbs. Fitted with the later 272-hp, 317 lb·ft 5.6l V8, the 560 SEC hustles from 0-60 mph in the low 7-second range; not quick, but perfectly adequate for its target market.

It doesn’t win me over with its speed or road manners, as unremarkably solid as those are; no, it exudes the classic W126 quality coupled with the fact that there’s arguably no post-1980 Mercedes that makes driving or arriving such an event. The SEC is big, stately and dated, but it’s special, and that combination of attributes exerts a strong pull.

Editor’s note: This post is part of an ongoing series highlighting Mercedes models worthy of enthusiast consideration. Read the other installments here:

• W123 Coupe
• W123 280E
• C111
• W124 500E/E500
• W202 C36 AMG

Fitted to the first- and second-generation (C1 and C2) Corvette V8s, Rochester fuel injection was GM’s first foray beyond carburetion.

Hard on the heels of Mercedes’ fuel injection experiments across the Atlantic in the mid-’50s, the Rochester mechanical fuel injection system was less a counterpart to the German automaker’s racing-focused program and more an effort to enhance low-speed driveability in their high-performance Corvette sports car.

One of the primary issues was hood height. Perched atop the intake manifold surmounting a tall small-block Chevy V8, a carburetor and its air cleaner assembly would fit under the low, sloping hood of a sports car only if the intake runners were relatively short. And while shorter, wider runners are ideal for airflow at high rpm, they’re not best for engine efficiency and cylinder filling at low engine speeds, compromising the low-rpm, off-the-line “punch” of the Corvette’s V8. Longer, narrower runners (and a consequently taller intake manifold) are desirable during the engine’s warm-up period too, when the manifold heats unevenly and has the potential to develop “hot spots” that affect individual cylinder operation.

GM’s solution to these conflicting requirements was to task one of their prime subcontactors—Rochester—with the development of a mechanical fuel injection system. First fitted to a ‘Vette in 1957, the resultant system wasn’t nearly as dependent a carb on intake runner length and profile. It solved all the issues, giving the engine a smooth warm-up sequence, muscular low-rpm behavior, a decent top end and allowed the use of a shorter intake manifold for low hood height.

Reminiscent of Bosch’s later K-Jetronic system, the Rochester’s injectors sprayed continuously into the intake ports upstream of the valves. The higher fuel pressure required over a carb was delivered by a cable-driven mechanical pump, and metering was controlled by a movable plate situated in the intake manifold whose position varied with airflow, and thus engine load. The plate’s movement sent a vacuum signal to the fuel pressure regulator, which controlled the amount of fuel flowing to the injectors.

It was a remarkably simple system, with only a few downsides, among them cost, as the lower production volumes of the Rochester fuel injection system couldn’t benefit from economies of scale. Also, fuel economy compared to contemporary carbs was poor (not that it really mattered much in the ’50s and ’60s) and all the components had to be adjusted with precision for the system to function properly, so it required some specialized knowledge and tools. Aftermarket hot-rodders found its ultimate performance potential poor as well, seeing as how there was an accepted body of knowledge about how to tune carbs for performance, and aftermarket injectors and high-flow intakes were unheard of during the Rochester’s heyday.

Overall, though, it’s a neat system, and its adoption way back in the late ’50s just goes to show that GM is frequently much more forward-thinking than I give them credit for.

Editor’s note: This post is part of an ongoing series highlighting various obsolescent methods of fuel delivery. Read the other installments here:

• Continuous Injection (K-Jetronic)
• Single-Point Injection
• The Dell’Orto carb
• The SU carb

Autoblog seems to think so in their review of the US-only 6-speed manual version of BMW’s latest M5. They write:

While there is nothing physically wrong with the manual box, rowing one’s own gears is based on a technology that peaked in the mid-1990s (think Acura NSX, Mazda MX-5 Miata or Honda S2000), and it really isn’t going to get any better. The automated dual clutch, on the other hand, continues to improve with each generation and subsequent software update.

Simply put, BMW’s F10 M5 was designed with the 7DCT in mind. The automated gearbox is capable of ripping up and down through the gears endlessly before taking the Autobahn home at a sustained 190 mph. In sharp contrast, and whether North American enthusiasts want to admit it or not, the M5’s 6MT is a Frankensteinian adaptation to the platform incapable of handling the same stress as its dual-clutch sibling – that’s a fact.

Much like fly-by-wire aircraft controls replaced manual rod-and-cable linkages once aircraft reached a certain level of size and complexity, many high-performance cars seem to be attaining a point of convergence where engine power and vehicle weight make a manually-operated gearshift impractical, bordering on unusable. Think about it: As horsepower and torque figures continue to skyrocket, greater clamping and shifting forces are necessary to channel that power in order to motivate ever-more-heavy cars, and there’s only so much engineers can do to increase the mechanical advantage so those controls can be operated comfortably by human muscles. To take an extreme example, there’s a reason the Bugatti Veyron, for instance, isn’t offered with a traditional three-pedal manual. So I take Autoblog‘s point, at the same time that I lament the fact that we’ve reached the juncture where such excesses of power and weight are considered essential to success in the marketplace. “Progress,” they say, but is it?

But as depressing as it is to contemplate the obsolescence of manuals among high-end sports sedans, GTs and supercars, I smile when I consider the other end of the automotive spectrum, with new cars like the brilliant Toyota/Scion/Subaru FT-86/FR-S/BRZ triplets. In nearly every essay on the FT-86/FR-S/BRZ, reviewers wax lyrical that its light weight, sparkling road manners and manual transmission in particular rekindle a sort of romantic enthusiasm for the simple pleasures of driving dulled by the brute power and isolation proffered by cars like the new M5. True, they do occupy radically different market segments and cater to customers with different priorities, but a car is a car; both the FT-86/FR-S/BRZ and M5 have four wheels with rubber tires and Otto-cycle reciprocating piston engines mounted up front, and the delight experienced by a driver able to break the back wheels loose slightly—yet completely under control—around a corner is the same whether a car has 200 or 560 hp. So by that metric, among those of us after the pure joy of driving, there seems to be no substitute for a traditional stickshift, even if it is on the way out among the heavy-hitters.

As evidenced by the above clip, British IndyCar driver Alex Lloyd clearly appreciates classic racing machinery. He puts the #46 Brock Racing Enterprises (BRE) Datsun 510 through its paces around the Memphis Raceway, waxing lyrical about the rawness of the chassis and the glorious wail of the 4-cylinder L16 engine at high rpm.

I, too, smiled as I listened to the mechanical soundtrack. I’ll be the first to vouch for the fact that the Nissan L-series engine, an example of which resides under the hood of my 240Z, has an electrifying, distinctive, gritty sound at any speed, a quality that endears it to vintage car aficionados in spite of the L-series’ “disadvantages” such as a non-crossflow head and only two valves per cylinder. It produces a full-bodied, muscular sound all out of proportion to it displacement, and exhibits a flexibility and durability that have given it quite the racing pedigree.

Perhaps the most amazing aspect of the #46 BRE 510’s history is that before being lovingly restored to its former glory, as you see it in the above clip, it was on the verge of being scrapped! Fortuitously discovered under a tarp at Nissan headquarters in 1984, enthusiasts recognized it for what it was and rescued it from destruction. Having been fortunate enough to drive it in anger, Alex Lloyd is understandably grateful for that turn of events.

Mazda’s 4-rotor, 2.6l, 700-hp R26B is the only engine by a Japanese manufacturer to win the 24 Hours of Le Mans race outright. In doing so, Mazda scored an achievement that has always eluded such pillars of the Japanese racing scene as Nissan, Toyota and Honda.

The year was 1991, and Mazda had something to prove. Perennially stung by criticism of their signature Wankel engine as an unreliable gas guzzler, the automaker had long sanctioned factory entries into endurance racing series across the globe. And though Mazda had achieved a remarkable amount of success through the years in that form of racing, Le Mans stood as the unconquered peak, the title that would perhaps finally demonstrate, to the racing world at least, that the rotary engine deserved to taken seriously from a competition standpoint.

The ultimate incarnation of a long series of endurance-focused rotaries, the R26B built on the foundation laid by its 4-rotor predecessor the 13J-M, itself a variation of the 3-rotor 20B, and added a number of refinements. At its core, the R26B was a basic non-turbocharged rotary engine, but with racing-derived features like intake ports on the periphery of the rotor housings instead of on the side plates (as in all production Mazda rotaries), an arrangement that produced a great deal of overlap between the intake and exhaust “stroke” of the rotor but which allowed for much greater airflow potential at high rpm, where racing engines live.

Also, the R26B was fitted with steplessly variable intake runners, able to optimize intake length and thus airflow seamlessly for any engine state, as well as 3 spark plugs per rotor instead of the usual 2, promoting more uniform burn of the fuel-air mixture. The engine was capable of cranking out 900 hp at upwards of 10,000 rpm, but was detuned to “only” 700 at 9,000 rpm to in the interests of durability.

And it worked. Fitted to a durable, proven 787B prototype chassis and driven by the trio of Johnny Herbert, Volker Weidler and Bertrand Gachot, the R26B vindicated Mazda’s efforts once and for all at Le Mans in 1991. Perhaps sweetest of all were the primary reasons for the win: Not power, where it was outclassed by the Jaguars and Mercedes running that year, but fuel economy and durability, two attributes which allowed the R26B-powered 787B to keeping lapping the circuit longer and shrug off failures that sidelined other teams. It’s an amazing engine, and Mazda is rightly proud of their success.

To see 1991 Le Mans winner Johnny Herbert driving his race-winning 787B just last year, click here. It’s a spine-tingling clip.

Editor’s note: This post is part of an ongoing series examining unique and significant powerplants. Read the other installments here:

• Saab Variable Compression Engine
• Rolls-Royce Goshawk
• Mercedes-Ilmor 500I
• Napier Nomad
• Pratt & Whitney R-4360

When it come to presenting a car show, he’s no Clarkson, Hammond or May, but Jay Leno still does a serviceable job paying tribute to the original Z-car, before visiting the Nissan factory and yukking it up with a creative exec and one of the designers. The clip features some nice footage of a Japan-only 240ZG, with the longer “G-nose,” fender extensions and mirrors. Personally, I think it looks chintzy in the worst Japanese way, but there are some who prefer the extra tacked-on bits. I’d much rather drive the white 240Z in the “top secret” design room.

Leno also speculates about what a future 240Z might look like. It’s an interesting question, given that the ’03-’09 350Z was supposed to be a “reboot” of sorts and return the car to its original formula. Its successor the 370Z has grown out of the low-cost / respectable performance niche somewhat, and is increasingly irrelevant, what with the pony car wars heating up and hogging the airtime, so to speak. So perhaps a viable direction for the Z is “down” into competition against the Toyota 86, which for its part has become the darling of the automotive press. The Z would become smaller, lighter, yet more raw and pure. Given the current Z’s identity crisis—not enough power to hang with the Mustang GT or Camaro SS, and too expensive and ponderous to make it as a cheap corner-carver—a more driver-oriented Z-car would be a welcome change of pace, and could revitalize Nissan’s icon.

For me, our new series represents a convergence of interests. It’s no secret I’m an unabashed Audi fan, and as a designer, I’m naturally drawn to the cars that epitomize the most uncompromised expression of Audi’s design philosophy: Their concept cars.

Today’s symphony in polished aluminum, the Avus quattro, was introduced in 1991. Its W12 engine marked the first appearance of the now somewhat-commonplace W-configuration, essentially two narrow-angle V6s joined at the crank. Audi quoted a power figure of 502 hp for the 6.0l engine, but it’s questionable as to whether the engine was ever installed, and the Avus hit the car show circuit with a mockup powerplant under the rear glass.

In any event, the Avus was more of a design exercise than a technical showpiece, although it did feature Audi’s signature quattro AWD system and preface the automaker’s pioneering aluminum construction methods. No, the Avus was first and foremost about the curves, with its downright suggestive waistline and delicate wheel bulges. There were connections with the all-conquering pre-war Auto Union racers, too, with the Avus’ wheels pushed out toward the car’s corners, and the cockpit’s location right up front. But overall, as a combination of sensual appeal expressed in a seemingly austere, form-following-function, futuristic wrapper, it’s arguably without peer. It’s that tension between the seductive and sterile that maintains the Avus’ fascination to this day.

If I have any criticism of the design, it’s that the nose treatment appears to be almost an afterthought in light of the drama of the car’s profile and top-view details. The fascia, not coincidentally, is the part of the car which has dated itself most rapidly; with a few changes the rest of the Avus would be quite at home on the modern car show circuit, not so the nose, which would need a full redesign.

But I’m really splitting hairs. The Avus was a showstopper, a bold statement about Audi’s design and technical direction delivered in a shape that could stop traffic. In other words, it was everything a concept car should be.

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
• TTS
• Rosemeyer

I pine for this car. Yes, I do.

This is the car on which I cut my teeth mechanically. Before the red RX-7 came along I congratulated myself on being able to change a starter unassisted; afterward I would tackle almost anything with little hesitation (and in many cases, preparation).

It was another eBay purchase, February 2000. This was still before eBay Motors came along and the listing for this car was beyond terrible. Two lines of text and no picture, but the kicker was that it was located just down the road in Greensboro. Having a little extra saved up, Aaron and I made the two-hour round trip to check it out.

When we arrived we couldn’t believe our eyes. Except for a blown engine, the car was pristine, perfect, cherry—literally. The seller worked in an automotive paint shop and had painted the car himself with loving attention to detail. However, aside from his artistic talents with a paint gun, he was a stereotypical American auto enthusiast who, “didn’t know nothing ’bout no rotary engine.” Thus, when the engine blew, he was baffled. Aaron and I, being rotorheads, saw opportunity. We thanked him for his time and returned to Raleigh, intent on scooping it up.

And I did. No one else must have driven out to see the car since my bid was less than $300. The owner delivered the car the following week on a flatbed trailer, visibly bothered that his eBay sale hadn’t gone as well as he had hoped, but a man of his word.

So the plan was hatched. Between the black RX-7 with its strong engine but rusted-out northern chassis and the red RX-7 with its blown engine but sound body, I would make one complete and perfect little sports car. My dad was less than optimistic about my chances of success, having never attempted something as involved as an engine swap, but his skepticism just spurred me on. To shorten the story, I learned a lot, made a couple of time-consuming but non-terminal blunders along the way (keep grease away from the clutch disc!), and by early August, after about a month and a half of work, I fired up the good engine in the red car for the first time. That was an experience unto itself since the car had no exhaust but the manifold at the time and rotary engines create noise all out of proportion to their small displacement. Not only that, but I had squirted some automatic transmission fluid into the combustion chambers to lube the seals pre-startup, and the ensuing cloud from the burning ATF completely blanketed the cul-de-sac. But it ran, and ran well. I was ecstatic.

So where is it now? Why didn’t I keep it? The reasons sounded much more plausible at the time, but today I wish, oh how I wish I had reconsidered. After having the car for a few months and enjoying it thoroughly, for easily-preventable reasons the good engine ate an apex seal. Being in college at the time and in a bit of a temporary financial pinch, I somehow decided the car had to go. So in a fit of misdirection I put it up on eBay and sold it, with a blown engine, for $1500. I probably made money on the whole ordeal, but I still regret it.

The buyer arrived to haul it away the same way it had arrived in my parents’ driveway: On a flatbed trailer. From what I gathered, he was a Wankel enthusiast from somewhere around Goldsboro and planned to do a blow-through Weber turbo install. I never heard from him again after the car disappeared around the corner. Funny thing that’s never happened before or since: My mom witnessed the transaction and actually teared up as the red RX-7 was being trailered away. I didn’t quite know what to make of it then, and still don’t, really. I never knew she’d been so attached to it. If I had only known then how much I would long for it now, perhaps I would have been more sympathetic.

Editor’s note: This post is adapted from a “car history” post I wrote on an older blog of mine some years ago. Read the first installment of the two-part series here.

Sandwiched between the groundbreaking, headline-grabbing R32 GT-R, and the later darling-of-the-driving-simulator-junkie-scene R34, Nissan’s R33 Skyline GT-R is sort of the red-headed stepchild of the Skyline generational progression.

Produced between 1993 and 1998, the R33 GT-R improved on the recipe so successfully pioneered by the R32: A twin-turbo, 2.6l inline six developing an underrated 276 hp, computer-controlled AWD mated to a sophisticated suspension incorporating rear-wheel-steering. The under-the-skin changes were admittedly incremental, including new Brembo brakes, revised turbo components and an updated engine management system, but as with all GT-Rs, the whole remained more than the sum of its parts, and was the first non-supercar in production form to lap the Nürburgring in under 8 minutes.

The more obvious differences between the R32 and R33 are external. Where the earlier car has an aggressive, leaning-forward stance that approximates traditional long-nose short-deck sports car proportions, the R33’s profile more closely describes a teardrop shape. Its C-pillars and rear fenders converge more seamlessly than its predecessor’s, and the effect suggests the R33 would flow around a racetrack instead of simply pulverizing it, as the R32’s lines seem to communicate it would. The later car looks fleet and effortless, yet it retains hints of the power and capability underneath what with its fender flares and thoroughly ducted fascia.

Unfortunately, without the extroverted techno-brutality that characterizes the R32’s or R34’s looks, the R33 loses much of its curb appeal with the Gran Turismo set. However, that slightly (however slight a Skyline can be) under-the-radar ethos actually makes me like it more. I have a strong attraction to fundamentally good cars that still aren’t the obvious choice, and the R33 represents that formula among Nissan’s range-topping generations of GT-Rs.