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This build isn’t even done yet, but the engineering and fabrication is so stunning that I feel compelled to feature it.

The skinny? It’s custom-engineered, 2.6l, peripheral port, 4-rotor Wankel engine transplant into a 2nd generation (FC) Mazda RX-7. Every piece is so jewel-like that it’s difficult to know where to begin.

John Huijben, an engineer and machinist based in the Netherlands, decided on a bit of a whim to put this engine together in his spare time. In his words, it’s more of an engineering exercise than anything else, and not meant to be a part of a fully integrated car. Put another way, it isn’t remotely the most practical or sensible way to build a powerful RX-7, but Lord help me if it isn’t absolutely fascinating. My kind of project, in other words.

Here’s the shell: a basic Series 4 (’86-’88) RX-7, a touch rusty, stripped down the degree it’ll have to be to accept the engine.

One of the build thread’s highlights is the CAD work. Stunning exploded views precede almost every major update and illustrate the benefits of careful design over a less thought-out, more improvised approach to engine building.

The slide throttle in particular is a complete work of engineering art. Less restrictive than a conventional butterfly throttle, especially at WOT, its design and implementation are peerless.

The part of the 4-rotor build that takes the cake, though, has to be the custom eccentric shaft (a rotary’s equivalent of a crankshaft). Instead of mating two e-shafts from smaller, 2-rotor engines, Huijben decided to design and machine his own custom piece from a solid steel billet (shown at top in photo above). Given its precise balancing, oiling and harmonics requirements, it’s a tour de force of engineering.

I’ll definitely be keeping up with the build’s progress. Can’t wait to see it come to life for the first time!

H/t to Aaron for the link to the build. Thanks!

Editor’s note: This post is part of an ongoing series showcasing awesome engine swaps and builds. Read the other installments here:

• Audi V8 into S3 Lotus Esprit
• ’69 Chevy Camaro with LS7/LS9 hybrid

Well folks, I’d like to say that this is one of the signs of the impending apocalypse—a Lamborghini SUV—but believe it or not, there is a precedent here.

See, in the midst of the Italian supercar maker’s 30-year (1970-2000) period of financial distress, they did create a limited run high-end SUV called the LM002. Made to the tune of 328 copies from 1986 to 1993, it seemed just as out of character for Lamborghini then as the Urus does now—perhaps more so, given that the SUV craze of the early ’90s hadn’t yet taken place.

Whatever the quality of its reception, the LM002 did pave the way at least somewhat for the latest Lambo. Not completely, mind you; they’re still very different cars in concept—the LM002 being more of a rugged, Hummer-like vehicle and the Urus existing more in the vein of a polished Land Rover or BMW X5M.

The Urus’ powerplant looks to be a bit less exotic than its forebear’s as well. In contrast to the LM002’s 5.2l V12 (a massive 7.2l marine V12 was even available by special order), the Urus will sport a more “mundane” 5.2l V10 routing 584 hp through all four wheels.

So while the idea of a Lamborghini SUV may still be jarring, it’s a concept with history, and given that Porsche has been cranking out Cayennes for the past ten years, we might well wonder what took Lambo so long?

Here’s one I’d absolutely love to drive.

Like the Toyota AE86, in its day, the ’91-’94 B13 Nissan Sentra SE-R was something of a hidden jewel. Never a smashing success in spite of the profile-raising accolades heaped upon it by the automotive press, it exited the market quietly in ’94 without leaving a real replacement.

It’s easy to see why more buyers didn’t gravitate in the B13 SE-R’s direction—the styling is decidedly soap bar-ish in spite of the sporty wheels, fancy air dam and spoiler. That said, those who didn’t consider one by all accounts missed something special.

To create the SE-R, Nissan took their cheapest car, stiffened the suspension, fitted it with a limited-slip differential, and equipped it with their wonderfully stout, flexible and rev-happy 4-cylinder, 2.0l, 140 hp SR20DE engine. The result was a car that could blow through 60 mph from a standstill in 7.6 seconds—not blisteringly fast, but quick enough to keep pace with higher-tier sports coupes and sedans. The suspension gave the car a fling-about, tossable character and the LSD helped put every last bit of power to the ground effectively.

The B13 SE-R was more than the sum of its parts. Car and Driver, one of its biggest fans, wrote, “The Nissan Sentra SE-R isn’t going to win any beauty contests, but it’s a beautiful driving experience.” All reviews of the day praised the convergence of the SR20 engine’s brilliance, the chassis’ playful character and the overall car’s price and utility into a near-perfect package for the price. As for me, its underrated, diamond-in-the-rough persona is a major draw, and elevates it into the ranks of seriously desirable cars.

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

• Peugeot 205 GTI
• B4 Volkswagen Passat
• Lancia Fulvia Coupe
• Acura Vigor
• Mazda Millenia
• Citroën SM
• Fiat Coupé
• ’91-’96 Infiniti G20
• ’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

Nissan’s refresh of the Murano between its 1st and 2nd generation is the design equivalent of taking away with your right hand what you add with your left.

Granted, the Murano hasn’t exactly been a flop, sales-wise. I do see a fair number of them on the road, and the car remains a stable part of Nissan’s lineup. But it still represents a classic case of how to improve styling in one area while ruining it in another.

What am I referring to? The front and rear of the car. Examine the pictures above. The top two depict the newer, 2nd generation, ’09+ car, and the bottom two show the original, ’02-’07 vehicle. What Nissan did, essentially, is vastly improve the look of the car’s nose while designing away all the personality of the rear. Lest you think I’m splitting hairs, keep an eye out for examples of each car on the road; the impression is even stronger in person than in pictures.

The 1st generation Murano’s front end cleaved to Nissan’s corporate styling philosophy of the time—it’s sharp, angular, geometric and altogether awkward. The ’09+ car’s fascia, by contrast, is much more cohesive and handsome, as if they had taken the original, given it a shave and a facelift and managed to make it more striking at the same time. Well done there.

But…Nissan went the opposite direction with the Murano’s rear. The ’02-’07 car’s taillights and rump were arguably the most successful area of the car, styling-wise. Significantly, they were distinctive—you could pick them out in a badge-less lineup of mid-size crossovers—and they integrated with the car’s overall lines in the way they flowed up and over the rear wheel arches. But with the 2nd generation Murano, all that character and context is gone; the taillights look arbitrarily placed, and like they could pull double-duty on any econobox further down in Nissan’s lineup.

One step forward, one step back for the Murano. It’s a shame when designers don’t recognize where they’ve gone right and preserve, or at least minimally update, those styling elements.

Editor’s note: This post is part of an ongoing series wherein I discuss unsuccessful cars whose styling was their overlooked (or denied) Achilles heel. Read the other installments here:

• BMW 5-Series Gran Turismo
• ’04-’06 Pontiac GTO
• Chevy SSR
• Chyrsler Cirrus
• Chyrsler 300M
• Mercedes-Benz R-Class
• Third-generation Ford Taurus

What’s going on with Formula 1 this year? Rather than the typical domination by one or two teams, almost every team and driver on the grid seems to be in contention for a top grid or podium spot on any given weekend. At least, judging by the first three races.

The 2012 Chinese Grand Prix continued the trend, and this weekend, it was the Nico Rosberg and Mercedes F1 show. Both Rosberg and his teammate, 7-time World Champion Michael Schumacher, qualified extremely well (Rosberg on pole), and would have both proceeded to own the race if it weren’t for an unfortunate pit incident that sidelined Schumacher. Rosberg, for his part, soldiered on, maintaining a solid 20-second lead on the rest of the pack to clinch the win.

Speaking of the rest the pack, I can recall entire F1 seasons that didn’t contain the amount of overtaking present in this one race. Drivers were passed only to retake their lost position in the following corner or two; some drivers surged and gained 3 or 4 places in the span of one lap, while others (Kimi Räikkönen namely, on account of over-worn tires) fell 10 positions in the span of 2 laps. Apart from Rosberg, securely ensconced in 1st, it’s like the deck was shuffled every five minutes. At the finish line, 2nd and 13th places were separated by a paltry 30 seconds. It made for some exciting racing, and the drivers’ skill and gusto came to the fore. Fun to watch.

My driver, Ferrari’s Fernando Alonso, didn’t fare as well, being one of those who fell more than a few places in 2-3 laps, but eked out a 9th place finish, and held on to third place in the 2012 driver’s standings. Ah well. Bahrain next week!

Made a bit of progress last night. After draining 2-3 gallons of 8-year-old gasoline-turned-varnish (below), I removed the fuel tank (above) without too much drama. All three of the evaporative emissions system hoses that intersected the tank were completely shot, so they were snipped (along with a fuel line), but I’ll be replacing all the rubber anyway, so it wasn’t critical. Other than that, all the bolts and screws turned remarkably readily for the first time in 40 years, even exposed as they’d been at the rear of the car. A little shot of PB and everything was peachy.

Needless to say, the garage reeks of old gas now. I’ll probably mix this in with 2-3 gallons of fresh gas and feed it to my lawnmower. The consensus seems to be that it’ll be fine.

The really great news was on the inside of the rear quarter panel, shown above. Yes folks, it’s all solid metal. There’s a bit of superficial rust here and there, but based on my cursory inspection, no actual rot. If the car’s structural rust is confined to the passenger side floor pan and rocker panel, I’ll be a happy (relatively-speaking) man.

Given the good condition of the inside of the tank, the question at this point becomes: Should I use the POR-15 Fuel Tank Repair Kit, or just clean and seal the outside of the tank and call it a day? I’ve used the POR-15 kit before (on my old Audi 4000’s tank) with good success, so that’s charted territory. But I’d rather not do more work than I really have to. Hmm.

Editor’s note: This post is Part 13 of an ongoing series chronicling my efforts toward the restoration of my 1972 Datsun 240Z, originally my father’s. Read the other installments here:

• Part 23: Gutting the Interior
• Part 22: The Teardown Begins
• Part 21: …And the Engine Comes Out
• Part 20: Treasure Hunting
• Part 19: Beginnings
• Part 18: VIN Discoveries
• Part 17: The Bad News
• Part 16: On The Road
• Part 15: Getting It Back On The Road
• Part 14: It Lives!
• Part 13: Restoring the Fuel System, Part I
• Part 12: Meat on the Wheels
• Part 11: Inspiration (Sort Of)
• Part 10: Carbs’ Return
• Part 9: First Triad Z Club Meet
• Part 8: Wheel Work
• Part 7: Tactical Changes
• Part 6: Little Things
• Part 5: Coming Home
• Part 4: The Rollout
• Part 3: Confessions of a Poor Car Enthusiast
• Part 2: Opening the Tomb
• Part 1: Projecting Forward

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?

This is it. This will be their conveyance when they first take the wheel and start driving to school and back.

Granted, I do have eight (short) years before my oldest reaches that point, but what’s the harm in thinking ahead, right? Before I launch into my justifications for the Volvo 240 Wagon, I think it’s worthwhile to point out that they’ll be purchasing fully half the car; this won’t be a case of me just handing them the keys without them having a stake in whether the vehicle lives or dies. And of course they’ll perform all their own maintenance on it, under my watchful (and helpful) eye.

So why the dorky Volvo? Well, it’s dorky, for one. It’s my opinion a kid’s first car should be as humbling as possible. I learned on my mom’s minivan, transitioning to a cheap Toyota Tercel once I had learned the rudiments of rowing my own gears. Neither car had any flash or dash whatsoever, and the lack thereof kept me focused on establishing a “baseline” driving-wise, a threshold difficult to deviate from even as I moved up the ladder into more capable cars.

The 240 Wagon is undeniably practical as well, with its capacious cargo area, no-nonsense interior and sturdy roof rack. If I’m going to help my kids buy a car, I’d like it to have some utility vis-a-vis the rest of the family as well; in other words, if I have to buy some lumber, it’d be nice to take the Volvo to the store instead of always opting for the minivan. The car will earn its keep, so to speak.

The Swedish automaker is well known for its safety-first focus, a concern at the forefront of every parent’s mind when their babies close the door and motor away. The 240 is built like a tank, thoroughly crash-tested and was available with airbags in later years.

Another boon is the car’s mechanic-friendly nature. We used to own a later (and even boxier) Volvo 940, and I can attest to the fact that everything under the hood and under the car is well made, fastened together with gusto at the factory, and easy to access and repair. Lesson time may challenge the kids, but success won’t be unobtainable like it would be with many other cars.

And perhaps the biggest advantage of the Volvo 240 Wagon: It’s cheap. I mean dirt cheap. A fully-loaded example with typical mileage can be had for a little north of $2K. Reasons for its value? Charitably-speaking, it’s not the sexiest car on the road, it was produced in decent numbers and projects an utterly frumpy image. On paper, though, it’s a lot of car for the money. A winner on all counts; perfect when it comes time for my offspring to start driving.

I’ve already written a bit about the 993 Turbo, but I think it’s time to shine a spotlight on the whole generation.

The last hurrah before the completely redesigned 996 took over in 1999, the ’93-’98 iteration of the classic Porsche 911, better known by its internal model code 993, was the final evolution of a basic platform that had served the Stuttgart automaker since the mid-’60s.

Equipped with a 3.6l version of Porsche’s legendary flat six M46 engine delivering 285 hp, the 993’s relatively low weight of around 3,100 lbs allowed it to scoot to 60 mph in the low 5 second range. The rear suspension was completely redesigned, incorporating a multilink system to give the car much more predictable handling behavior (especially when it came to lift-off oversteer) compared to its 911 predecessors. And the styling was smoothed and rounded, while still retaining the traditional 911 proportions and styling details.

Design-wise, it’s the little things about the 993 that captivate me. The classic 911 profile is present, that shape that shouldn’t look right, yet you can’t turn away from. The visual peak of the car is the top of the windshield, as opposed to the top of the roof in the 996 on, an element that defines the vintage 911. The front windows incorporate an extra pane, an anachronistic detail shared by no other car in the mid-’90s. And there’s something about the way the windshield wiper pivots are located in such proximity that just gets me. I can’t explain it. It’s perfect.

Of course Porsche can slap the “911” nameplate on whatever they want, but as far as I’m concerned, the 993’s successor, the 996, really deserved a separate model number—it was that different from its predecessor. Gone were the classic sewing machine thrum of the air-cooled engine, the distinctive profile and even the jewel-like styling details. In their place, the 996 substituted a more conventional water-cooled mill, a bloated jellybean shape that vaguely resembled the traditional 911 look but was completely devoid of sex appeal, and acres of corporate plastic from the instrument cluster to the engine bay. Slightly faster the 996 may have been, but in the minds of most enthusiasts, including this one, the loss of character over the 993 was a heavy price to pay for the extra capability. No, given the choice, I’ll gladly “put up with” the 993’s vintage quirkiness, even if that means, in the end, I’m driving the slower car.