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The age-old automotive question. This or that? Which one is faster? Cheaper? Better-looking? More efficient? Do this one’s subjective qualities outweigh that one’s objective attributes? Behold, the first post in a new series pitting somewhat superficially mismatched cars against one another in an effort to illuminate the finer points of each.

Today we stack up a pair of high-end luxury coupes with sporting pretensions: The ’90-’99 BMW 8 Series, or E31 (pictured at top), and the ’91-’00 Lexus SC300, or JZZ30 (shown below). In both cases, we’re going to consider the most enthusiast-oriented configuration available for the car in question.

Let’s assume a manual transmission for both vehicles. With the E31, a 6-speed was only available in the US coupled to BMW’s 5-liter V12 engine, the 295 hp M70, and that only for the first few years of its production run. So it’s a rare and desirable bird. The SC300 is a bit easier to find equipped with Toyota’s W58 5-speed, but as with its German counterpart, the stickshift variant is easily the most sought-after.

In addition, to level the playing field a bit, we’re going to stipulate the Lexus has undergone an engine swap, exchanging its US-spec, naturally-aspirated, 221 hp 2JZ-GE engine for a Japanese-market-only, twin turbo, 278 hp 1JZ-GTE. The 1JZ was fitted from the factory to the Japanese version of the SC300, known as the Soarer, and mated with an uprated R154 5-speed manual. The swap is as easy as lengthening the wiring harness and bolting everything in—all the mounting points are present to accept the Japanese engine without otherwise modifying the big Lexus GT. And all the requisite bits are surprisingly easy to source from a number of automotive importers.

So, which would you spend your hard-earned money on, given the choice?

Here are some more factors to take into consideration:

• Weight. This is a problem for the BMW. The range-topping, V12-powered 850i/850Ci breaks the scales at around 4,300 lbs, courtesy of its size, huge engine, dual batteries and all the luxury crammed under the sheetmetal. The Lexus, by contrast, comes in at around 3,500 lbs—no lightweight, but nothing to write home about.
• Handling. The E31 pioneered BMW’s new multilink rear suspension and was one of the first cars equipped with electronic stability control. The SC300’s underpinnings were shared with the vaunted Mark 4 Supra and featured double wishbones at all 4 corners, in addition to an available Torsen limited-slip differential. They remain capable, sure-footed cars, but while the E31 may its automaker’s classic steering excellence, its weight and bulk dampen the fun.
• Looks. The Lexus is attractive, and I would even go so far as to call it one of the most stylish cars to emerge from Japan, but c’mon. Nothing says “sex on wheels” quite as effectively as a massive, sleek 8 Series, with its Ferrari-like tapered nose, flared wheel arches and pillar-less side windows.
• Cachet. Chalk another one up for the BMW. When introduced, the E31 was the ultimate “money no object” BMW, with prices in the $80K-100K range. Again, the Lexus exudes quality, but the BMW is on another plane entirely.
• Power. Here’s where the Lexus’s 1JZ engine comes into its own. Utterly bulletproof and much more modern internally than the BMW’s big SOHC V12, the little Lexus 2.5l is capable of delivering literally as much power as you’re willing to spend for. The stock figure of 278 hp is universally considered to be underrated, and a wide array of aftermarket single turbo conversion kits are available to optimize both output and drivability.
• Price. Values are surprisingly similar. Big German luxury liners tend to depreciate like crazy (no one wants to deal with their complexity or the price of parts and service), while Japanese cars in general hold their value a bit better. That said, in the case of the E31 and JZZ30, the price for a 6-speed 850i or 1JZ-swapped SC300 falls in $7K-$10K range. So the cost of entry is very roughly the same.

Editor’s note: This post is part of an ongoing series wherein I stack up the pros and cons of two broadly similar cars from an ownership perspective. Read the other installments here:

• E34 BMW 525i Turbo vs. E34 BMW M5
• Lotus Elise vs. Caterham 7

Happy Groundhog Day! A few minor updates from the Z restoration front:

• The Z’s right rear brake drum (pictured above) decided to seize up a few weeks ago. The wheel cylinder was evidently on its last legs, and after one too many applications of the parking brake, refused to unclamp the shoes from the inside of the brake drum. So, I can remove the drum from the hub (the typical challenge) just fine, but the shoes are still dug into the drum like a pair of rabid pit bulls. I’m going to try a few more tricks tonight. In related news, I hate drum brakes.
• In the wake of my tactical adjustment detailed in the last post, I’m assembling a spreadsheet of parts I need in order to try to start the engine. I’ve been using this site as a part number reference, with the understanding that not everything I need has to be new from Nissan. In particular, wear items like brake pads and shoes and other bits like brake and clutch master cylinders can be remanufactured items. It’s been a challenge compiling part numbers and prices, but I’m slogging my way through it.

• The removal of the wheels for brake service presented me with the opportunity to take some measurements. I was pleasantly surprised to find they’re wider than I thought they were, at 14 by 7 inches. The stock tire size is 195/70-14, but on a 7-inch-wide wheel I could go all the way up to a 225/60-14 without trouble, which is a lot of rubber for a 2350 lb car. I have a soft spot for vintage muscle car tires with raised white lettering, so what I would like to do is acquire a set of BF Goodrich Radial T/As (shown above). They would complement the look and feel of the car perfectly. But…we’ll see whether those are in the cards.
• ZTherapy received my carbs yesterday and, as expected, diagnosed the carb bodies as being too far gone to salvage. The company’s been under new management for the better part of 10 years now, after 5 or so with the original owner (who originally rebuilt my carbs), and has spent an inordinate amount of time repairing units damaged by the original owner’s remanufacturing process. The upshot for me is that reconditioning them will be more expensive than I had anticipated, but the new techniques used in adding the bearings to the throttle shafts (ZTherapy’s signature service) will last the life of the carbs; in other words, indefinitely.

Editor’s note: This post is Part 8 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 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

Here’s yet another case of an automaker anticipating a trend that failed to materialize.

In the wake of the ’90s and early ’00s SUV boom, a raft of concept cars emerged of the “crossover” type, ostensible missing links between the car and the SUV, neither here nor there. Inevitably, some of these trickled into production, like the Chrysler Pacifica, Lincoln MKT and today’s subject, the Mercedes R-Class.

Arriving on our shores for the ’06 model year, the R-Class was among the first generation of crossovers, attempting to combine the interior space of a minivan with the cachet and more rugged image of an SUV. It was RWD and available with a number of engines, from a 3.0l, 190 hp V6 in the base model all the way up to the 6.2l, 500 hp V8 fitted to the AMG-tuned variant.

The R-Class’s sales never met Mercedes’ expectations, selling only around half of the automaker’s yearly goal here in the US. The company offered a number of excuses for the poor reception, such a perceived lack of fuel economy, market saturation and lackluster promotion.

The truth, I think, is a bit more simple: The R-Class is just an ugly car. Between the oddly upright headlights, jutting grille and bloated profile, it’s anything but a looker.

But not only is it unattractive, it’s ambiguous as well, a flaw traceable to its attempted all-things-to-all-people crossover nature. The anticipated market segment never really took hold; as it turns out, people seem to want cars that “know what they are,” so to speak, with a stronger sense of identity than the a stylistic and functional mashup like a crossover.

It’s ironic that the need for conviction in a design was lost on Mercedes when they developed the R-Class, since the very same automaker single-handedly created the “4-door coupe” niche with the bold, distinctive and confident first-generation CLS. You’d think they would have internalized the lessons from the CLS’s breakout, but the R-Class soldiers on into its very own second generation. With any luck, there will be a mercy killing before too long.

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
• Nissan Murano Redesign
• Third-generation Ford Taurus

I think this one might backfire on Honda. Maybe not on a conscious level for the average viewer, but there are definitely depressing undercurrents.

Briefly, then, let’s discuss the clip’s highlights

1. The car is prominently featured. In contrast to many car ads which put forth an idea or attempt to create a mood in lieu of actually showing the vehicle, we are “treated” (I use that word loosely) to some nice shots and angles of the CR-V tooling around.
2. Exuberant pacing. The editing of the clip effectively communicates the car’s runabout, practical nature as a sort of “companion” that can keep up with a busy daily routine.
3. All the scenes are easy to correlate with those of the original film. The ad pays homage to all the iconic scenes from the ’80s classic; I can’t think of anything from the original I wish they had paid tribute to in the TV spot.

And poor decisions:

1. The whole premise of the ad. Matthew Broderick’s character Ferris Bueller drives a Ferrari 250GT Calfornia during his “day off” in the original film. I can’t imagine many things more singularly depressing than puttering around town in a Honda CR-V, remembering that day from my youth when I was serenaded by the dulcet tones of a six-Weber Ferrari V12 at WOT all day long. If that isn’t a metaphor for the descent into mediocrity that often accompanies middle age, I don’t know what is.
2. Ferris is old. Yes, the ad’s concept is that Broderick—not the character he’s completely synonymous with—is experiencing a real-life Ferris-like “day off,” but who are they kidding? Viewers will immediately see Ferris, not Broderick; more than that, they’ll notice he’s aged, and as much as fans of the original film identified with and wanted to be Ferris, anyone who watches the ad is encouraged to identify with the older, squishier “Ferris.” Not a pleasant proposition.
3. The final shot of the car shows it bottoming out in a shower of sparks. Yes, the shot recalls the inimitable Ferrari + Star Wars theme music scene from the ’80s movie, but is that really the final impression to make on your viewers? A dumpy-looking CR-V clanking down on the asphalt, rear wiper flapping ignominiously?

So, some good points and some significant debits. Overall, a thumbs-down to Honda’s too-cute effort. Give me the Seinfeld/Jay Leno Acura NSX ad instead. Even if it doesn’t really show the car all that much.

Bosch’s proprietary continuous injection system (CIS), also known as K-Jetronic or K-Jet, is an interesting hybrid of mechanical and modern fuel injection.

First fitted to the early ’70s Porsche 911, CIS was eventually adopted by a whole host of European automakers, from Audi and VW to Volvo, Ferrari and Lotus. It functions exactly as its name would suggest: Fuel is pressurized by the pump and metered continuously to injectors near the engine’s intake ports, the flow rate controlled by a movable circular plate mounted in the intake stream, attached to the fuel distribution unit. CIS resembles mechanical fuel injection in that there’s a direct relationship between the position of the plate and the flow of fuel, but does allow for some electronic control and closed-loop O2 sensor feedback. It straddles the two methodologies, developed before mass production of fully digital fuel injection was realistic, but band-aided in its later years as a less expensive stopgap system while Bosch’s much more advanced digital Motronic system came to market.

Advantages? It’s cheap, and once properly dialed-in, very reliable. CIS’s rudimentary nature (read: lack of sensors) eliminates many potential failure points, and the basic components used to deliver fuel—the injectors and fuel distributor / air flow plate assembly—are quite robust. Compared to the carbureted systems it replaced, CIS offers the ability to meet a broader envelope of engine fueling requirements, was considerably more efficient while still being emissions-compliant, and isn’t nearly as affected by weather vagaries or other environmental factors.

Downsides? Fuel metering, while more precise than most carburetors, still isn’t as accurate as sequential common-rail port injection. Additionally, the presence of the air flow plate and fuel distribution constrain the intake path considerably. Air has to flow up through the plate and then embark on whatever twists and turns it must make in order to reach the cylinders. By contrast, the metering unit of fuel injection with a flapper-door AFM or MAF sensor can be positioned wherever it needs to be to optimize the intake path. And finally, CIS is constrained by its semi-mechanical nature, lacking flexibility in the face of ever-changing emissions and efficiency requirements.

I drove a CIS-equipped car for the better part of 3 years. After an initial pig-rich condition was sorted out by a local specialist, the car’s fuel injection system ran perfectly and required absolutely nothing of me for the remainder of our time together. CIS is unique and certainly doesn’t readily surrender its secrets, but I grew to respect and appreciate the durable nature of the system Bosch developed.

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

• Rochester Fuel Injection
• Single-Point Injection
• The Dell’Orto carb
• The SU carb

Contrary to popular perception, there is some precedent for this.

No, not for mounting three turbos on a diesel engine—that’s new—but for BMW releasing more “mundane” M-tuned versions of regular road cars.

See, at the moment, the larger part of the BMW enthusiast community is undergoing a kind of soul-searching existential crisis, wondering how BMW’s M division could have ever stooped so low from their racing-derived roots as to release a trio of diesel-powered models: the M550d, X5 M50d and X6 M50d, all fitted with the above engine.

On the surface, it does indeed appear that BMW M has completely sold out. For years, enthusiasts could count on a few givens from the Bavarian automaker’s tuning arm: High-revving, bespoke, naturally-aspirated engines and firmed up, immensely capable versions of BMW’s regular sedans and coupes. With the release of an M-tuned, diesel-powered SUV, it would certainly seem like BMW M has finally abandoned the last of their core convictions, jumped the shark, so to speak.

Take heart, though, BMW fans; it’s not as bad as you think, for a couple of reasons:

1. Diesel engines now have a performance pedigree. Granted, oil-burners may have won their accolades under the auspices of a major BMW rival, Audi, but with the ’06 Le Mans victory of the awesome R10 TDI, the world has finally been made safe for performance-oriented diesel-powered cars.
2. The new models aren’t “true” M cars. Not in the sense that their nomenclature follows the M + single digit convention. When BMW M creates a new M3, M5 or M6, it truly does represent the division’s most uncompromising effort in that particular niche. However, the tuning arm does have a long history of creating “lesser” M cars, from the regular M30-powered E12 M535i, through the regular M60-powered E34 M540i and 540i M-Sport all the way to the regular N54-powered E82 1 Series M Coupe. So the long precedent doesn’t mean every car BMW M touches signals the downfall of the brand.

That said, ever since the X5 M and X6 M, I still don’t know what to say about a performance SUV from BMW. That’s…untouchable. The new X5 M50d and X6 M50d may be very impressive indeed, but as SUVs, to borrow from Clarkson, they’re utterly pointless.

As for the engine itself, shown at top, I’m eager to get more details on how it works. Top Gear reports:

The lower inertia of the smaller turbos is used to deliver “razor-sharp responses” according to BMW, while the larger one is tuned for maximum pressure when you really feel like opening the taps.

Well…yeah. That’s been the point of sequential twin turbos ever since the Germans and Japanese began fitting them to their cars in the late ’80s. More details on the engineering justifications for the extra turbo and associated complexity would be nice. Will keep you posted.

Overshadowed by Mazda’s later, stunning, 3rd generation rotary-powered sports car, the ’86-’91 2nd gen plays an aspirational role for many owners. Much like its contemporary from Toyota, the ’86-’92 Supra, the 2nd gen RX-7 lives in the shadow of its faster, better-looking and far more potent sequel.

That said, the FC, as it’s known, is quite a handsomely-penned car in its own right. The Porsche 944‘s shape inspired the Japanese designers, and while the 2nd gen might not be quite as baroque and sultry as its counterpart from Stuttgart, the similarities proportion-wise are evident. Notable differences include a lack of an actual quarter light for the Mazda, and its unique headlight treatment that allows flash-to-pass while the high beams are still stowed. The Japanese car features less surface detail than the 944 as well, but it displays a taut and confident—if not overly interesting—profile.

Several details in particular stand out to me: The strong “keystone” of a C-pillar, the ever-so-slightly flared wheel arches, and especially the minimal thickness between the top of the front arch and the beginning of the sheet metal’s turn inward toward the hood. That last detail visually lowers the front end and gives the car an especially agile, grippy appearance.

No, even if its lines doesn’t deserve the admiration of the FD’s, the FC is a cohesive, attractive and often overlooked shape, one that I wouldn’t mind in the least to be seen behind the wheel of.

Editor’s note: This post is part of an ongoing series featuring cars whose design I find appealing, in contrast to mainstream opinion. Read the other installments here:

Editor’s note: This post is part of an ongoing series featuring cars whose design I find appealing, in contrast to mainstream opinion. Read the other installments here:

• ’89-’91 Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme Coupe
• ’99-’04 Toyota Solara Coupe
• Mazda CX-7
• ’93-’01 Subaru Impreza
• ’96-’98 Chrysler Sebring Convertible
• ’92-’97 Cadillac Seville STS
• ’95-’96 Nissan 240SX
• ’87-’88 Ford Thunderbird
• ’94-’97 Lexus LS400
• Subaru SVX
• ’03-’04 Infiniti M45

Announcing the grand opening of the brand-new Spannerhead Store! I’ve only made a handful of products so far, but look for more as I create more designs. Pick up a stylish t-shirt or bumper sticker and help spread the word!

This one unfolded before your very eyes, as it were.

It started in mid-September last year. On a whim, one idle Tuesday afternoon, I checked a site I hadn’t in a while, Audifans.com, the hub for most transactions involving older Audis. It was innocent enough; I just wanted to do some window shopping, but as often happens, a seed got planted in my brain during the process.

It burrowed into fertile ground—I have an enduring affection for older 5-cylinder Audis; I owned an ’86 4000 quattro for a couple of years and was very interested in purchasing a ’90 200 Turbo quattro in the process that ultimately resulted in the acquisition of my BMW 525.

So the gears started turning, and I discussed my ruminations with my wife. She wasn’t very keen on the idea—she loves the BMW—but was willing to go along with it in the spirit of compromise, with the understanding that she did have to be at least okay with whatever vehicle I settled on.

With her half-blessing, I resumed my participation on the Audi 200 e-mail list and put out a feeler for anyone looking to sell. I knew exactly what I wanted: The 20-valve, turbocharged iteration of the Audi 200, a flavor imported to the US for only one year: ’91. I love the engine, the bodystyle and its non-conformist cool, among many other attributes. The 200q20v, as it’s known, is rare, comfortable, well-appointed, equipped with a manual gearbox, attractive in an understated way and capable of a startling turn of speed with a few basic bolt-ons. It was The One, sellers were coming out of the woodwork; the stage was set for a fast pick up.

Only…it wasn’t quite so simple. One wrench in the works was my BMW. It had never excited me in the way a 200q20v would, but it remained an excellent car, reliable, capable and an absolute dream to drive, so fluid and sure-footed in all its movements. Whatever I acquired would have had to at least match it in terms of overall condition, a tall order for the crop of 20-year-old cars I was investigating.

And not only was the 525 a tough act to follow, its previous—and first—owner is a neighbor of my parents, a good friend and very “interested” in my ownership of the car in the sense that I pledged to keep it for some time and take good care of it. Now, I know fundamentally that the car is in my name, and I’m autonomous, but there had been some car transactions in years past that had left a very poor taste in my parents’ mouth, and selling the BMW after having owned it for less than two years would have been very, shall we say, frustrating for them. I’m an independent agent, but my decisions do affect others, I agonized quite a bit over whether it was worth disappointing my parents and their neighbor in pursuit of a car whose purchase I really couldn’t rationally justify.

In the meantime, I started narrowing down my leads. The one I was most drawn to is the example pictured in this post: an Alpine White ’91 200 Turbo quattro Avant (Audi’s word for a wagon). It was in pristine shape for its age, and had had every possible wear item replaced recently—and in many cases not just replaced, but upgraded with a higher-quality piece. The interior (including the headliner) was in fantastic shape, compression and power were dyno-checked and factory-spec, and the car was completely rust-free. It was on the other side of the country—admittedly an issue—but the seller’s price was eminently fair, and he would include boxes and boxes of spares he had accumulated over the years. It was a great deal.

My only reservations about the car were its color and bodystyle. My wife hates white cars, and I’m not the biggest fan of the color either, especially on a mid-’80s-to-early-’90s car with the fashionable large black trim strips running down its flanks. And while I remain a fan of the Audi 200’s sedan shape, try as I might (and I tried), I never could warm up to the wagon shape. The angle of the tailgate was unique, and I liked that, but the rear overhang really was excessive, and the rearward extension of the roof killed the sedan’s appealing “wedge” profile. I just couldn’t get used to either attribute, but was willing to live with them given the car’s other qualities.

And then the brainstorm rolled through. All my internal conflict, all my hand-wringing over the potential response of my parents and their neighbor and the fact that I felt like I was being pulled inexorably toward the Audi’s purchase, and I could never feel satisfied with my BMW—it all came into focus. I finally understood what was driving me against my good sense to make a poor decision: It was the tension between my need to turn a wrench and the fact that the restoration of my Datsun 240Z project car seemed like an unobtainable goal, detailed in this post. It was a revelation.

With my newfound clarity, I decided to forgo the Audi 200 purchase. It was difficult—I still have a great deal of affection for the car—but I wrote the seller and explained the situation as best I could. He was keen on selling it, so I do hope he was able to use some of the information and photos he passed on to me in service of a sale to another worthy owner.

Who knows; I may own one yet. But the Z comes first.

Editor’s note: This post is part of an ongoing series relating stories of cars I almost acquired, whether though purchase or trade. Read the other installments here:

• 1984 Mazda RX-7 GSL-SE
• 1990 Mercedes-Benz 420SEL
• 1982 BMW 628CSi
• 1991 Volvo 780 Bertone
• 1969 Plymouth Sport Fury
• 1990 Audi 200 Turbo quattro
• 1975 Opel Manta