Tag: Cars

No of course it doesn’t exist — for one thing, I’m not a zillionaire like Harry Metcalfe, and nor have I been a petrolhead like Harry for decades.

That doesn’t mean I wouldn’t (and who wouldn’t?) like to have a 10-car garage like Harry’s, filled with all my dream cars.  The only question:  could I keep it to only 10?  Let’s have a look, and they’re not in any order of preference.

Firstly, Longtime Loyal Readers will not be surprised by any of the cars in my garage, because they’ve heard me bang on about them for years.  So I’ll start with the most-frequently-mentioned ones:

1972 Dino 246 GT

Okay, honestly:  it was Ferrari’s first attempt at an entry-level Ferrari — Old Man Enzo didn’t even want to badge it as a Ferrari, at first — and it’s not really a very good drive, by Ferrari standards.  The gear shift is clunky and the clutch needs Lou Ferrigno muscles to work if you’re driving it in stop-start traffic. But:  it is to my mind, and to the minds of many others, one of (if not the most) beautiful cars ever built.  And if like me you will occasionally say, “The hell with function;  what about the form?” then you’re not going to quibble (kinda like Salma Hayek’s inability to make a decent fish ‘n chips:  who cares?).

The same is true of the next one in Kim’s Garage:

1966 Jaguar E-type Series 2 Speedster

Yes, I’d probably prefer to have the resto-modded Eagle version, but truthfully, I don’t care.  And this car needs no justification, because E-type.

2001 BMW Z8

BMW’s successor to the 1959 Model 507, it’s one of the very few “modern” (made in the 21st century) cars that made me catch my breath the minute I saw it for the first time.  As did the next one:

2015 Maserati GT

It has a Ferrari 4.7-liter V8 engine, and looks to put Lollobrigida in the shade;  what’s not to worship?  But enough of the youngins.  Let’s go back in time a tad…

1954 Mercedes 300 SC

Quite possibly one of the best cars Mercedes has ever built.  The engineers were told to design a car that could cruise at top speed all day on the autobahn without ever suffering a mechanical breakdown of any kind.  So they did.  (I’d even accept the larger 300 S sedan model of the same year — same car, really.)

1967 Austin Healey 3000 Mk III

Yeah I know:  oil leaks, Lucas electrical system, blah blah blah.  Don’t care, I love it dearly.  As I do the next sports car:

1970 Alfa Romeo Giulia GT Junior

Alfa pura.  Tiny, raucous, spunky and glorious.  Like the next one.

1966 Mini-Moke

Not the modern electrical one;  this is the underpowered runaround with the famed Mini 850cc engine;  famous, that is, for being the engine that when you put your throttle flat to the floor:  nothing happens.  And speaking of underpowered runarounds;  if I couldn’t find the older Austin Moke, then I’d get a decent substitute:

1960 Fiat 500 Jolly

Just the wicker seats alone make this worth the price of admission.  But let’s get serious, now…

1976 Mercedes 450 SEL 6.9

The Q-ship of the Mercedes line, with a standard W116 frame that concealed a roaring 6.9-liter V8 monster under the hood.  What the 1954 Merc engineers would have designed if they’d had the technology.  (In today’s money, it cost the equivalent of $195,000 back then.)  This, and the ’54 300 SC would be my “refined” drives.

At some point, I have to acknowledge that several of the sports cars listed above would be, shall we say “occasional” drives, the occasions being that they were actually working and not in the shop.  So for the last one, I’m going to go for reliability above all.

1994 Honda NSX

It’s the sports-car equivalent of the two Mercedes on the list:  reliable to a fault, but with all the grunt I’d ever want or need.  And it’s not bad looking, either.  (I don’t like the more recent model NSX because it’s pig-ugly and vulgar.)

We all know about the dreadful Lucas Electronics, or in shorthand:

But what if they got it right?

Iain Tyrrell talks about how Lucas’s fuel injection system was the bees’ knees, and dominated racing from the late 1950s all the way to the 1980s.  Even Ferrari were forced to use them in their monster P3 and P4 Le Mans cars.

Take a few minutes to learn about it, from the master mechanic his own self.  Then watch as he makes an old TR6 work properly again.

And by the way, I would take a (Tyrrell-restored) Triumph TR6 into my garage, any day of the week.

Rule Britannia, and all that.

Ker-Chunk-Ker-Chunk-Ker-Chunk-Ker-Chunk-Ker-Chunk-Ker-Chunk-Ker-Chunk-Ker-Chunk-Ker-Chunk-Ker-Chunk-Ker-Chunk-Ker-Chunk-Ker-Chunk-Ker-Chunk-Ker-Chunk-Ker-Chunk-Ker-Chunk-Ker-Chunk-Ker-Chunk-Ker-Chunk-Ker-Chunk-Ker-Chunk-Ker-Chunk-Ker-Chunk-Ker-Chunk-Ker-Chunk-Ker-Chunk-Ker-Chunk-Ker-Chunk-Ker-Chunk-Ker-Chunk-Ker-Chunk-Ker-Chunk-Ker-Chunk-Ker-Chunk-Ker-Chunk-Ker-Chunk-Ker-Chunk-Ker-Chunk-Ker-Chunk-Ker-Chunk-Ker-Chunk-Ker-Chunk-Ker-Chunk-Ker-Chunk-Ker-Chunk-Ker-Chunk-Ker-Chunk-Ker-Chunk-Ker-Chunk-Ker-Chunk-Ker-Chunk-Ker-Chunk-Ker-Chunk-Ker-Chunk-Ker-Chunk-Ker-Chunk-Ker-Chunk-Ker-Chunk-Ker-Chunk-Ker-Chunk-Ker-Chunk-Ker-Chunk-Ker-Chunk-Ker-Chunk-Ker-Chunk-Ker-Chunk-Ker-Chunk-Ker-Chunk-Ker-Chunk-Ker-Chunk-Ker-Chunk-Ker-Chunk-Ker-Chunk-Ker-Chunk-Ker-Chunk-Ker-Chunk-Ker-Chunk-Ker-Chunk

Irritating, isn’t it?

So that’s why, whenever I have to drive more than a few miles on U.S. concrete-paved roads, I arrive at my destination in a mood that can best be described as “Gimme that puppy, I’m gonna bite its fucking head off.”

Look, I understand the installation of concrete roads instead of ordinary (smooth) tarred roads.  I know that tarred roads wear out more quickly than concrete slabs, and I know that replacing broken concrete is easier / cheaper than resurfacing tarmac.

Yet I wonder how it is that South Africa — which is just as hot as Texas, and can have temperature fluctuations just as extreme — can get by with smooth tarred roads over similar long distances, carrying about the same weight of traffic, and yet their roads are, if anything, better than ours to drive on.

The reason for all this rage is that a couple of days ago I went looking for a new apartment located closer to New Wife’s place of work, and had to drive there and back after, it should be said, great success.  (Cliff Notes: much cheaper than Plano, acceptable compromises and a better kitchen than our current apartment.  We move on June 1.)

When I got home at the end of all this, I had driven back the dozen-odd miles along the Ker-Chunk-Ker-Chunk-Ker-Chunk-Ker-Chunk-Ker-Chunk-Ker-Chunk road, and the closer I got to home, the more I wanted to rub a cheese grater over my scrotum because New Wife has had to endure this torture for the past two years.  That’s 125 miles a week along the Ker-Chunk-Ker-Chunk-Ker-Chunk-Ker-Chunk-Ker-Chunk-Ker-Chunk roads, and in Sputum, her Fiat 500 with its pathetic excuse for suspension withal.

Small wonder she’s sometimes kinda grumpy at the end of the day.  I myself would be reaching for the puppy the minute I walked in the door.

What’s even more interesting is that Plano has started to lay tarmac over some stretches of its concrete roads, and I have to tell you that this is in no small part why I get into such a bate about the fucking concrete Ker-Chunk-Ker-Chunk-Ker-Chunk-Ker-Chunk-Ker-Chunk-Ker-Chunk roads — the contrast is unbelievable, and I have been known to drive somewhat out of my way just to enjoy the noiseless travel over tarmac.

I should also point out that the very first time I visited this country, back in 1982, I drove from New York City to New England, back to New York and thence to Disneyworld, over to New Orleans and back to NYfC, over a period of about 3-4 weeks.  I-95 north and south, and I-10 / whatever I took back to New York put me in a fearful mood, and every time I could dump the interstates and head along back (tarred) roads, I took the opportunity to do so.

Small wonder, then, that my honeymoon (with Wife #1, a youthful mistake anyway) turned out to be, shall we say, less than a resounding success.

There’s nothing like having a running argument over the Ker-Chunk-Ker-Chunk-Ker-Chunk-Ker-Chunk-Ker-Chunk-Ker-Chunk noise, for three full weeks, to doom a relationship.

I’m just lucky that New Wife is made of better stuff than I am, and I am horribly chagrined to have taken this long to improve her lifestyle.

Well, you were about to catch a flight out of St. Louis after having sold your company to a bunch of Missouri bankers, but Al Qa’eda / ISIS / Hamas blew up the airport, fortunately before you got there.

With the concomitant chaos, you figure that your best bet to get home is to drive there, wherever “home” is.  But you’ve got a large check in your briefcase, and as it happens, you come across Daniel Schmitt & Co, a purveyor of fine cars to the discerning customer — so you think to yourself, “What Would Kim Do?”, and of course, Kim would take some of that money and buy a decent car for the drive home.  Especially when Messrs. Schmitt & Cie. have things like this available:

Assume, for the sake of it, that all the cars in their showroom would be reliable enough to get you home (even the British and Italian ones).

So browse among them, and pick the ONE you would dump the dough on, start up and set off in.  And let me know in Comments which one, and why.

It may take you a while…

Okay, you may all start laughing at me now, but here’s my latest automotive crush:

…and all the details are here.

The biggest knock on the Healeys is, of course, their ability to spew oil and lose carburetors.  And then there’s , courtesy of Lucas Electrical (the Prince of Darkness) and failing instruments (the Rootes of All Evil).

But.

If that thing isn’t drop-dead gorgeous to you, we can’t be friends.  And its roaring 2.9-liter straight-six engine… I need a cigarette, and I don’t even smoke.

FYI:  we had one in the family, but my Mom made Dad sell it because she felt like a floozy driving it, and “all the men looked at her”.  (Which says all you need to know about my mother.)

I feel faint.  Mostly because of its price, but anyway.