the survey course: a rundown of the 10 cars you should drive
to get the richest, broadest, and most complete automotive experience.
But there are plenty of other awesome rides that need to be experienced
before you take a dirt nap, so now we turn our focus to orphaned cars
made in the postwar era (1945 to the present). These 10 fantastic
vehicles suffered the indignity of being abandoned in the world, as
their manufacturers went to the great corporate graveyard in the sky.
Perhaps the biggest automotive tragedy of
the past decade, Pontiac’s hottest version of the G8 was practically
stillborn. It arrived on dealer lots just months before the Pontiac
brand was axed, a casualty of GM’s bankruptcy. Adapted from GM’s
Australian Holden Commodore, all G8s were a delight to pilot, with
sharp, BMW-esque handling; rear-wheel drive; and powerful engines. But
only the GXP came with a 6.2-liter V-8 derived from the Corvette, and it
offered a six-speed manual transmission. With 415 hp, the handsome
sedan ripped off 0-to-60 runs in 4.7 seconds and sounded like
a pissed-off African lion. Fewer than 2000 were imported to the U.S.,
virtually guaranteeing collectible status for this Australian-American.
The first-generation Toronado is gorgeous
proof that, before Oldsmobiles were driven exclusively by Oldspeople,
the brand was GM’s experimental, risk-taking division. How much risk?
The gloriously overengineered Toronado routed the longitudinally mounted
425-cubic-inch V-8's 385 hp to the front wheels, making it not
only the first big American car to employ front-wheel drive since the
1930s but also the first ever to do so with a 7.0-liter V-8. Driving one
of these is like driving every other American barge of the era, except
you’re being pulled rather than pushed. Torque steer, believe it or not,
is largely absent, but the brakes on early cars (finned drums!) were
truly awful. It would be a sin not to mention the Toronado’s
styling—particularly the 1966 model’s—it is at once menacing and
graceful. The horizontally slatted grille sat between two sharp-edged
fins, and pop-up headlights completed the slick front fascia.
Cumbersome, unrefined trucks are often
derided for being “agricultural.” The original Hummer isn’t agricultural
at all, because its driving manners predate agrarian societies. As a
hunter-gatherer, then, the H1 is best sampled in its end-of-the-line
Alpha form. Its 300-hp Duramax diesel V-8 allowed acceleration to 60 in
the mid-13-second range—an improvement over the 15.2-second run we
managed with the less-powerful 1997 model and enough for the H1 to
overtake what would now be its natural prey, the Smart Fortwo, which
needs 14.4 seconds. The halo vehicle for the entire SUV segment, the
military-derived H1 first wore AM General badges before being sold as
GM’s Hummer H1. But it never sold well, and those who bought them
realized the H1 was utterly useless in civilization. Still, from behind
the wheel, you’re guaranteed to chortle at the absurdity of the
enterprise, to say nothing of trampling medians, traffic lights, parking
dividers, and that guy you hated in high school.
To get behind the wheel of a Tucker is to
sit in a moment of automotive history—it’s been the subject of films,
books, controversies, conspiracy theories, and endless debate—but more
important, it’s a chance to see what people of the 1940s thought the
cars of the future should be. Although Preston Tucker’s
brainchild ended in a pageant of failure, the 52 Tuckers built are
dramatically different from what American automakers were cranking out
at the time.
Motivation came from a
flat-six, which was a heavily modified helicopter design mounted at the
back of the vehicle. The sedan’s designers were unusually focused on
safety for their day. The Tucker featured a center-mounted third
headlight that turned with the wheels, a windshield that was designed to
pop out during collisions rather than shatter on passengers, and a
padded dash. The plan was even to include seatbelts, but that idea was
nixed because Tucker execs thought customers might interpret that as a
sign the Tucker sedan was especially unsafe. For cost reasons, Tucker
dropped disc brakes and fuel injection before building any cars, and it
would be years until these features were widely available on anything
but sports cars. Every one of the 47 Tuckers that survive today is
different, many of them having served as development prototypes, and
they drive like unfinished test cars, too. Although that makes for
unimpressive dynamics, it also means that every Tucker is a rolling
snapshot of what creative automotive engineers were thinking some 60
years ago.
The defunct British automaker Austin-Healey
is best known for its cute-as-a-button “Bugeye” Sprite and inline-six
3000 roadster. But the most rewarding of all Healeys to drive is a
special version of the company’s least-celebrated model, the
four-cylinder 100. Basically sharing the same good looks as the 3000
that replaced it, the 100 was named for its ability to hit 100 mph—very
much a headline for a small roadster in 1953. But that wasn’t enough for
Austin-Healey, which was eager to build its cred as a sports-car
manufacturer. After a successful entry at the 1954 Sebring 12-hour race,
Austin-Healey built 50 examples of the 100S to satisfy homologation
requirements and put a credible track car in the hands of privateer
racers.
The cars went on sale in 1955 and
are to this day the apogee of Austin’s four-cylinder cars. With an
all-aluminum body, no convertible top, and a plastic windshield in place
of the standard glass one, the 100S was significantly lighter than the
standard car. But it also benefitted from major performance
enhancements. Four-wheel disc brakes complemented a stiffer suspension
and a tweaked engine, now making 132 hp and an impressive 168 lb-ft of
torque. The 100S could make a run to 60 in fewer than eight seconds,
drift elegantly around a track, and be driven home that night. To pilot
one, feeling and listening to the whirring and clacking and meshing of
the mechanicals at work, is to experience motoring at its most pure.
Yes, it’s obscure and, yes, only 34 were
made between 1948 and 1953. With somewhere between 120 and 140 hp on
hand, these stark British sports cars are not amazingly fast, with a top
speed of about 120 mph. But they were successful racing cars in their
day—one finished third at the Le Mans 24-hour race in 1949, hence the
name, and another won the 1952 12 Hours of Sebring. They remain
competitive in vintage racing today. That racing heritage comes through
in the way they drive. The Le Mans Replica’s handling, in particular, is
a joy, with delicate, incredibly precise steering and a playfully
neutral cornering balance. The 2.0-liter inline-six Bristol engine gives
solid midrange torque and frisky acceleration—the cycle-fender roadster
weighs all of 1600 pounds. Cross-country, a well-driven Le Mans Rep
will keep up with modern cars, but the experience is much more visceral
because you are so exposed to the elements and can see exactly what the
front wheels are doing. You don’t so much sit in the Le Mans Rep as
become a part of it. Great drivers down the years have adored these
cars, which is one reason they command high prices today.
If you’ve ever driven an AC Cobra or a
replica, you know that wedging a big Ford V-8 into a small British
sports car is the best idea ever, with gratuitous burnouts, lurid
(sometimes snap) oversteer, and positively ridiculous acceleration only a
right-foot flex away. You'll also know, however, that trying to drive a
Cobra every day will eventually result in a total loss of hearing—not
to mention spinal damage from the granite suspension. The Sunbeam Tiger,
which was assembled by the U.K.-based Rootes Group, was something of a
compromise; it’s the thinking man’s Cobra. The sharp-looking Sunbeam
Alpine convertible served as the host, and Carroll Shelby and his
wrenchmen engineered the car to take a Ford V-8. Although initially
offered with a 260-cubic-inch engine, the Tiger to drive is the rare
1967 model with Ford’s more-powerful 289, which improved the Tiger’s
output from 164 hp to 200. The Tiger offers classic looks, a convertible
top, and a choice of two V-8s. What’s not to like?
We’ve all been there: sitting in a car, near
a body of water, thinking, “If only I could drive my car directly into
that lake and putter around very slowly, sinking over the course of a
few hours." A car capable of making that dream a reality was built from
1961 to 1968: the Amphicar. Ostensibly capable of traveling about 10 mph
in the water and 70 mph on land (downhill, wind-assisted), a cruise in
this weird boat/car is a delightful, if bizarre, endeavor. The
transition from land to sea is brisk: Pop the bilge plug into place,
pull the secondary handles to tighten the refrigerator-style rubber
seals around the doors, and the Amphicar is ready to scoot into the
water.
Once at sea, the Amphicar’s
rear-mounted engine powers two propellers, and the front wheels act as
rudders, altogether making for a surprisingly maneuverable little craft.
There’s a bit of bad news, though. Those rubber seals around the doors
aren’t truly watertight, and with the help of other seams, every one of
these takes on water. But Amphicars have a bilge pump that’ll work
desperately to keep you afloat, and considering how slow the thing is in
the water, it would be tough to end up somewhere that’s beyond swimming
distance from shore. Despite the fact that it’s a bad boat and an even
worse car, an amphibious cruise in an Amphicar is an experience not to
be missed.
Could there be a more perfect representative
of the 1970s mid-engine sports-car craze than the Pantera? Yes—a
Pantera with a mustachioed porn producer behind the wheel and a kilo of
cocaine in the trunk. The Pantera was a joint project between Ford and
the Italian firm De Tomaso and married the best the two companies had to
offer. The heart of the car was a 5.8-liter Ford V-8, which had been
tuned to produce 310 hp. It sent power to the 8.0-inch-wide rear wheels
by way of a ZF-sourced five-speed manual transmission. These running
bits propelled a monocoque tub, and the whole package weighed 3123
pounds. Back in 1971, we clocked a Pantera to 60 mph in a scant 5.5
seconds; that’s less than a second behind a 2010 Chevrolet Camaro SS.
The body was penned by Tom Tjaarda, who was also responsible for the
classic Ferrari 330GT two-plus-two. When it debuted, we felt the Pantera
was a match for any other sports car in its class. Nowadays, it might
not be able to keep pace with a Porsche Cayman (or even a Honda Odyssey)
on a track, but it’s still a damn fine car to drive, with precise
steering, crisp turn-in, and that rumbling V-8 singing soulful Motown
music. Besides, the Pantera is about more than performance numbers; it’s
about the full Italian sports-car experience: the sound, the fury, the
style. Just be sure you’re prepared for the mechanical headaches that it
brings. Elvis, for example, wasn’t. One day, after the King’s yellow
Pantera failed to start, he was so incensed he pulled his handgun from
its holster and shot the poor car several times.
Every car fan, at least once, needs to
experience a proper Mopar muscle car. The V-8 engines don't so much
burble as intoxicate bystanders with their cocktail of violent noise and
delicious fumes. Of all the excessive muscle cars in the late 1960s and
early 1970s, the Road Runner Superbird and its sibling, the Dodge
Charger Daytona, are the most ostentatious. The Superbird, like the
Austin-Healey 100S, was built for homologation reasons; Plymouth wanted
to compete in NASCAR and had no choice but to build 1920 Superbirds for
the public. The sloping nose and the three-foot-high wing on the back
were done for aerodynamic benefits on the track and resulted in a car
than not only looked insane but was insane. Under the hood, the
base engine was a 375-hp, 440-cubic-inch V-8. But the version that is
really worth begging, borrowing, and stealing to drive is the Superbird
with the 425-hp, 426-cubic-inch Hemi V-8.JIKA ADA LINK YANG RUSAK HARAP LAPORKAN KE fahwalrahman@gmail.com
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