required riding
Check this out. The original Mazda RX7's air conditioning unit seriously sapped power. Remember, this little Japanese sports car had a Wankel rotary engine up front, a handbag-sized three-piece Wearing Blender that stumped-up just 135 hp (or, with the chiller engaged, less). That meant, if you happened to encounter a late '70's Yank tank spoiling for a fight, you'd reach-up and press the little button that turned the AC off. The RX7 bucked slightly, as the engine regained lost vigor. You kinda felt like Mad Max, spooling-up his supercharger on the last of the great V8 Interceptors, only you know, in reverse.
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required riding
BMW's don't burble. Except for one: the last-generation M5. The instant you fire-up the previous gen Bavarian four-door (codenamed E39), its powerplant burbles with all the subdued menace of a late 60's muscle car. Unlike the M5's American homonyms, the uber-sedan's mellifluous melody doesn't foretell a great deal of sound and fury signifying nothing but straight line acceleration — although there's nothing wrong with the M5 in that department (0 to 60 in 4.7 seconds). This Armani-clad beast can take all its speed and shove itself around a corner like a purpose-built German sports car (did I mention any names?). And it can cruise — yes cruise — at a delimited 186 mph.
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The B-52's were wrong. The relatively sedate, B-bodied Plymouth Satellite didn't come from Planet Claire. It was the
'71 Buick Riviera. I'm sure GM design supremo Bill Mitchell inhaled copious quantities of pink air before penning the infamous "Boat-tail." Drawing inspiration from '30's Auburn Speedsters and his own work on the 1963 split-window Corvette, Mitchell's team created one of the most interesting American cars of the 20th century. Whether that's "interesting" as "what do you think of my dress?" or "cool as Arctic diamond dust" is down to you. In either case, the Boat-tail Riv is the finest example of the WTF School of Automotive Design, and a class whip.
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Lincoln's mojo evaporated on November 22, 1963, when President John F. Kennedy's brains flew out of the backseat of an open-top 1961 Continental. On that fateful day, the brand (and the country) lost its swaggering insouciance. Sure, fancy schmancy Lincoln luxobarges roamed America's highways and byways during later decades. Many of these gas-guzzling behemoths were technological triumphs (of a sort). But Lincoln's cool had vanished, followed, eventually, by its swagger. By now a Lincoln is nothing but a badly badge engineered Ford. And yet there's still a car in Lincoln's lineup— for at least a bit longer— that wears the diamond proudly: the Town Car.
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required riding
Back in the early 70's, I was a disco DJ for a nightclub called The Candy Store (as in nose). One fateful summer night, I parked my Mazda RX4, rounded the corner and walked straight into a Dino 246GT. My employer's new whip sat on the weathered dock, glowing in the fading sun. The diminutive Dino instantly re-ordered my automotive universe. I could never see another American car as anything but a clumsy barge. And boy, did I want one. A Ferrari, that is. Yes, I know, a Dino isn't a Ferrari. And Marissa Miller was never on Baywatch. So? God made both Pammy and Marissa. Enzo made both Ferraris and the Dino. It's not a contest, and if it was, the Dino 246GT would win.
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Once upon a time in America, owning a Mercedes was a Europhilic statement of wealth and taste. Back before the brand hatched its alphanumeric plot to take over the world one market demographic at a time, US Mercs were made of raritanium. None was so rare, so big and so god damn FAST as the 300SEL 6.3. Mercedes' V8 sedan was such a snob monster that Skyhooks' 1975 song "Mercedes Ladies" cited the car as the ne plus ultra for women of a certain age who sleep with their mechanics. Granted, a mention in an Australian glam rock pop song might not be the ultimate accolade for an automobile. So how about this: it was the first German Q-Ship.
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