I find myself floating above an endless sea of thimbleberry bushes. The berries are all ripe, infinite delectable crimson caps punctuating a sea of green. I can’t see the trail, but somehow distant and hidden legs carry me along and know where to go, while I gorge on the fruit. Now I’m behind the wheel of my car, watching an endless movie loop of a winding serpentine road, with a rushing river to my left and a wall of towering firs on my right. I have no awareness of actually driving; the car knows what to do while I gorge on the scenery. The road through Oregon’s deep woods is utterly deserted. Then an image confronts me, so unexpected, so surreal, that now I know I’m dreaming.

(Read More…)

For the third time, a dramatic oil price spike has thrown the auto industry a curve ball. And once again, after years of supersizing, manufacturers are lacking the right-sized, economical products for which the market is desperate. Instead of spending three to five years developing new cars from scratch, it’s time to dust off the best from the past and put them back into production. An air bag here and some updated engines and technology there, and these seven classics are ready to save the day in each of the major categories:

SUV/CUV: Gen1 xB. When a “compact” CUV weighs 4200lbs (Saturn Vue) a radical gastric bypass is the only solution for this whole bloated category. The classic xB equals or exceeds the front and rear leg/headroom of the Tahoe, weighs half as much, and gets almost three times the mileage. It will happily carry four oversized Americans on their rounds. Towing? The ski boat got repossessed (along with the Tahoe and the house), and it cost too much to run anyway. Throw in the 128hp 1.8-liter engine from the xD, and freeway ramps won’t seem quite so intimidating, especially when the occupants haven’t had their bypasses yet.

Pickup Truck: Toyota T-100. In this new era, pickups will be for serious but economical work only. The original T-100 long-bed with the torquey 2.7-liter four and five-speed stick is still in great demand with professionals who make an honest living with their trucks: landscapers, carpenters, farmers, and other sober folks who never bought into the Mega-truck fad. It can haul a load of gravel, and hit 25mpg. It’s the spiritual successor to the rugged, simple six-cylinder pickups of yore.

Sporty two-seater: Honda CRX-Insight. The CRX was a category buster. It created its own new genre of fast, economical and cheap fun. The Insight was Honda’s not-so hot too-small hybrid. But it was absurdly light (1850lbs) with extensive use of aluminum and magnesium and had super aerodynamics. Drop in a Civic Si engine with 197hp, and you’re looking at a wicked power-to-weight ratio, better than an STI. And mid-40mpg fuel economy to boot, if you can stay away from that 8,000rpm redline. The prototype has already been built.

Upscale Sedan: W-124 Mercedes. The 300E/W-124 from 1985 through 1995 was the last Mercedes to be “over-engineered.” The streets are still full of them, the last standard bearers of Mercedes’ one-hundred year tradition of ultra-solid, reliable and economical transportation. It has the potential to restore MB’s tarnished image. And with a little updating under the hood, it can be leading-edge economical too. Drop in MB’s latest 1.8-liter direct-injection Kompressor gasoline four, and combined with the W-124’s almost Prius-like aero cD of .28, mileage in the mid to upper thirties is unvermeidbar.

4 X 4: Suzuki Samurai. The Suzuki LJ and SJ series were/are the Jeep Wrangler for the rest of the world, where gas was never that cheap. The little Suzukis gained a cult following with their serious off-road capability, reliability and efficiency. A Samurai holds the Guinness world record for highest elevation (21,942 feet). In the US, the Samurai was vilified by Consumer Reports for its tippy tendencies through the slalom. Slap on ESC (with an off switch), an updated 1.6-liter engine, and it’s ready take on the Rubicon at twice the mileage of that pig Wrangler.

Minivan: Chevrolet Lumina (aka “dustbuster”). OK, you can get up off the floor now. Seriously, the Lumina was just a decade behind, or ahead of the times, depending on your perspective. It was aerodynamic, low, light, and its looks were…controversial. Just like the Prius. And therein is its redemption: the first hybrid aerodynamic van. Drop in the two-mode hybrid transmission from the upcoming Saturn Vue, team it up with the 1.4-liter turbo Eco-Tec, and the future is… on GM’s shelves, waiting to be assembled (lovingly, we can hope). Bob Lutz, this is your last chance to “leave our well-thought-of Asian competitors in the dust(buster)"

RWD Ponycar: Mustang SVO. GM may be dropping hints about a forced-induction four in the new Camaro, but Ford has already plowed that field. After the 1981 oil shock, Ford set out to create a new paradigm for the traditional V8 ponycar. Starting with a light-weight (3,000 lbs.) Fox-body Mustang shell, it bestowed the SVO with state of the art components: ventilated four-wheel discs, Koni adjustable suspension, 16” wheels, and an intercooled turbo four that cranked out 200hp. It was ahead of the times, yet behind too. By the time it saw the light of day in 1984, gas was cheap again, and so was the 5.0-liter liter V8 Mustang GT. Drop in a twin-turbo 330hp four, and say goodbye to turbo lag and hello to the perfect drifter, with a near perfect 50/50 weight distribution.

Any other nominations (four cylinders or less)?

In 1971, I committed a crime, the repercussions of which still affect me today. I was a bored eighteen year-old whose over-developed automotive memory banks craved stimulus. In those pre-web dark ages, the information gap between monthly car magazines was excruciating. Desperate, I plied the 629.22 rack of the Iowa City Public Library, and found the font of automotive history. I slipped the heavy Rosetta stone under my baggy Army surplus jacket and walked out. I’ve been guiltily absorbing its contents ever since.

“The Complete Encyclopedia of Motorcars – 1885 to the present” covers over four thousand makes, from the A.A.A. to the Zwickau. And for some inexplicable (but prescient) reason, the make and photo that first captured my imagination was the 1965 “The East Glows.”

Sure, the Chinese sedan has an evocative name. But the encyclopedia is a cornucopia of catchy (or not) names from the pre-Lexus alphanumeric naming era. Some didn’t even try, as in the No Name, or the CAR. Others plagiarized, resulting in nine different “Standards.” High-school Latin was common, such as the Quo Vadis (“where are you going?”), Stimula, Audi and the German EGO (a “Super” model was available).

Hyperbole is sprinkled liberally throughout. The Faultless is just “one of many ephemeral cyclecars.” The Famous’ only claim to fame was “rear wheels were larger than the front ones.” Unsurprisingly, American makes dominate the category of superlatives: Primo, Superior, Speedy (4 hp!), Pridemore, and the humble Super-Kar.

Speaking of humility, some makers were disarmingly honest: Rough, Riddle, Static, Troll, Lugly (pre-cursor to “fugly”?) and the predictive Lost Cause.

Idealism might have seemed a better approach, but none found traction in the Darwinian marketplace. The Utopian, appropriately enough, was “built for a local clergyman, possibly only one made”. The Joymobile “never went into production.” And the Peace “never came.”

Rounding out the ranks are random oddballs: Flying Feather, Ben Hur, Tic-Tac, O-We-Go, Lu-Lu, Egg, Wizard, U2, Ponder, Rip, LSD and the prophetic Lutz “formed to make electric steam cars; no evidence that they were ever made.”

So why did the 1965 The East Glows make such a lasting impression? It’s just a mish-mash of mid-fifties American design themes: a 1958 Studebaker crossed with a 1956 Buick. Built by “Car Factory No. 1, Peking,” it’s described as “one of the more recent designs to appear in China… a hand-built saloon with a six cylinder 150hp engine.”

Nevertheless The East Glows became (and remains) a Niedermeyer family legend. On a car trip years ago, when the boys needed something to focus on, I spontaneously made the following offer: a $500 reward for spotting any car with a Chinese license plate; and $20k for a The East Glows with valid Chinese plates. My younger son still occasionally keeps his eyes peeled “just in case,” but I’m not too worried; the offer is limited to U.S. roads.

Are there any The East Glows left in China? Given that they were “hand-built,” and China’s passenger car industry then was mostly limited to a few Hong Qi (“Red Flag”) limousines for party big-wigs, it’s highly unlikely. On a recent chip to China, older son Ted’s (TTAC’s Edward) confirmed that restored, hot-rodded, or low-rider The East Glows are NOT seen cruising Beijing’s Chang’An Boulevard on hot summer nights. Is there any old-car culture in China?

We’ve been steeped in all things automotive for over a hundred years. Family lore, childhood memories, museums, racing, collecting, cruising, modifying, buying and selling, off-roading, car show dreaming, memorizing the Complete Encyclopedia of Motor Cars, writing about car-experiences on web-sites like this one; they’re all about the breadth and depth of our auto-biographies.

I suspect it’s very different for the typical Chinese.  Mass-produced cars, and the incomes to buy them, are very recent phenomena. And their relationship to them is… different, undoubtedly. In large cities, where actually getting around by car is impractical, they’re mostly a status symbol.

The Chinese lead designer for Buick’s Shanghai studio (Riviera and Invicta concepts) does not drive. He gets his inspiration from night clubs. Contrast that to GM’s legendary Bill Mitchell, who drove his various Corvette concepts home; a man inspired by racing cars, fighter jets and sharks. Yet China will build more cars by 2010 than the US. And Buicks are being designed for us in China.

So, ironically, in 640 pages of obscure automotive history, The East Glows turns out to be the one car in the Almanac that points to the future.

Somewhere in China, there must be memories of The East Glows. Someone hand-made them; others drove or rode in them. Maybe, just maybe, there’s one stashed away in a museum, or in someone’s barn. I’m pumped to find out. Or maybe I’m really looking for the car of the future. Any sponsors out there for a documentary “In Search of… The East Glows”?

Spontaneous road trips are a like a treasure hunt without the clues. The prizes always appear unexpectedly. Like Goldendale’s night-shift police officer. “No, Mr. Niedermeyer, your speed was just fine. But you seem to have your high-beams on. That’s against the law within city limits. But… you’re free to go.” With those words of affirmation, our road trip to Wenatchee resumed. Adrenalin flowing, we were alert to the next roadside attraction.

The next morning, stumbling out of our dark motel room into the brilliant sunshine, my eye was dazzled by the chrome portholes on a red Buick Lucerne in front of our door. Wait a minute… whoa! Am I still dreaming? I took a step back and realized I was looking at a 2008 Honda Accord with Buick portholes proudly affixed to its upper front fenders.

Initially, this moment of auto-Zen discombobulated me. For the first time in a very long while, I failed to recognize a car instantly, succumbing to the power of an over-wrought styling cue. But then the pregnancy of this symbol consumed me, to the bewilderment of my wife, eager for her morning coffee.

During the seventies and eighties, Americans (owners and manufacturers alike) decorated their domestic cars with the trappings of upscale imports. It wasn’t unusual to see fake Mercedes and Rolls-Royce grilles, “Euro” Chevys, etc. But this Honda Lucerne played a different game.

That Accords have become so Americanized in size to carry off the Buick charade was strange. That incentivized Lucernes go for less than an Accord even more so. My guess: the driver wanted everyone to know that he “Wouldn’t you really rather have a” Buick, but had been burnt on the genuine article.

The Honda Lucerne was an encapsulated nugget of the changing cultural landscape of small-town America. Downtowns in this part of the country are a time warp of 1950’s Main Street: Sullivan’s Haberdashery, Monica’s Women’s Wear, Betty’s Bakery, “Meet Your Friends at the Igloo Café.”

While we relished the chance to step back in time, I wondered and worried. The proprietors (as well as some of the goods on display) showed signs of advanced age. What will replace them? The kids have long moved on to Seattle.

Downtown Wenatchee felt like a living history museum with a short-term lease. The future is either shuttered doors or… Californication.

The automotive landscape was still rich in (genuine) domestics. The Toyota dealers didn’t carry Scions. Our xB generated stares. “What’s that? Is it from China?” But like the new Target on the edge of town, Hondas and Toyotas have infiltrated the last frontier.

Meanwhile, the old symbols have reincarnated. The former Sportsman Outdoor Store’s giant rotating hunter marquee, whose rifle goes off every revolution in a blast of red neon, overlooked a trendy bar. And Buick portholes graced the flanks of an Accord.

Our morning drive carried us up the Yakima Canyon, by a perfect fly-fishing river flanked by cliffs weathered to the colors of a fifteenth century Venetian tapestry. A dusting of fresh snow in the cracks of the basalt columns highlighted the textures– as if someone had sneezed powdered sugar on the ancient wall-hanging.

The empty winding road was a perfect wake-up drive in the morning sun. But our legs were ready for a stretch. A barely-marked pull-out suddenly appeared (screech). It turned out to be a trail-head into a side canyon. We reveled in the crystal morning air. The silence was punctuated only by hundreds of birds setting up housekeeping in the alders.

After several miles of hiking, the narrow canyon widened slightly, and signs of former human habitation appeared. Old gnarled apple trees straight out of The Wizard of Oz called out for a haircut. A set of concrete front steps signed by children and dated 1933 lead to… exceptionally thin air. I sat down and imagined the house, living there, isolated in every way.

For the first time on a road trip, I felt twinges of web-withdrawal. In Mexico, internet cafes are everywhere. Here, not even truck stops have web terminals anymore. Once again, I’m falling behind; it was time to buy a laptop. Or not. Maybe these homesteaders kept a Ford at the head of the canyon. The Model T was the internet of its time.

Highway 97 heads up into the rugged Wenatchee Mountains. Passing trucks in the 1.5-liter xB was a game of cat and mouse, evoking memories of 40hp VW Beetles. Since the trucks and the Scion have about triple the power today, the odds are still about the same.

After cresting Blewett Pass, it was a long coast down through endless apple orchards into Wenatchee. For dinner, we followed our noses that picked-up the scent of burning applewood and searing meat. That night I dreamed of transplanted portholes on shiny red apples.

“You’re free to go.” With those hackneyed words, the Goldendale police officer returned my license. They were the very same words I’d heard in my head just a few hours earlier. At one-thirty last Sunday, my older son Ted called: “If you can drop Will [(his brother) here by three, we can take him back with us to Portland for a few days.” Cabin fever was at 103. The ninety minute deadline to pick a destination and pack the xB was just the tonic I needed. Time to head for… (flings open the atlas)… Wenatchee!

That’s literally how long it took to pick the apple capital of Central Washington as the fruit of our road-trip desire. It’s a sparsely populated town in the high desert, with lots of canyons and two-lane highways leading to its unknown charms. Will groaned. “Why don’t you guys go somewhere cool, like Las Vegas?” Let me count the ways…

I guess we’re just kinda’ anti-social; I don’t know how else to explain it (especially to a sixteen year-old). But I find the idea of spending days inside windowless spaces packed with thousands of other folks completely unappealing.

I suppose I could only fall back on that other hackneyed expression “it’s not about the destination; it’s the journey.” If you’ve ever been to Wenatchee, you know that old chestnut still has meaning. But I’m getting ahead of myself here…

Anyway, Wenatchee was just a convenient point on the map some four hundred miles away. That is, if I had stayed on the main roads, which I rarely do. Sharing a road with other drivers is about as enjoyable to me as a shoulder-to-shoulder cocktail party at a dentists’ convention. Driving is strictly a recreational sport for me. It’s why I live in a small city, walk, ride a bike and don’t get on the freeway for weeks on end. I’m spoiled for deserted roads.

The trip started with country roads. I quickly fell into that preferred meditative state of restful alertness.

We took I-84 through the Columbia River Gorge. It’s one of the rare exceptions in the interstate system: it doesn’t detour away from the real scenery. One spectacular waterfall after another spills down the brooding, snow-tinged black basalt ridge overlooking the river. The xB’s popemobile picture windows offered unobstructed viewing pleasure.

By Hood River, I was ready for the solitude of the Washington side. As we crossed the vast waterway on an antique iron bridge, the flying toaster darted side-to-side on the narrow steel grating like a rabid squirrel. Was this some time-tested device to keep the drunks from crossing the state line? I was too busy trying to stay on my half of the empty bridge at fifty to notice the 25mph signs until we were almost across.

I sort-of passed this first sobriety test, but flunked the next, when I turned unto Hwy 141 instead of 142. Rather than shortcutting across open country towards Yakima, we now plunged headlong into the rapidly darkening wooded wilderness of Mt. Adams. I finally admitted the error of our— OK, my way some twenty miles later. But I really, really hate to retrace my steps.

Sure enough, the map showed an unmarked thread of a road arcing towards our intended general direction.

An hour passed. We hadn’t encountered another car. The narrow blacktop dove down into one deep twisty narrow canyon after another, coming up for air (the road and me too) to shoot across a high plateau, until the next canyon… and so on. Working the xB’s sharp steering, lusty little engine and tightly-spaced gears, an unformed memory from the distant past kept fluttering across my mind, like the owls in the headlights. Suddenly it took shape: an Alfa Gulia sedan from the late sixties.

The boxy and airy body with tall vertical windows, the bus-like rake to the tiller, the rasp in the exhaust, the firm and bouncy ride, the touch of torque steer… the brave little Toyota linked me to the Alfa. O.K, I have a healthy imagination. Anyway, on these remote back roads at night, I was happy enough that my steed originated in Toyota City rather than Milano.

After an hour of night-time Targa Florio driving (without a navigator to call out the distances to the next curve), I wasn’t totally sorry to approach the hamlet of Goldendale (pop. 3760). I coasted down to the general vicinity of the 25mph limit, and rolled half-way through the sleeping town. Again, we never encountered another soul.

Suddenly, flashing lights appeared out of nowhere in my mirror. What the…! Did someone see me hit triple-digits back on the last straight and call it in?

“Good evening sir. Do you know why I stopped you?”

Yes, yes. I was speeding. But deep inside, I hadn’t a clue. 

For me, driving bliss is all about the setting. Give me an empty road, spectacular scenery, good company and the freedom to explore without an itinerary or time constraints, and I’m in Heaven. Sure, a nice set of wheels enhances the pleasure. But if it came down to it, I’d take an inexpensive reliable car and an endless open road over a garage full of under-used toys that never really get off their leash. I knew the basic formula intuitively in my youth.

As previously chronicled, I rambled around the eastern side of the Continental Divide for years in my (free) Corvair and (cheap) VW Beetles. At twenty-two, I almost lost it. Driving a transit bus in Iowa paid a living wage, and I was sorely tempted to follow my cohorts to the car dealers and sign my freedom away. Luckily, I instinctively knew that I needed a different role model. And I found it: my girlfriend’s mother.

After her divorce, Elinor sold the farm, the thoroughbreds and the big ’69 Plymouth Fury that pulled the horse trailer. The former Studebaker dealer– who’d started selling Toyotas out of desperation– had just what she was looking for. It was a Corolla 1600 sedan.

Elinor and the little Toyota hit the road. The wide-open spaces of the southwest beckoned them, and they rambled through the deserts and canyons, eventually settling in San Diego.

When she was ready to reclaim her furniture, we offered to recover it for her in a U-haul truck. And when she rolled-out the welcome mat, I quit my job and made it a one-way trip. Although the San Diego area was gorgeous, too many others were having the same idea. It turned out to be a temporary idyll…

One day, out of the blue, Elinor said, “Let’s go for a drive up north”. Near the end of what was supposed to be a day trip to Redlands, she said “let’s keep going, to Death Valley.”

It was hundreds of miles away, and we hadn’t even brought toothbrushes. But why not? And there, on that impulsive drive to Death Valley, in the early evening twilight somewhere north of Shoshone, I found nirvana.

California Highway 127 runs straight as a draftsman’s line for twenty, thirty or more miles at a time, in the broad desert valley between the hulking backbones of the Greenwater and Nopah Ranges. The ribbon of road was utterly deserted on this weekday evening in October.

As we rolled northwards alone on the high seas of the Mojave, the usual cues to gauge time– distance and speed– began to melt away. We sat gazing, mesmerized by the Technicolor sunset unfolding all around us; the naked mountains turning obscene shades of scarlet, ruby and purple.

Imperceptibly, the little Toyota’s speed increased: eighty, eighty-five, ninety and still it crept up. Somewhere north of ninety-five, the Corolla entered warp speed; simultaneously, we were hurtling down the road and yet not moving at all. Everything associated with driving a car was now transcended, and the Corolla became a space probe, guided by the stars that appeared with surreal intensity through the last fading purple glow.

Who knows how long did we floated, all thoughts utterly suspended, until a curve finally brought me back to the reality at hand?

And when conscious thinking resumed (a sudden curve at high speed in a Corolla will do that), my only thoughts were this: I will never live more than a few hours away from the deserts, mountains and canyons of the West. I will always heed the call of the road. And I will always keep a toothbrush, toothpaste, and a change of underwear in the trunk.

For the next couple of days, we roamed through Death Valley, and then headed west. And where Highway 190 crests the Panamint Range, one of the all-time mind-blowing views suddenly appears: the whole Sierra Nevada range, rising like a wall 10,000 feet straight up from the floor of Owens Valley. You’d be hard pressed to find the equal of it in the Himalayas.

I’ve made good on my promise. Even when we had kids, a demanding job and a shiny Mercedes, more than once, a day trip turned into two or three (“I won’t be coming in the office today”). The stash of diapers and dirty underwear I found in the 300E’s spare tire compartment as I was cleaning it out for the last time was the smelly proof, and brought back a flood of memories.

And when the paycheck suddenly ended, I never considered the job offers from Dallas and Chicago. I just moved on to the next level of driving nirvana: Oregon. These days, I’m driving a Corolla in disguise. And I’m still ready to answer the call of the open road. 

“Scion does not recommend towing a trailer… your vehicle was not designed for towing." Welcome to the great American anti-towing conspiracy. Manufacturers of anything less than a big SUV or pick-up are trying to take away our God-given right to tow with our cars. For a guy who’s towed everything from a Radio Flyer wagon behind a pedal-powered John Deere sidewalk tractor, to a three-bedroom house, I feel like I’m being singled out. Of course, there’s a possibility that I’m the cause as well as the target of this jihad. A lot of lawyers do drive the Ventura Freeway, and one of them may well have seen my spectacular stunt with a trailer.

Before I recount the creative maneuver with which I simultaneously occupied all four lanes of “the world’s busiest freeway” at sixty-five mph, let’s look at the prejudice American would-be towers are up against …

On Toyota’s UK website, the Yaris is credited with a towing capacity of 1050kg/2315lbs. That’s right in line with the old rule of thumb that a car can safely tow an amount equal to its own weight.

But here in the land of the (not so) free, the Yaris’ owner’s manual admonishes: “Toyota does not recommend towing a trailer with your vehicle.” The unnamed author goes on to give a partial pass to our northern neighbors: “In Canada only, total weight of cargo and trailer not to exceed 700lbs.” Please leave your trailers at the border? Perhaps this partial exemption reflects Canada’s status as being somewhere between English and American. But the logic is lost on me.

Maybe it’s a blatant tactic by Toyota to meet Tundra sales goals, by forcing us tow-heads into buying that over-achieving tug (rated for 10,000+lbs). But Honda is in on the conspiracy too. The CRV weighs 3600lbs and offers 166hp, about the same as an old gen Explorer. In Europe, where folks often buy CUV’s specifically for their towing capacity, the CRV is rated to tow 2000kg/4400lbs. And in the tow-aphobic US? A measly 1500lbs!

It wasn’t always like this. In the sixties, you’d see 40hp VW Beetles pulling a trailer. In 1976, my VW Beetle died in Ohio heading back to Iowa, so we left it and hitch-hiked the rest of the way. My girlfriend’s Mom was driving a 70hp Corolla, which was rated to tow 1800lbs, exactly the weight of my VW. She generously offered it. Towing the Bug home, the Corolla never broke a sweat.

Which I can’t say for myself when I nearly shut down the 101. 

It was 1986. We had just bought our first house, in Woodland Hills. I rented a big double-axle twelve-foot trailer to haul debris and junk to the dump. My Mexican helper was a zealous worker, loading lots of broken concrete into the back end of the trailer. I remember glancing at the warning sign about having 60 percent of the weight ahead of the axles. But any fleeting thought of relevancy or concern was quickly overpowered by the testosterone-fueled urge to PULL!

That trailer must have weighed about three times as much as the Jeep Cherokee tug. I managed to squeeze into the perpetually crowded Ventura freeway.

When our rig (finally) hit 65 in the right lane, the trailer began oscillating, which escalated exponentially. The next thing I knew, the Jeep was being swung wildly from side to side, like the tail on a dog. One moment, we were facing towards the shoulder, then across all the lanes facing the center divider. The Jeep was utterly out of control; there was nothing to do but hang on for dear life, waiting for the fishtailing trailer to roll and/or get creamed by the four lanes of traffic behind us.

Fortunately, the other drivers (and that corporate attorney) were on the ball and held back, in awe of our mad gyrations. When enough speed was scrubbed off and stability resumed, we found ourselves in the narrow left shoulder, where we sat bathed in sweat.

I had no choice but to steel myself, get back in the traffic, and fight my way across four lanes while keeping the speed below fifty. When we finally pulled off on the right shoulder, my ashen-faced helper tumbled out, got on his knees and crossed himself, before we started re-arranging the trailer’s load.

Having learned that cardinal lesson of towing, I’m a hair more cautious now. But I still believe that cars, by their nature, are “designed for towing.” So I always carry a tow rope in the old Ford pick-up instead of an AAA card. More than once, Stephanie has schlepped me home with the Forester. I don’t even want to know what its tow rating is; it’s survived just fine. And I’ve found an after-market hitch for the xB, rated for 2000lbs.

Somewhere west of Ogallala, rocketing across the plains at ninety-six in a sixty-nine Plymouth Fury, a twangy voice lectured us with the old song: “love and marriage, love and marriage, go together like a horse and carriage.” My two female traveling companions and I exchanged glances, laughed and sang along. “…you can’t have one without the other.” In that precious moment, everything crystallized: what it meant to be nineteen in 1972, free as a bird, barreling down the freeway in a powerful American sedan.

We were headed for the Rockies, retracing the annual eight hundred mile pilgrimage my family and I made there in the early sixties. This time I was literally and figuratively behind the wheel, re-writing the script.

Back in the day, the Niedermeyer family would stop at church to pray for a safe trip before all six of us squeezed into our barely mid-sized ’62 Fairlane penalty-box. God drove a hard bargain for our safe-keeping: two seemingly endless days spent sweating on the CIA-interrogation approved clear plastic seat covers, second-guessing our pilot’s passing skills. 

Papa drove like the stereotypical newly-minted immigrant driver. His tentativeness trying to pass trucks on the crowded two-lane highways taught us what we couldn’t articulate: decisiveness (and good judgment) inspires confidence; hesitation… doesn’t. The tension in the Ford was thicker than the greasy truck-stop steaks we admired from afar. After a particularly hair-raising episode my older sister refused to return to her seat after a stop at a roadside gas station. Thankfully, daily hikes in the Rockies relieved our accumulated stress (and restored regularity).

So there I was, stretched out behind the wheel of a “fuselage body” 1969 Fury with my companions of choice (not fate). We were cruising down the interstate’s smooth, barely-cured concrete without a care in the world. 

Back then, Chrysler’s barges weren’t quite as plush-riding as GM and Ford’s. But their unibody construction made them the lightest of the three. And Chrysler’s superb Torqueflite transmission put Mopar muscle to the wheels. With the popular 383 V8, the zero to sixty sprint required just 7.5 seconds. Even today, that’s not bad for a comfortable family sedan.

Little did I know that smog controls were about to emasculate this singular breed, the American barge, as OPEC gave Detroit’s carmakers an identity crisis that continues to this very day.  

Anyway, the Fury, dubbed “Ply-mouth,” belonged to the two sisters’ Mom. She’d bought the car for its ability to pull a horse trailer down Iowa’s rural roads. But on that magnificent day, the Chrysler was paying service to a higher calling than equine transport: sheer balls-out speed.

It’s not like I’d set out to challenge Cannonball Baker. But once we hit I-80 on that glowing summer morning, the Ply-mouth just wanted to run, just like the well-bred horses it usually hauled. Traffic was sparse back then; cops were jawboning with the farmers over their fourth cup of dishwashing-water at the local cafe, and the purple mountain majesties beckoned us.

As the big V8 cleared the gravel-road dust from its lungs, our speed crept up. I swear, there was no holding that Fury back. In what seemed like a flash, we’d traversed Iowa and crossed the Missouri. The next thing I knew were barreling across Nebraska at somewhere between 90 mph and the ton.

It was so effortless and relaxed we might as well have been sprawled on (and across) the living room couch. The endlessly-wide bench seats became chaise lounges. Bare feet were everywhere: on the dash, across a lap, out the window. Seat belts? The restraints had atrophied from neglect.

In another break from the past, we gave greasy spoons a wide berth. We’d packed an ample supply of organic produce from their Mom’s garden, some home-baked bread, excellent cheese and iced mint tea. We only stopped for gas, which, at our Furious clip, was a regular occurrence. Even though gas was ridiculously cheap (just thirty-five cents a gallon), our meager gas budget took a big hit.

It was money well spent. By mid-afternoon, we were already well into the mountains. Having forded a stream, we made camp and slept under the dazzling stars, the smell of pine and sage intoxicating our nostrils.

I had driven fast before, but only in short bursts. Our dash through the heartland was my initiation into the joys of sustained speed. I was eight (hundred) miles high.

Truth to tell, I’ve been hooked ever since. But I’ll never recreate the magic mix of ingredients that day, which etched those glorious moments into the depths of my memory.

Within a year or so, the energy crisis hit, and we were driving fifty-five. The Ply-mouth soon gave way to a weak-chested if practical Corolla. And in just a few more years, we all heeded the song “love and marriage…”  

The dorsal fin is what put it over the top for me, literally. When I was a tyke of six in Austria, I ogled cars like a fifteen year old with X-ray vision at a cheerleading camp. But the most tataliscous bod my eyes could never get enough of was the Tatra down the street. Its radical aerodynamic form was already twenty years old, but with its dorsal fin, tear-drop shape, rear engine and uncompromising fluid lines, the Tatra positively screamed “futuristic” to me then. Hell, it’s still ahead of the times today.

The Tatra 77 of 1934 was as slippery as a politician; its cD (coefficient of drag) of .21 was well below the cD .26 of today’s aero-champ, the Prius. Austrian-born Hans Ledwinka, chief designer/engineer at the Czech firm created a sensation with the 77. Inspired by the automotive aerodynamic principles of Paul Jaray, the brilliant Ledwinka created a truly original vehicle the likes of which had never been seen, not to mention sold.

With its rear air-cooled OHC hemi-head V8 engine, back-bone chassis, all-independent suspension, a central driver’s position and a central headlight that swiveled with the front wheels, the 77 (and its successor 87), inspired awe as well as imitation. I'm looking at you, Mr. 1947 Tucker Torpedo. The Tucker flopped, but another Tatra mini-me went on to become the world’s most popular car: the VW Beetle.

Ferdinand Porsche’s design of the Beetle is a scaled-down version of the Tatra (minus the fin). So much so that after decades of legal battles, VW finally settled and paid 3 million Marks to Tatra in 1961. (Ledwinka’s four-cylinder Tatra 97 was so embarrassingly similar to the VW then under development that the Nazi regime halted its production after their invasion of Czechoslovakia.)

But not the glorious 87. After the Nazis took control of the Tatra factory, they kept the V8 streamliner in production. Thanks to its ability to cruise effortlessly at up to 90mph (with only 75hp), the 97 became the favorite car of high-ranking Nazi officers. It was dubbed the “Autobahnmobil.”

More ominously, the 97 was also dubbed “the Czech secret weapon” after many of these high-speed demons died at the hands of the wickedly-abrupt “terminal” oversteer of the tail-heavy V8. Hitler reputedly banned his top Luftwaffen officers from 97 seat time to forestall the recurring carnage.

After the war, the communist-era planned economy presented serious challenges to Tatra. The T-87 was made for a few years, but the post-war economy was too austere for V8’s. So the smaller T-97 was resurrected and updated. The resulting four-cylinder T-600 Tatraplan was exported to the west in modest numbers (including the object of my childhood obsession) during the early fifties.

But Tatra was not equipped for efficient mass production. After a few years, the communist big-wigs instructed tatra to build them a luxobarge. The dorsal fin gave way to (two) rear windows; the rest of the car was substantially updated. The automaker produced the T-603 from 1955 through 1975.

When my family emigrated to America, I thought I’d left Tatras behind forever. Little did I know that 603’s would develop a huge cult following. The only thing keeping it from being the official car of Jalopnik.com is the thus-far presumed lack of a pick-up version (“Tatramino”). But a closer inspection of the website reveals the existence of that long-sought Czech Holy Grail. Time to make it official Jalops!

Tatra 603’s have found their way into the movies, including a star turn as a sinister sedan in “Lemony Snicket’s A Series of Unfortunate Events.” The multi-talented 603 was also the star of a highly-camp communist-era promotional infomercial. The 603 shows its hooning prowess, eluding the police with lots of tail-out oversteers and a daring sideways roll down a steep meadow (Youtube: Tatra 603 Happy Journeys Part 1 & Part 2").

The evergreen 603 recently had a new role, as the host for new interior concepts by industry supplier Faurecia. Sadly, its drive train was sacrificed to show off some new trunk technology.

By the mid seventies, the aero-look was passé. The 1974 T-613 successor sported sharp-edged styling by Vignale of Italy. But Ledwinka’s basic formula stayed intact, right through 1996. It was the upscale, high performance corollary to the similarly boxy VW 411. After the fall of Communism, once again, mostly futile efforts were made to sell the 613 in the west, as a BMW competitor.

Recent efforts to revive the boxy T-613 have failed. But with the new-found emphasis on efficiency and aerodynamics, it’s time to dust off those old body dies of the T-77. With a clean turbo-diesel under that dorsal fin, it could be just the ticket back to the future.

They say the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. Of course that was NEVER going to apply to me and my nerdy, car-clueless Father. He drove boxy Detroit stripper sedans. I drove VW’s and Peugeots. He’s a world-renowned neurologist– but totally impractical. I never finished high school– but rebuild cars. I grew-up in the time when political pundits pronounced our cultural chasm a “generation gap.” Except ours was more like the Grand Canyon. Or so I thought…

In 1978, the Old Man bought a bare-bones Zephyr. No, not the famous Lincoln Zephyr; a Mercury Zephyr. The two-door corporate cousin to the Ford Fairmount “sported” a frugal four cylinder engine mated to a four-speed stick, sitting on Ford’s “ride engineered” suspension package. We made fun of Dad’s nerd-mobile behind his back, with visions of cooler wheels floating in our heads.

In 1983, I bought a Thunderbird Turbo-Coupe. My ninth generation “Aero Bird” boasted a turbocharged 2.3-liter four-cylinder engine, a five-speed manual, a "Traction-Lok" limited-slip differential, a sporty interior and bigger wheels and tires than lesser iterations.  

The next time I visited the folks, I borrowed Dad’s Zephyr for an errand. As soon as I sat down in the driver’s seat and closed the door, genetics’ painful reality crashed my consciousness. Esentially, I was sitting in the same car as my Turbo Coupe.

It was like that OMG moment when you first say something or make a gesture that totally channels one of your parents. The seat, steering wheel, pedals, dash and stick were all exactly in the same place. Even the Zephyr’s feeble 88hp Pinto engine was scarily familiar. Not only was it the same basic engine, but it felt and sounded like it too (at least until my T-bird’s turbo finally spooled up).

You can run, but you can’t hide from a Ford Fox-body, the most versatile, evergreen and successful platform ever conceived in Detroit.

If my Dad had been a cop, he would have been driving a black-and-white (Fox-body) LTD II sedan. Had he gone into private practice, he probably would have been behind the wheel of a Fox-body Lincoln MK VII LSC coupe. If he’d left my mother in a mid-life crisis, he would have ignored his incipient mortality in a Foxy red Mustang GT rag-top.

More improbably, if Dad had given up academia to become a coke dealer in downtown Baltimore, he would have been doing so out of a pimped-out (Fox-body) Continental Givenchy sedan with gold-plated grille and wire wheels.

If he’d been a little less self-conscious than this son, but equally car-crazed, he would have gotten past the mullet image of the Mustang and bought an SVO, the most technologically advanced, best-handling American car in 1984.

Finally, if Dad had been what I most would have liked him to be, the CEO of Ford, he would have been flinging a carefully prepped Fox-bodied LX 5.0 sedan around the race course at Bob Bondurant’s driving school. Just like CEO Donald Peterson, the daddy of the Fox platform. 

Why the endless permutations of the same platform? In the seventies, Ford desperately needed a new compact platform. But in those lean years, The Blue Oval Boys didn’t have the big bucks they needed to develop all-new front wheel-drive powertrains. So rear wheel-drive it was.

For pistonheads, Ford’s “loss” was a blessing in disguise. Overseen by Peterson, utilizing computer-aided design (CAD) for the first time, Ford’s development team created a light but strong and eminently flexible platform. The modified strut front suspension left room for V8s. The rack and pinion steering was precise. And the four-link rear axle was a big step up from the leaf-spring Falcon chassis the Fox replaced.

In 1978, the clones Fairmont and Zephyr came first: boxy but light, a bit boring but tossable, honest and ruggedly simple– an American Volvo 240. But it was the next year’s new Mustang established the Fox’ legendary legacy.

Ford developed the Fox platform for over twenty-five unbroken years, right through the 2004 model year Mustangs. The Fox ‘Stang and its mechanical kin offer today’s enthusiasts a cornucopia of junk-yard parts interchangeability and after-market performance parts availability. An entire industry has grown-up around them; they’ve completely overshadowed their spiritual predecessors, the tri-five Chevys.

Foxes are nothing less than a reincarnation of Fords from the classic flathead era, when swapping Model T frame rails to ’39 taillights– and everything in between– ushered in the hot-rod era.

DNA trumps all. I’ve had to accept that in addition to our Foxes, I share some traits with my father. Turns out we both write, but the results are even more divergent than the $3600 econo-box Fox-based Fairmont and the world-class Foxy $32k Mark VII LSC. Dad’s 1250-page “Electroencephalography” sits on every neurologist’s bookshelf. My modest stories have all of 800 words. And no, the parts don’t interchange.