CarPort

A couple of years ago I spent an afternoon with Johnny Pascucci of Johnny P’s Classic Cars. What started out as a photo shoot of a DeSoto he was selling turned into an automotive odyssey in his part of central Connecticut. One of the cars he showed me was this 1922-24 Packard Single Six touring car, which was getting new upholstery and a new top at a trim shop near Johnny’s business.

At first glance it looks like a quality restoration of a well-cared-for car. Looking a little deeper, though, we came upon this shocker. Where the Packard’s single six used to be was a 5-liter Ford small block V8. The V8’s torque was amply converted with a C6 transmission, the engine monitored with Stewart Warner gauges, and a modern stereo was thrown in for good measure.

I’m not a real fan of rods and customs. That phase of my enthusiasm peaked when I was about 12, but I still respect the craftsmanship and engineering that goes into modified cars. But this Packard was no ordinary rod. Most rods use a modern drive train from engine to wheel. There’s a reason for that. Today’s engines are made to operate with certain gear ratios, and the power of modern engines is best handled by up-to-date axles, wheels and tires.

How will this 302 operate, I wonder, with the standard Packard axle, a rear end with a ratio probably around 5 to 1? And how well will the narrow tires put that torque to the ground, even if the wood artillery wheels can get it to the tires? And what’s going to stop this car? There are no front brakes, and the rears are typical 1920s external-contracting shoes (okay, that’s not a Packard brake, it’s on a Hudson, but you get the idea). In 30 years of driving Angus the Hudson I’ve learned that stopping is a privilege, not a right.

Perhaps the owner just wanted a no fuss, stock-looking antique car with an automatic transmission. Then wouldn’t a Pinto drive train, like that used in the Shay Model A Fords, be just the ticket? Probably we’ll never know unless someone’s seen this green Packard driving around in the middle of Connecticut.

We all know that Ransom Olds left Oldsmobile while his curved-dash model was at the height of its popularity, thence to found Reo. But Reo, too, held his interest for but a few years. Though he remained on Reo’s board until the 1930s, after 1912 he had little involvement with cars. Where did he go then? Well, Oldsmar, of course.

I’d heard of Oldsmar, Ransom’s Florida real estate development, before, but this past April, while in Florida for another reason, I realized I was quite close by. With two fellow historians I set out to explore.

The first thing we saw on arrival in Oldsmar was the former building of Oldsmar Bank, now the Public Library. Built in 1919, it’s the oldest public building in town. The library was closed, it being a Sunday morning, so Stanton (left), Arthur (right) and I set out in a version of “Where’s Ransom?” Stanton and Arthur are both architects, and quickly realized that Oldsmar houses dated from as early as 1918-19 to more recent times. Was there, we wondered, an Olds mansion somewhere in town?

On our way to the waterfront we came upon an impressive stucco residence with porte cochere. Could that be Ransom’s house, we wondered? It was the only one that looked worthy of a twice-over auto magnate. On our way back, we saw a woman washing a pickup truck, so Stanton asked about Mr. Olds. She led us inside, to consult the owner of the house, who told us that Olds came to Florida in 1913, purchasing 35,000 acres on Tampa Bay. He envisioned a model community where residents could grow vegetables, a town of “Health, Wealth and Happiness.” He built a power plant, a 60-room hotel, and bought a tractor company he moved to town and renamed Oldsmar Tractor Company. Alas, the predicted boom did not come, and Ransom soon left. Population dropped to 200 people and growth did not return to Oldsmar until the 1980s. The center of town holds only modest commercial buildings of the 1950s and ’60s. Today’s business district is on the main road outside of town. As everywhere in Florida, though, development is fast approaching.

Where had Ransom Olds lived? Not in the grand house in which we stood, we learned. It had been designed and built for him, but he never occupied it. When it was finished in 1924, he had left town. While in Oldsmar, it seemed, he lived in a more modest frame house across the street.

Are there Oldsmobiles in Oldsmar? The only ones we saw were on street signs and the banners on State Street. The only interesting cars we encountered were a first-generation Mustang, a Nissan convertible up on blocks, and an aged Willys Jeep in the garage of our guide to historic Oldsmar.

You can read more about Oldsmar history here, and the Florida Memory Project also has lots of historic photos of Oldsmar.

James Scripps Booth was an accomplished artist, though largely self-taught since he dropped out of prep school after tenth grade. The son of newspaper publisher George Gough Booth and newspaper heiress Ellen Scripps, James was also enamored of automobiles, so much so that he resolved to invent his own. Drawing his contraption in 1908, he was able to make it a reality in 1912, the Bi-Autogo, a three-seat motorcycle with training wheels, powered by a massive V8 engine. Only one was built, as the vehicle was nigh unmanageable.

Retreating to the other end of the automobile scale, James signed on to the cyclecar craze that swept the United States in 1914. Started with the Bédélia in France, the movement touted light, economical transportation for two, usually tandem seating with motorcycle power. Cyclecars had the virtue that one didn’t need a garage, nor a driveway. James’s Scripps-Booth Rocket, powered by a V-twin Spacke engine and driven with a long belt (missing in this view), was in tune with the cyclecar idiom, and was gone just as quickly, since by 1915 a Model T Ford, a real car, sold for just $440, less than the price of most cyclecars.

Then James decided to build a real car of his own. He hired William B. Stout, later to build an all-metal airplane in the 1920s that led to the Ford Trimotor and his own radical Stout Scarab in 1935, to design it. The Scripps-Booth Model C, a jaunty little runabout with a stylish German silver radiator, Houk wire wheels and powered by a Sterling four-cylinder engine, arrived in February 1915. Initially the cars were troublesome, earning the nicknames “Scraps-bolts” and “Slips-Loose,” the latter perhaps a malady of all belt-drive vehicles and a hang-over from Rocket days. Eventually the bugs were worked out, but fully one third of production seems to have gone overseas. James the artist did all the advertising illustrations, helping to move, by accounts, some 6,000 cars by 1916. A V8 model appeared that year, but James disliked the implicit retreat from the light car idiom, nor did he care for the change to a Chevrolet 490 engine that summer. Fed up, he resigned in October, after which the company was sold to Billy Durant, who was in the process of taking back General Motors with the trojan horse of Chevrolet. Within a short time the Scripps-Booth was a faceless and unwanted GM marque with Northway engine in an Oakland chassis. It was euthanized in 1922.

James, however, was not through with automobiles. He designed another light car, the low-riding DaVinci, but was unable to interest anyone in producing it. When Stutz introduced the low-slung Safety Stutz in 1926, James sued, claiming that Stutz’s Fred Moscovics had stolen his design. Eventually, in 1935, James won, but all his award money went for legal fees. By then he had already returned to the cyclecar idea, with the DaVinci Pup, a tandem-seat, driver-aft car with belt drive, but the market held no demand for such a vehicle. Ironically, belt-drive of a sort has finally hit the mainstream with continuously-variable transmissions.

The solitary Bi-Autogo survives, owned by the Detroit Historical Society but now on loan to the Owls Head Transportation Museum in picturesque Owls Head, Maine. Owls Head also has a Rocket cyclecar belonging to Detroit Historical, as well as a Model C roadster of its own. The DaVinci Pup was given by James to Detroit Historical, where it remains in storage. The only DaVinci car was given by James’s widow to Northwood University in Michigan, but has since been sold to a private collector. An active Scripps-Booth Register tends to the needs of surviving cars and their owners. Now and then, you can find Scripps-Booth cars at Hershey.

Our town does not have a 4th of July parade; we do our parading on
Memorial Day. It was the same in the village where I grew up, so it was with great excitement that when I was six we started spending our summers – or at least the beginning of July – at Wellfleet, Massachusetts, on Cape Cod.

The Wellfleet parade was – and is – a fully civic affair, with all walks of townfolk involved. Floats can be patriotic, political, moral, religious or promotions for town businesses, from restaurants to banks. The selectmen always had a float and even summerfolk join in, fully aware that they’re both a nuisance and a foundation of town’s economy. Bunting abounded on Main Street buildings, and horses led the parade, followed by antique cars – even a Stanley Steamer. Wellfleet claims its founding as 1620, so Pilgrim hats are always in fashion. It’s a shellfish town, embodied by this oysterman who makes popular perennial appearances.

People climb to the rooftops to watch the marching bands, and in earlier days soldiers from the nearby National Guard camp joined the line of march. Sometimes the spectators’ cars were more interesting than those in the parade. That night, there were fireworks over the harbor, not always done these days, I’m told. One tradition that’s long gone is the bonfire on the evening before. Townfolk spent weeks building a tower of railroad ties, filling it with tires and topping it off with an old outhouse. It lit up the sky, and burned for days. Today the EPA would put a stop to it, but Wellfleeters ceased the tradition long ago, when they ran out of outhouses.

On my third birthday, September 9, 1947, I was given a bright red Radio Flyer wagon. It was not my first wheeled vehicle – I had a stroller-turned-kiddie-car when a toddler, but after my sister was born my Dad put on a rumble seat so I had to share it. The Radio Flyer, though, was all mine, and I used it for hauling, for downhill coasting, for learning to drive – at least I pretended to do so.

Although the first of the Tonka toys debuted shortly afterwards, I never had any. A few years later I was given a Doepke toy, the Adams road grader. Doepke made a whole series of construction toys as well as a few large-scale cars. My grader built miles and miles of roads, and looked something like this afterwards. My real workhorse was a Smith-Miller short-wheelbase rack body truck like this one. When I bemoaned the fact that it wasn’t a dump truck, which I needed for roadbuilding, Dad made an ersatz dump body out of an old turpentine can and it worked fine. I was proud of my Doepkes and Smith-Miller, looking down my nose at other kids’ Tonkas and Marx trucks because they were not as realistic. When I was about twelve, an older friend gave me his Doepkes, including a Wooldridge earth mover, a cement mixer and another Adams grader, ones that had rarely, if ever, been outside. By that time I was spending more time on my bicycle than building roads, so they remained in good shape.

When our children reached toy-playing age, we bought them Tonkas and I kept my treasures in the attic. So today, my Doepkes, the Adams grader, Wooldridge earth mover and cement mixer, are still in pretty good shape. My favorite is still the Smith-Miller GMC cab-over truck. For all the work it’s done it’s in remarkable condition, largely because it’s mostly cast aluminum. Of course I needed cars to drive on the roads I built. I don’t remember what happened to the third-birthday cars, but I had several generations of others. Some lasted better than others, but that’s a story for another time.

The Radio Flyer is still with us. It graduated to gardening duty, was repainted many times and eventually advanced wear required a bit of reinforcement. We still use it for chores around the yard, and on occasion I reminisce about its role as a scooter, for parallel parking and for speedy downhill rides.

We all dream about an ad like this, an old car with minimal mileage, purchased new by an elderly person and driven only to church. Well, be careful what you wish for; you might get it. I did!

In the autumn of 1984, my mostly-faithful Rover was getting worn out, and we’d had good luck with the 21-year-old Falcon wagon that had been our family car for four years. When a friend came up with a 33,000-mile 1969 Buick, I eagerly bought it. With very minimal fender rust and an immaculate interior it seemed like an incredible buy at used car money.

The car was a bit of an enigma. A bottom-feeder Special Deluxe, in a year when most small Buicks were Skylarks, it had been ordered by a 75-year-old gent, and equipped with few power options. It had the 350 cid V8, not, as you probably know, related to the Chevy, Pontiac or Olds small blocks. Instead it was basically a Buick V6 with two extra pots. He treated himself to a Hydra-Matic, but brakes and steering were manual, and although the car had a speed minder and various courtesy lights it was nearly devoid of trim and sported dog-dish hub caps. Still, it was unusual, drove decently (once I got some radial tires on it), and had been well maintained. Its last oil change had been 300 miles (and one year) earlier.

There was evidence of a Florida trip or two, but mostly it had gone to the store and back, less than ten miles each time. One day, to solve a minor oil leak, I changed the valve cover gaskets. Big shock! I found an engine almost totally gummed with sludge. Taking care to keep it out of the sump, I removed as much as I could. More ominous than the sludge was a puddle of antifreeze in the right cylinder head where coolant shouldn’t be. I said a prayer or two and put the valve covers back on.

That explained a slow loss of coolant, but the source of the leak was not evident. Eventually, fate intervened, in the form of a Dodge Omni that rear-ended it while parked at the curb, shortening it by a full twelve inches. It took forever to squeeze a decent settlement out of the perp’s insurance company, because they insisted the car was not collectible, despite its pristine condition.

In the end, I parted it out. Its nose restored a Skylark convertible in Michigan, and many of its parts went to upstate New York. I gave the carcase to our local fire department for rescue training, and I’ve still got some pieces left, like the sweet-shifting Turbo 350 that cured my aversion to slush boxes. The short block awaits a trip to the scrap yard.

I replaced it with a 1970 Chevy Impala, another one-owner car, this time with over 100,000 miles. I changed valve cover gaskets on its 350, too. It was so clean inside you could eat off them. I don’t buy cars with less than 100,000 miles any more. You can’t tell if they’re going to last.

New Year’s Day 1929 found Sir Herbert and Mrs. Austin aboard the RMS Berengaria bound for New York. Among their baggage were four Austin Sevens. Sir Herbert hoped to find a franchisee for his minicar in the New World. After returning home he heard from some bankers in western Pennsylvania, and in due course the American Austin Car Company was established at Butler.

The American directors of the new firm felt the English Austin needed some flashier lines, and looked to Detroit for inspiration. Hayes Body Company submitted proposals by Alexis de Sakhnoffsky, a Russian count who had become their art director. Spiffy little coupes and roadsters were placed into production and advertised in a brochure illustrated by Esquire artist Lawrence Fellows. Borrowing the “sweep panel” associated with Duesenberg, Sakhnoffsky made the cars jaunty, and they looked as just as attractive from the rear, and the driving position, while bit cramped, was nicely appointed. A delivery van was also offered, with prices starting at $445, which, inauspciously, would also buy a full-size Model A Ford.

The car’s engine was a mirror image of the British version, and the car took a stylish Bantam rooster as its mascot, proudly displayed on the radiator cap. Reportedly, it was the first American car to locate the battery under the hood. Alas, despite a reputed 184,000 orders, only 8,558 cars were delivered by the end of 1930. Sales in 1931 were only 1,279, and the company went into receivership. Roy Evans, the charismatic Florida dealer, took charge, selling most of the accumulated inventory for prices as low as $275. Evans reorganized the company into the American Bantam Car Company, had Sakhnoffsky update the styling and borrowed some money. The new Bantam car entered production late in mid-1937. “A Better Buy” the company called it.

In addition to the familiar roadster and coupe, models included a pickup, station wagon and panel delivery trucks both regular and posh “Boulevard” style. A Speedster model had seating for four, later cars moving the headlamps out to the fenders. Prices ranged from $399 to $565 in 1939, but customers still weren’t buying. Only about 6,000 Bantams were built through 1940. By that time, the company was competing in the “Jeepstakes,” the Army’s campaign for a 4×4 utility vehicle. Although the Bantam “Jeep” (though it wasn’t called that) was attractive to the Quartermaster Corps, Bantam didn’t have the capability to build in quantity, so Willys and Ford got the contracts. Bantam, however, was given a consolation award to build trailers for the armed services, which they did throughout World War II and in the civilian market until 1956.

With production so low, you’d think they’d be rare, but unrestored cars keep turning up at Hershey.

The Greenwich Concours d’Elegance came to town this past weekend. Greenwich is a two-day event, showcasing American vintage and performance cars on Saturday, from 1904 Searchmont to 1988 Camaro IROC-Z, and postwar European cars on Sunday. This year’s Sunday exhibits ranged from a 250 cc Isetta to a custom-built 540 horsepower Ferrari 612 Kappa.

A subtle underlying theme this year concerned cars of interesting provenance, automobiles owned by noteworthy people. These included a 1940 Packard Darrin convertible belonging to Drake Darrin, great nephew of its designer Howard “Dutch” Darrin, and Dennis and Ann Marie Nash’s 1949 MG TC, originally purchased by John Bond, the late publisher of Road & Track, for his wife Elaine. Of longer legacy was the 1905 Renault town car delivered to Sarah Cooper Hewitt, granddaughter of Peter Cooper, in New York City. It was shown at Greenwich by Dragone Classic Motorcars of Bridgeport, Connecticut. An Alfa Romeo 1750 Spyder, once a Mille Miglia competitor, later belonged to the late automotive author Ralph Stein.

This year’s Concours moved the classic motorcycle class to the water’s edge, and reprised the popular Concours d’Marine for vintage yachts. Greenwich is an aesthetic festival, to the delight of artists and photographers. Not all exhibits are automotive; Michael Maniatis enjoyed discussing the de Havilland Tiger Moth replica he built in his Manhattan loft. In recent years, Greenwich has hosted a Christie’s auction. Star of this year’s sale was a barn fresh 1938 Bugatti Type 57C Atalante coupe. Despite being re-bodied, it surged past estimates to set its new owner back $852,500 with the buyer’s premium.

Judges swiftly completed their rounds while renowned journalist David E. Davis, Jr., was interviewed by Bob Long for Motor Trend Radio, and a pair of Gull Wing Mercedes 300s contemplated taking flight. At afternoon’s end, the crowds gathered for prize-giving, narrated by Grand Marshal Don Peterson and Chief Judge Edward Herrmann. Best car and costume award went to the Tomko family and their 1909 Buick; Saturday’s People’s Choice was the bright orange 1955 Lincoln Indianapolis, a design study by Mario Boano. Best of Show, decided by vote of the judges, went to Joseph and Margie Cassini’s LeBaron-bodied 1934 Packard Aero sport coupe.

On Sunday, the people went for the Dragone brothers’ 1928 Vauxhall Hurlingham boat-tailed speedster, while Best of Show was awarded to the 1937 Bugatti Type 57 of Malcolm and Natalie Pray. After a wet Concours in 2006, co-chairs Bruce and Genia Wennerstrom placed an order for good weather in 2007. The heavens delivered, holding off incipient showers until the end of awards presentation on Sunday.

As with many shows, some of the most interesting things are seen in the parking lot. Interesting provenance reigned there, too, in the form of a Ford Lotus Cortina formerly the property of Colin Chapman.

The Concours d’Elegance, which benefits disaster relief agency Americares, will return to Roger Sherman Baldwin Park in Greenwich on June 5th and 6th, 2008. Don’t miss it.

This weekend will be the first in June, which means it’s Greenwich time. Greenwich Concours d’Elegance, the brainchild of Bruce and Genia Wennerstrom, will make its 12th appearance at Roger Sherman Baldwin Park in Greenwich, Connecticut.

Showcased will be a circle of European cars with American drive trains; once called “hybrids” in this day of alternative energy hybrids perhaps they’re better called multicultural motorcars. On show will be the 1955 Lincoln Indianapolis, a study by Mario Boano in search of Ford business. He was successful to the extent that Henry Ford II bought the only car produced. Other multiculturals expected include the Franco-American Facel Vega and Italian-American Iso Grifo, which shares with its sibling Iso Rivolta an engine room with Corvette power.

Greenwich is a two day show, with Saturday devoted to thoroughbred American marques like Pope Toledo, DuPont or
Crane Simplex. Sunday is Concours Europa, celebrating European cars like Lancia, Bentley and Amilcar. Among the competitors will be this 1938 Delahaye with luscious coupe body by Saoutchik, shown by Dragone Classic Motorcars. Prizes are awarded for
age-appropriate costumes, and the waterfront location on Greenwich Harbor gives rise to Concours d’Marine, a competition for vintage yachts.

A Christie’s auction of automobiles will begin Sunday at noon, with viewing throughout the day Saturday and on Sunday morning. A multitude of prizes will be awarded each day, beginning at 3 PM. More than 300 cars are expected over the two-day event, which will also feature automotive art galleries, a book alley and displays of prestige automobiles from area dealers and manufacturers.

The Concours benefits disaster relief agency Americares and is open from 10 AM to 5 PM each day. Roger Sherman Baldwin Park is located at 100 Arch Street in Greenwich, Exit 3 of Interstate 95. C’mon down!

Although purists dismiss the Cayenne sport utility model as an improper Porsche, it seems to be selling well enough. Actually it’s not the first utilitarian Porsche. Porsche experiments with tractors started before World War II. After the war, the so-called System Porsche was taken up by Allgaier Maschinenbau of Uhingen, Germany, with a plant in Friedrichshafen. In 1955 the tractor business and Friedrichshafen plant were sold to Mannesman Corporation, and tractor production continued under the name Porsche-Diesel Motorenbau GmbH. Major redesign was undertaken in the late fifties; there were several sizes of tractors using one-, two-, three- or four-cylinder air-cooled diesels.

These included the single-cylinder Typ P111, built through 1956, and called “Junior” from 1957. A major redesign of the Junior was made in 1960. There was also a Junior S, a narrow tractor for work in orchards. The Standard, a two-cylinder model, came in many forms,including the Standard V and slightly less powerful Standard T. The line was filled out with a three-cylinder Super (this industrial model has a front-mounted air compressor) and four-cylinder Master.

In 1963, Germany was allowed to re-commence building military vehicles, armored personnel carriers, so the tractor business was sold to Renault, as a result of declining sales. Ironically, a Porsche tractor design of 1946, the four-wheel-drive 328, was deemed too radical at the time. A near clone is now being made in Mexico as the New Holland TN-A series.

I’ve come across a couple of Porsche tractors in my travels, a Super V-308 (at the head of this column) at Beaulieu Autojumble a couple of years ago, and a Standard V last year at Hanbury Steam Rally in Worcestershire, England. Although Porsche tractors have been out of production for over 40 years they’re still trendy. Pedal Porsche toys for girls and boys are the latest fad from Germany.

Certainly not a sporting Porsche, the diesel tractor is the only Porsche to deserve the ultimate put-down from British motoring writers: agricultural.

I’m indebted to Don Chew of Colorado for tutoring me in the ways of Porsche tractors and for providing many of the illustrations in this CarPort.