CarPort

…to us. This week, the CarPort celebrates two years in business. Our first feature was published on the last Wednesday of 2004, establishing a tradition to which we’ve adhered, with few exceptions, ever since. In that time there have been 103 “issues” of this cybermagazine (I don’t call it a blog), usually uploaded shortly after midnight on Wednesdays. (The one “missing issue” was due to launching problems from an overseas location.) Occasionally the deadline slips a day or so, sometimes to commemorate a particular anniversary but sometimes just from publisher overload.

There are many people to thank, without whom we probably wouldn’t have reached the toddling age of two. First and foremost is my son Nick, whom you’ve met before (seen here with Fuggle the feline oveseer). Nick, webmaster of wefunkradio.com and popular DJ “Professor Groove” on radio station CKUT in Montréal, insisted I learn to write html, a dictum for which I am now grateful though I was skeptical at first. My younger son Edward is a computer engineer and helps with all my system integration problems, and their sister Harriet, who can fix Subarus equally as well as
VW Beetles, is ever on the lookout for new material. Jill, my Morgan-connected spouse, understands why I’m often up late on Tuesday nights (a special prize for the first CarPorter to identify her car by make and model).

I’m blessed with a cadre of faithful contributors, including St. Louis Bureau Chief Fred Summers, Wayne Graefen, our Texas Ranger, and Dennis David, who prowls the western Connecticut beat. Steve McManus, seen here with his family, is our Kentucky Colonel, and
Gregg Merksamer serves as our Professional Car Consultant. Randy Poole (at right, with Joel Horne) is our Blue Ridge reporter-in-training. Without their regular supply of new ideas and photos the CarPort would be duller indeed.

There are two individuals who’ve earned the title “Godfather of the CarPort,” having served as inspiration for this multifaceted medium. Joris Bergsma (at left, receiving award from yours truly), founder and editor of PreWarCar.com, furnished the muse for a website worth re-visiting. In 2003, PreWarCar became the first website to earn the E.P. Ingersoll Award from the Society of Automotive Historians for presentation of automotive history in other than print media. Joris does daily updates, a schedule I could not manage, but the CarPort regime of weekly installments has worked for me. Dave Duricy, creator and webmaster of DeSotoland.com, gave me the encouragement to take a concept that played well in print journalism and give it the additional depth that cyberspace can provide.

In the last two years, hopefully, the CarPort has told you something you didn’t know about self-propelled vehicles and their history. I certainly have learned a lot from it. Interestingly, the feature that provoked the most comment was the item on Gravely tractors. Many regular CarPorters, it seems, have Gravelys and are very fond of them.

The celebration will continue through this weekend, when I’ll pour Angus the Hudson a glass of Marvel Mystery Oil. Then we’ll see the new year in together. I hope that 2007 imparts more inspiration and enjoyment to all of us.

…to be jolly; falalalalah, la lah-lah-lah! On Saturday, Jill and I harvested boughs of holly, with which to deck our halls. Yuletide is nearly upon us.

Our neighborhood is a festival of lights, from the very simple to the more ambitious, to a coveside extravaganza. My favorite display is over on Stoddard’s Wharf Road, where a fellow has decorated his Ford pickup, keeping company with an electric snowman.

Automobiles as seasonal yard art are fairly common. A farm stand over in Wallingford attracts autumn customers with a 1929 Chevy, and entertains with machinery inside the barn (there’s a tractor in there somewhere). A guy in Vermont finds his Crosley a perfect companion for goblins at Hallowe’en. Over in Watertown, at the Peter Cura salvage yard, they light up their Chevy truck every Christmas.

Some people make their cars into highway greetings. These range from subtle to trite to rolling greenery.

Our decor is simple: a rustic wreath, that I make myself, beside the door, and some modest lights up on the housetop. We don’t decorate our cars, but Angus the Hudson is nevertheless excited. He’s already hung his stocking by the Motometer with care.

Last week brought an anniversary to our household: thirty years ago on the 3rd of December Angus the Hudson came to live with us.

Angus was not our first Hudson; I had been dabbling at restoring a 1939 Hudson that I had rescued from the woods about three years earlier, but I realized that at my rate of progress it would be decades before I had an old car to drive. Thus I began combing issues of White Triangle News, magazine of the Hudson-Essex-Terraplane Club, for presentable running cars in my price range. I envisioned another 1930s Hudson, until I spied a 1925 Super Six Brougham at just the price I was prepared to pay. Jill and I made a quick trip to Cape Cod to check it out, and a deal was struck on the spot. My friend Ed Bernier took me out in his ramp truck to fetch it, and home we came, arriving just as snow began to fall.

We named the car “Angus,” after Angus Hudson, the butler played by Gordon Jackson in the long-running ITV/PBS series “Upstairs, Downstairs.” An early example of the Brougham, a niche model introduced by Hudson in May 1925, Angus has an aluminum-skinned body by Biddle and Smart of Amesbury, Massachusetts. He was repainted around 1960, at which time a naugahyde roof replaced the original leather, He is otherwise original, down to the mohair upholstery that remains in good condition today. The dashboard leather has cracked and nickel trim is thin, but Angus has served us well, taking us on countless tours, picnics and shows while the children were small. Although not a high point car, he has taken home his share of trophies, albeit “People’s Choice” or “Best Unrestored Car” rather than “First in Class.”

The secret in Hudson’s Super Six engine was a counterbalanced crankshaft that vanquished vibration and friction, according to the ads. Angus’s Super Six could stand detailing, but runs well, though he doesn’t like to cruise much above 45.

Hudson continued the Brougham into 1926, integrating the visor into the roof and offered additional colors. Early in 1925 production the door handles were changed from Angus’s “bow tie” design to the smooth handles of 1926 style. In 1927, it got acorn headlamps and landau irons were added to the Brougham in mid-year. By 1929 the Brougham was gone, but a semblance of the style can be seen in the Club Sedan, a Murphy-designed body built by Biddle and Smart. By 1935, “Brougham” had been demoted to describe a two-door sedan.

We didn’t give Angus an anniversary party. He’s hibernating, but when he wakens in the spring we’ll take him on a celebratory ramble. He’ll be 82 in July. Perhaps we’ll have a party then.

I believe that cars belong on roads, not trailers. I used to think nothing of driving Angus the Hudson fifty miles each way to attend a show, but I’ve softened somewhat. I’ve owned trailers for more than thirty years, principally for moving cars that don’t run or are unregistered, so now sometimes I’ll load Angus and haul him, so as to travel at freeway speeds. Trailers are cumbersome, though. So how about a car that needs no trailer, is easily carried in the back of a pickup? Consider, friends, consider the Crosley.

Powel Crosley, Jr. was a marketing and inventing genius. Pioneering the low-cost radio receiver he then founded WLW, a high power broadcasting station in Cincinnati, Ohio, to give his radios something to receive. His Crosley Shelvador refrigerator set the pattern for all modern fridges. In the late 1930s, he sought to bring America a small, low-cost car. His Crosley automobile, introduced in 1939, was a spartan roadster powered by an air-cooled Waukesha flat twin engine.

After World War II, Crosley brought his car somewhat upmarket, with a four-cylinder engine designed by Lloyd Taylor for military use. With a block of steel cylinders and tin-plated sheet metal water jacket, and shaft driven overhead cam, the Crosley Cobra (COpper BRAzed) weighed 58 pounds in fighting trim. A whole line of automobiles – the only totally new 1946 cars – was built around it. There were two-door sedans (this a ’47), station wagons (’48 and ’51), convertibles (’49 and ’51) and pickup trucks (’47). In 1949, a sports model, the Hotshot, was introduced – later the Hotshot was joined by a Super Sports model with doors. There was a panel delivery and a Jeep-like thing called the FarmOroad. By 1952, though, it was all over. Sales, which had topped 25,000 in 1948, shrank to less than a tenth of that. Powel pulled the plug on the car business.

The Cobra engine had a fatal flaw in that electolysis destroyed the lightweight blocks. The fix was the CIBA engine – Cast Iron Block Assembly. With an iron block the little Crosley cammer became a high-revving competition engine and eventually found service as an outboard motor under the Homelite name, and as the Fisher-Pierce Bearcat by the builder of Boston Whaler boats. The FarmOroad, too, saw later life as an industrial vehicle called the Crofton Bug. There’s tons more information on Crosleys at the website of the Crosley Automobile Club.

My high school friend Tod had a Crosley, a 1949 sedan with the CIBA engine – and disc brakes. The week after graduation in 1962 we drove it to Cape Cod, a 200-mile trip. Even for a couple of hormone-charged adolescents, the Crosley was uncomfortable. Girls thought it cute, and would wave when we honked, but they preferred to ride in cars with V8s and glass packs. We challenged a Vespa scooter to a stoplight drag – and lost.

Tod had a parts car, a ’51 station wagon whose transmission and rear axle had been removed to build a tractor. When he moved to the west coast, I bought it and took it home in my Chevy pickup – no trailer needed.

Ford’s Thunderbird cannot claim the longest consecutive run of a model name, but it can certainly make a case for the most adventurous search of identity over nearly half a century. What began as a two-seat sports roadster in the 1955 model year ended as a “personal luxury” coupe 44 years later, then after a five-year hiatus returned to its roots.

Actually, Ford never called the Thunderbird a sports car, unlike Chevy with the T-Bird’s competition, the Corvette. The Thunderbird’s adjective was always “personal.” “Luxury” was added later, when the ‘Bird gained seats for four and moved upmarket. Some decried the baroque “Squarebirds” of 1958–60, but the customers didn’t. Sales of the 1958 model were more than double those of 1956. For 1961, Thunderbird moved into its “Cigarbird” phase, with a pleasingly pointed design originally intended for front-wheel drive. Fwd was ditched as too costly, left for GM to pioneer with the Olds Toronado in 1966 (and it is said The General licensed the powertrain design from Ford). A novel feature of the ’61 was a “swing away” steering wheel. Thunderbird’s body was squared up again in 1964; in 1966 the last convertible was built.

A new design for 1967 brought two wheelbases, 114.7 inches for the coupe (this is a ’68) and 117.2 for a (gasp) sedan with “suicide” rear doors. The latter was used as a platform for the Lincoln Continental Mk III two years later. (The Thunderbird Landau Sedan is not the most out-of-character car built by Ford Motor Company. Consider the Mercury Cougar Villager station wagon of 1977.) By 1972, the “Bird” had retreated to its coupe persona and become a sibling of the Continental Mk IV.

But the big ‘Birds were heavy and thirsty, so for 1977 came a downsized car. Half a ton lighter and nearly $3000 cheaper than its predecessor, its sales grew sixfold. For 1980, it was downsized yet again, on the Fox platform (Fairmont/Zephyr). By 1981, it even came with a six-cylinder engine, Ford’s 200 cid Mustang/Maverick/Granada unit. (Although the six was mentioned in sales literature, only the V8 was illustrated.)

In 1983, Thunderbird gained back its unique personality with a new coupe of softened contours, and engine options including a turbocharged four. In 1989 came the final iteration of the Thunderbird coupe, initially with only V6 power, though a 210-hp “Super Coupe” was supercharged. In 1991 the familiar 5.0-liter V8 returned, replaced in 1994 by the new “modular” ohc 4.6-liter unit. Sleeker than the 1983-89 ‘Bird, this new coupe continued with few changes until the plug was pulled after the 1997 model year.

Rumors of a new coupe, possibly front-drive, abounded, but a retro concept at the 1999 Detroit auto show hinted the new direction. A “modern heritage” style, in Ford’s words, it was clearly cued from the 1955-57 two-seaters. It went into production as a 2002 model, but sales were underwhelming. Perhaps merely an inspirational exercise, like the Plymouth Prowler, the new T-Bird ended with a 50th Anniversary model, the last of which rolled out on July 1, 2005. What would have happened had the two-seater been brought back earlier? Well it might have been. Around 1960 a downsized roadster, not unlike the 2002 car, was built. Powered by a supercharged Falcon six, the car survives in the collection of The Henry Ford.

I’ve never owned a T-Bird, but I do have preferences. Of the two-seaters, my favorite is the ’57. Squarebirds and the downsized 1977-82s hold no attraction for me, but a ’63 Cigarbird could catch my fancy. As an automotive contrarian, though, I might just go for a Landau Sedan.

Of all the styling devices used in the century-plus-ten of the American automobile, few have had the staying power of the vinyl roof. You might call it the fetish that refused to die.

It began simply enough. In the 1920s, all closed cars had canvas roofs, since the technology didn’t permit metal pressings as large as an auto top. Some upscale cars substituted leather for canvas, and it became fashionable to extend the covering down to the belt molding, including the rear quarter panels. “Angus,” my 1925 Hudson Brougham is an example of this style. By 1936, though, when GM had introduced the one-pieced steel “turret top,” it was more fashionable to display painted steel.

In the 1950s, canvas covering came back into vogue, first as a crutch. In order to distract buyers from the fact that it had no hardtop convertible, Ford offered a fabric-roofed Crestliner two-door in 1950 and ’51, and the companion Mercury Monterey, Lincoln Lido and Lincoln Cosmopolitan Capri. Kaiser and Frazer also used a fabric roof covering on the four-door “hardtop” models (the “post” between the doors was transparent, but not removable). But with the mid-1951 introduction of the Ford Victoria, the Crestliner was laid to rest.

And so was the vinyl top for about a decade. In 1962 it appeared again on the Thunderbird Landau, complete with landau irons, as on this ’63. By 1963, Cadillac offered vinyl on the Coupe de Ville and Fleetwood Sixty Special sedan. Pontiac had a “Cordova vinyl” option on all models, even Tempest (this one’s a ’64). Vinyl was an option on the ’64 big Ford “fastback” hardtops, too.

The vinyl-topped low-cost prestige car first appeared in the form of the 1965 Ford Galaxie 500 LTD, although vinyl could be ordered on any model, like this six-cylinder “plain” Galaxie 500 seen at Hershey. The die was cast, though, as Chevy countered with the Caprice in 1966 and Plymouth with the Fury III VIP. Even AMC was in the game with the Ambassador DPL and a vinyl option for the Rambler Rebel.

Before we knew it, vinyl became an obsession. Chrysler Corporation offered “mod tops,” in fashionable floral patterns, in 1969 and ’70 (the rumored “paisley top” on 1971 Imperials was actually a faded burgundy overprint on excess mod material). There were half-vinyl tops, even vinyl tops on pickups. And somewhere along the line “opera windows” made their entrance, even on hardtop sedans.

Stylish or not, the vinyl top has its disadvantages. Once moisture gets under the vinyl, and eventually it does, sooner in seacoast climates, it eats away under the skin. First you see bubbles and fraying edges, or rusty patches under moldings. Eventually the vinyl becomes too nasty and must be stripped. Then the the once-hidden rust holes become apparent. Vinyl top cars present special challenges to the restorer.

You’d think that in about a decade the fad would have run its course, but the craze proved virulent. Automakers were offering vinyl tops on cars right into the 1990s, some of which should really have been prohibited by law.

This may be more than you want to know about vinyl tops, but really we’ve only scratched the surface. Is there a vinyl top that you particularly like or love to hate? Send your pix to the CarPort. All decisions of the judges will be vinyl.

Coming back to the United States, if you believe the chattering motorpundits. Depending on which source you trust, Alfa Romeo will be back with 2007, 2008 or 2009 models, sold through your local Maserati dealer.

Alfa began with the traditional Italian corporate alphabet soup: Anonima Lombarda Fabbrica Automobili (Lombardy Automobile Manufacturing Company) acronized to ALFA, later Alfa. Begun by Cavaliere Ugo Stella in 1907, the company built its first Alfa car, a 24 hp machine, in 1910. In 1915, the Neapolitan industrialist Nicola Romeo took charge to build weaponry. In 1919, when automobile manufacture resumed, he added his name to the cars.

Alfa owes much of its reputation to engineer Vittorio Jano, responsible for a generation of Grand Prix cars driven by the likes of Tazio Nuvolari, in a team headed by Enzo Ferrari. Road and competition cars of the 1930s included the Zagato-bodied 6C1750 and 8C2300, considered timeless designs today.

Its factories laid waste in World War II, Alfa retreated to small mass-produced cars when peace returned. The 1300 cc dohc Giulietta series, introduced in 1954 in sedan (Berlina), coupe (Sprint) and roadster (Spider) models, became quite popular. Production reached some 200,000 per year. In 1962, the Giulia, with 1600 cc engine and five-speed transmission, replaced it. My cousin Woods had a Giulietta Sprint and later a Giulia Spider, the first Alfa I ever drove.

In 1966, the Spider was given new Pininfarina-designed sheet metal, which became iconic from its role in The Graduate, the 1967 film starring Dustin Hoffman. The Spider stayed in production until 1993, the name “Graduate” given to a barebones model introduced in 1985. Other coachbuilders bodied Alfas to order, like this 1955 Ghia 1900 CSS Speciale, whose owner insisted on special provisions for his dog. A new 1750 sedan was introduced in 1968.

Other notable Alfas were the 1970 V8 Montreal coupe, named for its first showing at the 1967 Expo in that city, and the Naples-built Alfasud of 1971, using an un-Alfa-like flat four with front-wheel drive. The Alfetta, available as a rear-wheel drive sedan or coupe, was built from 1972 to 1984. The Milano, a V6 four-door sedan, arrived in 1986.

The last Alfa to be sold in the United States was the 164, sharing a platform with the Saab 9000, Lancia Thema and Fiat Croma. A V6 front-wheel drive sedan, it stayed in production until 1998, three years after Alfa left the US market. The last 164 I’ve seen was parked in the woods, where it served as a beehive.

Until Alfa returns, with the 8C Competizione, 159 or Brera, this Alfa carnival car, spotted by Wayne Graefen, could be a pacifier for the Alfa male. It would probably prove unsatisfying, though. No true Alfa male would ever share the driving.

Not long ago, while searching for something in the attic of my garage, I came across two big boxes of Tonka toys. They were not mine – I never had Tonkas while growing up – but they brought back fond memories of my children’s childhoods.

My son Nick was two when he got his first Tonka, a dump truck in the late 1970s series modeled, with artistic license, on that era’s Dodge truck. The dump truck was soon joined by others, which he was proud to demonstrate to his mother. By the time the youngest of our three kids put away “childish things,” the Tonka fleet numbered some eleven vehicles (the backhoe loader in the middle is an Ertl, not a Tonka).

Tonka toys have been around since 1947, when Mound Metalcraft, Inc. of Mound, Minnesota, shortened the name of nearby Lake Minnetonka for its first toy, a steam shovel. Since then, millions of children have enjoyed them and today Tonka toys are enthusiastically collected.

All our Tonkas were well played with, some more decrepit than others, but I set out trying to identify them with the help of the book Tonka, that Dennis David wrote with veteran Tonka employee Lloyd Laumann. The Dodge dump truck that started it all is of a design originating in the early 1970s, updated around 1979 with a new grille and fatter tires. (Interestingly, by 1985 the Dump Truck had been converted to Chevrolet by virtue of a “bowtie” grille.) The next two were the Mighty Loader and the Road Grader, the latter nearly the same as the 1965 version but with different wheels. Other construction toys, in no particular order, are the T-6 Bulldozer, a less-than-mighty loader, a neat little Bobcat loader and a tractor-trailer from the Tiny Tonka series that comes with a matching bulldozer. One of the neatest and most useful pieces is what I believe is a Mighty Scooper, on which a child can actually sit while digging cellar holes and building roads. We seem not to have ever had the most popular Tonka, the Mighty Dump Truck, of which some 25 million have been sold.

The Sand Loader, probably the oldest piece in the collection, dates from the early 1960s and probably came with a dump truck when it was new. I suspect we got it from a yard sale.

Cars and trucks, in addition to the Dump Truck, include the Sanitary Service garbage truck (with 1973-style cab – Tonka often updated older bodies with new cabs), Cement Mixer with 1969 “Turbine” cab (the Cement Mixer debuted in 1960 with a conventional Ford truck cab), a Jeep (perhaps the late 1970s Dune Buggy, which used the Jeep body introduced in 1962 but with fatter wheels) and a Jeep Cherokee. Note that the Cherokee is a two-door model. Most Tonka Jeep wagons are a four-door style.

The Tonka line was sold to toy giant Hasbro in 1991. A few of the familiar styles are still in the catalog, but most are now made of plastic and manufactured in some far-off land. Web sites devoted to Tonkas include G.T. Kitchen’s Tonka Toy Trucks and Tiny Tonka Toys, which is devoted to the small series introduced in 1968.

The title of this piece is taken from the Bible, Paul’s first letter to the Corinthians: “When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things.” Note that Paul does not say “throw away childish things.” He says “put away,” which implies that your childhood things are not gone. You can get them out from time to time and enjoy them again. And if your Tonkas were somehow thrown away, you can always find more on eBay.

What could these two cars possibly have in common? They were built 20 years apart, on different continents by different companies. One has a massive 455 cubic inch American V8, the other a 24-valve 3-liter Japanese V6. Other than the fact that they’re both front-engine- rear-drive, about the only thing they share is their designer, Jerry Hirshberg.

Born in Cleveland, Ohio, Hirshberg earned a degree in industrial design from Cleveland Institute of Art, and joined General Motors in 1964. In his early years he worked on such cars as the first-generation Pontiac Firebirds, the Grand Prix and the GTO. By the late 1960s he had moved up to head the advanced design studio, where he was given the task of satisfying design vp Bill Mitchell’s request for a car with “classic lines.” Hirshberg and his studio reached back to the yacht-inspired themes championed by E.T. Gregorie in the 1930s, cars like the Lincoln-Zephyr and Continental, and came up with the “boat tail” Buick Riviera, introduced in 1971. Actually, the Riv went the Continental one better, being pointed both front and rear.

In 1980, Hirshberg was scouted by Nissan, then establishing a design studio in the United States. He was tapped to head the new Nissan Design International (now Nissan Design America), then being built in San Diego, California. Among the first jobs at NDI were Nissan’s Hardbody trucks, including the first Pathfinder. An innovative concept was the Pulsar NX, a modular two-seater that could function as a T-top coupe, Targa-style roadster or small “Sportbak” wagon.

It was shortly after the NX that Hirshberg was given the task of designing a mid-level car for Infiniti, Nissan’s Lexus-fighting luxury brand. The J30, new for 1993, was nearly as distinctive as the boat-tail Riv, but in different ways. For inspiration, his team at NDI took not the shape of a boat but that of a toilet bowl – the underside of the toilet bowl (I’m not making this up; you can read it in Hirshberg’s book, page 120).

The J30 presented special challenges, since Hirshberg’s bosses were Japanese and had different concepts of beauty. He had to revise the front air intake (J30s don’t really have a “grille”) to make it less like a frown, and make the headlights less “squinty.”

One thing the Riv and the J30 have in common is being unappreciated in their own time. Neither sold well, and the Riv disappointed even its designers. For manufacturing reasons it was enlarged from its original A-body concept to ride GM’s B-body platform; Mitchell said that in the process his “speedboat became a tugboat.” It lasted but three years. The J30 survived for almost five, by which time it had been nudged out by the I30, basically a redecorated Nissan Maxima with leather. The J30’s lines, in subdued form, were perpetuated in the first coming of the Nissan Altima.

The 1973 Riviera atop this page belongs to my friend Al Washburn, who likes the big GM V8s. The J30 was my daily driver for 4-1/2 years, pensioned off only as it approached 250,000 miles. It had two significant flaws, a tiny trunk, a result of the “toilet bowl” rear end, and terrible traction due to a light tail and plenty of power. I did become enamored of the Infiniti label, though, and replaced the J30 with an I30, which has a huge trunk and, with front-wheel drive, plenty of grip for New England winters.

Steve McManus has a new project. You’ll probably recognize its rather plain face as that of a Jensen-Healey, the final (and probably least happy) automotive venture of Donald Healey.

Healey’s greatest fame came from the very successful Austin-Healey that made his name a household word, much more so than the Nash-Healey and predecessors we featured some months ago. The Austin-Healey and its junior edition, the Austin-Healey Sprite, sold nearly 200,000 units.

Fearing, accurately but somewhat prematurely, the demise of the British sports car in the United States, Austin’s parent British Motor Corporation had discontinued the “Big Healeys” after 1967. The Sprite continued on until 1971, the final year as simply “Austin Sprite” since Healey’s contract had expired. (Its badge-engineered companion, the MG Midget, lasted until 1979, latterly with a Triumph engine.)

Donald Healey, however, was not finished with automobiles, nor was Kjell Qvale, the San Francisco BMC dealer. Qvale’s store had sold more Austin-Healeys than any other in the US. The two men hit it off, and Qvale enabled the deal by buying Jensen Motors, a foundering British manufacturer.

Jensen had grown up building special bodies for Fords, then modifying Ford chassis into their own Jensen S-Type cars and Nash 8-powered H-Types. After the war, they gravitated to GT coupes with Chrysler V8 power, like the CV8 and latterly Interceptor. A big part of Jensen’s business, though, consisted of body shells for larger manufacturers, like the Austin A40 Sports, Volvo P1800, and aforementioned Austin-Healey. It seemed a natural partnership.

Alas, the best-laid plans soon began to unravel. The Jensen-Healey had intended to use a Vauxhall Viva drive train. Vauxhall’s engine proved anemic, but a new Lotus powerplant looked promising. Thus Colin Chapman’s Lotus 907 engine, a 16-valve, two-liter four, made its debut in the Jensen-Healey, even before its first appearance in a Lotus car, the Esprit of 1976. A transmission from Chrysler UK, from the Sunbeam Rapier H120, and Viva suspension completed the concept, packaged in a unitary shell designed, in turn, by Hugo Poole and William Towns. It went on sale in the summer of 1972.

One can charitably say the car was “underdeveloped.” Engines, in particular, had teething problems, and I can recall seeing Jensen-Healeys outside repair shops, their front ends sitting high in the air, indicating that the engine was undergoing surgery inside the shop. A Mark 2 version with minor changes came in mid ’73, and a five-speed Getrag box was introduced in November 1974. A nifty GT version, reminiscent of Volvo’s 1800ES, came in July 1975, but by this time Donald Healey had acrimoniously severed ties with Qvale. That car was sold simply as the “Jensen GT.” Total production of Jensen-Healeys and Jensen GTs totalled just under 11,000.

By September 1975, the whole Jensen enterprise was ailing; the last car was built early in 1976. But hope springs eternal, and in the 1980s Ian Orford, a long-time Jensen employee, attempted an Interceptor revival, unsuccessfully. Later, the Jensen name was acquired by investors who attempted a Mustang-powered Jensen S-V8. Only about 30 were built.

Sic transit gloria Jensen, but the cars have a devoted following. Ed Moore of Bellingham Auto Sales in Massachusetts, who supplied the Interceptor pic, has two of them for sale, and the Jensen Healey Preservation Society carries the torch for Donald Healey’s last car. Steve McManus might sell his Jensen-Healey when he’s had a chance to bring it up to snuff. Contact the CarPort if you lust for it.