CarPort

The cars headlining the CarPort are seldom elegant. That in itself is reason to take a breather from the rusty and underloved cars you usually see here and indulge in a full week of elegance. There’s no better example of elegance than this Siata 208S spider.

“Elegant,” to engineers, means no more complicated than necessary to perform its intended function. That sums up the Siata, a truly simple sporting machine, so basic that it has no speedometer,
only a tach. Under the skin, though, it’s not so simple, for it has a Fiat 8V engine, a two-litre 70-degree pushrod V8 that makes a glorious noise. It was one of some 300 cars exhibited this past weekend at the Greenwich Concours d’Elegance in Connecticut.

This was the tenth annual Greenwich Concours, conceived and chaired by Bruce and Genia Wennerstrom and held at
water’s edge in scenic Greenwich Harbor. Not all cars had the simple elegance of the Siata. Saturday’s best of show, a
1929 Hibbard and Darrin-bodied Stutz, held high its distinctive Woodlites, and Sunday’s best, Jack Thomas’s
Ferrari 375 America, built for Gianni Agnelli, looked
less Ferrari-like than the
Siata beside it.

There were Packards galore, including a yummy
butterscotch 120B victoria with body by LeBaron and a
1935 Super Eight 7-passenger sedan recently unearthed by movie car mogul Nick Pagani (seen here with his
namesake car brought by another exhibitor).

There were cars of personalities, like
Ernie Kovacs’ 1951 Bentley Mark VI and Henry Crane’s own
Crane Simplex.
Mrs. Crane thoughtfully took time from her reading to tell us about the car, as did
Master Tomko for his father’s 1912 Buick, once in the Dick Teague collection.

Spectators could see
engines, and automotive spectacles, like a
Kaiser doffing its
top. Celebrities included veteran race driver
John Fitch (being interviewed by Bob Long for Motor Trend Weekend radio), who brought his one-off
Phoenix, and pioneer female racer Janet Guthrie, signing copies of her new autobiography A Life at Full Throttle.

A circle titled the “Best of the Best” highlighted winners from earlier years, like Brian Beni’s 1935
SS1 Airline coupe and Sam Mann’s
Dodge Firearrow. Recently liberated from New Europe was a
Tatra T613, contrasted by a meticulously-restored “Frog Eye” MkI
Austin-Healey Sprite.

The Greenwich Concours d’Elegance benefits Americares, a non-profit disaster relief and humanitarian aid organization. It is held each year on the first weekend in June at Roger Sherman Baldwin Park in Greenwich, Connecticut. Put Greenwich on your itinerary for 2006.

Philip Worthington Foster was born 95 years ago today. Never what you’d call a “car guy,” he was endowed with that inventive cleverness we call “Yankee ingenuity.” Mark Twain’s hero in A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court describes it best: “…if there wasn’t any quick new-fangled way to make a thing, I could invent one — and do it as easy as rolling off a log.” That was Philip Foster, always inventing new ways to do things.

He didn’t own all that many cars, perhaps a dozen over his near-90-year lifetime. But, like all his chattels and tools, he cared deeply about every one and took faithful care of them. His first car was a half interest in an
Apperson Jackrabbit (not the Model T in the photo; the Apperson’s behind it). At age 20 he bought himself a Model A Ford
Standard Roadster. In 1948, he presaged today’s sport utility vehicle craze by buying a new
Willys Jeep. Almost within the year, however, he realized that a Jeep was not the ideal family car, and supplemented it with a
1949 Mercury. The car atop this page is the
Triumph Ten, an Americanized version of the British Standard Ten, that he drove during the 1960s.

A native of Newark, New Jersey, he became a naturalized Yankee, settling in Falls Village, Connecticut, in the Litchfield Hills where he had spent summers as a boy. Like the ingenious
Stanley brothers, makers of the
Stanley Steamer and with whom he shared a birthday, he continually taught himself new skills: photography, woodworking, metal work, and offset printing. Without knowing it, he all but invented desktop publishing in the 1950s. Because he was usually the face behind the camera, there are few photos of him at work. A rare shot shows him flushing salt water from his
outboard motor, typical of his care for machinery, at Cape Cod.

From working with my father I learned countless skills: carpentry, darkroom technique, sharpening a drill by eye. From his example I absorbed a strong work ethic and sense of honor. From him I inherited many useful tools and not a few automobiles. The
Model A and
Jeep are still with me, as are his
Bantam trailer and
Simplicity garden tractor. Philip Foster’s son, like his father, does not let go of his chattels lightly.

Remember the van daze of the 1970s? Every young dude had to have a van, a van that made a statement. Add shag carpet, a water bed and you were ready for sex, drugs and rock and roll.

It started with the flower children of the sixties and their psychedelic VW microbuses. In 1961, however, Ford introduced the Econoline and set the pattern for the following decades. In ’62 a mode elevée version, the
Falcon Club Wagon, entered the catalog; the Econoline was for families as well as tradesmen. Dodge followed in 1963 with the A-100, and Chevrolet joined the pack in ’64, forsaking the microbus-like Corvan for the new Chevy Van.

With kids tricking out the stark commercial vans for their own social tastes, it was only a short time before big business entered the market. The recreational vehicle industry, which had arisen with pickup campers and motor homes, started doing van conversions, some basic, some quite elaborate. My daughter Harriet spotted the van atop this page in Arlington, Virginia, recently, dubbed Vantastic by Hop Cap. Hop Cap, Inc., of Bremen, Indiana, one of a host of RV manufacturers in Michiana, the region along the Indiana/Michigan border, began making fiberglass pickup caps, and expanded into van conversions and motor homes. This Vantastic is a rather mild makeover of a circa 1975 Dodge van, with diamond bubble windows and trendy graphics.

The van movement finally faded, and with it Hop Cap, which closed in 1980. By the mid-eighties, the van of choice was a Dodge Caravan, the darling of soccer moms and football dads. You can still buy a conversion van, but they’re for adults now. The kids drive tricked-out Honda Civics.

That’s not to say that the psychedelic van movement is dead. This Ford is regularly seen in New London, Connecticut. One wonders, though, how in the world the driver sees where he’s going.

Lee Miller has a soft spot for Humbers. The owner of a 1961
two-tone grey over
red leather Super Snipe while on duty in Britain with the US Air Force in the 1970s, he’s kept an eye out for them ever since. Familiar to him was a
1964 model that sat for ten years,
unmoved, three blocks from his Florida home – until he went to take some better photos in the summer of 2003 only to find it gone.

More remarkable was finding this 1952 Humber Super Snipe Touring Limousine in a St. Petersburg junkyard about a year ago. Purchased as a
project by the yard owner, it has become sidelined in favor of a Bentley restoration. In need of lots of work, it has the traditional English walnut
interior trim,
leather seats and a
division window. The hood ornament, hub caps and fender skirts (spats) have been removed, but go with the car. (It is currently for sale; if you’re interested, call Steve at +1 727-423-2571.)

The Humber was kind of a British Buick, flagship of the Rootes Group, whose siblings included Hillman, Sunbeam (-Talbot), and Singer. Established in 1868 by Thomas Humber to build bicycles, Humber, Ltd, made the transition to motor cars in 1898, selling out to the Rootes brothers, William and Reginald, in 1930. The Snipe and Pullman models of the 1930s were joined by a smaller Hawk after World War II.

I have some personal experience with the
Hawk. My aunt and uncle toured Europe in one in 1956, taking delivery in London and bringing it home to the USA at the end of the summer. Basically a
four-cylinder
Super Snipe, it was devoid of walnut but possessed of
typical British accoutrements of the period. I distinctly remember learning the intricacies of shifting, in which the
column-mounted lever was pushed away-and-down to start in second (first gear was for pulling stumps), pulled near-and-up for third, then straight down for “top gear.” Reverse required pulling out on the knob, pushing toward the dashboard and then way down toward the floor. (This illustration has been “flopped” from the factory literature to reflect the car’s left-hand-drive.)

Super Snipes of the type spotted by Lee were not uncommon in the US during the 1960s, the
wrap-around windshield and quad headlights expected to appeal to western tastes. When Chrysler Corporation took over Rootes in 1967, Humbers were sidelined, the last model being the Sceptre of 1968-76, basically an upmarket Hillman Hunter.Though small, Humber’s following is dedicated, and includes clubs in Britain and Australia.

This is the time when apple blossoms usually come to the CarPort’s home town. The blossoms in turn remind me that 25 years ago this week we purchased our new, seventeen-year-old Ford Falcon station wagon.

I had flirted with the car, a 1963 Rangoon Red Deluxe four-door wagon, at Spring Carlisle, but without cash in hand and inexperienced in the ways of buy-and-drive, I had returned home car-less. Unbeknownst to me, a friend had purchased it; when he learned of my interest he was happy to find a motivated buyer. He drove it over and I bought it on the spot.

Our new Falcon was a rather rara avis, equipped with the 260 cid version of Ford’s
small block V8 and a three-speed manual transmission. The “Sprint” Falcons, announced in January 1963 and delivered a couple of months later, are well known, but less appreciated is the fact that the V8 could be ordered in any Falcon from that time onward. Bearing simple
“260 V8” emblems, our car was devoid of the dress-up items lavished on the new
Sprint versions of the hardtop and convertible, but packed the same 164 bhp through a slightly quieter muffler. It served us well for six years as a family car, carrying home the
newest member of our family in 1983 and making countless excursions to nursery school, Grandma’s house and beyond. When
carefully packed, it would hold all that a family of five needed for a
two-week vacation.

Usually I prefer the first year of any new car design, typically in its purest form. Of the first generation Falcons, though, the ’63 is my favorite, since the “pure”
1960 is too “McNamara-ish,” and the
’61 and
’62 appear contrived. The added adornment for 1963 nicely complements the new
convertible and
fastback hardtop added that year (thanks to Wayne Graefen for sharing a photo of his new project hardtop). The Falcon Club of America looks after Ford Falcons, and their website has plenty outgoing links.

Eventually, as mileage crept towards 170,000, the engine developed emphysema, and signs of rust, just festering sores when the car arrived, became gaping wounds. I planned to give it a heart transplant and some skin grafts, even acquired a
parts car. But the more I investigated the more complete seemed the need for restoration. Eventually we needed the garage space for other projects, so I sold it to a pediatrician as a mate for the Rangoon Red Sprint convertible he had just finished restoring. We were sad when our station wagon
left, and we still miss it.

Wayne Graefen’s been out carousing again. This time he’s come up with a bull-nosed beauty not far from his Texas hacienda. When I was young there were lots of these cab-over-engine trucks around, “Cab Overs” we called them, or sometimes “COE;” some people called them “cab forward,” but I never did. Now they’re a figment of the past. This truck has been identified by Rich Miller, an early Ford V8 enthusiast with a rich knowledge, as Body Style 80 from the 1941-47 era – they looked virtually the same for that entire period. Built on wheelbases from 101 to 158 inches, they carried a myriad of model numbers, all ending in “W.”

The reason for mounting the cab so high is obvious. By putting it over the engine, or nearly so, it’s possible to make a shorter, more maneuverable truck for a given payload. The
chassis (this one’s actually a ’39) is downright stubby, much shorter than would be required for a
conventional cab. The skybox, where the
driver and passenger sit, suffers an intrusion by the engine, and the shift lever is canted forwards, since the transmission is actually behind the driver. Rich says that the Ford Cab Overs feature a “nice roasty-toasty cabin for those chilly nights and early morning hauls,” but on “brow-sweating summer days on runs grinding up the
highway with the windshields pushed out for maxium ventilation” the
side ventilators on the cowl were “essential once the engine heat got too
unbearable.”

Cab Overs arose during the 1930s, and most truck manufacturers, Ford, Chevy, GMC, Dodge,
Studebaker, had them, right through into the 1950s. Internationals were among the most streamlined of the early COEs. The Cab Over trucks most unusual in the USA may be the Canadian Military Pattern made in Canada by both
Ford and General Motors during World War II for use overseas.

Why don’t we have Cab Over Engine trucks any longer? In the 1950s, several manufacturers moved the engine aft and the cab further forward, putting driver and passenger closer to the ground. The “Tilt Cab” (for that’s how you get at the engine) models from Ford appeared in
1957, and International, had them too. I call them “flat-fronts.” The idea quickly caught on, and by 1960, almost every truckmaker had made the switch. Thus the Cab Over passed into history.

The snow has melted in Southern Connecticut; the frost is out of the ground and we’re finally able to do our spring plowing. My trusty tractor, with which I prepare my modest vegetable garden, has magneto ignition, a two-speed planetary transmission and its oil level is checked with a petcock. “Aha!” you say. “It must be a converted Model T Ford like the one on your page.” Well no, it isn’t, nor is it a Fordson, the agricultural evolution of the T (with a gear, not planetary, transmission).

My tractor has a 6.6 hp T-head engine, full pressure lubrication, two speeds in reverse and only two wheels. It’s a 1958 Gravely Model LI, and it’s equipped with the miraculous sod-busting rotary plow that deep-tills the soil so well you can sift it in your hands.

Benjamin Franklin Gravely was a West Virginia inventor who adapted a hand cultivator with an Indian motorcycle engine to create the Model D, an odd-looking machine with the engine inside its single wheel. In time this evolved into the Model L, later called the Convertible, with a one-cylinder engine at the rear and implements mounted on the front. The four-foot snow blade will push more than a foot of powder, and the sturdy rotary mower makes short work of any grass – and small trees if the 3/8-inch thick brush blade is installed. There’s a whole myriad of attachments and accessories available, but the plow, mower and snow blade meet my needs completely.

For a while a division of Studebaker Corporation, Gravely tractors are now made by Ariens Company, and the L and Convertible models are no longer part of the mix. The old Gravelys have a loyal following however, and parts are readily available. My garden is now plowed and partly planted, but I’m going to keep my Gravely forever.

From time to time, my daughter Harriet and I go to Volkswagen shows. She’s restoring her grandmother’s 1965 Beetle, and we like to see what other people are doing. It’s also an opportunity to buy parts (although, truth to tell, you could build a complete VeeDub almost from scratch out of parts bought on the internet). Summer before last we checked out the Bug-A-Fair, held at the Terryville, Connecticut, fairgrounds in August.

What to our wondering eyes should appear but the vehicle at right. We’ve known about military Volkswagens, of course, starting with the World War II Kubelwagen, its civilian grandchild the “Thing” (called by purists with its proper name Type 181), and the ultimate military VW, the amphibious Schwimmwagen. This thing is none of these. It’s an Iltis.

The Iltis is a NATO vehicle, supplied to German, Belgian and French armies in Europe. Built from 1978 to 1987, it has a 1.7 liter solid-lifter Golf engine and a modified Audi 5000 transmission with full-time drive to the rear wheels. Drive to the front can be manually engaged.

This particular Iltis is the Canadian version, built by Bombardier in Québec. Bombardier builds airplanes, subway cars, and Amtrak’s Acela Express, but perhaps the Bombardier product most familiar to you is the Ski-Doo, whose name has become almost synonymous with “snowmobile.” The Canadian Iltis differs from its European counterpart in small details like lighting, the brush guard, and a much more substantial canopy.

Why is it called “Iltis?” Iltis (Latin name Mustela putorius) is a European polecat, akin to the ferret (Mustela putorius furo). Iltis belongs to the family “Marderartigen,” group “Stinkmarder.” So now you know.

There are so many VW sites on the internet it’s hard to know where to start. One good place is Steve Mierz’s Common Gear page.

On Thursday last, the production lines at MG Rover Group‘s automobile factory in Longbridge, on the southwest side of Birmingham, England, came to a halt. Stocks of parts were drying up as suppliers demanded cash on delivery. Rover’s fortunes since assimilation into the star-crossed British Leyland empire in 1967 have been on a roller coaster, but the latest faltering deal, with Shanghai Automotive Industry Corporation, rendered the end of Rover a reality show in the making.

I lusted for a Rover after driving my uncle’s 2000TC on California’s Angeles Crest Highway in 1968. Two years later, I bought one, as rows of new Rovers sat unclaimed on the New York docks, for the grand sum of $3,395, nearly $1,000 off the sticker price. My mother, seen here at Easter 1970, was impressed.

The “poor man’s Rolls,” some called it, from a time when the earlier P4 and P5 Rovers were favored by bankers and solicitors – the near-luxury niche occupied by Volvo, Audi and Lexus today. The so-called “P6” (P for “postwar,” 6 being the sixth such design), the 2000 series, marked Rover’s entry into the sports sedan market that would be so successful for BMW just a few years later. In 1965, Rover licensed the 3.5-liter aluminum V8 engine abandoned by General Motors, creating the 3500 model that debuted two years later. The engine stayed in production for over 35 years, being used most recently in Land Rovers (now built by Ford) and the Morgan Plus 8.

I drove my Rover for fifteen years and 120,000 miles, amazing my friends who said it simply couldn’t be done, that Rovers were too unreliable and hard to fix. The P6 Rover was indeed hard to fix, but for a true enthusiast no automobile is too unreliable. I soon knew every inch of that car. When it was truly worn out and in dire need of restoration I gave it away.

Some will say the end of Rover as we knew it came when BL, as British Leyland became known, replaced the P6 with the SD1 model, a less-sophisticated car showing Triumph influence, in 1976. Others point to the Hondification of Rover, the new 800 series (sold as “Sterling” in the USA) that was a Honda/Acura Legend in all but nameplate. The current Rovers, the 75, 45 and 25 models, are British designs once again, but hardly the spirited, nimbly-handling bank vaults that were the P6 series.

As this episode of the CarPort is posted, the British government has come up with a £6.5 million loan, enough to keep production going for a week, and the MG Rover directors have pledged £49 million in collateral toward bank loans. The Chinese meanwhile, sensing a buyer’s market, are biding their time. Will there continue to be a Rover as we know it? We don’t yet know, nor do we know when we will know.

John Zachary DeLorean, who died March 19 at age 80, was described by the Washington Post as “credited with creating the overhead-cam engine, concealed windshield wipers, the lane-change turn signal, vertically stacked headlights, racing stripes and an emphasis on cockpitlike driver
consoles.”

Well, if DeLorean truly created the overhead cam it was news to Peugeot, Stutz and Crosley, all of whom had overhead cams well before Pontiac’s 1966 six-cylinder engine. Pontiac was noteworthy for its belt-driven cam, but even that was not groundbreaking – a timing belt had appeared in 1962 on the German-built Glas S1004. DeLorean’s overhead cam was clearly a case of evolution, not creation.

Pontiac’s cammer was conceived not for performance, but for an air-cooled engine concept. In order to get better heat transfer, DeLorean wanted to use liquid-filled fins on the block, and an overhead cam was a means of dispensing with pushrods, which would have obstructed air flow. Air cooling was dropped, but the belt-driven cam, developed in conjunction with Uniroyal, stayed. The cammer became the base engine for the 1966 Tempest. Although having the same bore and stroke as the pushrod Chevrolet six, the Pontiac engine shared only its crankshaft.

A version with a Rochester Quadrajet and dual exhausts was rated at 207 bhp, and became the heart of a “Sprint” version of the Tempest, though no threat to the already-legendary GTO. Little known, however, is the fact that Pontiac engineers experimented with overhead cams for V8 engines, including a novel arrangement with a belt at the rear.

To what extent did John DeLorean “invent” these features? No doubt many other engineers were involved, but included in the more than 200 patents that DeLorean claimed are disclosures for the ohc six’s distributor and accessory drive, which incorporates the belt tensioner, and the rear mounted belt drive on the V8. DeLorean’s official obituary says “[e]very car built in the world today contains at least one of his creations.” What DeLorean creations does your car have?