Renault’s little Dauphine saloon would become a prime example of the ‘race on Sunday, drive on Monday’ mentality, scoring several high profile victories straight out of the box. The Dauphine was developed as a successor to the then ubiquitous 4CV, and set new standards for interior comfort and durability, not to mention modernity of design, the result of rigorous testing and a painstaking attention to detail. Spurred on by the immense success of Renault’s compact and affordable family saloon, not to mention post-Suez concerns over petrol supplies, rival firm Simca were busy developing something distinctly more angular in response. The 1000 appeared at the 1961 Paris Salon, importantly beating the rumoured ‘Super Dauphine’ to the marketplace, it was available only in red, white or bleu [sic], and rapidly became highly successful, thanks not only to its modern appearance, but to useful touches such as fold-down rear seats and doors that opened at right-angles. Performance too was a factor, as even after former Simca employee and race-tuning specialist Amédée Gordini had worked his magic on the Dauphine’s little 845 cc engine, it struggled to outperform its 944 cc rival.

Renault were extremely quick to react and, less than a year later, in June 1962 the ‘Super Dauphine’, now called the R8 appeared, a challenge to the Simca in every respect, from its en vogue boxiness to the 956 cc engine. Constructed on the Dauphine chassis, the R8 retained the rear-engined, rear-wheel drive layout, eschewing the trendsetting hatchback of their R4. Whilst this was regarded as something of a backward step, the R4’s pioneering engine cooling system was carried over, and it became the first economy car to feature disc brakes all-round which, along with the Dauphine’s extant rack and pinion steering proved to be performance enhancing refinements. Indeed, the Simca with its drum brakes (discs would finally be fitted to the front wheels in ’69) and unresponsive worm and roller steering, a source of much criticism, suddenly looked rather old-fashioned in comparison.

Nevertheless the Simca continued to sell strongly, especially in the export market and, thanks to an association via Fiat, with famed tuning specialist Carlo Abarth, 100 examples were customised to racing spec, and proved highly competitive during the ’62 season. Given their success, four variants of the Abarth enhanced 1150 were set to enter full production the following year, with upwards of 55hp (compared to 40hp in the standard model), disc brakes and, on the top of the range 1150 SS, a six-speed ‘box, along with a tacho and oil pressure gauge.  Sadly this formidable little car was to be short-lived, for that same year Fiat sold their controlling interest in the company to Chrysler, who swiftly cancelled the project.

Ironically, that same year “Le Sorcier” (The Sorcerer) Gordini was working his magic on the R8, and in doing so was creating one of the most significant cars in French motorsport history, but more of that next week….

“There were, of course, accidents aplenty, a couple of them fatal, but the fierce competition brought such names as Denis Dayan, Jean-Pierre Jarier, Alain Serpaggi  and Jean-Pierre Jabouille into the limelight and is remembered today as one of the most closely contested racing championships of all-time.”

With the Abarth collaboration at an end, and managerial changes in progress, Simca focused their attentions on larger saloons, their 1300 and 1500 ranges successfully replacing the popular Aronde. This left a sizable gap in the market for something small and sporty, aimed at the younger generation, and at the Paris Salon in October 1964 Renault’s, frankly insane, answer appeared.

Originally available only in French Blue with the two signature white stripes, there was no mistaking the R8 Gordini. Thanks to a cylinder head of Gordini’s own design, the 1100cc engine now delivered a staggering 95 hp (almost twice that of the top-of-the-range Major), good for 105 mph and enough to see off a Mini Cooper. Though the suspension was beefed up and lowered, a servo assist added to the brakes, with all that power to the rear wheels, not much weight, and a notorious swing axle, there was little that could really be done to make the Gordini any less of a handful, but unsurprisingly it was these very elements that made it so popular. Mechanically straightforward, and with most parts interchangeable with the standard model, the R8 Gordini was advertised as the ideal car for the motorsport enthusiast on a budget, and with the works’ rally team giving the all-conquering Coopers a run for their money there were bound to be plenty of takers.

La Coupe Nationale Renault 8 Gordini was the brainchild of journalists Georges Fraichard, Paul Dupuis and Alain Bertaut, whose magazines, Action Automobile and Moteurs, provided support along with Renault themselves and petrol company Elf. The championship began in 1966, coinciding with the release of Gordini’s even quicker 1255 and 1296 cc versions, and aimed to give the next generation of French racing drivers the first step towards a professional career, by letting them demonstrate their talents on a series of challenging circuits (along with rallies and hillclimbs in the first year) in equally matched machinery. The Gordini Cup became an enormous success, with heavy press coverage and large crowds drawn by the spectacle of twenty (or more) cars being driven with an unsurprising combination of skill, exuberance, bravery and flamboyance. There were, of course, accidents aplenty, a couple of them fatal, but the fierce competition brought such names as Denis Dayan, Jean-Pierre Jarier, Alain Serpaggi  and Jean-Pierre Jabouille into the limelight and is remembered today as one of the most closely contested racing championships of all-time. Unfortunately for Renault, the racing success of the R8 would not be continued with its successor, the front-engined, front-wheel drive R12 Gordini, introduced in 1971, which simply proved ill-suited to the demands of circuit competition and was retired after just three seasons.

It’s fair to say that Renault’s immensely popular R8 had rather eclipsed the Simca 1000 over the latter half of the sixties, the “Régie” certainly reaping the benefits of their successful racing programme in terms of domestic profile and sales. Simca however, had not been idle, their little car proving enormously successful in the export market, and having lent its chassis and mechanicals to the pretty, but gutless, Giugiaro penned Coupé 1000, in much the same way as the Dauphine/R8 running gear had been utilised in Renault’s stylish Caravelle/Floride range. Complaints over the performance of the 1000 range continued, but it wasn’t until 1967 that the restyled Coupé received a boost in power to 1204 cc and 82 hp, good for 100 mph and with servo assisted disc brakes, suspension and steering to match. Had Abarth still been tinkering with Simcas the 1200S might well have been truly spectacular, but as it was the task fell to Radbourne Racing in the UK who briefly picked up where the Italian had left off.

The little 1000 meanwhile had been suffering from a severe lack of development, with gradual increases in performance generating ever more wayward handling characteristics, a situation addressed by a full overhaul of suspension, brakes and steering for 1969. It was to prove timely, for the introduction of the costly Renault 12 was to effectively spell the end for the Gordini Cup, and it didn’t require much imagination to see that Simca’s new 1000 Rallye might be able to fill the gap left by the beloved R8. The Simca Racing Team would provide much the same opportunity for aspiring drivers, and much the same spectacle for fans as the Gordini Cup. The Rallye models would remain in production until 1978, by which time it had evolved into a fully-fledged racing car, every bit as popular as the R8 had been in its heyday.

For two boxy, unassuming little saloons, the R8 and the 1000 proved not only extremely versatile, but also immensely characterful, and in France they have attained much the same iconic status we reserve for the Mini. Few cars have endeared themselves to so many: from the families to whom they were simply day-to-day transport, to the racers who campaigned them, and the mechanics who worked upon them, they were reliable, fun and easy to fix or even customise. Refined they weren’t, but then when was the last time you saw anyone go misty-eyed in fond recollection of a BMW 5 Series?

First published on discoveryuk.com

The post A Tale of Two Saloons appeared first on Dylan Michael.

I mentioned the Piranha a few weeks ago, in reference to its brief appearance in the latter series’ of The Man/Girl From U.N.C.L.E. but as it graced a total of only six episodes its place in the pantheon of spy cars must be considered slight at best. As I recall it didn’t really have any answer to T.H.R.U.S.H.’s autogiros in The Karate Killers, Solo having to poke his P.38 through a gap in the awkward gullwings and fire off a few random shots, as opposed to deploying any fancy hardware. Bizarrely though, according to the designer of the AMT Piranha and creator of the 1967 U.N.C.L.E. special, Gene Winfield, the car was as close to the real deal as any of its contemporaries, the nose-mounted flamethrowers, rear propellers (for amphibious use) and braking parachute all being fully functional. Indeed, given a little more time Winfield believes that the Piranha could actually have been further customised for amphibious use. Other non-functioning equipment also included door-mounted rocket launchers, a laser gun, rocket boosters and infrared TV and radar concealed under the revolving dashboard, all of which makes a certain Aston Martin seem a little under-equipped.

Originally Winfield had been hired by the shows producers to customise a Dodge Charger, which was due to arrive in showrooms that year (1966), but with the project close to completion MGM execs pulled the plug, fearing that having received such strong publicity for their new model, GM might just cut short their contract. As a result the Charger made only brief appearances, in unmodified form, and into the limelight, albeit briefly, would step a truly unique car Winfield was in the process of developing: the Piranha.

Marbon Chemical, a division of Borg-Warner, was eager to promote the use of plastics in the automotive industry, but rather than approaching the Detroit manufacturers with small-scale proposals, elected instead to demonstrate the versatility, strength and durability of their product by constructing an entire car – running gear aside – from it. Racing engineer Dann Deaver, co-founder of Michigan-based Centaur Engineering, was recruited to design the car, and by late ’64 a prototype was under construction, based upon a racing spaceframe and rear-mounted four-cylinder water-cooled Sunbeam engine. The most important element would, of course, be the thermoformed bodywork, made from Marbon’s marvel plastic “Cycolac”, and Deaver’s design did not disappoint, simultaneously appearing both classically curvaceous and futuristically streamlined. The bodywork was moulded in two halves and bonded along a central seam, which was then covered with a strip of Cycolac trim.

The CRV (Cycolac Research Vehicle) Centaur would be unveiled at the Society of Automotive Engineers Convention in Detroit in January ’65, with press releases announcing that the easy-to-assemble kit car would be available for just $3,500, and capable of around 150 mph. It proved such a success that Marbon quickly commissioned Centaur to construct a second prototype, this time to be powered by an air-cooled flat-six Chevrolet Corvair engine generating 180 bhp and raced in the SCCA Championship. The CRV-II was unveiled five months later, this time utilising the Cycolac to create a monocoque tub – a genuine test of its rigidity – upon which the suspension was mounted. The car immediately proved successful in the hands of driver/engineer Trant Jarman, who won the SCCA Central Division Championship in the D-Modified class (though in actuality only one race, at Indianapolis, was eligible!), and apparently proved the strength of the Cycolac beyond question in a collision with an E-Type. Also raced by Centaur co-founder Forbes Howard, the car would latterly be fitted with a roof before disappearing into private ownership. It is yet to resurface, but is believed to reside somewhere in Japan.

Needless to say, Marbon were very pleased with the returns on their investment, and plans were laid to produce road-going versions, to which end CRV-III was constructed and promptly destroyed in order fulfil mandatory crash-testing. The road-going coupes CRV-IV and V were completed in early 1966, once again using Corvair power, and with an unmistakably space-age look about them, but now using fibreglass for the chassis. Both cars were deployed to Europe for promotional purposes, doing the rounds of factories and design houses, number IV vanishing into the ether in the years since, number V being written-off by an employee of OSI design in Italy. The company felt so bad about the accident that they offered to create a replacement for Marbon, which became known as the OSI CRV, and continued to perform publicity duties until being sold to a Marbon employee in the Netherlands who used it in competition. It’s racing career at an end the car spent some thirty-odd years in a barn, but is happily now under restoration.

The success of the Marbon cars attracted the interest of the AMT Corporation, whose Custom & Speed Shop in Phoenix, headed by Gene Winfield, had been developing concept cars with the likes of George Barris in order to promote their kits. Having purchased the rights to build the CRV along with Marbon’s stock of Cycolac bodies and fibreglass chassis, the car was renamed the ‘Piranha’, Winfield was placed in charge of the project and plans were laid to produce up to fifty cars a year. Naturally a racing programme was planned in order to promote the new cars, firstly on the dragstrip, then in a return to SCCA events.

Twenty-four-year-old Fred Smith was tasked with designing the Piranha ‘Funny Car’ chassis, with assistance from driver Walt Stevens, whilst mechanic Joe Anahory took care of the nitro-powered 392 Chrysler Hemi engine, and Winfield designed the distinctive Cycolac shell. With a chromoly frame weighing just 68 pounds and the use wherever possible of lightweight aluminium and magnesium components, the finished car weighed-in at just 1,550 pounds, which combined with around 1,400 horsepower made it a formidable proposition. With a wheelbase of only 120 inches there were concerns that the car would become airborne, but thanks to the clever use of ducting the air in under the nose, and out ahead of the cockpit, frontal downforce was never an issue. Trouble was the Piranha had issues with its competitors, too slow for Top Fuel races, and unlike anything on the Funny Car circuit, the unclassifiable car generated almost as much controversy as it did publicity. But as Stevens and Anahory toured dragstrips across the country, taking on and beating practically all who challenged them, they soon became fan favourites and the car a regular press feature, whilst the heavily promoted model kit became a big hit.

With the ’67 ‘Summer of Love’ in full swing, Dick Carbijal hit the SCCA circuit in the turbocharged racing Piranha, and Winfield completed work on the U.N.C.L.E. special, a kit of which was also released, whilst detail changes to the CRV cars were finalised prior to the commencement of the production run. Things appeared to be going to well, but before the year was out AMT had pulled the plug, and the Piranha was dead in the water.

If AMT’s publicity ambitions for the project had quickly been realised, they soon discovered that it was insufficient ammunition in the battle against falling model sales. Most dispiriting was the realisation that the production costs per hand built unit were in the neighbourhood of $4,000 higher than their target selling price, meaning that their only option would be to sell the cars in kit form. The final nail in the coffin however, would be the announcement from GM that production of the Corvair would cease in 1969, which promised an expensive redesign and the negotiation of a new supply contract. Just four road cars were completed before AMT sold their stock of parts back to Marbon.

The U.N.C.L.E. special meanwhile had proved a disaster, reputedly trundling around the backlot leaving a trail of parts and oil in its wake. Aside from the malfunctioning electrical gadgets, and cockpit temperatures akin to a greenhouse, the high sills made it thoroughly impractical to climb into or out of with any grace or speed, especially in the case of poor mini-skirted Stephanie Powers. The car was soon retired, as unfortunately was the show itself. As ownership of the chassis reverted to Marbon, the bodywork and spyware were removed by Winfield and refitted to an AMT chassis, which was subsequently sold and then disappeared, finally being traced and restored by Hollywood FX specialist Robert Short. The Marbon chassis is now in the process of restoration to road-going spec.

The AMT racer meanwhile continued to be used in hillclimbs and road races by new owner Dick Carbijal until the close of the decade, when after having been sold and converted for road use it sat forgotten in a haulage yard for some twenty years, before being rescued and beautifully restored to its original spec by enthusiast Frank Zucchi in the nineties. Post-restoration the asking price was some $120,000 but thankfully that hasn’t kept it away from the historic racing circuit. The Funny Car, also recently restored, now resides in Don Garlit’s drag racing museum in Ocala, Florida.

Marbon’s body shells would go on to grace a number of VW-based kits into the seventies, after they joined forces with Allied Industries, the run ending with the hideous ‘Seagull’. The body moulds were sadly destroyed when Allied relocated. Dann Deaver remained in the Cycolac car business with Centaur, who had become a research and development arm for Borg Warner, designing the Jeep XJ-002 concept car in 1969/70 and the mysterious Can Am I. Both projects were in collaboration with the Bolide Motor Car Corporation, whose President was none other than Jack Griffith of TVR fame.

As I’ve said before, there’s something about the design of most fibreglass cars that gives them the air of a backyard special, but that simply wasn’t the case with Deaver’s early CRV cars, nor with the AMT racers. Only about twelve cars were completed by Centaur and AMT, and the remaining examples are understandably now highly sought after, even the badly damaged CRV-V currently being under restoration. As for the probably the most prized of them all, it’s unknown whether CRV-I still exists – it was last seen in 1973, being raced by actor James Brolin using VW power in place of the old Sunbeam unit. So James, if you’re reading this – and I like to think you do – where’s the car?!
For more information on the CRV and AMT Piranha please visit Nick Whitlow’s excellent site.

First published on Discoveryuk.com

The post The Car From U.N.C.L.E. appeared first on Dylan Michael.

Now it may come as news to some people, but once upon a time the Italians churned out films at an astounding rate, and as the famous ‘spaghetti’ western genre began to lose steam, a new wave of action films, known as poliziotteschi, took their place. Taking their cue from the likes of The French Connection and Magnum Force, the poliziotteschi would often focus upon tough cops treading the fine line between law enforcement and vigilantism, brutally thwarting an apparently endless mob of bank robbers, purse-snatchers, drug dealers, pimps, hitmen and, of course, Mafiosi. Now what has this to do with Alfa Giulias you might wonder? Well, as luck would have it a lot of these tough cops, or the baddies they were chasing, drove Giulias – they were ten-a-penny back then and apparently as disposable as spent cartridges – and barely a film passed without several being demolished. Sad yes, but death in action must surely be preferable to a slow and inevitably rusty decline…

Indeed, the poliziotteschi have frozen the Giulia in a period of time when they not only comprised the bulk of the Italian police fleet, but were amongst the most popular domestic cars in production, as is reflected by the fact that the model remained in production for 16 years. The greatness of Giuseppe Scarnati’s design was the simple notion of placing a powerful (1,290 or 1,570 cc) engine in a comparatively light car, which though adhering to the three-box design school, retained a mysteriously low drag-coefficient. This was largely thanks to some very clever aerodynamic touches around the bonnet and windscreen – with its pronounced curvature – and the slight overhang at the rear of the roof, subtle elements which complimented the overall smoothness of the bodywork – no stripes or spoilers needed here.

Handling, as one might expect, was superb, complimented by a five speed ‘box and disc brakes, initially only available on the 1963 racing spec Ti Super – the most sought-after Giulia of them all – but latterly across the range. The Ti Super (Ti being an abbreviation of the racing category Turismo Internazionale) entered production in 1963, and lasted barely two years before the racing department turned its attention to the GTAs, during which time just 501 examples were made. The model featured floor-mounted gear shift (at the time other models had a column shift), three-spoke steering wheel, bucket seats, plexiglass windows in the rear, in addition to which sound-proofing was removed and the bodywork was constructed using thinner gauge steel, all of which added up to a weight saving of 200 kg.

Of course the standard 1,570 cc Giulia was plenty fast enough for everyday use – be it on the school run, as a getaway car or pursuit vehicle – the twin cam engine was good for over 100 mph, as the films attest. Indeed we owe a great debt of thanks to Remy Julienne and his team of stunt drivers, for had they not set about wrecking them en masse – their final moments forever preserved on celluloid – they’d only have wound up rusting in the scrapyards. So if you’ve any doubt in your mind that a boxy car can shift, I’d like to direct your attention to youtube and a few onscreen demonstrations in the likes of Poliziotto Sprint (aka Highway Racer) and La Polizia è sconfitta (aka Stunt Squad).

First published on Discoveryuk.com

The post Giulia A Mano Armata appeared first on Dylan Michael.

What drew me to the Polaroid – sorry, Kodak, who had to pay damages for patent infringement – initially was obviously automotive, for it’s a unique snapshot of a road probably long since changed, and cars long since rusted. But it’s fun to slip on the deerstalker and play detective, and with a bit of car knowledge, plus the invaluable help of two colleagues I reckon I’ve got it pinned. Firstly the cars, three of the six visible are Fiats, with black number plates, so this is Italy; a bit of local knowledge highlights the pine trees, native to Rome, and a bit of memory jogging narrows it down to the ruins of the Circo Massimo (Circus Maximus). So we’re on a tour bus in central Rome, with the sun behind us, it’s afternoon – late – and thanks to the dullest of the cars, the Mk I Fiesta, and the fading Kodak film, I believe it’s 1977 or ’78 – the little Ford was only released in ’76 and so surely not common enough to have been captured in a random snapshot until the following year at the earliest.

There’s also a Mini, probably an Innocenti, a Citroën Ami estate, two Fiat 127s and a lorry I can’t place – it looks like a Fiat, but the headlights are wrong, and after a lot of searching I’m still no closer to finding out what it is (please write in if you know). The car that really catches my eye though is the silver Fiat 128 Sport, because when was the last time you saw one of those?! Maybe yesterday, if you live in Southern Italy, but if you happen to live in Southern London the answer is probably never. According to the invaluable howmanyleft.co.uk that should come as no surprise, because there are only nine still on the roads in the UK, in fact there are only 37 Fiat 128s of any description around, and considering how many they sold, that’s quite a feat.

The 128, introduced in 1969, was a real ground-breaker for Fiat, being as it was their first transverse-engined, front-wheel drive car, it became European Car of the Year in 1970 and set the template for practically every such car manufactured since. Designer Dante Giacosa might have taken his lead from Alec Issigonis’ pioneering work on the Mini, but the result was much simplified, improved in terms of practicality, serviceability and drivability. Rack-and-pinion steering, disc brakes at the front and independent rear suspension delivered sharp handling, and road tests consistently praised the 128 as a drivers’ car, unhindered by the modest output of Aurelio Lampredi’s soon-to-be iconic 1116 cc SOHC engine. A boost to 1290 cc came in 1971 along with the Rally and Sport Coupe editions.

Such was the popularity of the car, Fiat continued to churn out 128s until 1985, the last examples, produced abroad under license, rolling off the lines in 2001, a true testament to the longevity of Giacosa’s design. Unfortunately paper-thin steel and a typically relaxed attitude towards quality control meant that the cars disintegrated at an astonishing rate, hence the paltry 37 examples left in the UK. I sincerely doubt that any of the cars captured that day on Via del Circo Massimo still exist – they simply weren’t built to last, but thanks to our unnamed amateur photographer they’ve attained some level of immortality, and happily they’ve also made me feel a little like David Hemmings in Blow-Up for the afternoon.

First published on Discoveryuk.com

The post Rome in Kodak Instant Color appeared first on Dylan Michael.

The poor old Beta had trouble from the start, purists bemoaning that the first incarnation – the ‘Berlina’ Sedan, introduced at the Turin Motor Show in 1972 – was little more than a fancy Fiat, and exactly the sort of thing they expected after the takeover in ’69. And to be fair they were right, the mechanicals and mode of construction were clearly inspired by Fiat’s desire to modernise the marque and dispense with costly over-engineering, though the Sedan hardly proved the best demonstration, with its vague steering and handling issues. The 2+2 coupé appeared a year later, with styling by Pietro Castagnero – previously responsible for the Fulvia sedan and coupé – along completely different lines, and equipped with either a 1.6 or 1.8 litre engine (the latter never making it to these shores). The car rapidly established itself as a driver’s favourite, with short wheelbase and wide track making for superb roadholding and a top speed of 110 mph even in 1.6 spec.

Next up, in 1975, came the HPE (High Performance Estate), based upon the Sedan’s longer wheelbase and with elegant styling by Castagnero. The HPE was doubtless the most practical of the Betas, with plenty of luggage space and little discernable performance loss, though the Pininfarina redesigned Spyder appeared later the same year, and immediately became the most prominent model in the range. Featuring a fully-integrated roll-bar and latterly a cross-member, the car was more ‘Targa’ than convertible and, like the HPE came equipped with 1.6 or 1.8 litre engine. The 1.8 option would soon disappear, the performance differential having long been considered rather inconsequential, its place taken by a 2.0 litre unit offering improved acceleration and increased torque.

No sooner had the 2.0 litre engine appeared, in late ’75, than the range was given a facelift, the Series 2 cars appearing in March ’76 with improved trim and a variety of detail changes. All was going well for the Beta range, when the bottom almost literally fell out. By ’76 the earlier cars had begun rusting – whether the cause was low-grade Eastern-bloc steel or simply inadequate rustproofing remains a mystery – but more worryingly the rot combined with fatigue had uncovered a serious design flaw in the mounting of the rear subframe to the floorpan on the Sedans. Under stress the mounting could separate from the floorpan, tearing away a chunk in the process, its deterioration becoming apparent though erratic handling under acceleration.

Lancia reacted quickly, recalling all Series 1 Betas for free repairs or offering generous trade-ins for those too far gone, the Series 2 models meanwhile were fitted with strengthened mountings. Sadly the British press, understandably tired of reporting upon build quality issues on domestically-produced cars, seized upon the opportunity to haul Lancia over the proverbial coals, exaggerating the extent of the rust issues, and ignoring the fact that they had become the first manufacturer to offer a 6 year warranty against corrosion. Sales were understandably affected, the Beta name being dropped in 1981 at which point the cars were given a superficial overhaul, and fuel-injection offered on the 2.0 variants. Production ended in 1984, not long after the introduction of the supercharged Volumex, which has remained highly collectable.

Enthusiasts knew better than to believe the negative press surrounding the Beta, and its reputation has remained strong in such circles, which is sadly more than can be said for Lancia within the UK market. Ultimately the Beta was no more susceptible to corrosion than any of its contemporaries – and a better car than most – but the almost total absence of Lancia from the UK market in the years since its demise, has sadly proven to be its legacy.

First published on Discoveryuk.com

The post Lancia’s ‘Lemon’ appeared first on Dylan Michael.

Of course I very much doubt that the Police force back then had much use for Matras – a few Alpines were as close as they came – but it’s a fine notion, and it left me wondering how practical the little cars were, and how they stood up to their potential adversaries in the event of a high-speed chase. So what better way to find out than by trawling through my old magazines for some period road tests.

L’Automobile was probably France’s most comprehensive motoring magazine, and each month test-driver extraordinaire J-P Thevenet put the latest machinery through its paces on the road, sometimes staging long tours to compare the strengths and weaknesses of similarly equipped cars. In the April ’67 issue there’s a brief technical overview of the new Matra M530, just about to be unveiled at the Geneva Motor Show, but it’d be a while before the new model was ready for testing, and so in the April ‘68 edition it’s a Jet 6 (shortly to go out of production) being tested alongside its rival 1300 sports models.

Alongside the Matra this mammoth test featured the following: the Alpine 1300, Mini Cooper 1300S, Renault 8 Gordini, Lancia Fulvia HF Rallye and the Simca 1200S. By far the most expensive was the Alpine (at 29,840.40 FF), followed by the Matra (25,674.90 FF), then the Lancia (21,955.40 FF), the Mini (19,636.40 FF), the Simca (15,913.20 FF) and the Gordini (at 15,646.90 FF). So the Matra was certainly at the high end of the market, and had been since it was first introduced by René Bonnet in 1962. Bonnet had been co-founder of DB (Deutsch et Bonnet), specialists in fibreglass-bodied sports and racing cars, but when the partnership dissolved over Deutsch’s loyalty to Panhard engines, René entered a partnership with aerospace company Matra. Using their Romorantin factory and fibreglass bodies, Bonnet introduced the Djet (thus named in the belief that the French couldn’t pronounce ‘Jet’) in 1962, the world’s first mid-engined production road car, highly priced at around 20,000 FF, and equipped with only the 1,108 cc unit from a Renault 8. In spite of the car’s many advanced features – disc brakes all-round, independent suspension – the high price damaged sales, and in 1964 Matra took over Bonnet’s debts and construction of the Djet, hiring ex-Simca man Philippe Guédon for a mass-production-friendly redesign, and continuing to uprate the car’s performance until production ended in ’67.

By the time of the L’Automobile head-to-head then, the little (renamed) Jet was beginning to feel its age, certainly when placed in direct competition with a group of proven race-winners and Simca’s impressive new 1200S. Nevertheless, the car acquitted itself fairly well, setting second fastest time (with the Simca) at the Nogaro circuit, second quickest in terms of acceleration and top speed, and proving best of the bunch on roadholding. Unfortunately middling performance elsewhere left the Jet dead last in the final standings, with the costly Alpine having dominated in much the same way it would on the rally scene. In second place was the Gordini, which clearly provided excellent value for money in terms of performance, was fun to drive, and a reliable everyday car. Third came the Simca, perhaps not the best in terms of all-out sportiness, but an excellent all-rounder; fourth the Lancia which in HF spec was considered a little too “serious” for the everyday motorist; and fifth the Mini, a lot of fun for sporty driving, but again feeling its age in the face of such competition.

By July ’69 the price of L’Automobile had gone up by fifty centimes, but with 145 pages full of news, tests and racing I doubt anyone was complaining at the 3 Franc price tag. Reports on both Le Mans and Indianapolis were headlined, but the big cover feature was the seven-car Corsican road-test.

It was an odd assortment of cabriolets lined-up against the Matra M530: the debonair Peugeot 504, the quirky little Siata Spring, the Dyane-based Citroën Méhari, the exciting Fiat 124 Sport Spider, the ubiquitous little Triumph Spitfire MkIII and the unusual Simca-based C.G. 1200S. Unfortunately, the diversity of the models made direct comparisons impossible, so individual judgements were passed. The prices ranged from 23,255 FF for the C.G. down to 8,692 FF for the Méhari, with the Matra in the same bracket as the Fiat, at 18,510 FF and 16,980 FF respectively.

Development of the M530 had begun in March 1965, Matra’s aim being to create a mid-engined 2+2, combining the sportiness of the Jet with the practicality of a car for the young family, an ambitious project to be overseen by Philippe Guédon, who had joined the company to advise upon suspension and transmission issues on the single-seaters. The fourteen-strong design team was a testament to Matra’s commitment, the car taking two years to go from a clean-sheet of paper to its first road test, which appeared in the March ’67 edition of Champion magazine, when works driver Jean-Pierre Beltoise gave his honest opinions. Unsurprisingly he credited Guédon with having ensured that the necessity for a compact engine in favour of a more powerful American V8 proved no handicap, thanks to sterling work on the chassis and weight distribution. The choice of the high-compression Ford V4 1,699 cc from the Taunus 17 M allowed space for rear seats and a decent-sized boot, and was accessible for servicing through a removable rear Perspex ‘screen, which when combined with a Targa roof transformed the car into a cabriolet. Brakes were disc all-round and suspension independent.

As practical as the M530 professed to be however, the styling left no doubting its roots. While the Djet was pretty and curvaceous, it’s successor was angular and aerodynamic, drawing heavily upon lessons learned in prototype racing. Indeed the M530 was clearly from the same sketchpad as the racing M630, which was undeniably advanced – as one would expect from an aerospace company – but perilously close to the forefront of the black art of aerodynamics, as the promising Roby Weber would discover to his cost during the Le Mans test weekend in ’67. The styling was bold, and futuristic, if not universally popular, and in some quarters it would unfortunately detract from the car’s most important quality: drivability.

A month after Beltoise, L’Automobile took the M530 prototype out for a spin, praised the well-intentioned practicality of the layout, paused for thought at the modernity of the design, and once again highlighted its finest qualities: extraordinary roadholding, precise, responsive steering and firm suspension. The M530, it was said, handled like a racing car.

By the time the car arrived in Corsica much development work had of course been done, but the Matra retained a number of idiosyncrasies in addition to its avant garde styling, and though it fared well, it would unfortunately be these that remained in Thevenet’s mind. The interior – which apparently matched the outward futurism – was well-equipped, comfortable, had an excellent driving position and proved incredibly quiet at any speed. The Taunus engine was found to be slightly lacking in grunt, but this in itself was no handicap, for as Beltoise had commented, the car’s handling and roadholding offered ample compensation, and the impression was that of a refined tourer, as opposed to an all-out performance car. The synchronised Taunus gearbox was apparently well-suited to the car’s performance capabilities, but herein lay the first annoying idiosyncrasy: it was inverted, and the unusual layout took some getting used to. Another issue was found in the storage of the removable roof panels when luggage was aboard, but most disconcerting was the placement of the fuel-filler cap within the boot, with no apparent drainage for overspill. Oddly, given Guédon’s experience of suspension geometry, the ride was also found to be excessively hard, with severe vibrations being experienced on uneven surfaces.

To roughly translate Thevenet’s conclusions, “the philosophy behind the conception of this model is very interesting in its non-conformity, and this offers certain qualities and advantages when compared to the more conventional options, but regretfully this has been somewhat mistranslated in the realisation”. And so the well-meaning family-oriented little ‘voiture des copains’ – named after a ballistic missile – couldn’t quite live up to its promise, for the last thing a young family needs is to take a gamble on what might prove a troublesome sports car. But you can’t fault their efforts, for even if the M530 fell slightly wide of the mark, Matra had seen the future, and it’s just a shame they weren’t around to see it realised.

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The story of “the last American hero, to whom speed means freedom of the soul” was a career-defining success for most of those involved, though Sarafian himself said that the true spirit of the film was left on the cutting room floor by executives keen to make something more commercially palatable. In this, the age of endless Hollywood superheroes and large-scale destruction, the term ‘commercial’ might seem ridiculous when applied to such a film, but in 1971 audiences were searching for something a little less escapist, dare I say, more cerebral, more timely. As the peace and love generation grew disillusioned in the aftermath of Altamont, Kent State and the Manson murders, war still raged in Vietnam, and the notion of a stalwart hero in a white hat riding up to save the day was long gone. Of course the studios had long since cottoned on to the notion of the antihero and commercialising the cause for a fast buck, but Kowalski in his Challenger was unlike any other, for he represented nobody, no ethos or way of life, just himself, and much of what he symbolised to those he met were ideals projected upon him. Betting the price of a bag of speed that he can make it home to San Francisco from Denver in fifteen hours, he is guided on his journey by a blind radio DJ named ‘Super Soul’, who hails him as “the last beautiful free soul on this planet” and helps propel him to counterculture fame. Kowalski though appears more like a bystander to the action, searching the sad images of his past for some sort of meaning, but ultimately finding only the Vanishing Point.

So to Kowalski’s car, the Dodge Challenger R/T, (Alpine) white in accordance with the character’s symbolic status. Five cars were used during filming, each specially prepared for the specific requirements of the various chase sequences, and famed stunt driver Carey Loftin undertook driving duties. Loftin had worked on practically every racing or chase movie made in Hollywood, a list including Red Line 7000 (1965), Grand Prix (1967), Bullitt (1968), along with various Elvis films, and would latterly double again for star Barry Newman in the 20-odd minute chase that opens Fear Is the Key (1972), before driving in the likes of White Line Fever (1975) and Smokey and the Bandit (1977). Having chosen the Challenger for its sturdiness and torsion bar suspension, Loftin then saw to it that the cars were fitted with the widest wheels possible, to optimise traction for the many spins he’d be called-upon to perform, then stripped of their power-steering in order to improve responsiveness. Four of the cars used were 440 Magnum spec with manual gearboxes, the fifth a 383 Magnum with three-speed Torquelite automatic transmission. The latter was used only to tow a ’67 Camaro – doubling for the Challenger – up to speed for the final stunt, the Dodges deemed too expensive to wreck.

The film took just 38 days to shoot, though having run $80,000 over budget, Sarafian was forced to relinquish much of his share in Twentieth Century Fox’s massive profits. Their $1.5 million investment certainly paid off, the film having swiftly passed into the popular consciousness remained there ever since. Naturally there was a remake – heavily sanitised having been made for  television – starring Viggo Mortensen as wholesome sounding Jimmy Kowalski, racing to see his pregnant wife in hospital and pulling off a truly spectacular jump-and-roll. Tarantino couldn’t resist but pay homage to the greatest of road movies in Death Proof (2007), in which the sight of that poor Challenger being repeatedly smashed made my stomach turn in a way that none of the violence in his other efforts has. Likewise Sarafian’s son Deran worked a few references into his enjoyable 1994 action-adventure Terminal Velocity, which starred Charlie Sheen as a wise-cracking skydiver nearly as failure-prone as Kowalski, and proud owner of a very ill-fated white 1970 Challenger. Word is afoot of another remake, one that’s certain to miss the mark again, if for no other reason than that the original concept is so purely existential in its nature, and to give Kowalski’s quest the kind of tangible goal I suspect modern audiences would demand would render the premise meaningless.

Sarafian’s name will live on as long as the film, as long as Kowalski and the notion that the open road can embody freedom, if not a means of escape, for as ‘Super Soul’ laments, “the question is not when he’s gonna stop, but who is gonna stop him”.

First published on Discovery.co.uk 2013

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Simply put, the Hunter had been built like a tank, Cowan and crew having listened well to the “horror stories” coming back from the reconnaissance teams, and testing every component accordingly. They certainly weren’t the best financed team, but they were the best prepared and the result proved a testament to Cowan’s request for “a car to come last”. Victory for the struggling Rootes Group was an enormous boost, given their recent disaster with the Hillman Imp and workforce troubles, both of which had left them facing serious financial difficulties, and ripe for a takeover by Chrysler. Sadly it would take more than one fortunate win to recapture the days of rallying success with Sunbeam marque, and by this time Rootes had travelled too far down the road of badge-engineering the ‘Arrow’ range – of which the Hunter was part – to take full advantage of an undeniably prestigious achievement.

Development of the ‘Arrow’ project began in 1962, the aim being to create a range of cars sharing a common platform, though given the developmental issues being experienced with the ambitious Imp, Rootes elected to keep things simple, opting to utilise existing components and know-how wherever possible. Thus the Hunter turned few heads upon its appearance in 1966, the neat, workmanlike styling by Rex Fleming and William Towns looking like a straightforward, if slightly bland relation of the Mk II Cortina (introduced later the same year) with which it would be in direct competition. If the adverts were to be believed though, the Hunter was the “finest family car ever designed”, and it’s true to say that the model proved an appealing package to suburbanites and fleet owners alike, being as it was, reassuringly steady in both performance and handling, with excellent fuel economy to boot.

The Arrow range would encompass not only the popular Hunter, but also the elegant Sunbeam Rapier ‘Fastback’ coupé which appeared the following year, the Singer Gazelle and the upmarket Humber Sceptre Mk III. Chrysler however were preoccupied with a new range of Simca-based cars for Europe, and no sooner had the Arrow range been introduced than it was placed on the proverbial backburner, the various incarnations limping undeveloped to their graves over the next ten years. Fittingly the Hillman was the last to go, in 1979, having received a number of superficial upgrades along the way and a more powerful 93 bhp Holbay engine (74 bhp had been standard).

After their success in the London-Sydney event, a pair of Hunters took part in the 1970 London-Mexico City World Cup Rally, but alas lighting didn’t strike twice, with Rees/Thomas/James coming home 15^th of the 23 finishers. The Hunter’s time in the sun might have been fleeting, but it was at least immortalised in the best way possible: by Corgi Toys, whose beautifully packaged replica not only featured detachable wheels, but also a little kangaroo…

First published on Discoveryuk.com

The post Night of the Hunter appeared first on Dylan Michael.

My personal favourite had always been the Djet, the tiny mid-engined sports car with which Matra entered the car industry in 1964. The Djet was initially constructed by Rene Bonnet, but when he ran into financial difficulties the car passed into the hands of Aerospace company Matra, who had been producing the cars plastic bodyshells and had also provided factory space for their construction. Unbelievably, within four years Matra, a company with no experience whatsoever of manufacturing cars, would be competing for the F1 World Championship, having already won the European F2 title (in 1967) and the French F3 title three times. They had also come frustratingly close to victory at Le Mans in ’68, an overarching ambition they would finally fulfil in 1972, repeating the feat in ’73 and ’74. By this time, partly in response to heavy demand for their affordable mid-engined products, the company had allied itself with Chrysler France, and been rebadged Matra-Simca, which proved something of an issue given that their controversial replacement for the Djet, the angular 530, was powered by Ford… A new model was clearly required, especially in the face of competition from the Porsche 914 and Fiat X1/9.

The 550, soon to be renamed the Bagheera (after the paternal panther in The Jungle Book) would enter production in March 1973, proving an immediate and enormous success. Part of this was down to the recent success at Le Mans, though the spacious interior layout, with its three-abreast seating and flat floor was undoubtedly a strong selling point, given that the conventional 2+2 layout generally proved synonymous with leg-snapping discomfort for the rear passengers. Also garnering significant praise for its precise steering and well-balanced handling, the only department in which the car was found wanting was power, the 1294 cc Simca unit (all mechanicals were from the Simca parts bin) proving woefully inadequate for a sports saloon even accounting for the weight-saving fibreglass body. The ’75 Bagheera S and limited edition all-white Courrèges provided the much needed boost, the power now coming from the 1442 cc Chrysler Alpine unit, though sadly development work on a 2.6 litre ‘U’ configuration engine (created by joining two Simca straight 4 units) was abandoned due to Chrysler’s concerns over the fuel crisis.

A Series 2 model appeared in 1976, remaining in demand until the quicker, and most importantly galvanised (the first mass-produced car to be given such treatment) Murena replaced it in 1980. Retaining the layout and most of the Bagheera’s mechanicals, the new car was armed with the 2.2 litre engine from the Talbot Tagora (or the old 1.6 Alpine unit) and proved even more successful with both press and customers, but was sadly short-lived. In 1978 Peugeot had taken over Chrysler’s European interests (for the nominal sum of $1.00), including their 45 per cent share of Automobiles Matra, but also a considerable debt. Cutting their losses they offered Matra to Renault, who seized the opportunity to shut down production of the Murena, an unwanted rival to their own Fuego, and instead concentrate upon the P18 people carrier project, soon to become known as the Espace.

The remaining components were utilised for the 142 bhp Murena S (a spec formerly available with the special order ‘Préparation 142’ tuning kit) launched in July ’83 but lasting only until January 1^st 1984 when the last sports Matra rolled off the line. Chronic chassis rot might well have claimed the bulk of the Bagheeras, but you’d be hard-pressed to find anyone with a bad word to say about driving one, and that’s the true test of a sports car.

First published on Discoveryuk.com

The post Plastic Panther appeared first on Dylan Michael.

Sadly the Fiat X1/9 wasn’t the first small step, and any similarity to Buck’s Thunder Fighter was purely coincidental, in fact the Autobianchi Runabout concept car upon which it was based first appeared at the Turin Motor Show several months before Mr Armstrong made his giant leap for mankind. Bertone’s concept had already been readily accepted by Giovanni Agnelli, when it appeared in Turin, and just days later Project X1/9 began in earnest, the aim being the creation of the first mid-engined sports car for the masses. Having worked on the Lamborghini Miura with its transversely-mounted mid-engined configuration, Nuccio Bertone was confident that the same principles could be applied to a smaller, cheaper, sports car with equal success, after all, why should only the rich be able to afford good roadholding?
Three years later the little car was rolled out to universal acclaim from the press, members of whom were given the opportunity to test the car on the torturous Targa Florio circuit in Sicily, where unsurprisingly it excelled. Minor grumbles about interior trim aside, the car was an immediate hit, with all the fun elements one would expect from a budget sportscar, plus luggage space at both ends and a nifty Targa top. The only thing slightly lacking was power, due largely to the weight gain inherent in adhering to the strict US safety regs. The popularity of the car in the all-important US market unfortunately meant that there were no export models left over for the UK, and it wasn’t until 1976 that right-hand drive examples went into production.

Initially the X1/9 was powered by the 1290 cc SOHC engine from the 128, but by ‘78 the saloon was on its last legs, and the decision was made to give it a little more poke, with the 1498 cc unit from the Strada and a five-speed ‘box. Now capable of over 100 mph the X1/9 had the performance to match its looks, but unfortunately took a hammering, along with the rest of the Fiat range, for its rust problems. As a result of this, most notorious of Fiat issues, the car would be manufactured by and badged a Bertone from late ’81, retaining Fiat mechanicals, gaining increasingly fiddly detailing and critically coming with a six-year anti-rust warrantee.

Such was the speed of their decay, very few of the 1300s remain, and though the later cars were undoubtedly an improvement, time has still taken its toll, for in addition to corrosion woes the electrics were famously temperamental and equally lacking in damp resistance. In a sense though, the scarcity of roadworthy examples has served the car well, for Bertone’s design remains as fresh and modernistic today as it must have appeared in 1972, making the rare sight of an X1/9 a reason to stop and stare. There has long been talk of a new X1/9, and if Fiat can do as good a job with it as they have on the revamped 500, whilst retaining the spirit of the original it’ll be a fantastic car, even if it’s unlikely to look so space-age. If only they’d perfected those jets…

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