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Detroit, 11:55 PM
Sun Nov 22
9 posts in the last 24 hours
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06/22/09
If I had it my way... with a 13B Turbo II rotary engine powering it.
It would be dangerous, utterly torque-free and ridiculously ugly and fun.
The Europa is an ugly thing, but it's ugly in an endearing way, which is what will prompt you to waste money on it time and again. It's endearing in the same way as a Volvo 240, but unlike the 240 which will be as loyal to you as a golden retriever (and play every part the family pet), the Europa will be that puppy that incessantly shits on the fucking carpet, no matter how many times you teach him otherwise. But you love the little bastard anyways.
06/21/09
But the Europa is the real monster here. It doesn't run but "have all the body parts"--explain again how that makes it run? Or is that supposed to distract me from the rest of the horror? I see those body parts, mister, they're pinned and tacked and glued onto it.
The Renault engine probably blew many ks of miles ago. Who knows what's in there. And does it really matter? Because the effer ain't running.
06/21/09
That being said, who the hell did they hire to design the ass end of their cars in the late 60's and early 70's?
06/22/09
06/21/09
06/21/09
that's one vehicle you almost never see.
06/22/09
06/21/09
I need to be.. Lotus Elite schooled...
I thought the Europa was that new fangled vehicle Lotus has been pushing for the past coupla years as the current remedy for the VENERABLE ESPIRIT.
Isnt' there some lonely Esprit from about 80... that we can work with.. instead of these heaps?
06/22/09
06/21/09
Lotus Elise / Exige: Toyota ZZ engine
Lotus Evora: Toyota 2GR-FE
I can't speak for Ssangyong, but Sony (outside of their product lines designed for professional markets) isn't known so much for their quality and reliability anymore (outside of the PS3 being more reliable than the XBox 360, but that speaks more of the 360's legendarily [in the true sense of the word] high failure rate).
06/21/09
06/21/09
They could be the best-driving cars on the planet, but that doesn't change the fact that one's a Triumph TR7 with the rear half of an AMC Gremlin grafted on, and the other is the unholy demon child of a Porsche 912 and an El Camino. This poll needs a "neither" option.
06/21/09
06/21/09
I'll tell you what, the Elite really does look Gremlinish, with a touch of GTV6. But it's also a lot less of a pain in the ass. Rust? Not much. Engine/transmission worries? Not many. It'd be difficult, for sure, but it'd be possible.
You need a Europa. Styling of a Baja rally truck? Check! Questionable status - and existence - of horrible, awful drivetrain? Check! Fiberglass somehow rusting? Ch- what the fuck?!
Europa for the hell factor. Definitely.
06/21/09
I can't speak for everyone, but I certainly do. Unfortunately, neither the Europa, nor the Elite are high on my list. As a matter of fact, the only Lotus that I want is an Esprit. Any year will do, but I'd prefer 1988-1995 (post facelift, pre-OBDII)
Sure, like any good jalop, I would love to have a se7en, but I'm unwilling to pay the premium for a true Lotus. It is one of very few cars that I can forgive for being a copy.
I guess if I were to choose between the two presented here, I'd have to go with the Europa. It's more endearing in its funny appearance than the Elite.
06/21/09
06/21/09
06/21/09
06/21/09
/Does that mean it's perfect?
06/21/09
06/22/09
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06/21/09
05/11/09
05/11/09
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05/11/09
05/11/09
Acquiring the car wasn't an easy process. Its story, like so many others before it, begins with your renting a truck. And with much labor, digging, a few very unsafe applications of tow rope and a boatload of torque later, you're dragging your new prize, the Skoda, out of the moss and mud that sought to envelope and devour the car completely.
It looks at you forlornly, almost cursing you for the rescue. It seems that the car was where it wanted to be. With a winch, you get the 48 Skoda up onto the flatbed and head home.
And that's when it all started.
You'd awaken in the middle of the night, your dreams tortured by the image of that car staring you in the face. Looming over you, hatefully cursing you for ever having saved it.
And yet, you loved it. You loved its styling.
It'd take more than a few bad dreams to even begin to dissuade you from your restoration of the Skoda.
-this comment continued after the jump-
05/11/09
Worry begins to creep in-- maybe this car was witness to some ungodly act and still bore the scars of those atrocities.
The front end is mostly junk. You'd be hard pressed to find any kind of parts for this thing, so your best bet is simply to adapt something else. You pirate the front suspension from an 89 Ford Thunderbird, and graft in the independent rear suspension.
Your bastardization of American technologies into Soviet works would have landed you right onto Jim McCarthy's shit list were the Cold War still going on. But the war's over. And the USSR is no more.
The car laments the loss of its motherland.
You know the car can't simply be powered by some Ford or Chevy powerplant.
No, it needs something maniacal. Something insane. Something Soviet.
Your maniacal twang gets the better of you-- as if your project wasn't difficult enough, you decide that the powerplant will be nothing short of a VAZ Wankel Rotary, worked over and roots supercharged.
With a 1990's suspension and a ridiculously powerful and insane contraption of a powerplant, the Skoda finally lives.
The paint that still lingers on its body panels is sanded off, and you paint the car that shade of beige that all the filing cabinets were painted in schools and such back in the 50's.
Now you're left with the upholstery. You contact your Ukranian friend in the port, Yuri, who supplies you with a team of rather unattractive illegally imported Ukranian women to upholster your Skoda in nothing but the finest leather.
The icing on the cake comes as you install a set of black steel wheels with chrome lug-covers.
The Skoda is glorious. Yet, it still looks at you hatefully and forlornly.
It drives great, hauls ass with its ridiculously unique engine note, and the leather interior has you riding in the lap of luxury.
But the bad dreams continue. Now you can see the car, sitting on you, pushing you down into the mud from whence you dragged it.
You wake up, once again drenched in sweat. You drag yourself out of bed and throw on your clothes. Nevermind that it's 1:13AM. You stroll out to the garage, fire up the Skoda and drive.
You don't even feel like you need to concentrate on driving. The car seems to know where it's going. An hour later, you find yourself in an all-too-familiar forest. The car coasts to a stop before a fmailiar looking tree with a rather deep indentation into the mud. You step out of the car and wander over to the mud. You can see a vague hint of white sticking out of the mud in the glow of the headlights. You pull on it, and it comes free of the muck. A human jawbone, fillings and all. And then, you notice the headlights suddenly getting closer and brighter. You'd forgotten to set the ebrake. Your Skoda 13 bears down on you, knocking you down into the muck, pinning you beneath it. It rolls over you, stopping perfectly on top of you like a closing casket.
As you begin to lose consciousness, you find yourself living the dream again, the weight of the Skoda bearing down upon you, pushing you into the mud and moss. The earth reclaiming you.
You dragged the corpse of the Skoda from its grave, and in vengeance, it is dragging you into its grave with it.
Welcome to another kind of project car hell. A kind of hell that awaits those who will not simply let the dead lie.
05/11/09
05/11/09
But thanks for reading my pile of shit anyways. :)
05/10/09
Hell, it doesn't even have much rust. Because there's nothing rustable! Hey, maybe this could actually be practical. And let the wiring connectors rust; ferrous oxide is still kinda conductive, and as long as nothing shorts, you'll be fine. Your buddy Ray is an electrician, too. Just in case. Man, this should be a walk in the park.
So the car ends up in your driveway, casting a mostly-complete, wedge-shaped shadow. You throw a brick behind a rear wheel, just in case, throw it in neutral, and shove your lightweight sports car underneath the carport. At which point it rolls backward onto your foot.
OW GODDAMN GOAT-RAPING NUN SHIT.
Your girlfriend comes running outside, and is fortunately able to shove the car just hard enough to get the possessed sonofabitch off of your foot. Whew. Thanks, hon.
"I don't think this car likes you too much."
You reassure her that it's a car. It doesn't have feelings. And neither does your foot, at the moment.
A few minutes later, your Lotus is where it was supposed to be, the handbrake set, transmission in gear (because you don't trust the handbrake), and chocks on either side of two wheels. Your driveway may be perfectly flat... well, it must not be, actually. Cars can't move themselves.
You get most of the simple mechanical work done, and straighten out some of the cosmetic details, over the course of a couple months. Eventually, you call up your buddy Ray. He agrees to have a look that Saturday, after the ball game.
Saturday, of course, can't come fast enough.
Ray shows up, leaving his F-150 half on your postage-stamp of yellowed rented-duplex lawn, half on the sidewalk, as per usual. Your girlfriend shakes her head disapprovingly, thinking of what your lush of a landlord said last time Ray's truck left ruts in his lawn, but you could care less, disappearing around the edge of the house.
"What the hell IS it?"
You explain that it's a Lotus. Ray scratches his head. "Oh, like an Esprit, or an Elise. Except old as hell."
Well, pretty much, yeah. Eventually.
Opening the hood - sorry, bonnet - causes him to become speechless for the second time since you met him in high school (the first, of course, was the Tequila Incident of '92... or was it '93?). "Shit, man. They weren't jokin' about those British cars, were they?"
You remind Ray that the car's also been submerged by at least one hurricane. He suggests that you drag out the entire bar-fridge.
From there, "Exorcising Old Joe" becomes a near-weekly tradition. You supply the cheap beer, and Ray studies the wiring diagrams, having you hold onto loose ends and such.
One Saturday, Ray (a bit tipsy, but nowhere near drunk) announces that the car should be nearly all set. Great! Time for some finishing touches. You hook everything up over the next weekend, then, late at night, you fire it up.
Starts right up. Second try. You kill the engine, just in case, and start toward the door to tell your girlfriend. You know, the girlfriend that left you a month ago, calling you a "no-good, deadbeat scumbag" and, curiously, a "faggot". Hey, not like you were boning Ray in the back seat, the two of you were just getting the car going. Well, he did kinda look at you funny, but the price was right.
Sigh.
Doesn't matter, though. Now you have all of your free time to get the Elite absolutely perfect. You look up each common failure point of your car, and make sure that nothing (aside from the fiberglass shell) is likely to go to Hell in a handbasket.
Clearly, now, you have to show off your handiwork. It may not be perfect, but a running Elite, even the less fiendish second model, is a minor miracle. A street-legal one? Even more so! And thanks to some good old junkyard-scrounged Japanese electronics, connectors, and wire, you should be all set on that front. A Maaco BRG paintjob, and you're on the road.
Once you get it registered (by a confused clerk) and inspected (by an amazed mechanic), it's off to the circuit for you. There's a local all-make car show coming up, and you can't wait.
The big day comes. You pull in, and are halted by an attendant. "Various makes, that way."
But there's an Elan over there, and an Elite-
"Yeah, that's British cars."
This is a Lotus Elite!
"Are you kidding? Elites are rounded fiberglass bathtubs. This is... well, okay, it's fiberglass. But it's no Elite."
You open the door and spit. Philistine. Aiming for the end of a row of Sunbeams, Triumphs, and MGs, you pull into your rightful position.
Fewer than ten minutes pass.
"Hey, man, that's one badass Gremlin! What's the nose off of?"
It's a Lotus.
"No way, I know a Gremlin when I see one. You're pretty damn funny, though. I like it!"
Sigh.
"Daddy, Daddy! Lookit the Gwemlin!"
"I wonder why they've parked it over here, Billy? Here's the owner, I'll ask. ... So, did you put a Rover V8 in it and end up over here by trickery?"
No, sir, it's a Lotus Elite.
"Lotus wouldn't build anything that ugly, would they? Wow."
You write a quick "back in 10" on a sheet of notebook paper, leaving it on the dash, then grab a warm bottle of Guinness from the back of the car, shove it into your coat pocket, and go for a walk.
Some people just can't appreciate good design.
05/10/09
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