Check this out. The original Mazda RX7's air conditioning unit seriously sapped power. Remember, this little Japanese sports car had a Wankel rotary engine up front, a handbag-sized three-piece Wearing Blender that stumped-up just 135 hp (or, with the chiller engaged, less). That meant, if you happened to encounter a late '70's Yank tank spoiling for a fight, you'd reach-up and press the little button that turned the AC off. The RX7 bucked slightly, as the engine regained lost vigor. You kinda felt like Mad Max, spooling-up his supercharger on the last of the great V8 Interceptors, only you know, in reverse.

The '78 RX7 was certainly a welcome weapon for cash-strapped, sports car-starved Americans. And it came from an unexpected source. The Mazda RX2 and RX3 were odd-looking ducks whose Wankels were only slightly more reliable than Ethiopian train service. Mazda's twin-rotor RX4 was largely de-goofy-fied and mechanically sound - and arrived just in time for the Arab oil embargo. (A properly-flogged RX4's thirst was prodigious.) And then Mazda engineer Akio Uchiyama and Mazda Board member Sinpei Hanaoka came to the same conclusion: rotary engined sports car. Project X605 was born.

The car's defining accomplishment was, of course, its engine. Sure, the RX7's taut, unadorned sheetmetal put the brand back into the game, but the itsy-bitsy Wankel made that wikkid hood line possible. The powerplant's compact dimensions, along with a single piece monocoque bodyshell, helped create one of the lightest, best-balanced sports cars extant. Air slicing aerodynamics and a well-sorted Euro-style suspension — McPherson struts and coil springs (front) and live axle with Watt's linkage (rear) — kept the RX7 stable at speed. There were even disc brakes up front. And it didn't cost a lot of money: $6395 without mud guards or undercoating.

On the road, well, today's Ferrari and VTEC drivers know the joys of caning a smooth-spinning, high-revving powerplant. The RX7 was the grand daddy of them all. As you might expect from an 1146cc mill, low-end torque was notable by its absence. But once you crested 3500rpm, the mainsails unfurled and it was brisk sailing all the way to the 7000rpm redline. In scientific terms, the RX7 was no match for a muscle car. Series One cars sprinted from zero to sixty in a shade under nine seconds. But the RX7 was one of those admirable machines that could carry any and all speed generated with complete self-assurance. You could eventually catch and outmaneuver just about anything on the road.

Saying that, the steering was a big chink in the RX7's dynamic armor; the recirculating ball helm felt dead at the straight ahead and more numb than a vodka-soaked WASP through long sweepers. Like the previous-gen BMW M5, the RX7 was only a rack and a pinion away from greatness. Well, that and a bit of shove. For the next generation RX7 ('81), Mazda installed a more powerful 13B rotary and fitted discs at all four corners. It wasn't enough. Porsche, Datsun, Chevrolet and even Ford came-up with new and better answers. Mazda kept after it, bolting on a turbo and offering a convertible. And then they built a no-holds-barred twin-turbo third-gen RX7, a car that could well be the hardest riding — and one of the most capable— sports cars on planet earth. And then they built the quirky RX8.

Somewhere along the line, Mazda lost the purity of the original RX7 — so much so that the company had to build the Elan-a-like MX5 to recapture it. It's a shame. The three-piece rotary engine is a magnificent design that deserves a better home than the current RX8. I'm sure there are plenty of good reasons why Wankel's baby is a virtual orphan, but I wonder what Mazda's engineers could do with the latest rotary technology, a clean sheet of paper and a bunch of pistonheads riding shotgun.

[by Robert Farago]

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BMW's don't burble. Except for one: the last-generation M5. The instant you fire-up the previous gen Bavarian four-door (codenamed E39), its powerplant burbles with all the subdued menace of a late 60's muscle car. Unlike the M5's American homonyms, the uber-sedan's mellifluous melody doesn't foretell a great deal of sound and fury signifying nothing but straight line acceleration — although there's nothing wrong with the M5 in that department (0 to 60 in 4.7 seconds). This Armani-clad beast can take all its speed and shove itself around a corner like a purpose-built German sports car (did I mention any names?). And it can cruise — yes cruise — at a delimited 186 mph.

Unlike its predecessor, the E39 was not a hand-built special; the car rolled out of the same Dingolfing factory that manufactured your basic 5-Series sedan. It's easy to mistake the M5 for its less-capable siblings — if you're not paying attention. If you are, it isn't. Hunkered stance, more aggressive air dam, wider tires, multi-spoke wheels, quad pipes, clear turn signal lenses, blacked out window trim, tiny rear spoiler, sleeker side mirrors, demure boot badge — the M5 signals its sporting intent with the subtlest of visual cues. For many discerning pistonheads, the M5's Q-ship character makes it both absurdly practical and infinitely desirable. As Gomer Pyle liked to say, surprise, surprise, surprise!

Well no wonder. The E39 M5 holsters the M division's first eight-cylinder engine. Mein Gott, did the Mgineers go to stadt on it. They enlarged the standard aluminum block from 4.4 to 4.9-liters, increased compression, added electronically controlled throttle bodies, fitted it with double VANOS continuouslyvariable valve timing, added dual air induction, attached a duplex chain drive for the intake cams, rigged a G-force-responsive lubrication system, slapped on a free-flow exhaust and controlled the whole shebang with a Siemens MSS 52 Motronic digital engine control system. The result: a butter-smooth, torque-rich, high-revving, normally-aspirated V8 kicking out 400hp (slightly less in US spec.).

On the sensible side, the E39 was also the first M Product with electronic traction control. On the not-so-sensible side, pressing a button labeled "Sport" tightens-up the M5's steering and throttle response — transforming a stupidly swift sedan into a totally bonkers BMW. Thanks to the fundamental goodness of the basic 5-Series' 50/50 weight distribution and aluminum intensive MacPherson strut (front) multilink (rear) suspension— tweaked to perfection by the roundel's rabid ruffians — the last-gen M5 can hold a corner like a pit bull with lockjaw clamping onto a poodle's hindquarters (or something like that). Switch off the Dynamic Stability Control and... die. Or hang the M5's tail out like a pro.

The E39 M5 has an Achilles heel: the helm. Although the donor car's steering ratio was reduced and speed-sensitive Servotronicity added, I reckon a recirculating ball system is best reserved for that stupid game in Chuck E. Cheese where you try to shoot as many baskets as possible in 60 seconds. The M5 is easy enough to control, but it's far less rewarding to do so than it should be, given the rest of the car's dynamic perfection. It's also entirely possible to look down for the Sport button, look up and find yourself heading towards something distinctly solid. Fast. Although the M5's brakes are epic, it's always best not to have to use the stoppers, if you know what I mean.

When BMW replaced the E39 M5 with the E60 M5, they blew it. By trying to top themselves, by transforming the ultimate muscle car into a hi-tech cruise missile, the Bavarians jumped the shark. Not only is the new M5's Bangled metal about as subtle as Carmen Elektra in an evening dress at an Indiana bake sale (if nowhere near as alluring), not only does it boast the world's worst gearbox, not only does its V10 engine sound like a diesel at idle, but — Jesus, isn't that enough? Luckily, there are some 20,000 E39's out there, somewhere, waiting for a discerning pistonhead's patronage. Go get 'em boys. [by Robert Farago]

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The B-52's were wrong. The relatively sedate, B-bodied Plymouth Satellite didn't come from Planet Claire. It was the '71 Buick Riviera. I'm sure GM design supremo Bill Mitchell inhaled copious quantities of pink air before penning the infamous "Boat-tail." Drawing inspiration from '30's Auburn Speedsters and his own work on the 1963 split-window Corvette, Mitchell's team created one of the most interesting American cars of the 20th century. Whether that's "interesting" as "what do you think of my dress?" or "cool as Arctic diamond dust" is down to you. In either case, the Boat-tail Riv is the finest example of the WTF School of Automotive Design, and a class whip.

Back in the late '60's, Buick's Riviera was getting its ass kicked by Ford's louche Thunderbird. When Buick counter-attacked with its hugely dramatic Boat-tail — complete with forward leaning front grill, swoopy sides, wide open wheel arches, off-set rear license plate and a big-block V8 — the American car-buying public... kept buying Thunderbirds. During its three-year run, Riviera sales never climbed out of the thirties. This antipathy towards the Riv may have had something to do with its engineering. To meet new emissions regs and run on unleaded, Buick detuned the Riviera's 455 Big Block to 250hp (SAE). That's not much oomph for a coupe stretching over eighteen feet weighing-in at 4247lbs.

Then again, maybe not. There was plenty of torque for jaunts to the country club. The Riv waltzed to 60mph in a shade over eight seconds. Powerful front disc brakes reined in the beast with ease. Self-leveling pneumatic bellows over the rear shocks delivered a cushy ride. A three-speed Turbo-Hydromatic gearbox swapped cogs seamlessly. The interior was a tad plastic fantastic — reflecting the beginning of GM's ruthless de-contenting campaign — but the leather seats were supremely comfortable and the two-door's cabin was large enough to carry a family of five.

Nope. The Riviera's failure in the marketplace was a style thing. Even the people responsible for the Boat-tail had serious "issues" with its looks. Designer Ned Nickles (Mr. Porthole) called the Boat-tail "a disaster." Buick's General Manager Lee Mays was equally enthusiastic: "Sure, people like it, some people like anything." And "I could never find anyone who admitted they designed it." Eventually, reluctantly, Buick's Chief Designer Jerry Hirschberg put his hands up. When asked about the boattail, Hirschberg mumbled something about how the shape would've worked on a smaller platform and then called the Riviera "a mistake." Love it or hate it, clearly, most people hated it.

And still do. I called the Barrett-Jackson auction house and asked one of their experts if Buick Boat-tail Rivieras were fetching any money. "No." The monosyllabic spokesman (who preferred to remain anonymous) said that cars from the early 70s are generally a drag on the market, due to their low compression, low mileage and barge-like demeanor. Sure, but doesn't the Riviera's style count for something? "No." So I asked him what he thought of the Boat-tail's design; you know, personally. "Different." Bottom line: you can pick up an immaculate, fully-restored Buick Boat-tail Riviera for 12 grand.

And maybe you should. If you're a musclehead, there's plenty of scope for upgrading the 455 big block into 400hp territory. Suspension mods are also available. But above and beyond any rumble aspirations, the Buick Boat-tail is a beauty, no matter what the experts say. Cruising down a local boulevard on a perfect spring afternoon, we encountered nothing but smiles, waves and nods of appreciation. I suspect the majority of these admirers do not have a velvet Elvis above the TVs. Like the Chrysler 300, the Riviera is a car that took some serious chances in the styling department. The '71 Buick Boat-tail Riviera deserves greater attention, and respect.

[by Robert Farago]

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No question: the Lincoln Town Car is a dinosaur. It's the only remaining American passenger car still using body-on-frame construction. Its 4.6-liter V8 is an antiquated iron block single overhead cam lump that huffs-out a mild-mannered 239 horses @ 4900 rpm. The automatic transmission has fewer gears than you've got fingers on one hand. The steering is lighter than an anorexic dust mite. You need a boating license to corner. The Town Car is so antediluvian, so far removed from Ford's (or anyone else's) automotive gestalt that the model's product specialist has been moved to Purchasing (without replacement) and they're replacing it with a car built on a "modern" platform.

Bad move. The Lincoln Town Car is a magnificent machine, perhaps the last, best example of a "true" American car.

For one thing, the Town Car's ride is quintessentially American, and without peer. Up front, the luxoliner's suspension uses independent short- and long-arms (SLA) architecture with coil springs, monotube shocks and a stabilizer bar. In the rear, there's a four-bar link solid axle, Watts link, coil springs, monotube shocks, load-leveling air springs and... a stabilizer bar. Sophisticated? Not really. Road feel? None. Surface imperfections? Obliterated. Eradicated. Dismissed. Enthusiasts will blanch, and rightly so, but mainstream America's predilection for "armchair on wheels" dynamics is alive and well and living in the Land of Lincoln. You wanna tell them that clipping an apex is more important than wafting on Cloud Nine, be my guest. Next question?

While Audi's got the Bauhaus to Our House upmarket hotel room design thing covered, the Town Car is still the King of lebensraum. In its stretch versions, the Town Car's rear compartment trumps the Audi A8L's shoulder room by 2.4" and out-leg stretches it by 3.1". No surprise there; the big Lincoln's a shade under 18.5' from snout to tail. The trunk is large enough to contain the entire Soprano clan (please!) AND their luggage. Equally important, the Town Car's epic dimensions give die Grosse American good old-fashioned porno-style crashworthiness ("bigger is better"). The Town Car was the first passenger car to receive five-star government safety ratings in all five categories.

NOW how much would you pay? Before you pick-up an 80k miler for pocket change, how about this: the Town Car is fantastic in the snow. A Boston limo driver once regaled me with tales of blasting through knee-high snow drifts, straight past stranded SUV's. He also offered mission critical testimony as to the Town Car's reliability; his limo had over 220k miles on the clock after nothing more than proper maintenance. He knew of a 310k miler. But here's the most important bit: he loved his Town Car. He knew it wasn't flash, or fast, or sporty, or gadget laden; but he admired its simplicity and, as he put it, "honesty."

In this my driver was not alone. If you've got a minute, head on over to Car Review . The owners' reviews are so glowing you could use them to light a small office building. For a month. The Town Car may not be your kind of whip— it's sure not mine— but you've got to admire any machine that engenders that kind of pleasure, loyalty and respect. The fact that Ford is axing Lincoln's rear-wheel drive stalwart, turning its back on its deeply-smitten customers, tells you all you need to know about The Blue Oval's misguided ideas about who it is, and what it should be selling. Bravo Lincoln. Shame on you, Ford.

[by Robert Farago]

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The Dino's design may be/is heaven-on-wheels, but the model was a slow train coming. The original Pininfarina concept car debuted at the Paris Show in 1965, and then reappeared at the '66 and '67 Turin Shows. Finally, in '68, Ferrari's first mid-engined production car hit the showrooms— as a Dino. Enzo claimed that the nominal re-branding honored his dead son (who originally conceived its V6 powerplant), but the distinction without a difference actually reflected Ferrari's fear of alienating his wealthy clientele with a [relatively] cheap, mass market motor.

Enzo fears were not without substance. The light, perfectly balanced Dino 206 GT was a true driver's car, back when Ferraris were front-engined hairy-chested monsters (e.g. the concurrent V12 Daytona). With more than merely adequate shove, double wishbones fore and aft, and big ass (for the time) ventilated discs at all four corners, the Dino 206 could cut a mean rug. And the world was deeply smitten with the Dino's curvaceous sheetmetal. Bernard Schwartz (a.k.a. Tony Curtis) did more than his part to spread the car's fame; his character Danny Wilde drove a red Dino (chassis number 00810) in an internationally-distributed TV show called The Persuaders.

In 1969, the next gen Dino 246GT ditched alloy panels for a steel body. The car also received a slightly heavier cast-iron 2.4-liter quad cam V6. Purists (you know the sort) claim the engine's additional weight messed-up the Dino's balance, but there's no question that the extra power (195hp @ 7600 rpm) and torque (166 ft.-lbs. @ 5500 rpm) made the car a far more usable proposition. And quick too. La Bella Machina II sprinted from zero to sixty in 7.1 seconds and topped-out at 148mph, showing a clean pair of heels to the Porsche 911's of its day.

I recently drove a properly restored, maintained and sorted Dino 246GT. It's like having sex with the girl of your dreams— and discovering she's actually quite good in bed. Although the Dino's out-gunned by a V6 Honda Accord, the Italian sports car feels alive in a way that few modern motors (MX5?) can match. Its brakes, steering and chassis provide an endless stream of visceral feedback; the Dino makes most of its contemporary equivalents feel like they're wrapped in cotton wool. And the sound blatting out of the Dino's quad pipes is to die for— but not with. The 246GT is trustworthy right up to the limit, which it signals with the most delicious squeal (note: do not fit with over-sticky modern rubber).

Ferrari produced some 2700 Dino 246GT's from 1969 to 1974 (as well as 1180 targa-topped GTS's). There are two kinds of Dinos: ones that have been restored and ones that need to be restored. Although the model is relatively plentiful in classic car terms, a flawless GT currently costs just north of $100k. It's also worth noting that the Dino 246GT makes a terrible garage queen; if you don't regularly thrash it— and I mean weekly— it's only a matter of time before the Dino will need more "reconditioning." But that's hardly an onerous task. If you don't enjoy driving this car at full chat, as Enzo's mob intended, let's face it: you've got no business owning one.

[By Robert Farago]

Once upon a time in America, owning a Mercedes was a Europhilic statement of wealth and taste. Back before the brand hatched its alphanumeric plot to take over the world one market demographic at a time, US Mercs were made of raritanium. None was so rare, so big and so god damn FAST as the 300SEL 6.3. Mercedes' V8 sedan was such a snob monster that Skyhooks' 1975 song "Mercedes Ladies" cited the car as the ne plus ultra for women of a certain age who sleep with their mechanics. Granted, a mention in an Australian glam rock pop song might not be the ultimate accolade for an automobile. So how about this: it was the first German Q-Ship.

As befits a monstrously engined luxury sedan, the 6-3 began as a skunkworks project. More specifically, Mercedes engineer and amateur racer Erich Waxenberger spied the 6.3-liter mill nestling in the bay of Mercedes' 600-series limousine and thought what if... I dropped it into a 280 S-Class? We're talking about an SOHC 6332cc fuel-injected V8 cranking out 300hp @ 4100 rpm and 434 ft-lbs. of torque @ 3000rpm. It fit. Just. (Road and Track: "accessibility may be a problem") And while he was at it, Wax'l cribbed the 600's self-leveling air suspension.

Wax'l's boss, Mercedes Racing Director Rudi Uhlenhaut, secured board approval for the mutant. The finished sedan sprinted from zero to sixty in 6.5 seconds, passed the quarter mile in 14.5 seconds and topped out at 137 mph. The 6-3 had enough straight line grunt to waste a contemporaneous Porsche 911, keep pace with a 427 Chevrolet Corvette and cruise without complaint well into triple digits. As a pre-Cannonball Brock Yates said "It is impossible to describe this kind of performance to the uninitiated. Telling a traffic officer or a safety crusader like Ralph Nader that 100 mph can be safe is like reading the Constitution to a Maoist; it is a strange and hostile concept."

Check this: although the civilian version boasted all the luxury mod cons and then some (vast rear legroom, air conditioning, adjustable road clearance, power antenna, etc.), Wax'l took MB's bad boy racing — under the uber-tuner AMG's banner. And why not? With AMG's "Step One" engine conversion, the 6-3's powerplant developed 350hp; "Step Two" raised engine output to 400hp. Although technically a 6.8, Wax'l waxed the competition in the '69 Macao enduro and helped his team finished second in the 1970 Spa-Francorchamps 24-Hour race.

Mercedes produced 6526 6-3's between December 1967 and September 1972. Of these, 1839 made their way stateside, selling for $14,400. Today, the 6.3 is not considered as collectable as the relatively anemic two-door or convertible Model W109 280's. You can pick up a 6-3 for less than the original purchase price — but be warned! The air suspension is fiendishly difficult and horrifically expensive to repair. The air conditioning system must be completely rebuilt. Rust can also be a major problem. In fact, if ever a classic car should only be purchased in a fully restored condition (owners spend WELL over market value on repairs) and completely checked by an expert, the Mercedes-Benz 300 SEL 6.3 is it.

But the 6-3 is worth it. Not only was the luxoliner the first automotive stealth fighter — complete with superb brakes and reasonable steering feel — and a completely practical proposition (when running), but it also represents all that was holy about the Mercedes brand. Aside from the first 100 hand-made models, the 6-3 was the world's best built automobile, engineered with almost comical attention to detail. (When you lifted the hood, the air fan automatically switched off.) Although the "new" Maybach is a bit of a modern parallel, it doesn't have half the class and style of its spiritual forbearer. More's the pity.

[by Robert Farago]

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AMG's New Screamer: Mercedes' 6.3-Liter V8 in Depth [internal]