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matildaofoz · 4 years ago

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Memento Mori Pt 3. (Michael Langdon x Fem!Death!Reader)

You reached the courtyard of Kineros Robotics in record time, Michael hot at your heels.

“Can you walk a little slower?“ Michael complained, walking quickly beside you to keep up despite his long legs. You weren't lying when you had told him that you were on the clock.

„No can do, kiddo. Now come on, use those wonderful legs of yours,“ you threw at him over your shoulder, your hands searching for the car keys you had stashed in one of the conveniently hidden pockets of your dress without slowing down. Why weren't those a thing yet when humanity had invented every other type of useless thingamabob and yet pockets on a dress were blasphemous, you wondered. The intricacies of humankind often evaded you. The fingers of your right hand grazed the keys in your pocket and with a satisfied smirk you pulled them out.

“I'm not a kid, you know. I'm the Anti-,“ Michael began, irritated.

„The Antichrist, yes and you were born exactly when, 2012? You may not look it Michael, but in the grand scheme of things you're barely an amoeba,“ you interrupted him, not in the mood for any more temper tantrums. Without having to look back at his face, you felt the anger rolling off him in waves. He really was not used to being treated as anything less than the son of Satan. If he wanted you to lick his shoes, he was sorely mistaken. If anything, he should be on his knees before you, praising the universe for having sent you in his hour of need.

Continuing to ignore a seething Michael, your eyes zoned in on your newest toy. A 1965 Black Ford Mustang Convertible with bright red leather seats. Seeing as you were all things considered an ancient being and material things meant positively nothing to you, you did have two weaknesses. Fast food and fast cars. You liked to think that it was due to the human form you took, your immense power being pressed into the confines of a limited body and your patient nature being expressed in a rather paradoxical instant gratification. Thankfully, you couldn't gain any weight nor die in a car crash, remaining ever the same, and so you chose to indulge yourself at every given opportunity. Soon enough, those fleeting pleasures would come to an end. Might as well enjoy it while you could.

You skipped over the curb to the driver's side, admiring the way the inky paint coat glistened in the late afternoon sun, not a speck of dust in sight.

Michael came to stand by the passenger door, now more confused than angry. He was ever-changing, you mused.

“Did, did you sell your soul to my father too?” he asked, mustering the convertible before his eyes searched your face.

“No, Michael,” you chuckled amused. H really didn't know the first thing about the Apocalypse or his place in all of this. Maybe there would be time to give the boy a lesson, but not until you had had a good meal.

“I think I'm out of your dad's league if we're being honest. I am more a collector of souls myself. Your father or God don't actually hold the monopoly even though that's what they like to tell everyone. Tell you what, over dinner you and I will take a little trip down memory lane,” you explained, watching him with intent.

“Liar,” Michael said lowly, processing your words. His icy blue eyes narrowed at you. You could feel his power trying to claw at you, yet it felt distinctly like a kitten lick.

“Oh please, Michael, I don't lie,” you retorted unaffected, your hand grabbing the door handle and sliding into the seat, grabbing the pair of sunglasses on the dashboard and putting them on before looking at Michael, your fingers drumming on the steering wheel. This was not going nearly as well as you had planned and if you wanted to keep the plan you had set in motion rolling, you would undoubtedly need to change course, despite the fact that you loathed having to do so. Death be damned, you thought.

“I don't like repeating myself, Michael. I don't owe you any answers but perhaps I'm growing soft and the fact that you are left to your own devices, trying to figure out the single most monumental task on this rock hurtling through space has me feeling a little...sympathetic,” you stated, leaning over to push open the passenger door as a sign of goodwill.

“Tell you what, you can ask me all the questions you like, deal?”

Michael contemplated for a few seconds. He didn't like to admit it but so far he hadn't been the one to come up with any good plans that didn't involve The Omen 3 plot and his father had been absent throughout his accent so far. He didn't trust you or anybody bar Ms. Mead and yet you presented an enigma to him, one he needed to crack open. He was brilliant at problem-solving and he would solve you too, he thought to himself, a little grin creeping into the corner of his mouth. His invisible claws retracted.

“Deal. But I get to ask as many as I want,” he replied, pulling the door open all the way and plopping himself into the passenger seat beside you, arms crossed over his broad chest.

“Fine, a deal's a deal,” you groaned only halfheartedly, shooting him a grin of your own as you fired up the engine and pulled out onto the road. You really did have your work cut out for you. Lucky for Michael, he was so easy on the eyes that you didn't mind as much as you should have. You pressed the 'on' button of the radio and stifled a laugh at the song that had just started playing:

I see the bad moon a-rising I see trouble on the way I see earthquakes and lightnin' I see bad times today

Don't go around tonight Well it's bound to take your life There's a bad moon on the rise

°°° 20 Minutes later, you pulled into a parking lot, turned off the engine, hopping out of the car, and came around to Michael's side to take an unneeded but deep breath, filling your lungs with crisp evening air and the distinct smell of desert. The sun had just begun to set, a slight chill setting in and the last remaining rays illuminated Michael's blond hair in a way that reminded you an awful lot of his father before the fall. You let your gaze wander over his sitting form for a second, before lightly slapping the arm he had draped over the side of the car, lost in his own thoughts.

“Come on, Angel, we're here,“ you chided playfully, knowing it would rile the blonde man up unnecessarily. On cue, Michael's gaze shot up to meet your own, nostrils flaring at the more than holy pet name.

“Don't call me that! I'm anything but that!“ he bit out but couldn't keep the blush from creeping up his neck. He didn't like the way you made him feel. Weak and unsure of himself. No power he had encountered could match his, not even Cordelia's and then you came along. As if he wasn't already feeling insecure enough, even after having massacred the witches and warlocks, you only added to the sense that he hadn't yet achieved what he was meant to do, or be where his father expected him to be. Sensing his unease, you tussled his locks with your left hand, pulling him out of his self-induced reverie.

“There is nothing a good cake can't fix, Michael. Trust me,” you smiled at him, hoping he would pull himself together and get out the car. At the word cake, he did perk up, finally glancing behind you to look at where you had taken him.

“The Cheesecake Factory, really?” he looked up at you quizzically, disbelieving. If you were in fact Death, and he wasn't yet sure you weren't lying to him despite your overpowering aura, shouldn't you be dining in some high-class restaurant on the other end of town where they didn't even have prices on the menu?

“Are you food shaming me?” you retorted, one eyebrow shooting up.

“Err, no. It just doesn't...suit you,” Michael replied, his right hand coming to massage the back of his neck, embarrassment evident at his remark.

“Wouldn't you like to know what does and doesn't suit me. If you must know, it's kind of my thing. Don't ask me why but I just can't keep my hands off sweet things,” you explained, winking at him and only adding to his embarrassment. Before the Antichrist could slide any further down your passenger seat and be swallowed whole by the ground, you opened his door and gestured for him to get out.

“Relax. You clearly don't know how to take a joke. Come on, I can smell the cakes from here.” You turned on your heels, cape dress swishing behind you as you made your way across the parking lot to the entry. You weren't quite sure your words were meant as a joke but that was a heart-to-heart you'd have with yourself later. The only sweet thing on your mind right now was cake and soda. The slam of the car door indicated that Michael had managed to detach himself from the red leather interior and he jogged up beside you, matching your stride.

“I hope you're hungry. I'm paying,” you said, smiling with glee and making Michael chuckle. Another thing to add to your slowly growing list of likes about the spawn of Satan, you noted to your dismay.

°°° You placed the fork neatly back onto the now empty plate, devoid of even the smallest crumb, that had held an entire ultimate red velvet cake, groaning blissfully. Eyes closed, you swallowed down the last bite. Opposite you, Michael had stopped eating his pasta dish some time ago. When you had said that there is nothing a cake couldn't fix, you had meant an entire cake after all. The hunger you felt whenever you were in a human body was not easily satiated. Something that Michael or the waiter were clearly not prepared for. Both had been watching you for the last 5 minutes, jaws slack, as piece after piece traveled on the fork and into your mouth.

“That was positively delicious,” you hummed, casting a glance at Michael, fork suspended in mid-air.

“W-would you like anything else, Miss?” the waiter stuttered, taking your plate and admiring it as if it were a rare antiquity.

“Oh no, I think I've been quite naughty enough, don't you think?” you giggled, reaching for the Fanta and taking a large sip.

“Michael, you've hardly touched your food,” you noted, your voice rousing the young man out the trance your display of gluttony had placed him under. He cleared his throat, putting the fork down, adjusting his seat on the table.

“I'm not hungry anymore.”

“Oh, ok, well in that case we'd like the bill please,” you addressed the waiter with a satisfied grin, gulping down the last remnant of orange soda in your glass.

“Hey, you said you'd answer my questions! I knew you were a liar!” Michael intercepted, trying his best to keep his voice down.

“ I don't lie, Michael. You chose to watch me enjoy some cake instead of asking questions, didn't you?” you countered, your elbows coming to rest on the table, fingers intertwining. His anger and frustration bubbled to the surface once again. If he weren't the Antichrist, you were sure he would have a heart attack by the time he hit 30. His body tensed at your statement of truth, eyes squinting menacingly at you. Yet you were right, he had been so busy watching you, he had forgotten all about the myriad of questions buzzing in his mind like moths around a flame. His eyes fluttered shut briefly, gulping down the rage that threatened to burst out his chest. You watched as the blonde man tried to gain back his composure, your finger coming to run along the rim of the empty glass in front of you.

“Michael,” you demanded. His eyes opened to meet your own and you could see his restraint hanging by a thread in them. He did have a temper and you didn't want him setting fire to your favourite restaurant just yet.

“I'm in a good mood tonight. Instead of just answering your questions, I would like to show you something that will answer almost all of them. A deal is a deal,” you tried to reason. Michael mulled your words over in his head, sizing you up while doing so.

“Oh for goodness sake, Michael! I'm not trying to manipulate you. I'm trying to help you!” you exclaimed, exasperated at his hesitance and mistrust. While you knew his beginnings on this earth weren't exactly peppered in love, warmth and trust, you couldn't afford him seeing you as the enemy. Neither could he.

“If you don't believe me, take a peek. Make it last, this will be a one-off,” you encouraged him, an invisible finger beckoning him closer and allowing him limited access to your mind momentarily. Michael's mind pushed through your doors, grazing, flitting over millennia of memories before you let him look at your core.

No lies, Michael, you see?

You eased him out and sealed the doors shut tightly once again, leaning back in your chair, the restaurant coming back into focus.

“Here's your bill, Miss. Thank you for stopping by at the Cheesecake Factory tonight,” the waiter had brought you the bill. Wordlessly, you handed him a 100$ bill, nodding your head briefly at him to suggest that he could keep the change and waited for Michael's response.

“Ok,” Michael finally replied, rolling his head on his shoulders, resulting in a gratuitous cracking sound. You weren't sure if he was entirely satisfied with your show of goodwill. Not that it mattered.

“Let's take a walk,” you suggested, getting up without even the slightest hint of a stomach after decimating an entire cake. Michael's eyes never left you and the enigma you were to him just became a lot more enticing. A boyish smirk crossed his face as he stood up to walk in front of you. At the exit, he held open the door.

“My, my Michael. Didn't take you for a gentleman,” you chuckled, gracefully pushing past him and into the cool night air.

“My Ms. Mead would expect nothing less of me,” he offered, not bothering to hide his Cheshire cat smile. You had allowed him access to your mind and the things he saw, he desperately wanted to see again. You were like a box of confectioneries to him. For once in his life, his pride and ever-growing sense of entitlement took the backseat. He felt like he had finally met someone of his own caliber and the feeling was exhilarating to him. You weren't his father but you were the next best thing and best of all, right in front of him.

Tag List:

@sexwon131 @leatherduncan @rocketgirl2410��

#michael langdon x you #michael langdon x reader #michael langdon #ahs apocalypse

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melbee · 4 years ago

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Electric Love

Chapter 3

A David Lee Roth Fanfiction

I'd be safe and warm If I was in L.A. California dreamin'

On such a winter's day

- california dreamin’

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

“Okay.. final checks!” Holly sounded out as she put the last box into the Ford pickup truck, (kindly borrowed from her father).

I huffed as I put my bag into the front seat, as I made my way to the back where Holly was. “I think that’s it Holly.”

She sighed as she finally looked at me. “Holy shit, we’re actually doing this.”

“Pretty sure I’m the one who’s moving?” I said as I laughed, making my way to the front, sitting shotgun.

“It takes two, and we’re basically joined at the hip Rose.” She said laughing, climbing into the front seat, and shutting the door.

“Right forgot how obsessed you are about me.” I said as we started onto the road.

“Yeah well...” Holly began to say, as I looked out the window.

“I can’t believe I’m going to be leaving this place.” I whispered as I watched the car go by. I gazed up at the corner store me and Holly used to ride our bikes to as kids, the large Museum full of tacky antiques, and of course the beautiful desert scenery that accompanied every corner of Arizona.

“Believe me, it’s for the best. From the day I met you in first grade, you were never destined to stay in this dry place.” Holly said as she stayed glued to the road ahead.

I gave her small smile, as she flicked her eyes toward me before focusing back on the road. “That means a lot. I never thought I would get out of here.”

“Rose, if there was a spot in the yearbook for the person who is most likely for success, it was always you.”

I just sighed as I continued looking out the window. How did she know that? I was always quiet, reserved, and never one to go out much. I felt as if I should be doing more, or being more fun and energetic. I figured I would live in Arizona all my life, settle down, maybe get married and have kids.

I guess life has a funny way of changing things.

“So what are you going to do?” I asked as I whipped my head around to Holly. I’ve known her for a long time, but I never quite knew what she wanted to do as a career. She was a good swimmer and competed, but I wasn’t sure if that’s what she wanted to be all her life.

Holly sighed, “I’m sure I’ll work at the diner a bit longer, at least until I punch that sucker like a balloon anyways...” I laughed as I shook my head.

Holly looked at me and smiled, “Maybe I’ll talk to Ralph at the pool and see if I could pick up a job as a swim coach or something.”

I smiled, “Holly, that sounds wonderful!”

“Yeah maybe I’ll do that for a bit, maybe meet a cute European, move to Spain, oh.. and cheer on my best friend as she earns millions as the best fashion designer in the entire country.”

“Sounds like a plan.” I said as I fidgeted with my fingers.

I put my eyes back out the window, as I heard the familiar click of the radio turn on, and the familiar melodies of California Dreamin’ by the Mamas and the Papas turned on.

I heard the tap of the wheel, I assumed Holly had begun to listen to the music, and it must've been lulling, because I soon began to drift off into a deep sleep, the sense of surroundings filling me, and the curiosity of the future in store for me.

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

Approximately 12 hours later, two cheeseburgers, and taking turns driving the truck, we made it to the City of angels.

“Wow! It’s just like in the movies, but better!” Holly said as she gazed out of the windows at the looming palm tress, and the big buildings.

“Yeah, it’s beautiful.” I said as I gazed at the people in fancy and cheap cars alike, the big signs filled with ads for strip clubs, tours, and perfume commercials.

“I wonder how many celebrities you’re going to see.” Holly said, as she turned down another street, toward a sign that was directing us to northeast Los Angeles, and eventually into Pasadena.

We had stopped at a local convenience store and grabbed a map, which I now had facing adjacent to a long a piece of paper which I had copied down the street address. I was fixing my eyes now toward the map, chewing my bottom lip in concentration. “Okay so go straight for about 15 miles, then you’re going to take a right, then a left, go straight-”

“Okay, calm down I’m not a mind memorizer.” Holly said, as I saw her tongue peak out of her bottom lip, as she continued on. “I need a smoke soon.”

“Okay, do you want me to get one for you?” I said as I glanced back at the map.

“Nah, my Dad will kill me if he smells smoke in here. Something about it ruining the interior or something..”

“Oh okay..” As I concentrated on the map. This was so confusing, how did anyone get anywhere in this state? Arizona was pretty easy as it was mainly desert. This city had almost every type of business across every corner of land. If you wanted to go to a strip club, McDonald's, or get your drivers license, you were lucky to have all three within walking distance.

“Wow so cool! Look!’ Holly said as she pointed up at a billboard we were passing by, I looked just briefly to see a glimpse of large letters, and bright colors.

VAN HALEN TWO NIGHTS AT THE ROSE BOWL! GET YOUR TICKETS NOW!

“So cool! I wonder if Lewis could hook you up with tickets, I wouldn’t mind staying a couple extra days.” Holly said as she laughed.

I shrugged going back to the map. “Yeah maybe..”

“Oh come on! Don’t you want to see Van Halen! They’re so hot and so rock n’ roll.”

“Yeah, I like a couple of their songs..” I muttered.

Holly gave me a pointed look. “Okay, so you wouldn’t do anything to get backstage and meet them?”

I put my map down, as I gave her a look. “Holly, me and 50 other girls trying to hook up with them.”

“Woah! So you admit you would want to hook up with them.” Holly giggled.

“Uh.. no. I mean.. I would be mixed in with every other girl trying to get their eyes set on them. What makes me stand out from the rest of the other greedy, fame grabbers?” I said as I shook my head.

“Oh I don’t know.. maybe getting pregnant and having to get married by guilt, and collecting millions in cash as a rock star wife?” Holly said, without a stutter.

My eyes bugged. “Holly, you are fucking insane.”

“I know, you love me anyway.” She winked.

“Focus on the road, we’re getting close to Pasadena.”

“alright.. alright..” Holly said as she maintained her eyes on the road.

Almost an hour later we had finally made it to Pasadena.

It was a lot more prosperous then LA. It showcased lot’s of expensive architecture and Spanish styled roofing, and busy landscapes. I could tell it was a town where the rich encompassed much of the population.

How much does Lewis make? From the couple phone calls I had received from him, I had not gotten the chance to ask about how prosperous his job was.

“Wow, there must be some rich ass kids in this place.” She said as she looked around at the architecture.

I snorted, “Yeah no kidding. Pretty sure you’re turning right at this intersection.” Holly jerked the wheel into the turn lane, and stopped before giving me a mean look.

“You know you have to give me at least a bit more time to safely move myself, before you give me directions.”

I slapped my hand down on the map, “You were complaining I was going too fast!”

“Yeah, but I’m pretty sure a turtle could say directions faster then you could.” Holly said as we began turning onto another road.

The buildings began to space out, as we began to drive pass large mansions, guarded by strong gates and dangly trees, that reminded me of the streets showcased in Hollywood movies. Does that mean they were fake? There was something so oddly picturesque of Pasadena, that made me believe it was something far different then what it appeared to be.

“Wow, I wonder who lives in those places.” Holly said as we peered to the side to ogle at the gorgeous architecture.

Just as we were driving, we all but slammed on our brakes as we saw a 50′s Mercury all but zoom past one of the accompanying large, expansive gates, along with a chorus of loud hollers and laughs.

I scoffed as I looked over to Holly who sat there in awe. “Wow.”

“Are you okay?” I asked looking concerned, this must’ve snapped her out of her daze because she began driving once again, as she shook her head.

“Yeah sorry, I just... who the hell was that? Do you think they could’ve been a celebrity?” She said.

I laughed. “They almost hit us, and you’re worried about if they were famous?”

“How cool if they did, and I could’ve met whoever was in that car. It looked like a guy and a couple chicks. Or maybe they were all guys...”

I laughed as I shrugged, “Could very well be the latter.”

“So fucking cool.” She said as she shook her head smiling, as we continued down the road.

I couldn’t help but begin to get curious who was in there as well. Didn’t they have any decency to watch where they were going? Why were they driving so erratically in such a beautiful car? Where they drunk? Where were they going?

I simply just let it go, and sighed hoping that would’ve been the end of those encounters in California.

Oh, how I wish that would've been true.

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

Sunset Strip, 1982

“Dave you are so funny!” I heard the obnoxious giggle come from the blonde to my right.

I grinned, as I handed the keys to a chauffeur, grabbing her hand and kissing her neck all the way into the club, a troupe of others who had hitched a ride following behind closely.

“Great to see you Mr. Roth, your booth is right this way.” As a waiter, I presumed new as he had no recognizable face to him, lead me the way. It was routine to hit Hollywood’s best clubs on the Sunset Strip, and it was always a good time to reminisce about Van Halen’s early days.

We certainly had come a long way now.

“Call me Dave, or Diamond, or put them together. It doesn’t matter.” I said as I laughed, cueing the chorus of giggles from the other girls who had stumbled their way to the side.

I had checked and now they had seemingly multiplied, lots of brunettes, and bleach blonde hair, and legs. To say it was normal, would be an understatement. They were all the same. But it got me laid, and gave me a good time.

“David...” I heard a whisper come from the side, it sounded like Michael Jackson, and over-tuned whistles. Nonetheless, I turned my way to see a brunette with big eyes, gazing at me with a strange look.

“Yes, sugar?” I said in my best sweet saccharine voice, and a grin.

She began to rub down my thigh, her spindly fingers grazing up and down like cat claws. God damn how did she pick stuff up with them... “Could you get me a drink?”

I smiled, as I stood a little taller motioning for a waiter to come. “She’ll have a jack and coke.”

She huffed, “No, I want a whiskey sour.” I shrugged as I motioned for the waiter to listen to her, and he simply nodded his head and left.

She continued her incessant clawing on my thighs, that I’m sure would leave marks by morning, as girls began toppling over one another to try to join in on whatever they thought was happening.

“So David, are we going back to your house?” I heard a blonde say to my right, as she twirled her hair, biting her lip as if her life depended on it.

“I don’t know sugar, I got rehearsal tomorrow.”

She pouted as she latched on to my arm like a leech. “Please, can we come stay, I’ll make it worth your while.” I began hearing the sounds of bird like chirps as other girls nearby began chiming in on the plead.

I laughed as I smacked the blonde’s thigh, grabbing a swig of my Jack before shrugging. “Oh fuck it.”

I heard a loud cheer, before one by one girls began crawling towards me, kissing up and down my legs and arms.

This was going to be a long night.

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

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renaultamour · 6 years ago

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2018 Renault Captur Quick Spin

The road ahead is impossibly narrow, barely wider than our 2018 Renault Captur, yet it's actually a two-way road. Passing areas every 100 yards or so provide a haven when cars appear ahead. Preferably, that's with plenty of warning, but more often than not, it's all-of-a-sudden from around a blind dip or curve. Never has the posted speed limit seemed like such a prudent idea.

The thing is, the A861 on the Ardnamurchen peninsula in the western Scottish Highlands isn't some defunct logging road we've stumbled upon because of a faulty navigation system or overly ambitious wanderlust. Though the area is certainly populated by more sheep than people, it's far from the most remote place you'll find in Scotland. This is a road that's actually necessary for reaching a variety of villages and seemingly well-travelled, most notably by Ford Transits and other delivery vans that are without question the speed demons in these parts. The Royal Mail clearly prides itself on swift delivery.

Subcompact SUVs are marketed and genuinely best-suited to those who live in more densely populated urbanish areas, but out here, this one makes a ton of sense. Based on Renault's subcompact Clio hatchback, the Captur is 2 inches shorter in length than a Hyundai Kona but roughly equal in all other dimensions. It would be one of the smallest subcompact SUVs if it was sold in North America.

Those dimensions are ideal on such absurdly tight roads, while its elevated seating height — seemingly higher than most subcompact SUVs — is a big help on those aforementioned blind dips. Body roll is kept nicely in check around corners, and the steering — though numb — is precise, pleasantly weighted and clearly calibrated for drivers who prefer their cars to be more responsive. I legitimately enjoyed driving the Captur, which cannot be said for the majority of subcompact crossovers over here.

While subcompact crossovers aren't known for an abundance of power in America, they're all Top Fuel dragsters compared to the Captur, which comes with a turbocharged three-cylinder engine that can't even eek out a full liter of displacement. This 0.9-liter gasoline-powered wee-engine-that-could produces 90 horsepower and 103 pound-feet of torque, and returned a phenomenal as-tested 46.4 mpg (U.S.). On the other hand, Renault estimates it'll go from 0 to 60 mph in 13.4 seconds, which is about 3 seconds slower than the segment's slowest here in North America.

The thing is, though, it didn't feel that slow. It was genuinely surprising to read those figures after driving the Captur around Scotland for the better part of a day. Sure, merging onto the motorways outside Edinburgh required patience and a heavy foot, but around towns and when accelerating away from those A861 passing areas, it had the sort of low-end grunt that makes little turbo engines always seem quicker than they really are. Now, Renault does offer a diesel three-cylinder, also with 90 hp, but with a more robust 162 lb-ft of torque. One of those wasn't available at the Edinburgh Airport Hertz.

What was happily available, though, was something different than what I'd find in the United States, which is exactly what I was seeking to traverse the western Highlands' verdant glacial valleys and fjord-like lochs.

Introduced back in 2013 and mildly updated in 2017, the Captur is a sharp-looking little SUV that shows off much better when painted in one of its bright two-toned color schemes. Our all-silver version was comparatively dull, but despite its age and the fact it was one of the segment's earliest members, I'd venture that it's still better looking than the HR-V's, C-HR's and Traxes of this world.

The interior is a different story. I'd say it's aged poorly, but I remember 2013, and it wasn't like this. The Captur's ergonomically hapless cabin seems to have been designed by a car company whose designers hadn't actually sat in another brand's cars in decades. Take the cupholders. Crammed beside the emergency brake nearly on the floor, one is barely wide enough for a coffee cup and the other could maybe fit a Red Bull can if it wasn't so uselessly shallow. Oh but don't worry, there's another coffee cup one conveniently behind your hip that also serves the back seat.

Then there's the sole USB port, located above the touchscreen, and about 2 feet above the smartphone bin that's too small to hold a plugged-in iPhone 6. That touchscreen has no physical menu buttons and the volume is controlled by either a toggle button above the screen or a pod behind the right steering wheel spoke. The cruise control is activated by a button next to those cupholders, because why not? Je m'excuse, mais non?

Note, this isn't French wackiness like the Citroen DS having floor-mounted buttons instead of pedals, or the entire Citroen Cactus. This is Renault clearly not knowing or caring about sensible industry norms. Frankly, that's surprising given the company's corporate ties to Nissan.

Space and comfort are much better. At 6-foot-3, I rarely fit comfortably in the segment's crossovers, but despite its manually adjustable seats, I managed to be quite comfortable for hundreds of miles. The seats are mounted quite high, too, which is not only good for visibility but it provides ample leg room/support front and back.

Distinctively for the segment, the Captur's 60/40-split back seat also slides forward to free up cargo room by either pulling bars under the seat or a unique single bar behind it in the trunk. Using this feature allowed us to fit two large, must-check suitcases without utilizing the under-floor storage area and therefore finding some place to store the rigid floor panel. It's the only thing in the Captur's cabin that competitors would be wise to copy.

Well, besides the manual transmission, which has to be the major reason a 90-horsepower three-banger felt sufficiently powerful. Sure, the throws are long. Yes, the shifter is placed too far forward. Of course, the right-hand-drive pedals are located too close to the center tunnel, and you bet, I could've bought some smaller, dainty shoes somewhere. But, if you have the chance to drive a car with a manual transmission in Britain, any car really, I highly recommend it.

Driving has become so easy, and if you love driving, adding the mental and physical exercise is perpetually rewarding. Shift with your left hand. Wring the necks of 90 French horses. Drive on the left side of the road. Brake hard for nine Scottish sheep in that road. Instinctively slam your right arm into the door in a futile attempt to downshift. It's a blast.

I can think of few better ways to spend a vacation.

Article source: https://www.autoblog.com/2018/09/28/2018-renault-captur-quick-spin-scotland/

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itsworn · 6 years ago

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Mickey Thompson Hits 400, George Barris Builds an Air Car, and Flying Caduceus Launches Bonneville’s Jet Age in 1960

Ancestors

With so much action occurring simultaneously in so many regional hotbeds this year, no single magazine staff could hope to be in all places at all times. Robert E. Petersen’s unique advantage was owning multiple titles, each employing specialists who overlapped into the print equivalent of an automotive internet. Moreover, “Pete” could test the potential of any emerging market quickly and relatively cheaply by utilizing in-house editorial and production people to either start a publication from scratch or spin one off from an established Petersen title, then heavily promote the new project in the others.

This year, go-kart-crazy Car Craft launched an offshoot called Kart, packed with ads. Similarly, Motor Trend soon spawned competition-oriented Sports Car Graphic. Immediate, widespread widespread distribution of anything new was assured by a North American dealer network already profiting from Pete’s established monthlies, plus a steady barrage of thicker, higher-priced, “special edition” Petersen annuals, how-to books, racing compilations, and other recyclings of previously published articles and photography.

As the go-kart craze took off, drag and lakes racer Charles Scott’s muffler and dyno shop diversified into manufacturing pintsized performance parts. Sons George (left) and Billy Scott respectively demonstrated the differences between a conventional quarter-midget roadster and a rebodied, dual-purpose kart. “Billy the Kid” advanced to fuel and gas dragsters as a young teen and, ultimately, to champ cars, finishing 23rd in the 1976 Indy 500.

We’re sharing this ancient history to illustrate how the vast Petersen Publishing Company photo archive came to acquire an incomparable range of subjects. This year’s vehicular variety foretold the unprecedented strangeness of the decade to come. Among other oddities, Pete’s road warriors documented beatniks and bubbletops, a fighter-jet engine on wheels, four V8s on wheels, and a show-winning custom “car” with no engine and no wheels. They covered the first 400-mph American car and driver, tested a new wave of “medium compacts” from all three of the Big Three, and chronicled sleepy Pontiac’s seemingly sudden emergence atop auto racing (the GM division’s reward for three years of discreetly circumventing Detroit’s 1957 agreement to stop sponsoring, supporting, or even promoting high performance).

While those lucky guys enjoyed virtually unrestricted access wherever they flashed a Petersen business card, only a tiny fraction of their photos were published at the time. Whereas anything in print had passed scrutiny from the editors, advertiser-conscious publishers, and all-powerful editorial director Wally Parks, the rest of the story often went unseen and untold due to political, business, personal, or space considerations. It’s these unpublished outtakes that deliver deeper, truer insight into scenes unfolding right in front of staffers’ lenses—but subsequently kept behind the curtain separating us mere mortals, the readers.

Norm Grabowski continued living every young male’s dream life, driving hot rods and acting in B-movies and television shows alongside Hollywood’s hottest honeys. Mamie Van Doren posed for HRM’s Eric Rickman in Norm’s ’25 T to promote a forgettable film with an unforgettable title, Sex Kittens Go to College. Still powered by a flathead here, the red touring soon acquired a hot Chevy V8, landed its own TV series (My Mother the Car), and found a new owner, studio-photographer Kaye Trapp. SoCal drag fans watched it push-start both the Zeuschel, Fuller & Moody AA/Fueler and the MagiCar that Trapp campaigned in partnership with Ron Winkel. (See Aug. 1960 HRM.)

Some of the artists’ faces appear here, frozen in time by mischievous colleagues always armed with cameras. Almost all of them are gone now, nearly six decades after so much of their best 1960 work was developed, dried, sleeved, labeled, filed, and forgotten, forever—or so it must have seemed to our frustrated editorial ancestors. It’s our pleasure to prove them wrong here in the next century.

Motor Trend magazine’s Aug. 1960 Indy 500 coverage bemoaned rain delays during both qualifying weekends that reduced attempts by 66 entries. Soggy fans were effectively repurposing handout copies of an Indianapolis daily when Petersen Publishing Co. (PPC) photo chief Bob D’Olivo happened by. (Kiddies, don’t try this with your smartphones or tablets.)

Imagine a Daytona International Speedway parking lot—or any parking lot, anywhere in America, today—without a single crew-cab pickup or so-called sport utility vehicle as far as the eye can see. Petersen editorial director Wally Parks, also NHRA president, shot the photo during Daytona’s Speed Week, undoubtedly envying NASCAR’s booming popularity. (See Apr. 1960 HRM; Apr. and June 1960 MT; Sept. 2016 HRD.)

Technical editor Barney Navarro helped make Motor Life a respected monthly both before and after parent Quinn Publications was acquired by rival publisher Robert E. Petersen. Navarro broke the story of GMC’s groundbreaking V6 in the May 1960 issue and offered a prescient prediction: “Granted, the new powerplant can be found at this time time only in a pickup truck, but such a unit certainly has possibilities for future passenger-car power.” The same article teased readers with a small factory photo of the 12-cylinder, 610-cubic-inch prototype that GM engineers created by aligning two of these engines inside of a single crankcase and oil pan.

Staff photographer Colin Creitz captured a scene that could have been Anywhere, USA, this season. A similar exposure from the top of this grandstand led off Barney Navarro’s tips for “Stock Car Drag Racing” in the June 1960 Motor Life. If the wall of hay bales seems familiar, the little track situated just over the hill from Hollywood provided a convenient midweek location for automotive-themed films, television shows, and commercials. We recognized the starter on this sunny Sunday as future world champ Jimmy Scott, a recovered street racer who had been unofficially “sentenced” to strip duty by the City of San Fernando’s Judge Morgan, who moonlighted as track manager in the 1950s.

Many of the negatives selected for this series were both composed and processed by the same PPC employee: Pat Brollier. Equally skilled as a photographer and a lab technician, he enjoyed a long career on photographic director Bob D’Olivo’s team.

It’s hard to believe that such great action and from such a rare angle wasn’t published at the time, somewhere, but what we cannot find in our incomplete collection of PPC magazines qualifies for Backstage Past consideration. The surprisingly stock Burkhardt, Brammer & Wilson ’29 on ’32 rails is boiling the biggest balonies like a dragster at Riverside because it ran like one, and then some. NHRA Museum curator Greg Sharp cited 1958 evidence that then-driver Howard Eichenhoffer’s 212.264 mph in the dirt was the best by any dry-lakes car, including streamliners and lakesters. Mike Burns and Don Rackemann also spent time in the seat. A Sept. 1959 HRM feature called it the world’s swiftest drag roadster at 9.81/156.79. Its front-blown, nitro-burning, 341ci DeSoto was backed by a ’39 Lincoln tranny using high gear only.

Alternate angles of this odd setup started appearing this year in Motor Life subscription ads ($3 per year) and also atop Motor Trend’s “Rumors” column. The unidentifiable executives and ad reps pretended to peek at what appears to be a Corvair sedan, wrapped in one of the first car covers we have found on film. The high angle reveals the close proximity of neighbors to the employee parking lot, where countless car features were shot for Petersen publications (at 5959 Hollywood Boulevard).

Bob Petersen’s hiring philosophy favored enthusiasm and wrenching expertise over writing ability. “Pete” got all three in Ray Brock, the HRM tech editor credited with designing and managing the first thrust-powered land-speed car—despite the reality that only wheel-driven vehicles were eligible then to set the unlimited LSR. Still under construction in this late-April photo, the Flying Caduceus would hit the salt in late summer for a series of disappointing shakedown runs. Collapsing air-intake ducts and a scary front-end shimmy restricted recorded speeds to less than half of owner Nathan Ostich’s 500-mph target. (See Apr. and Oct. 1960 HRM; Aug. 1960 R&C; July 1960 MT; Dec. 1960 ML; Jan. 1961 CC.)

Did he or didn’t he? From the empty starting line and serious looks on these faces, we suspect that some discussion ensued. All we know is that the rubber was burned during a big May meet at Inyokern, California, where entries included the pretty Kurtis sport special of record-setting City of Industry, California, councilman Sam Parriott (waiting to run).

A July ’60 MT editorial titled “The Vanishing Mechanic” expressed concern that new-vehicle production was outpacing young technicians entering “the field of auto mechanics.” One promising sign was the record number of schools and students participating in Plymouth’s annual Trouble-Shooting Contests. Since the concept was introduced with a single Los Angeles event in 1954, contests had spread to 16 locations nationwide, involving nearly 1,000 high school, vocational, and community college students in two-person teams. Factory mechanics planted various gremlins in the Plymouth engines (e.g., “Most-overlooked malady was cork in the intake manifold, causing engines to run on four cylinders.”).

HRM Editor Wally Parks commissioned what must have been the first-ever V8 swap into a Comet. This roll of film was processed on June 3, barely three months after the model’s March introduction. We wonder how FoMoCo executives reacted to subsequent articles explaining how modified ’40 Ford Hurst-Campbell mounts enabled a painless conversion (“no cutting needed”) from the weak Ford-Mercury inline-six to a Duntov-equipped 283 Chevy. (See Aug. 1960 HRM and MT.)

The guy running the Chrondeks at Pomona for NHRA’s regional meet couldn’t have imagined the advances coming to timing systems—and “timing towers”—over the next six decades. HRM’s Eric Rickman went backstage to get the shot.

Imagine the look on the face of an unsuspecting tow-truck driver instructed to “get the big spare out of the trunk.” Firestone’s development of 48-inch-diameter rubber specifically for unlimited-LSR attempts greatly enhanced both the safety and speed of “record racing” in the 1960s. This early tire rolled under the Flying Caduceus, mounted on a giant wheel also designed and manufactured by Firestone.

Ed Roth followed up 1959’s revolutionary Excaliber/Outlaw showstopper with the Beatnik Bandit. This time the entire body was one piece, mounted on a shortened ’50 Olds frame. Fritz Voigt, Mickey Thompson’s engine builder, hopped up the Rocket. Rod & Custom contributing artist Joe Henning’s initial illustrations called for a fixed roof, but Henning went back to the drawing board after Roth requested a bubbletop. Less than five months after Bud Lang stopped by the shop this August, the completed Bandit would steal the annual show in San Mateo, California. (See Mar. and May 1961 R&C; May 1961 CC.)

Newly outfitted with four 6-71 GMC blowers beneath two tall “blisters,” front-wheel skirts, and a narrowed tail section, Challenger I returned to the Bonneville Nationals in August and earned Mickey Thompson’s third-consecutive HOT ROD top speed trophy (365.330, one way). The first 400 and fastest single run by an American would wait for a private session on September 9, when M/T hit 406.600 before blowing one Pontiac early into the backup pass. (See Nov. 1960 HRM; Dec. 1960 ML; Jan. 1961 CC.)

Two Petersen-affiliated players who never avoided a spotlight were Car Craft editor Dick Day and frequent PPC contributor George Barris, whose photography and how-to articles were regularly seen by millions in HRM, CC, R&C, even Motor Life and Motor Trend. The customizer is shown accepting one of two awards earned by his XPAK 400 in Detroit during Labor Day weekend. NHRA staged this second National Custom Car Show in conjunction with its National Drag Championships.

After Ed Roth stole his thunder with the groundbreaking Excaliber/Outlaw, kustom king George Barris countered with the XPAK 400 Air Car of the Future. Dual 4hp jet-aircraft-starter motors, remotely controlled by a pushbutton box, spun a large fan that supposedly elevated the Jack Sutton aluminum body above a rippling parachute “on a five-inch cushion of air.” Critics maintained that hidden hydraulic jacks were doing the lifting, but we have seen no underside photos. Barris claimed the metalflake finish to be the first commercial application of a Dow Chemical process involving “a million particles of chromed aluminum.” (See Jan. and Mar. 1961 CC.)

Two youngsters who seemed as if they’d live forever were checked prior to October’s Los Angeles Times-Mirror Grand Prix for Sports Cars. Dan Gurney went on to smash the track record in a mid-engined Lotus and led the USAC event until he was sidelined by a blown head gasket. Carroll Shelby finished Fifth in a Maserati. American Hot Rod Foundation curator Jim Miller recognized the industrial surroundings as Riverside International Raceway’s newly constructed garages, and wonders why these checkups were not performed in the track’s medical center as usual.

Near the end of October, publisher Robert Petersen evidently commandeered a new ’61 Chevy wagon for a hunting expedition. Yes, that’s an unlucky eagle displayed in staffer Neal East’s photo.

We can’t say where or why the exotic CERV-I (Chevrolet Engineering Research Vehicle I) was parked amongst these late-model Chevys—outdoors, yet—in November, following rare exhibition runs during Riverside’s Grand Prix weekend. Designer Zora Arkus-Duntov, Stirling Moss, and Dan Gurney took turns behind the wheel. Then-exotic goodies included cast-magnesium injector stacks and an aluminum 283 block and cylinder heads (90 pounds lighter than iron), a four-speed case, a water pump, and a starter-motor case. Suspecting the location to be Bill Thomas Race Cars, GM’s southern California skunkworks, we shared the photo with Brian Brennan, who worked there in high school. The longtime Street Rodder editor ruled that out, but the building looked familiar. Brennan suggested that the absent exhaust system might indicate a stop at the nearby Orange County shop of Jess Tyree, a buddy of Bill’s who built headers for some of his projects.

PPC’s Christmas parties in the early years were legendary. This one evidently involved a Roaring ’20s theme for which editorial director Wally Parks, HRM photographer Eric Rickman, and three unidentified accomplices were properly attired.

The post Mickey Thompson Hits 400, George Barris Builds an Air Car, and Flying Caduceus Launches Bonneville’s Jet Age in 1960 appeared first on Hot Rod Network.

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robertkstone · 7 years ago

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2018 Jeep Wrangler First Drive Review: Because It’s There

TWENTY-FOUR DEGREES, INCLINED

We find ourselves on New Zealand’s South Island, perched on a soggy, precipitous mountainside east of Lake Hawea—following a long morning crawl down the ridge of Mount Prospect and crossing the Lindis River more times than I could remember.

While my off-road spotters discuss the merits of trying to creep forward versus backing down the narrow path cut in the hillside, I steal a glance at the Pitch and Roll feature displayed between the gauges of the new Jeep Wrangler. It was at least as informative as the view out the windshield—which by that point was mostly sky and mountaintops, with the occasional sight of a spotter’s head poking up over the hood. For reference, the steepest paved road in the world is 20 degrees.

Not that there was anyone to talk to. My driving partner had hopped out several minutes earlier, after watching the Jeep ahead struggle with the same obstacle. We resolved to make it without the support Jeep’s saving winch, but it was a precarious position. I needed to make a left turn up this 24-degree slope, with a steeper uphill slope to my immediate left and an equally sheer drop to my immediate right. For good measure, the light rain falling for the past hour had turned the hillside into a muddy mess. I didn’t begrudge my co-driver his choice to bail; I encouraged it.

We’re here because an all-new Jeep Wrangler is a rare thing to behold, one that arrives once in a decade at most. It is the rugged flag-bearer of the Jeep brand, the ur-SUV, and the most symbolically important vehicle Fiat Chrysler makes, which can only be properly showcased in the most extreme environments. It’s also an anachronism, a holdover from a bygone era of vehicle making that, had it never existed previous, would never be approved by a responsible corporate board today. It also is the one vehicle in the world that could properly surmount this ridiculous obstacle, and the Jeep folks wanted to prove it.

The Jeep Wrangler makes every bit of sense and none at all, and it must be accepted by a wildly devoted fan base that will tolerate no weakness. Fortunately for everyone involved, it doesn’t have many faults. In fact, it has so few we might as well just get them out of the way. First, the clutch take-up on the six-speed manual transmission is so vague even our officemates at JP and 4-Wheel and Off-Road were stalling. Second, the V-6 still feels a bit gutless at low rpm on pavement despite improvements. That about covers it.

Back on that hillside, I was driving a two-door Rubicon with the standard 3.6-liter V-6 and optional eight-speed automatic. It makes the same 285 hp and 260 lb-ft as before but gets better fuel economy and low-end torque. At crawling speeds and with four-wheel-drive gearing advantages, torque wasn’t an issue. Two days later, driving back into town in a heavier four-door Rubicon Unlimited with the same engine but standard six-speed manual, the lack of grunt was more apparent.

The enormous improvement in ride quality was also more apparent on the road. Don’t worry. It still drives like a truck, just one from this century. Moving the shocks farther outboard and raising the roll center have seriously reduced the head toss and impact harshness in everyday driving. Getting to the trail has never been so pleasant.

Although you’ll spend far more time on the road than the trail, we know you don’t care about that part, so let’s dive back into the mud. After lunch on the trail, it was a higher-speed two-track out to camp with one last river crossing to round things out. As if to drive the point of the new generation’s excellence home, one of the previous-generation Rubicon Unlimited support vehicles beached itself trying to climb out, right after the new ones drove right through.

After a night of unexpectedly heavy snowfall and several collapsed tents, we ran for the shores of Lake Wanaka and out another two-track toward Mount Aspiring National Park. On this day, I’d made a point of claiming the all-new 2.0-liter turbocharged four-cylinder. It makes 268 hp and 295 lb-ft and uses a belt alternator starter system that can take some load off the engine. This is the first four-banger Wrangler in over a decade and an optional upgrade over the V-6, so I had to know if it’s any good. This would be the day to find out. We were headed for a boulder field at the base of Mount Aspiring.

Available only with the eight-speed automatic, the turbo-four felt perfectly at home bumping along the two-track and down a stretch of paved road. The transmission, paired with either engine, continues to be a gem with quick, smooth gearshifts and a smart computer that always seems to know what gear it ought to be in. On-road and off, the engine felt just as powerful as the V-6, and its automatic start/stop system is among the smoothest on the market in any vehicle type. The real test, though, would be crawling.

Our test bed was a boulder-strewn gully 10 feet deep and in places just wider than the Jeeps. I dropped our Rubicon Unlimited into 4Lo, hit the switches to lock the front and rear differentials and disconnect the front anti-roll bar, and tiptoed in. I didn’t air down the tires, though; the Jeep people were so confident in the Wrangler they wouldn’t let us. Within 50 feet, every concern I had about power and turbo lag had been scraped away along with the paint on the factory rock rails. This little bugger crawls just as well as the V-6.

To be sure, I took another run in the other Rubicon Unlimited with the V-6 and the manual. Were it not for the shifting, I could barely tell the difference in power delivery. Between the belt alternator starter and turbocharger, the four-cylinder needed less revving to get the job done.

Speaking of, bouldering with a stock manual transmission has never been easier. Jeep has upped the crawl ratio from 73:1 to 84:1 on the manual (and from 55:1 to 77:1 on the automatic), so it can creep along at a half mile an hour in first gear in 4Lo without stalling. I only ever used the clutch to come to a complete stop while my spotters repositioned for the next obstacle.

The sun and cold wind beating on my face, this was Jeeping at its best: tough trail, manual transmission, roof down (thankfully now a tidy five-step process), and windshield down (now two wipers and four bolts, down from seeming dozens). We’d have taken the lightened doors off, too, if there were a place to put them. The included toolkit makes removing them and the windshield so easy you’re effectively obligated to do so.

The rock sliders thoroughly evaluated, I made one more run in the two-door Rubicon. Granted, the four-door Unlimiteds went everywhere the two-door went, but nothing makes a challenging trail easier than a shorter, lighter rig with a tighter turning radius. Regardless, the new 33-inch BFGoodrich All-Terrain T/A KO2 tires did a remarkable job at street pressure, and the extra inch of ground clearance afforded over the old 32-inch Mud Terrain T/A KMs was welcomed.

Off the rocks and back on the trail in the four-cylinder, we popped out the hard top’s “Freedom Panels,” which are held on by simple latches now instead of 1,000-turn knobs. It made for a better vantage point standing up through the roof as we crisscrossed the noticeably deeper Matukituki River’s West Branch. The 30-inch fording depth is engraved along with other stats on a panel on the inside of the tailgate for handy reference.

The next morning, leaving camp with the worst obstacles behind us, I decided I needed more than a mere trail run with the manual transmission. It’s a new Aisin unit with a shift linkage that has taken out most of the previous model’s slop. Were it not for the funky clutch pedal, I’d have nothing to complain about. The gates are easy to find, and the throws are short enough for a truck.

Read more about the 2018 Jeep Wrangler in our thorough First Look here.

Its crown is a nicely detailed metal and rubber shift knob with exposed bolts that cap off a wonderfully improved interior. The flat dash, round gauges, and front passenger oh-lordy handle are complemented by burly knobs, belt-buckle door handles, and exposed bolts that walk a fine line between historically informed and gaudy retro. Peppered in among them are welcome modern conveniences such as an optional 8.4-inch infotainment system, optional heated seats and steering wheel, optional high-end stereo, standard in-cluster digital display, and standard USB 2.0 and micro USB ports front and rear.

Descending through the Rees Valley and crossing its namesake river a few times (because at this point, why not?), we began the long trudge back down paved roads to the hotel and a hot shower. The improved ride is a welcome respite from three long days bouncing down the trail, as is the new electro-hydraulic steering that’s taken all the vagueness out of the rack. The Jeep is confident and planted on the road in a way Wranglers have never been. The hardcore guys will say the old trucks had more character, but the casual off-road enthusiast won’t mind the trade-off a bit.

The drive back gives time to reflect. If you went to an automaker today and asked them to build a two-door body-on-frame trucklet with a convertible roof and almost no cargo space—riding on live axles (and oh yeah, the windshield needs to fold down and you should be able to take the doors off and hose out the waterproof interior)—you’d be laughed out of the room. This Wrangler, this iconic Jeep, exists because it’s always existed, and this new one is the best one yet. No, Jeep faithful, they didn’t ruin it. They didn’t even make it just as good as the old one. They made it better in every way.

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robertkstone · 7 years ago

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2018 Lincoln Navigator First Drive Review: Christening the Flagship

When we think of flagships, we tend to think of full-size sedans and sport coupes. For decades, they’ve been the pinnacle of automotive achievement, the absolute best a brand can offer in luxury, technology, performance, or a combination thereof. The world has changed, though, and although coupes were never high-volume products, the once-mighty sedan is on its way to being a niche body style as SUVs and crossovers take over the world. Today, SUVs can and will be brand flagships, just as the 2018 Navigator is for Lincoln.

In the past we haven’t thought of the Navigator in the way we might think of the S-Class, but it’s been the de facto flagship for years, and this new one might just push the conversation in that direction. We tend to define luxury in what’s lacking, namely discomfort, noise, and inconvenience, and the Navigator lacks all of them.

The selling point of any luxury vehicle, and especially a flagship, is its interior, and that’s where we’ll start. I don’t normally comment much on design because it’s entirely subjective, but I’m breaking my policy for the Navigator. The new interior is a knockout. It’s wholly unique and derivative of nothing. As much as the new Volvo interior design is unreservedly Scandinavian, the Navigator’s design is unmistakably and unabashedly American. It harkens back to the heyday of Continental sedans and Pan Am Clippers with modern interpretations and conveniences. From the color schemes to the Lincoln star in the corner of the dash, it’ll never be confused with a competitor. If recent visits to stores like Crate & Barrel, Pottery Barn, and even Target are any indication, Lincoln’s riff on the mid-century modern aesthetic landed at exactly the right time.

I’m less enamored with the exterior. The front and rear of the Navigator don’t seem to be speaking the same language, the rear hard and linear and congruous with the interior design but the front round and soft. I think there’s the most to be gained in the headlights, which look outdated to me. There’s too much empty black plastic around the projectors, and the industry has moved on from string-of-pearls LEDs to seamless light pipes.

Back inside, some might take issue with a few details. The “floating” infotainment screen trend is quite controversial, opponents viewing it as an iPad glued to the dash. I generally take the opposite tack, even more so in this case. Separating the screen from the dash gives the design a layered feeling in concert with the recessed wood trim. It allows the wood and leather to run seamlessly across the dash behind it rather than interrupting the lines. Integrating it visually with the ebony vents below keeps it connected to the dash rather than free-floating. More important, letting the screen stand out allows the rest of the dash to be pushed back. The screen has to be close enough to touch (and it’s still a long reach), and integrating it into the dash would require either pulling the entire dash closer and infringing on passenger space or making the screen protrude like some kind of growth, neither of which is preferable.

If there’s one thing you can ding the screen for, it’s the mildly differentiated graphics, which are identifiably Ford-based. A better mask, something more in keeping with the rest of the interior design and the unique instrument cluster graphics, would be welcome. If there’s another thing, it’s that the system forces you to use your phone’s maps app when CarPlay is enabled rather than allowing you to choose the vehicle’s navigation system you paid for (which isn’t subject to cell signal strength, either). If there’s one more, it’s that messages such as changes to the temperature settings don’t need to momentarily take over the entire screen.

Others might say the door-mounted seat controls are copied from Mercedes-Benz, but there are only so many ways to do seat controls, and that’s not a bad homework assignment to copy from. The same goes for the speaker grilles, which have become de rigueur in modern luxury vehicles.

What the Navigator cannot be accused of is that old slander of being a tarted-up Ford. The last Navigator’s interior was a grab bag of Ford parts under a dual-cowl dash, but you have to look hard to find any shared parts now. Even the few you can find, such as the headlight and trailer backup assist knobs, have been trimmed in chrome to look the part. The materials and build quality, both of which are impeccable, are also decidedly not Ford. Every surface you touch and most of the ones you don’t are rich, authentic leathers, wood, and suede. Were I king, the knobs would move with a heavy fluidity like a high-end stereo (or a Lexus), but they make a satisfying click as is. The optional 30-way power seats both look the mid-century modern part and are impressively comfortable. You might not use all 30 functions, but you’ll be able to customize your comfort more precisely than any other car save the Continental (which also uses them). Thankfully, everything from the seat, mirror, pedal, and steering wheel settings to radio presets and climate preferences can be saved in individual profiles, which can even be linked to individual key fobs.

The second row is all mechanical, and as nice as it is, there’s something left on the table there. Oh, the standard captain’s chairs are quite comfortable, and even the optional bench is, too. The middle seat is narrow, and the cushions feel a bit firmer than the outboard seats, but the bench comfortably seats three adults, especially because there’s no hump in the floor. The climate controls on the back of the center console are nicely presented, as are the seat back screens for the optional entertainment system. The drop-down cupholders at the base of the console look surprisingly cheap and flop open in a way you wouldn’t expect with every other moving piece in the interior so well controlled. The Black Label–exclusive rear center console is as classy as the one up front and nicely integrates climate and stereo controls.

What’s missing, and where Lincoln has an opportunity to go further upmarket with future trim levels, is an executive rear-seat package à la the Ranger Rover SV Autobiography and Volvo XC90. More than a few people will be chauffeured in Navigators, and adding those 30-way seats and a champagne chiller to the second row would really catch some favorable attention.

The third row remains a Navigator strength. It has surprisingly comfortable seats, a flat floor, and lots of head-, shoulder-, knee-, and elbowroom. Third-row passengers even get USB charging ports, but they have to make do with plastic panels everywhere, not leather and wood. No one offers a fancy third row, though, so we can’t blame Lincoln for that. The seats power flat into the floor for extra cargo space. The second-row seats, meanwhile, tilt and slide forward to create a reasonably large access space to the third row.

With everyone settled in and the Navigator off and moving, we can return our attention to the driver’s seat. Up there, the steering is light and slow, just as you’d expect in a big luxury yacht. Despite that, the turning circle is shockingly small, even in four-wheel-drive models. Although Lincoln has officially eschewed sportiness in favor of outright luxury and comfort, the Navigator handles surprisingly well. The body rolls far less than you’d expect, and the motions are well-controlled. When you’re late for the luncheon down the mountain, you’ll have no trouble making up time.

Helping the cause are 450 horsepower and 510 lb-ft behind the mammoth grille. This Raptor-sourced variant of the 3.5-liter twin-turbo EcoBoost V-6 makes more than enough power for the ne from PerformanceJunk WP Feed 3 http://ift.tt/2gMasda via IFTTT

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itsworn · 7 years ago

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His Battered old Relic Turned out to be a 1932 Ford 3-Window Coupe with New England Racing History

Buried.

Years ago, Dave Simard, who is known for building elaborate street rods out of Leominster, Massachusetts, picked up an old stock car from Harvey Price. Harvey had dug the relic, a ’32 three-window coupe, out of a sand pit in Lunenburg, Massachusetts. In the early 1990s, Bruce Tonneson bought the stock car’s body and a ’32 Victoria body from Dave and then left them at Howard Towne’s shop on his way home. After the parts sat around for a while—two years, it turns out—Howard ended up selling the stock car body back to Dave. Dave needed the right rear quarter, the only good panel on the body, to complete another ’32 three-window. Howard had two other three-window bodies that were in far better shape, so it wasn’t hard for him to give up the old car. Had he known its history at the time, though, things might have been very different.

Dave then sold what was left of the body to Fred Ferrah, who used some of its parts to raise the roof on his chopped ’32 three-window. Fred took what was left of the car to the Hershey swap meet to unload it, but none of it sold. He then went to the Amherst, New Hampshire, flea market in 2002 to see if anyone would take it. A friend of Howard’s out of Enfield, New Hampshire, bought it all and then asked Howard if he was interested in any of the parts. Though he wasn’t too keen on them, Howard decided to take a look and ended up taking all the parts home. To Howard, it seemed like he did his best to get rid of the car, but it just kept coming back. Everywhere he went, he kept bumping into pieces of it.

An old friend of Howard’s, Randy Haubrich from Grafton, Massachusetts, also had old stock cars, and he was visited often by Marty Harty, who sold tools, air hoses, jackstands, and so on, out of his van. On one trip Marty brought by some pictures of stock cars he had built long ago to share with Randy. One looked familiar to Randy, so he brought Marty up to meet Howard to confirm the car in the photograph was indeed the same car Howard had sitting there. Sure enough, the images depicted the same holes in the body as well as the door welds and other unique features. Howard had the car known as 000.

Special Number

At this point Marty began to give Howard the whole history, although now Howard had a lot more to fix than if he had kept the coupe the first time it was in his hands.

The 000 name was not something Marty liked, but this was a special number for Jim Travers. In the spring of 1959, Jim paid Marty $700 to have the car built and ready to race in just a week’s time. Jim and his wife came to Marty’s junkyard and picked out the only three-window he had at the time. With the help of his brother, Marty finished the build with a ’56 Dodge Royal Blue Metallic paint job and Jim’s name on the driver side.

000 ran exhaust stacks, as seen in many of the early images, until Memorial Day 1959, when they were removed, leaving the mounting holes still visible on the sides of the body. That year Jim went to the Indy 500 with Marty’s brother to see the race, and while he was gone, Marty figured somebody should drive the coupe to keep the points up. Fred Borden drove 000 that night and won everything, though Jim was upset they had altered the car without his authorization. But if Fred hadn’t raced while Jim was away, Jim would never have won the Brookline, New Hampshire, championship. 000 raced in 1959 on four tracks, in Hudson and Brookline, New Hampshire, as well as West Peabody and Westbourough, Massachusetts. After that season, it was sold.

Howard decided to restore the coupe back to that very day in 1959. It would take him eight years, off and on, to complete the project. He had to find another quarter-panel plus other pieces to put the roof back that had been cut out. He saved everything else, like the chassis, and kept as much of the original body as possible. Howard even decided to fix some items you normally wouldn’t do, like cutting up postage-stamp-size pieces of metal to fill the Swiss-cheesed body, taking a considerable amount of time.

The hardest challenge was fixing the rough body without buying new parts. The door skins, for example, had been welded right into the hull so the driver had to climb through the window. Howard decided to imitate the look and was able to locate the original driver-side doorskin that had been ripped off previously. He mounted it to the wooden frame behind the original welds, but he also made the passenger door open and shut so he wouldn’t have to get in the car through a window.

With the body coming together, Howard began to further study Marty’s photographs, ask him questions, and examine the parts he had from 000 to complete the rest. For instance, the car didn’t come with a front or rear suspension, so Marty described how, instead of using shackles, he had anchored the front spring solid on one side and made it slide on the other side (and was able to shim to adjust height for track requirements). That kept the spring action, but the front end wouldn’t sway with shocks mounted up high.

Obsolete

Marty also informed him that the five-vented rear wheels were ’39-’42 Ford 3/4-ton wheels, compared to the normal ’36-’39 Ford passenger-car front wheels. Apparently in the 1950s, you could get the rear wheels from the Ford garage because they were obsolete and nobody wanted them. For a race car, though, they were stronger and an inch wider. Howard was able to find five of them while building the project.

The 1959 image shows the engine quite clearly. It’s a ’37 21-stud, 85hp motor with water pumps in the block. Howard went through three engines before finding one without cracks, then had machine work done before putting it together. While the coil is a ’42-’48 Ford and the fuel pump has a glass bowl, Howard did install a generator instead of the original idler. Howard also added a few gauges for convenience, so he could monitor the engine for overheating.

From the vintage image, it was determined there was no toe board, so Howard left it that way but may add one later. The bulky steering linkage was a universal joint from power-take-offs used on dump trucks, which Howard found at a flea market for $10 each brand new. This helped, as the steering shaft doesn’t come straight off the steering box because it’s a later model. Marty also advised that 000 steered off the right front spindle, not the left (typical for the car) because it was better for racing.

As the build neared completion, Howard was contacted by Jim’s half-brother Richard, who is the kid in many of the images Marty had. Richard told Howard that while Jim had moved to California, he was still in Massachusetts. He drove up to New Hampshire to see the project just before it was finished and has been in touch since then.

Howard then started wrapping up the build. He used a ’36 Ford steering wheel, since that’s what the coupe had in one of the old photos. The pedals could be seen in a photo, looking like ’32 pedals modified to work hydraulic brakes. The remains of the original ignition switch were in the car when Howard had it, so he replaced the knife switch that was used for ignition. The seat was still in it, so he had the frame to work with plus Marty’s memory to fill in the details. With the interior done, Marty and Richard then signed 000. The images do show a rollcage, which is the next item to install, and Howard plans on reusing as much of the original as possible.

While traveling to several historical track race nights, a little more of the 000’s history from the 1980s surfaced. That’s when Harvey Price got it out of that Lunenburg sand pit, and where they later were allowed by the land owner to dig up the original motor that had been pried out while removing 000 from the ground.

Saved from Mother Nature’s burial, 000 is now cruising around the New Hampshire mountains thanks to Howard. It’s that rare race car that got away, but just kept coming back!

Howard Towne owned this race car survivor more than 20 years ago but wasn’t aware of its New England heritage as he donated its parts to other regional builders. Luckily, the coupe kept coming back to his yard until it was identified.

The Ford was in rough shape when Howard first rescued it from the New England weather. After becoming aware of its history, he sought to keep as much of the original steel as possible, leading to hours of metalwork.

The exhaust stacks that were originally on 000 are seen in many of the early images of the car, including this one with Jim Travers and his half-brother Richard. The stacks came off on Memorial Day 1959, though the mounting holes were still visible on the sides of the body.

This mostly stock ’37 flathead was coupled to a ’39 Ford transmission. Howard used Marty’s images and knowledge of the build to obtain the correct period parts. Howard went through three engines before finding one without cracks, then he had machine work done before final assembly using stock carbs and other components that were identified in the old photos.

Here is the 3.78:1-ratio rearend, suspended using a ’38 Ford spring with extra leaves that were flattened and ground to fit a ’32 welded crossmember under the Model T gas tank.

The front suspension used a Model A spring with extra leaves that were fixed at one end while the other side was adjustable to allow tuning to the track requirements. The stopping power is provided by ’40 Ford brakes.

The bulky steering linkage was a universal joint from power-take-offs used on dump trucks. Howard found them at a flea market for $10 each brand new. Marty told Howard that 000 steered off the right front spindle, unlike the way a normal ’32 steers from the left, as it was better for racing.

Marty used Ford 3/4-ton wheels on the rear end when he was building 000 because they were stronger than passenger car wheels, an inch wider, and nobody wanted them because they were obsolete at the time. To set up the car as if it were headed for the track, Howard put a 550-16 on the left front, a 600-16 on the right front and left rear, then a 650-16 for the right rear.

While the coupe’s interior was mostly stripped to shed weight for racing, the Metro van seat was still in it, giving Howard a frame to work with. Tom’s Tops and Trim reupholstered the seat.

Marty’s old photos of 000 helped Howard get many of the interior details right, including the ’36 Ford steering wheel.

Old photos also revealed that the car used original ’32 pedals, modified to actuate the ’40 hydraulic brakes. There was no toe board in those old pictures, so Howard left it out, for now, anyway.

Some years ago, Howard’s friend Randy Haubrich thought something looked familiar in one of the old stock car photos Marty Harty was sharing at the time. These door welds, along with some holes in the body, confirmed the ’32 Ford was 000. Howard was able to locate the original doorskin that had been ripped off previously, which he mounted to the wooden frame behind the original welds.

It would take Howard eight years off and on to complete the build. Now 000 looks very much like it did in 1959 and is a blast to drive on the winding New Hampshire dirt roads.

The post His Battered old Relic Turned out to be a 1932 Ford 3-Window Coupe with New England Racing History appeared first on Hot Rod Network.

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