Archived Comparison
This story was conceived—hatched actually, whole and squirming on the kitchen floor—when the executive editor, following a fretful stop-and-go drive from the rehab center, made one of those pronouncements Laurent Kabila finds so alluring. "The problem with America," said the EE, "is that every citizen who ever entertained the notion of owning a car can own a car. Ergo, clogged highways. I'll tell you, vehicles are like VCRs, personal computers, and charities with the word ‘Kids’ in the title—too affordable and thus ubiquitous."
About 30 seconds of silence followed.
Then, "Oh, yeah, Mister Cash-in-His-Pants," replied senior editor Steven Cole Smith. "What's the price of admission these days?"
In too deep to withdraw, the EE selected a figure, having contemplated it for perhaps four seconds. "One thousand bucks," he blurted. "For that, you can own a decent car in America—minimal upkeep, relatively reliable, and you can go out and make a half-dozen daily trips to the 7-Eleven and thereby induce gridlock coast to coast."
Really? Only $1000?
Maybe. It was our task to find out.
This we planned to do in an artfully fashioned 11-contest Special Olympics of Beaters (S.O.B.) in which, naturally, an array of semidangerous speed events would be integral to buttressing the EE's thesis, which, by this point, he had largely forgotten. It would work like this: Each of three editors would be entrusted with $1000 cash (and, at the same time, would be fitted for a deluxe electronic ankle collar) with which to purchase the beater of his choice.
As a kind of gratuitously cerebral afterthought, there was also a geographical stipulation. Technical director Frank Markus was to purchase something European. Senior editor Phil Berg was to purchase something Asian. Smith was to purchase something American.
"Blatz beer, for instance?" he asked.
There existed, in theory, a kernel or two of investigative high-mindedness in all of this. In part, we'd experience a microscopic sampling of thoroughly used cars; in part, we could test the mettle of original assembly from three culturally diverse constructors; and, in part, we could impose a reality check on editors accustomed to driving week-old Benzes and Acuras whose clocks still ticked and whose ignitions still ignited the first time, every time.
"Tell me, this isn't simply an elaborate ruse to wreck cars, is it?" asked editor-in-chief Csere as he doled out the $1000 stipends.
"Oh, God, no," replied Berg, looking perplexed and offended. "What must you think of us? But if, you know, a car or two accidentally became entangled in a couple of bizarre crashes, I mean, that would still be, like, totally the magazine's money, right?"
Right.
BUYING IT
If it is the journey and not the destination that shapes men's souls, then Phil Berg's soul is shaped something like a Birds Eye meat pie. Berg journeyed to Amelia, Ohio, where he purchased a '79 Mazda RX-7 for $700. "The owner was gonna drop a Chevy small-block in it," he learned. "His wife said, 'Honey, I definitely do not think so.'"
The Mazda, which had 145,000 organic miles on it, came without keys. "The owner was using a small cold chisel jammed into the ignition," Berg reported. "And the tank was so rusty that the guy had to change fuel filters every week, so he moved the pickup tube higher so it wouldn't suck up rust. Now it runs out of gas whenever the tank is two-thirds empty."
Naturally, during Berg's test drive on Interstate 275, the RX-7 ran out of fuel faster than a Donovan Bailey–Michael Johnson race.
"A woman in a Ciera wagon stopped,” Berg said. "'God told me to pick you up,' she said. 'He loves you, you know."'
The Mazda had once been blue but was now antiglare flat black. The brake lines were leaking, the steering box was loose, the tie rods were shot, two tires were bald, and the exhaust was dragging. Berg spent an extra $297 to make it "trackworthy"—a Bergism meaning, "I added a bunch of lights and loose wires"—and his itemized list of investments shows a more-than-passing familiarity with Bar's Leaks (contains patented Rhizex pellets!), 10 ounces at a gulp.
"It may look a little rough," said our big Norwegian unit as he flicked mouse droppings from the RX-7's ripped seats, "but I am ready to represent Asia. Think of my car as 'The Spirit of Hong Kong'—about to get its ass kicked by angry men in small, frayed sport coats."
Representing Europe—Pennsylvania, actually—was Frank Markus. Initially, Markus investigated a '67 Benz 250SE. The ad for it read: "A steal at $1000. Needs work."
"Didn't run at all," noted Markus.
He checked out a '72 Porsche 914 with a "fiberglass 916 conversion kit."
"Didn't run at all," Markus repeated, without irony.
The tech director was poised to purchase an '84 Saab 900 Turbo whose owner confessed, "Just needs a new starter—the mounting plate has busted off." Markus called Saab headquarters and talked to an Irish technician. "Yeah, it's not hard to fix," the mechanic said. "Pull off the turbo plumbing, then drop the clutch, plus the throw-out bearing and the slave cylinder. Oh, and don't forget the flywheel. Then it's just a matter of undoing a few bolts."
Seven investigations later, Markus came across a Pennsylvania-built '82 VW Rabbit—156,000 miles, $800—whose owner had transformed it into a GTI. Perfect. With his leftover cash, Markus aligned the front suspension, reglued the headliner in place, slapped on four used tires, and twisted the distributor about 40 degrees until the engine achieved the idle resonance of a Huey over Hue.
Earning valuable bonus points was a bullet hole in the left-rear fender. Markus waxed the perimeter of this wound "to catch the sun in a dazzling fashion," he explained. And he appeared equally proud of a bumper sticker affixed by a previous owner: "Fukengrüven," it said, thus promising to enrage bumper-ogling Methodist constables throughout lower Michigan.
Meanwhile, Steve Smith lost many valuable bonus points when—this is so sad—his wife discovered a Camaro Berlinetta parked outside a hair salon. No suffering was involved. The car just showed up: an '84 automatic, three owners, with a 5.0-liter V-8 and a four-barrel carb. Our road test of this precise model concluded in January 1984: "Excellent alternatives exist just a pencil's width away."
Nonetheless, Smith's Camaro ran fine with a mere 81,000 miles under its polyester belt, although the vehicle's left door appeared to have been rammed by one of those mid-size electric commuter locomotives in service in Connecticut. Smith seemed sensitive about this—"a mere matter of a moment's inattention," he assured—so we never unearthed the true story and may have to await the arrival of revealing court documents.
Smith's Camaro we dubbed "Uncle Buck." Markus's Rabbit somehow took on the nickname "Tricia Nixon." And Berg's RX-7 acquired the happy-go-lucky moniker "That Total Shitbox in the Parking Lot."
Winner: RX-7 (most pain and suffering, had to be towed home)
Runner-Up: Rabbit
Total Loozer: Camaro
ACCELERATION (what there was of it)
In our 0-to-60 and quarter-mile tests (see chart, or for that matter, see Dick, see Jane, etc.), the victor, by a wide margin, was the not-found-in-the-NHRA Rabbit. Meanwhile, the Camaro and the RX-7, as described by photographer Aaron Kiley, "moved with the same agility and grace as mucilage."
"Single-digit 0-to-60 times, all the way," crowed Markus. That his 15-year old vehicle had accelerated to 60 mph 7/10ths of a second quicker than the original model, he explained, "was the natural outcome of pro driving. Plus, there's this new engine. Praise Jesus."
Smith was stunned by his Camaro's lackluster 11.2-second sprint to 60 mph. "Traction bars and Mickey Thompson retreads are what she'd be wanting," he blurted, obviously regretting the cavalier expenditure of his entire $1000 stipend. Smith later contented himself with a Pyrrhic victory in top-gear passing prowess. "Pyrrhic this," he was heard to shout, grabbing roughly at a portion of personal anatomy whose function and location we need not itemize in elaborate detail.
Winner: Rabbit
Runner-Up: Camaro
Total Loozer: RX-7
