Vintage Hot Rods Snaps

BMW 507 Roadster

BMW 507 Roadster

By Jack Nerad for Driving Today

Sometimes great cars achieve significant commercial success. Witness the Model T Ford and Volkswagen Beetle as obvious examples. Other times, great cars make virtually no impact on the market, save to point the way for others to follow. The Cord 810 and Chrysler Airflow are prominent examples of this phenomenon. Sadly, the BMW 507 roadster also falls into this significant but ill-fated category. Born in the glory days of the true sports car, raised with a distinguished pedigree and built to the highest of standards, the 507 failed miserably at achieving commercial success, which is a great shame considering its many virtues.
To set the stage for the entrance of the 507, let us travel back in time to the immediate aftermath of World War II. Like most of the war-ravaged German auto industry, BMW was in tatters. Its auto manufacturing facilities, what were left of them after Allied bombing and occupation, were in Eisenach, behind the rapidly closing Iron Curtain of Russian-occupied East Germany.
In BMW's hometown of Munich, the heavily damaged factories were equipped to build only motorcycles, so re-entering the car business after the war was a lengthy and tortuous process. It wasn't until the tail end of 1949, four years after the war in Europe had ended, that the BMW motorcycle plant resumed production in any meaningful numbers. And it wasn't until 1951 than BMW offered its first postwar car model, a sedan whose prewar lineage was depressingly obvious.
Once motorcar production began, however, BMW made rapid progress. In fact, in true business terms you might make the claim that BMW's progress was too rapid. Despite the fact that the Europe of the early Fifties was still in a desperate economic slump, struggling mightily to rebuild, BMW seemed bent on hitching its fortunes to luxury cars. With this dubious strategy in mind, the company unmasked its first production aluminum-alloy V8 engine in 1954, despite the fact that the super-sophisticated offering was likely to find few buyers. The 502 sedan that used the new engine was largely a sales dud, which then sent BMW execs scurrying off in widely disparate directions.
At the 1955 Frankfurt Motor Show, BMW continued the logical extension of the 502 theme with the 503 coupe and cabriolet and, the subject of this profile, the 507 Roadster. Almost in tandem with those introductions, though, BMW unveiled the Isetta Motocoupe, a cross between a car and a motorcycle that borrowed heavily on a similar Italian vehicle. A prestige car the Isetta certainly was not, but it would gain for BMW the volume that the 502, 503 and 507 would never provide.
Many lay the creation of the 507 Roadster at the door of estimable car importer Max Hoffmann, who is credited with the success of a number of European brands in the tumultuous postwar market in the U.S. Hoffman usually had a great sense of what would sell, and he persuaded the BMW brass that a roadster version of the 502 would offer the company a great chance to compete with the likes of Jaguar and Mercedes-Benz in the mid to upper echelons of the prestige car market.
Hoffmann wielded a great deal of power because the European sports car manufacturers, including the above-mentioned marques plus Porsche, Ferrari, Maserati and Aston Martin, were dependent on the American market. Most of those companies sold more than 50 percent of their production in America, because the struggling European economies, some hobbled by incipient socialism, just weren't producing the requisite disposable income. So Max bent the ear of the BMW executives, and they bought his message.
It was a reasonably easy sale, because the mechanicals for the 507 Roadster were more or less in place. The key component was the lovely little 3.2-liter all-alloy V-8 engine. While some might tell you that 3168 cubic centimeters is too little displacement to get the advantages of the V-8 configuration, the engine was one of the technical marvels of its day. Without stressing the little two-valve powerplant in the least, it produced 150 horsepower at 5,000 rpm in its original form. Later examples were tweaked to produce 160 horsepower at a headier 5,600 rpm, and when the compression ratio was bumped from 7.8:1 to 9:1 the diminutive engine was said to deliver 195 horsepower. In a vehicle with a lightweight aluminum body, that made for stirring performance versus the other sports cars of the age.
The chassis -- no simple affair -- was constructed of tubular and box-section steel. It was similar to the chassis of the 502 sedan, but cut down and otherwise altered for sports car use. The front suspension was independent, using unequal-length A-arms with torsion bars as the springing mechanism and telescopic shocks for damping. The rear was less dramatic: a "full-floating" live axle sprung with torsion bars.
Of course, styling is crucial to the success of a sports car, and BMW's initial attempt at styling what would become the 507 was given the thums-down by Hoffmann and others who saw it. Pressed for time (and talent), BMW turned to an outside designer who was a protégé of legendary industrial and auto designer Raymond Loewy. Count Albrecht Graf Goertz, who had come to America to work with Loewy, reportedly got the assignment by drawing up some sketches on spec and submitting them to the BMW board. However the deal came to be made, the good count was thrust into a fast-moving project. He and his team completed the design work for the lovely aluminum body in a very short span, and the BMW craftsman picked up the gauntlet and completed the 507 prototype in time for display at the 1955 Frankfurt Motor Show.
By any measure, the BMW 507 is a gorgeous design. It is exceedingly low and thin in section, giving it a spare, athletic look, like a marathon runner. Largely bereft of the chrome that was ladled onto American designs of the same period, the 507 did offer the highlight of small chrome grilles tastefully integrated into the front fenders behind the simple round wheel cutouts. This treatment was so elegant that BMW designers copped it virtually intact for their recent Z8 roadster. At the front, round headlights flank the widened but still recognizable BMW "kidney" grilles. The rear is even simpler with a chrome trunk handle and thin chrome bumper interrupting the meld of fender and trunk. Twin exhausts peeked out from underneath the spare body.
Inside, the 507 was equally purposeful. The simple painted metal dash contained round clock, tachometer and speedometer plus simple radio and heater/vent controls. The two bucket seats, though low in the body, placed their occupants relatively high versus the very low door tops.
With its stunning good looks the 507 wowed the attendees at the Frankfurt Motor Show. But it would be almost a year before BMW could get the car into production and then into showrooms. Along the way the complicated nature of the chassis and engine necessitated a high list price. While there was little question as to the 507's beauty, buyers found that the could purchase the Mercedes-Benz 300SL for slightly less money, while a top of the line Porsche of the era was even less expensive. And, of course, both of those cars had racing pedigrees, while the 507 had none.
Dissuaded by the hefty price tag, luxury sports car drivers stayed away from the 507 in droves. Though production continued into 1959, only 252 of the startling little beauties were built. Oddly, Elvis Presley, noted more for his fondness for massive Cadillacs, was the biggest of the big-name buyers. After the financially disastrous 507 experiment, BMW would shy away from true open-top sports cars for decades.

Porsche 911

Porsche 911

By the mid-1950's Porsche had come a long way from the backwoods operation it had been in the grim aftermath of World War II. In the midst of horrible adversity, Ferry Porsche had somehow established his company as a genuine auto manufacturer and had begun to create an international reputation for innovation in the sports car arena.

Moving from the wilderness of Gmund back to Stuttgart in 1949 was a giant step, sending Porsche on its way to making the transition from oddball upstart to solidly successful sports car manufacturer. Despite being relatively new to the marketplace, Porsche street machines gained distribution to many countries around the world.

Various versions of the 356 were the basis for Porsche's early commercial success, but Ferry Porsche was convinced that for his cars to win greater acceptance in the marketplace victories on the racetrack were not just desirable; they were crucial. He was also realist enough to understand that the 356 had definite limitations as a racing car. To address those limitations Porsche decided that an entirely new design was needed.

But before Porsche engineers could get going on the race car project, Porsche ran into an unexpected cash flow problem and, by late 1951, it was teetering on the edge of receivership. Redemption came from an unexpected source - Studebaker.

In the spring of 1952, the venerable but still inventive American car company contracted with Porsche to develop a new model for sale in the United States. That model never materialized, but the design fees kept Porsche afloat when it might well have gone under and, further, it helped finance Porsche involvement in racing. (The sports car that Studebaker eventually brought to market, the Avanti, was very un-Porschelike in styling and engineering.)

Porsche's early racing efforts were aided immeasurably by Walter Glockler, a Frankfurt-based Volkswagen dealer who built a series of racing machines powered by VW engines. By 1953 Glockler and Porsche were cooperating so closely that Glockler's race cars bore Porsche badges, and later that year the Frankfurt dealer helped Porsche launch its famed 550.

The 550 was exactly what Ferry Porsche had been aiming for from about 1950 onwards - a true racing machine that could carry the Porsche name to glory at famous racing venues like Le Mans, Pebble Beach and Mexico's Carrera Panamericana. Like most racing cars that campaign more than one season, the 550 was a work-in-progress. Originally equipped with a pushrod VW engine fitted to a ladder frame, the 550 eventually used Porsche's Ernst Fuhrmann-designed four-cam engine in a rigid space frame to cut a swath through sports car racing in the mid-Fifties with class wins at Le Mans and in the Carrera. Amateur racer James Dean was at the wheel of a 550 Spyder and on his way to a central California race when he met his Maker in September 1955.

As the Fifties came to a close Porsche introduced the 356 B, a deftly altered version of the original Porsche model and a version that some claimed showed definite American influence. Among these touches were bigger bumpers and a heavier dose of chrome.

While purists decried the changes, the cash registers at Porsche dealerships rang like never before. It also provided the inspiration for an entirely new Porsche model that would eventually replace the beloved 356.

The seeds of the 356 replacement began to be sown as early as 1956 when Ferry Porsche issued a directive to designers and engineers contemplating a new model. Their germination accelerated rapidly on June 9, 1960, when Porsche management approved the decision to develop a six-cylinder engine for passenger car use. Up until then Porsche had been a company that relied on four-cylinder power, be it of Volkswagen origins or the significantly more robust four-camshaft wonder designed by Ernst Fuhrmann. By 1960, however, it had become quite clear that a bigger engine was necessary to remain competitive in the marketplace. That year, for instance, the Chevrolet Corvette offered a fuel-injected 283 cubic-inch V-8 that developed 290 horsepower. Despite the fact that the Corvette's suspension was far less sophisticated than the 356's, with that amount of horsepower on tap, the Chevrolet could leave the Porsche sucking dust.

Late in 1961, the heat under the new project grew when the Porsche managing committee sanctioned the creation of an all-new body for the 356. To be designed by Butzi Porsche, one of Ferry Porsche's sons, the re-design was to be a two-seater, not a two-plus-two, with the extra space given over to luggage room.

What emerged at the 1963 Frankfurt auto show was something quite different. Instead of being a re-bodied 356, the concept car that graced the show stand that year was completely new. It had a new engine - a horizontally opposed air-cooled single overhead cam six cylinder. It had a new suspension - rear swing axles giving way to a much a more sophisticated arrangement of semi-trailing arms and torsion bars. And it had a new body - an exterior that suddenly made the 356 look dated while, at the same time, carrying on in its tradition.

The body Butzi Porsche designed for what would become the 911 is, without question, one of the most stellar automotive creations in history. The word "timeless" is thrown at designs with cliched regularity in the car business, but none can doubt that the 911's body is one for the ages. Penned more than 35 years ago, it looks absolutely contemporary today. And while the early Sixties did offer some attractive designs, none of them had the staying power of the 911. (If you need proof , consider this: the 1963 Buick Riviera, 1963 Chevrolet Corvette Stingray or 1965 Ford Mustang, while all well-drawn cars, would seem absurd if they were offered to the public today, yet the 911 would fit in as well now as when it was new.)

First shown to the public wearing prominent TYP 901 tags, the model designation of the new Porsche was changed to 911 because Peugeot held the European rights to all three-digit model numbers with a "0" middle digit. Though it debuted in late 1963, it wasn't until a year later that the first production 911's started appearing in showrooms. The amazing thing is that, even in these days of rapid innovation and incredible competition, the model's appearance in Porsche showrooms has never stopped. It has been one of the few constants from the Johnson administration through the Clinton years.

Critics will debate this assertion for months on end, but arguably the greatest 911 of them all was the Carrera 911 RS of 1972-1973. Only a little over 1,500 of these specials were produced, but they have created a saga that still lives 25 years later.

With the flat-six bored out to 2.7-liters, the Carrera RS offered 210 horsepower at 5100 rpm, which was fed through a close-ratio five-speed gearbox to the rear wheels. With the RS body lightened from the standard 911 curb weight of 2,200 pounds to under 2,000, this lightweight rocket could accelerate from zero to 60 miles per hour in just 5.6 seconds. Top speed, aided by the odd Burzel rear spoiler, was 150 miles per hour.

The Carrera 911 RS, in nearly streetable form, won the 1973 24 Hours of Daytona. It was just one of hundreds of memorable racing victories for the 911, part of a tradition that continues to this day and shows no signs of slowing down.

The VINTAGE h0t rods

Welcome to the world of vintage hot rods..........

Great Classic Cars

AMC Rebel Machine

By Jack Nerad for Driving Today They say BMW is "The Ultimate Driving Machine," but before the now-legendary German brand took that moniker for itself there was another, far more humble car, that dubbed itself simply "The Machine." It was built, not by Bavarian Motor Works but by American Motors, and despite its mundane underpinnings, if The Machine had ever squared off against a contemporary BMW, it would have blown it back into the Black Forest. Which is not to say The Machine was the ultimate "ultimate driving machine," but in its own idiosyncratic way the American Motors Rebel Machine, a model you probably don't remember, but a model whose single year was a great one, somehow, someway deserves to be considered among the Greatest Cars of All Time. These days, of course, American Motors is simply a footnote in automotive history. If the marque is ever considered all, it is with disdain. Perhaps it is fitting that one of its precursor companies -- Nash -- merged with Kelvinator, a maker of refrigerators, because if any company has a reputation for building "appliance cars" it was American Motors. Not only did the company build low-powered "compact cars" during the late Fifties when other American car companies were flexing their muscles by unleashing bigger and bigger V-8s, but American Motors also had the audacity to spring the Renault-based Alliance small car on a largely unsuspecting public before it and the company itself vanished from the scene. Surely this heritage gives no hint that a greatest car or two lies under the American Motors bushel, but, strangely enough there was a bright, shining half-decade when lowly American Motors gained a reputation for building attractive, sporty cars. Two models do the heavy lifting in this era -- the Javelin and AMX -- near twins that were launched one after the other in the heady days of 1967. Of course, neither of these worthies was an original idea. The Javelin was stylist Dick Teague's clean, modern take on the Ford Mustang formula, while the AMX was Corvette in spirit if not in form. But as the youth car craze struck America in the late 1960's, AMC added a couple of other sub-models in an attempt (the unkind would say "feeble attempt") to keep up with the plethora of performance chariots from the Big 3. One of these was the SC/Rambler forged by dumping a 390 cubic-inch V-8 into the engine bay of the prosaic American Motors Rambler, a vehicle that, in its base form, could well have been called the American Motors Kelvinator. The other is the subject of this essay, the 1970 American Motors Rebel Machine. Talk about a Rebel Without a Cause. First of all, in those days of General Motors' dominance in the U.S. market, it was amazing American Motors was even around to compete. Forged from two "independent" car companies -- Hudson and the aforementioned Nash - that had labored in the shadow of the Big 3, American Motors was always an outsider, trying to make it way with fewer resources in what was becoming an ever-more-complicated business. After the merger between Nash and Hudson, the company decided to continue on Nash's course of building small, relatively fuel-efficient cars like the Rambler, while GM, Ford and Chrysler built ever-larger vehicles. When a recession hit the car business hard in the late Fifties, this stood AM in good stead, but the Big 3 automakers were quick to catch on to building "compact" cars, and with the introduction of the Ford Falcon and Chevy Corvair, AMC was forced to get even more resourceful in its quest to maintain sales volume. AM's first answer to the epoch-changing Ford Mustang was the Marlin, an oddly attractive six-passenger sporty car that was much too big and lumbering to compete effectively in the pony car wars. Happily, it didn't take Teague long to recognize the folly of the Marlin and to right that wrong. By 1966 a full-size auto show concept car foretold the shape of the upcoming two-plus-two Javelin and the two-seat AMX. The AMX concept car got rave reviews on the auto show circuit, prompting Robert Evans, a financier who had bought into American Motors so heavily he found himself named chairman of the company, to build the AMX, while old AM hand Roy Abernethy pushed the Javelin for 1968 introduction. Somehow the American Motors was able to launch both models successfully within just a year's time, and the press immediately embraced both, though the bulk of the praise was showered on the Javelin The design co-opted the long hood-short deck Mustang profile, but it was uncluttered in a way quite unlike the Mustang with sweeping expanses of sheetmetal and a semi-fastback roofline. The split grille front-end was equally uncluttered, matched by a tasteful rear-end treatment with none of the fussiness of the Mustang's three-part taillights. In fact, it was hard to believe that this pure design had emerged from an American studio. In its first model year some 55,000 Javelins roared out of showrooms, and it maintained a steady volume into the early 1970's. One factor that helped build the prestige of the car was the successful racing exploits of engineer-driver Mark Donohue. Along with Roger Penske, Donohue made the Javelin a force to be reckoned with on the then extremely influential Trans Am racing circuit. In 1971 that combination combined for a Trans Am series championship with seven wins in nine races, and the Javelin took the T-A championship the following year as well. Meanwhile, the AMX, a truncated two-seat Javelin, somehow managed to be viewed as a somewhat credible competitor to the contemporary Corvette, despite its pedestrian, sedan-like underpinnings. But while these twins did give American Motors some presence in two important sporty car categories, the company still had no competitor in the musclecar segment that had been pioneered by the Pontiac GTO. Following the GTO, of course, were a plethora of similar rides featuring the same basic architecture -- big engines in medium-sized or smaller chassis. You know them: Oldsmobile 4-4-2, Chevrolet Chevelle SS 396, Plymouth Road Runner, etc, etc. Buoyed by the success of the Javelin, American Motors decided it could play in this sandbox, too, and introduced the previously mentioned SC/Rambler, a combination of 315-horsepower 390 cubic inch V-8 in a compact Rambler body. That short-lived exercise was replaced in the 1970 model year with The Machine. Again the engine of choice was the 390 cubic inch V-8, but this time the 6.4-liter engine was slipped under the ample hood of the mid-size Rebel model, which made it a straight-up competitor to the GTO, et al. At the same time the engine was upgraded to 340 horsepower (note this is SAE gross, not today's SAE net) by virtue of a four-barrel Motorcraft carburetor and other hot rod trickery. The torque figure was equally prodigious -- 430 pound-feet at a lazy 3600 rpm. In this car the engine was practically the entire story. Backed up with the requisite four-speed manual, The Machine could spring from zero to 60 miles per hour in just 6.4 seconds, a creditable showing even today. Additionally, AM did beef up the suspension, which was utterly conventional circa 1970 -- control arms and coil springs up front assisted by an anti-sway bar, while at the rear was a live axle spring again with coils and another anti-sway bar. With front discs and rear drums, braking was better than you might expect. Then there was the styling. The Rebel actually had a pretty clean, somewhat Chrysler-esque profile with a huge c-pillar and a long rear overhang. On the quintessential The Machine, this profile was done up with operating hood scoop, hood-mounted tach and red-white-and-blue racing stripes. Inside, in Road Runner fashion, it was equipped with bench seats fore and aft (room for six), and the instrument panel offered no hint that this was a performance car save for a passenger-side emblem that said The Machine. A similar emblem -- essentially a decal -- carried the same message on the front fenders. All this cost about $750 more than the base Rebel two-door of the era. Was it a big sales success? Not hardly. Just 2,000 Rebel Machines rolled out of AM showrooms in the 1970 model year, but that's not surprising since, by the time it debuted, American Motors was already preparing the Matador that would take its place. Okay, so it wasn't The Ultimate Driving Machine; nevertheless The Machine could still hold its head high in fast company.

Chevrolet Corvette Sting Ray

The first 10 years of Corvette history were years of struggle, experimentation and difficulty. Customer acceptance didn't come easy to the Corvette, and the design of a sports car didn't come easy to Chevrolet engineers.
But by the 1962 model year, all the trials and tribulations had vanished. The Corvette had found a profitable place in the General Motors lineup. Erstwhile challengers like the Nash-Healey and two-seat Ford Thunderbird had disappeared, and the Corvette had found its place among the elite of the world's sports cars.
And the best was yet to come.
Through the 1962 model year, the Corvette had earned its reputation through sheer power. Though the car handled far better than the sedans of the era, it was a far cry from the best of the European sports cars in terms of suspension sophistication. In fact, with the exception of the Corvette's fuel injection, sophisticated technology was absent from Chevrolet's sports car.
That would change, however, with the 1963 model year. The Corvette was given a second name, Sting Ray, and the chassis and body were new from the asphalt up. The changes gave the Corvette a level of sophistication the equal of any European sports machine.
Instead of the old X-braced frame, the new chassis, with a wheelbase of 98 inches compared to the previous 102 inches, had five cross members. The front suspension used unequal-length upper and lower arms with coil springs over tubular shocks. That was certainly modern in its approach, but it was nothing compared to the radical change made to the rear suspension. Out went the solid "live" axle of the previous edition Corvette, and in came an ingenious independent rear suspension that stepped the car up several notches in technology.
To get the benefits of independent suspension without bearing huge cost penalties, Corvette engineers, led by Zora Arkus-Duntov, mounted the differential to the frame and ran half-shafts to each wheel using universal joints at each end. Control arms extending from the case to the hub carriers and aft-mounted radius rods located the wheels, while tubular shock absorbers took care of damping. The cleverest part of the design was the use of a leaf spring fitted transversely from the differential and extending to each wheel. Not only was the design reasonably inexpensive to produce, it was also light and reduced the Corvette's unsprung weight considerably.
In tandem with the shorter wheelbase, the new independent suspension made the Corvette much more maneuverable and helped immensely in getting the Corvette's substantial power to the road. Maneuverability was further aided by the stiffer frame, which flexed much less than the previous version.
Improvements were also made to the Corvette's brakes, but they weren't the quantum leap that the chassis underwent. Instead of shifting to discs, the Corvette retained its huge 11-inch drum brakes, but the linings were widened for additional stopping power. Finned aluminum drums were offered optionally for those involved in "heavy-duty" (read, racing) situations.
Big brakes were necessary because there was little doubt the new Sting Ray was fast. The engine options were carryover, but since the 327 cubic inch version of the V-8 had been introduced just the year before, they were state-of-the-art American style. Four versions of the stout 327 were offered, three fitted with carburetors and the fourth with fuel injection. In base trim the Corvette delivered 250 horsepower, but step-ups could net 300, 340 or even 360 horsepower, the latter with fuel injection.
Most buyers opted for the milder carbureted versions, which were certainly potent enough. Not only was the fuel injection option expensive at $430 (yes, you read that right), it also came with solid valve lifters, which involved frequent adjustments.
In most instances when racing is involved in a vehicle's development it centers on mechanicals, not the body design, but in the Sting Ray's case it was just the opposite. The chassis and running gear of the Corvette were the result of the conventional corporate r&d process, but the Sting Ray body came straight from the race track.
William Mitchell, who had inherited the GM styling reins from Harley Earl, maintained a special "skunkworks" to tinker with various unofficial and semi-official projects. One of these was a sports racing car, built on a discarded Corvette prototype chassis.
With a body designed by Larry Shinoda, this "one-off " race car, dubbed the Sting Ray Special, won a Sports Car Club of America championship in 1960 with Dr. Richard Thompson behind the wheel. Oddly enough, the open car's body wasn't a particularly good shape for the track, because at speed it created front-end lift that made it a handful to steer. Nonetheless, the Sting Ray Special was the obvious inspiration for the 1963 Corvette Sting Ray.
Mitchell called in some of the top talent from GM styling to make the transition from racing car to street car, and their handiwork captured the essence of the racer without copying it line-for-line. But arguably the most important change for the 1963 model year was the addition of a coupe to the Corvette model range.
And the1963 coupe has become legendary, if for but one facet of its design - the split rear window. It is said that the first renderings showed a one-piece rear window, but then Mitchell suggested a "spine" down the middle, picking up the understated bulge that ran down the center of the lengthy hood and a narrower crease that shot through the center of the roofline. Others suggest that an inability to mold the rear glass into the radical curves of the one-piece backlight might have played a part in necessitating the split-window styling.
In any case, the split window was a distinctive element that got immediate notice both pro and con. Those with an aesthetic sense liked the distinctiveness, but a number of car critics whined about rear visibility. Their whining was so insistent that Chevrolet shifted to a conventional one-piece rear window for the 1964 model year.
Teaming with the split window treatment was a semi-boattail, fastback rear end, which was complemented by a front end that featured hidden headlamps. Elongated bulges marking each fender gave the design a muscular feel, while aluminum rocker panels tied the 1963 model to the 1962. With the doors cut deeply into the roofline, the Sting Ray looked a modern as a space capsule. The accompanying convertible model, which could be equipped with a factory-built hardtop, was somewhat less distinctive but still extremely handsome.
Corvette sales, already strong in 1962, went through the roof. More than 21,000 rolled off the St. Louis, Missouri, assembly lines in 1963.
Before the bodystyle was revised significantly for the 1968 model year, another important addition was introduced - the "big block" V-8. In 1965, the "396" cubic inch engine was added to the Sting Ray option sheet. (Actually the engine displaced more than 400 cubic inches, but 396 had a better ring to it.) Before the big block vanished it would eventually balloon to 427 and then 454 cubic inches, bringing with it romping-stomping loads of horsepower and torque.
No matter the engine, however, the Corvette Sting Ray of the era had few equals on road or track, and no equals at the price. It was truly America's sports car.

Volkswagen Beetle

If the history of the Volkswagen Beetle were presented as fiction, no one would believe it was plausible. What is now the most popular car the world has ever known suffered so many false starts and survived so much hardship, that it is difficult to imagine a harder road to success. Yet, somehow, the Volkswagen Beetle not only survived but prospered.
The roots of the Volkswagen date back to 1912 when Dr. Ferdinand Porsche designed a horizontally opposed four-cylinder aircraft engine that bore a remarkable similarity to the Beetle's powerplant. The Volkswagen saga doesn't really begin, however, until 1931, when Porsche was granted an assignment from Zundapp, a German motorcycle manufacturer that was giving thought to entering the automobile business.
Porsche seemed the perfect man for the assignment, because, after serving with Daimler through its merger with Benz in 1926, the good doctor was on his own as a Stuttgart, Germany-based engineer-for-hire. So successful was Porsche's enterprise that it employed about a dozen engineers and auto craftsmen, and it served as a "skunkworks" for several car companies' experimental projects. By the time Porsche and Zundapp got together, the Austrian-born engineer had already completed assignments for Horch, Wanderer and Mercedes-Benz.
The Porsche-designed Zundapp car featured a central frame, "streamlined" body and rear-mounted engine, the latter two, of course, hallmarks of the Volkswagen Beetle to come. A working prototype of the car was ready for testing in 1932, but with the motorcycle market heating up at the time, Zundapp lost interest in the project.
Disappointed and a little angry, Porsche then shopped the project to another motorcycle maker, NSU. That company was exploring the possibility of building a car in the 1.5-liter range, and Porsche's proposal filled the bill. Several more prototypes were built, including one with a two-stroke engine, and suspension was changed to a torsion bar-system before Porsche's boxer engine concept resurfaced. Porsche saw a great deal of promise in the final prototype, but NSU decided not to go into production with it.
At this point a less determined person, particularly one who was well off and well respected, might have dropped the whole idea and gone on to the next commission. But instead, Porsche sent a letter to the German government, extolling the virtues of his design and suggesting that it would be the perfect "People's Car." In fairly rapid fashion he got a reply from the German leader, a fellow by the name of Adolph Hitler, who challenged Porsche to develop and build a five-passenger car capable of all-day running at a 62 mile-per-hour top speed. To make certain it was true to its People's Car concept, Hitler also specified a low price target.
Under the watchful and not particularly cooperative eye of the Reichsverband der Automobilindustrie (the German motor industry association) work proceeded. Delays stretched the original 10-month contract to nearly two years, as the Porsche team set out to break new ground in the construction of a light, inexpensive automobile.
Despite the temptation to specify a more conventional engine, which might also have been cheaper, Porsche was convinced that his air-cooled rear-mounted flat-four was the right powerplant. He similarly believed that all-steel construction, including a torsionally rigid belly pan, would produce a high quality car equal to the task of high speed travel on Germany's new autobahns.
The first prototype was completed in 1935. Though it is definitely recognizable as a Volkswagen, the prototype did have some notable differences, including "bug-eye" headlights perched on the hood (actually the lid of the luggage compartment) and rear-hinged "suicide" doors. Designed by Erwin Komenda, the prototype did have the distinctive "beetle" shape, but it lacked running boards that would be a bow to tradition in the final design.
The Volkswagen concept evolved through two more prototypes -- a two-door sedan and a convertible - that were exhibited at the 1936 Berlin auto show. The German industry association was critical of the design, in part, because it threatened the status quo and, in part, because it failed to meet the established price bogey. With the Fuhrer behind the project, however, their efforts to de-rail the program failed, and a plan was instituted to build a "greenfield" factory to manufacture the car. With a planned production volume of one million units a year, none of the contemporary German factories had nearly enough capacity.
As construction of the factory proceeded, new prototypes of the vehicle were shown to the press and in the July 3, 1938 edition, the New York Times referred to the car, somewhat derisively, as the "Beetle." Hitler, however, had another name for it, dubbing it the KDF-Wagen, with the acronym KDF standing for Kraft Durch Freude (Strength Through Joy.)
With development testing finally behind it, the design was ready for production, and, though years had passed since Dr. Porsche first conceived it, the car was still ahead of its time. At the heart of the car was an 1131 cubic centimeter flat-four cylinder engine that droned out 24 horsepower. A fan forced air over the external ribs of each cylinder for cooling, and oil pump cum oil cooler also ensured proper lubrication. The engine was light enough that mounting it behind the rear axle did not prove too deleterious to handling, and it was tough enough to run all day at full throttle.
The compact engine was mated to a four-speed-plus-reverse gearbox built with an integral differential. Independently suspended half-shafts (so called "swing axles") transferred the power to each wheel. The shafts were located by trailing arms and sprung by torsion bars. The bars were firmly attached to the stamped steel body pan, which years later, would be the basis of many a dune buggy.
Atop all this was the bug-like body, actually larger and roomier than one might guess at first glance. The car could transport five passengers in relative comfort. By start of production the headlights had found their way onto the front of the fenders, flanking the droop-nose cargo hatch.
By 1939 the construction of the factory was proceeding smoothly, and more than 170,000 thrifty German citizens had signed up for the "Strength through Joy" savings program, which, they believed, would soon assure them delivery of a new KDF-Vagen. The German populace was hungry for the vehicles, since fewer than one in 30 owned a car.
But their hopes were dashed by the dreams of Hitler, who ordered the invasion of Poland in September 1939, starting World War II. By 1940 the still-uncompleted Volkswagen factory was converted to war production, building Kubelvagens, a Jeep-like vehicle. When the war ended in 1945, the British administrators of the area helped the factory get up and running again, building the Volkswagen for a variety of military, relief and governmental organizations.
The car didn't go on sale to the general public until 1947, and that same year Volkswagen signed its first export contract with a firm in the Netherlands. It was the start of what would be millions of units in exports. Finally, after hiring Heinrich Nordoff as managing director in 1948, the British relinquished control of Volkswagen the following year, and the company was free to pursue its own destiny. That destiny would result in sales of some 20 million Volkswagen Beetles worldwide, as VW rose from the ashes to become Europe's biggest car maker and one of the most innovative car makers in the world.

Porsche 911

By the mid-1950's Porsche had come a long way from the backwoods operation it had been in the grim aftermath of World War II. In the midst of horrible adversity, Ferry Porsche had somehow established his company as a genuine auto manufacturer and had begun to create an international reputation for innovation in the sports car arena.
Moving from the wilderness of Gmund back to Stuttgart in 1949 was a giant step, sending Porsche on its way to making the transition from oddball upstart to solidly successful sports car manufacturer. Despite being relatively new to the marketplace, Porsche street machines gained distribution to many countries around the world.
Various versions of the 356 were the basis for Porsche's early commercial success, but Ferry Porsche was convinced that for his cars to win greater acceptance in the marketplace victories on the racetrack were not just desirable; they were crucial. He was also realist enough to understand that the 356 had definite limitations as a racing car. To address those limitations Porsche decided that an entirely new design was needed.
But before Porsche engineers could get going on the race car project, Porsche ran into an unexpected cash flow problem and, by late 1951, it was teetering on the edge of receivership. Redemption came from an unexpected source - Studebaker.
In the spring of 1952, the venerable but still inventive American car company contracted with Porsche to develop a new model for sale in the United States. That model never materialized, but the design fees kept Porsche afloat when it might well have gone under and, further, it helped finance Porsche involvement in racing. (The sports car that Studebaker eventually brought to market, the Avanti, was very un-Porschelike in styling and engineering.)
Porsche's early racing efforts were aided immeasurably by Walter Glockler, a Frankfurt-based Volkswagen dealer who built a series of racing machines powered by VW engines. By 1953 Glockler and Porsche were cooperating so closely that Glockler's race cars bore Porsche badges, and later that year the Frankfurt dealer helped Porsche launch its famed 550.
The 550 was exactly what Ferry Porsche had been aiming for from about 1950 onwards - a true racing machine that could carry the Porsche name to glory at famous racing venues like Le Mans, Pebble Beach and Mexico's Carrera Panamericana. Like most racing cars that campaign more than one season, the 550 was a work-in-progress. Originally equipped with a pushrod VW engine fitted to a ladder frame, the 550 eventually used Porsche's Ernst Fuhrmann-designed four-cam engine in a rigid space frame to cut a swath through sports car racing in the mid-Fifties with class wins at Le Mans and in the Carrera. Amateur racer James Dean was at the wheel of a 550 Spyder and on his way to a central California race when he met his Maker in September 1955.
As the Fifties came to a close Porsche introduced the 356 B, a deftly altered version of the original Porsche model and a version that some claimed showed definite American influence. Among these touches were bigger bumpers and a heavier dose of chrome.
While purists decried the changes, the cash registers at Porsche dealerships rang like never before. It also provided the inspiration for an entirely new Porsche model that would eventually replace the beloved 356.
The seeds of the 356 replacement began to be sown as early as 1956 when Ferry Porsche issued a directive to designers and engineers contemplating a new model. Their germination accelerated rapidly on June 9, 1960, when Porsche management approved the decision to develop a six-cylinder engine for passenger car use. Up until then Porsche had been a company that relied on four-cylinder power, be it of Volkswagen origins or the significantly more robust four-camshaft wonder designed by Ernst Fuhrmann. By 1960, however, it had become quite clear that a bigger engine was necessary to remain competitive in the marketplace. That year, for instance, the Chevrolet Corvette offered a fuel-injected 283 cubic-inch V-8 that developed 290 horsepower. Despite the fact that the Corvette's suspension was far less sophisticated than the 356's, with that amount of horsepower on tap, the Chevrolet could leave the Porsche sucking dust.
Late in 1961, the heat under the new project grew when the Porsche managing committee sanctioned the creation of an all-new body for the 356. To be designed by Butzi Porsche, one of Ferry Porsche's sons, the re-design was to be a two-seater, not a two-plus-two, with the extra space given over to luggage room.
What emerged at the 1963 Frankfurt auto show was something quite different. Instead of being a re-bodied 356, the concept car that graced the show stand that year was completely new. It had a new engine - a horizontally opposed air-cooled single overhead cam six cylinder. It had a new suspension - rear swing axles giving way to a much a more sophisticated arrangement of semi-trailing arms and torsion bars. And it had a new body - an exterior that suddenly made the 356 look dated while, at the same time, carrying on in its tradition.
The body Butzi Porsche designed for what would become the 911 is, without question, one of the most stellar automotive creations in history. The word "timeless" is thrown at designs with cliched regularity in the car business, but none can doubt that the 911's body is one for the ages. Penned more than 35 years ago, it looks absolutely contemporary today. And while the early Sixties did offer some attractive designs, none of them had the staying power of the 911. (If you need proof , consider this: the 1963 Buick Riviera, 1963 Chevrolet Corvette Stingray or 1965 Ford Mustang, while all well-drawn cars, would seem absurd if they were offered to the public today, yet the 911 would fit in as well now as when it was new.)
First shown to the public wearing prominent TYP 901 tags, the model designation of the new Porsche was changed to 911 because Peugeot held the European rights to all three-digit model numbers with a "0" middle digit. Though it debuted in late 1963, it wasn't until a year later that the first production 911's started appearing in showrooms. The amazing thing is that, even in these days of rapid innovation and incredible competition, the model's appearance in Porsche showrooms has never stopped. It has been one of the few constants from the Johnson administration through the Clinton years.
Critics will debate this assertion for months on end, but arguably the greatest 911 of them all was the Carrera 911 RS of 1972-1973. Only a little over 1,500 of these specials were produced, but they have created a saga that still lives 25 years later.
With the flat-six bored out to 2.7-liters, the Carrera RS offered 210 horsepower at 5100 rpm, which was fed through a close-ratio five-speed gearbox to the rear wheels. With the RS body lightened from the standard 911 curb weight of 2,200 pounds to under 2,000, this lightweight rocket could accelerate from zero to 60 miles per hour in just 5.6 seconds. Top speed, aided by the odd Burzel rear spoiler, was 150 miles per hour.
The Carrera 911 RS, in nearly streetable form, won the 1973 24 Hours of Daytona. It was just one of hundreds of memorable racing victories for the 911, part of a tradition that continues to this day and shows no signs of slowing down.

BMW 507 Roadster

Sometimes great cars achieve significant commercial success. Witness the Model T Ford and Volkswagen Beetle as obvious examples. Other times, great cars make virtually no impact on the market, save to point the way for others to follow. The Cord 810 and Chrysler Airflow are prominent examples of this phenomenon. Sadly, the BMW 507 roadster also falls into this significant but ill-fated category. Born in the glory days of the true sports car, raised with a distinguished pedigree and built to the highest of standards, the 507 failed miserably at achieving commercial success, which is a great shame considering its many virtues. To set the stage for the entrance of the 507, let us travel back in time to the immediate aftermath of World War II. Like most of the war-ravaged German auto industry, BMW was in tatters. Its auto manufacturing facilities, what were left of them after Allied bombing and occupation, were in Eisenach, behind the rapidly closing Iron Curtain of Russian-occupied East Germany.
In BMW's hometown of Munich, the heavily damaged factories were equipped to build only motorcycles, so re-entering the car business after the war was a lengthy and tortuous process. It wasn't until the tail end of 1949, four years after the war in Europe had ended, that the BMW motorcycle plant resumed production in any meaningful numbers. And it wasn't until 1951 than BMW offered its first postwar car model, a sedan whose prewar lineage was depressingly obvious.
Once motorcar production began, however, BMW made rapid progress. In fact, in true business terms you might make the claim that BMW's progress was too rapid. Despite the fact that the Europe of the early Fifties was still in a desperate economic slump, struggling mightily to rebuild, BMW seemed bent on hitching its fortunes to luxury cars. With this dubious strategy in mind, the company unmasked its first production aluminum-alloy V8 engine in 1954, despite the fact that the super-sophisticated offering was likely to find few buyers. The 502 sedan that used the new engine was largely a sales dud, which then sent BMW execs scurrying off in widely disparate directions.
At the 1955 Frankfurt Motor Show, BMW continued the logical extension of the 502 theme with the 503 coupe and cabriolet and, the subject of this profile, the 507 Roadster. Almost in tandem with those introductions, though, BMW unveiled the Isetta Motocoupe, a cross between a car and a motorcycle that borrowed heavily on a similar Italian vehicle. A prestige car the Isetta certainly was not, but it would gain for BMW the volume that the 502, 503 and 507 would never provide.
Many lay the creation of the 507 Roadster at the door of estimable car importer Max Hoffmann, who is credited with the success of a number of European brands in the tumultuous postwar market in the U.S. Hoffman usually had a great sense of what would sell, and he persuaded the BMW brass that a roadster version of the 502 would offer the company a great chance to compete with the likes of Jaguar and Mercedes-Benz in the mid to upper echelons of the prestige car market.
Hoffmann wielded a great deal of power because the European sports car manufacturers, including the above-mentioned marques plus Porsche, Ferrari, Maserati and Aston Martin, were dependent on the American market. Most of those companies sold more than 50 percent of their production in America, because the struggling European economies, some hobbled by incipient socialism, just weren't producing the requisite disposable income. So Max bent the ear of the BMW executives, and they bought his message.
It was a reasonably easy sale, because the mechanicals for the 507 Roadster were more or less in place. The key component was the lovely little 3.2-liter all-alloy V-8 engine. While some might tell you that 3168 cubic centimeters is too little displacement to get the advantages of the V-8 configuration, the engine was one of the technical marvels of its day. Without stressing the little two-valve powerplant in the least, it produced 150 horsepower at 5,000 rpm in its original form. Later examples were tweaked to produce 160 horsepower at a headier 5,600 rpm, and when the compression ratio was bumped from 7.8:1 to 9:1 the diminutive engine was said to deliver 195 horsepower. In a vehicle with a lightweight aluminum body, that made for stirring performance versus the other sports cars of the age.
The chassis -- no simple affair -- was constructed of tubular and box-section steel. It was similar to the chassis of the 502 sedan, but cut down and otherwise altered for sports car use. The front suspension was independent, using unequal-length A-arms with torsion bars as the springing mechanism and telescopic shocks for damping. The rear was less dramatic: a "full-floating" live axle sprung with torsion bars.
Of course, styling is crucial to the success of a sports car, and BMW's initial attempt at styling what would become the 507 was given the thums-down by Hoffmann and others who saw it. Pressed for time (and talent), BMW turned to an outside designer who was a protégé of legendary industrial and auto designer Raymond Loewy. Count Albrecht Graf Goertz, who had come to America to work with Loewy, reportedly got the assignment by drawing up some sketches on spec and submitting them to the BMW board. However the deal came to be made, the good count was thrust into a fast-moving project. He and his team completed the design work for the lovely aluminum body in a very short span, and the BMW craftsman picked up the gauntlet and completed the 507 prototype in time for display at the 1955 Frankfurt Motor Show.
By any measure, the BMW 507 is a gorgeous design. It is exceedingly low and thin in section, giving it a spare, athletic look, like a marathon runner. Largely bereft of the chrome that was ladled onto American designs of the same period, the 507 did offer the highlight of small chrome grilles tastefully integrated into the front fenders behind the simple round wheel cutouts. This treatment was so elegant that BMW designers copped it virtually intact for their recent Z8 roadster. At the front, round headlights flank the widened but still recognizable BMW "kidney" grilles. The rear is even simpler with a chrome trunk handle and thin chrome bumper interrupting the meld of fender and trunk. Twin exhausts peeked out from underneath the spare body.
Inside, the 507 was equally purposeful. The simple painted metal dash contained round clock, tachometer and speedometer plus simple radio and heater/vent controls. The two bucket seats, though low in the body, placed their occupants relatively high versus the very low door tops.
With its stunning good looks the 507 wowed the attendees at the Frankfurt Motor Show. But it would be almost a year before BMW could get the car into production and then into showrooms. Along the way the complicated nature of the chassis and engine necessitated a high list price. While there was little question as to the 507's beauty, buyers found that the could purchase the Mercedes-Benz 300SL for slightly less money, while a top of the line Porsche of the era was even less expensive. And, of course, both of those cars had racing pedigrees, while the 507 had none.
Dissuaded by the hefty price tag, luxury sports car drivers stayed away from the 507 in droves. Though production continued into 1959, only 252 of the startling little beauties were built. Oddly, Elvis Presley, noted more for his fondness for massive Cadillacs, was the biggest of the big-name buyers. After the financially disastrous 507 experiment, BMW would shy away from true open-top sports cars for decades.