Category Archives: Uncategorized

British Steel

Pre-1953 Ford Prefect, spotted in Kazabazua, Quebec.

When your average North American thinks of a British car, it’s usually an image of a Jaguar, Rover, Austin, Lotus or MG that pops into their head.

Not Ford.

Those classic English marques definitely made an impact on both sides of the pond, but Ford of Britain should get credit for dutifully cranking out staid and sensible vehicles for the driveway of the everyman.

It’s hard to imagine now, but for decades, Ford of Britain marketed their vehicles in the U.S. and Canada alongside their more familiar counterparts from Detroit. This was especially prevalent in the early postwar period and 1950s, as the British models undercut the American models in price by quite a bit.

The Prefect’s 1.17-litre engine made a whopping 31 horsepower.

They also undercut them in power, comfort, and size.

The Ford Prefect was a big name among British cars. As an uplevel version of the Ford Popular and Ford Anglia (naming models wasn’t their strong suit), the Prefect was introduced in 1938 and continued in production – minus a three year gap to accommodate a pesky global conflict – until 1961.

Following World War 2, a devastated England geared up its factories, and, using existing dies, tools and plans, built and exported cars to save its financial life. Ford of Britain sales and service networks were set up in North America to handle the influx (Latin America and Australia being other big customers).

Per capita, the British Fords proved more popular in Canada than the U.S.

Ford of Britain workers are seen constructing Prefects in 1950.

Whether it was the Commonwealth factor or the long-standing love affair with domestic vehicles south of the border, Canada’s sparse population soaked up 235,000 British Fords between 1948 and 1973.

In 1950 alone, a Baby Boom-era Canada bought up 14,804 British Fords, a good number of them Prefects.

Your author’s mother often recalled the Prefect of her Alberta youth, one of several British imports purchased by her budget-minded father (the others being an Austin and a Vauxhall).

Throughout the model’s run, the body received only one significant upgrade – in 1953, when the upright, pre-war look was ditched for something more contemporary.

The mechanics of the Prefect were as basic as you could get, and wouldn’t win you any races. The only powerplant available was a side-valve 1.17-litre four cylinder making 31 horsepower and 46 foot-pounds of torque, mated to a three-speed manual transmission.

Vintage North American ad for British Ford cars.

Compared to the V8-powered American Fords of the same time period, the Prefect seemed to have more in common with the Model T (especially considering that it retained the capacity for crank-starting).

With a top speed of about 65 miles per hour (105 km/h), you wouldn’t want to try passing logging trucks in the Rocky Mountains in a Prefect. But, driving a Prefect was better than not driving at all, hence why British imports became popular with the cost-conscious.

Despite the number of vehicles sold here in the Great White North, British Fords are scarce. The Prefect at the centre of this post, spotted in a field near Kazabazua, Quebec, was a rare surprise.

While the model itself is far from the minds of modern-day Canadians (and Brits), the Prefect gained lasting recognition after a confused main character in Douglas Adams’ The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy adopted the car’s name in an effort to appear “inconspicuous” among locals.

Links:

http://www.enfostuff.com/history/A_Brief_History_of_English_Fords_in_North_America.html

http://www.otodata.com/cars/Ford/Prefect/68193.html

Mr. Belvedere

1966 Plymouth Belvedere, spotted in Aylmer, Quebec.

Call it a sleeper.

When people think of 1960s Chrysler Corporation collectibles, the mind usually turns (almost exclusively) to the years 1968 and ’69, and the hot muscle cars cranked out by Dodge and Plymouth.

Brash, in-your-face, and often sporting vivid colours to alert cops from afar, those rides oozed appeal but they aren’t – oh, what’s the word – subtle.

Go back a few years further, and you’d find there was still muscle to be had, only with a side of anonymity.

The 1966 Plymouth Belvedere is a good example of that – a car that could drag race on a country road but wouldn’t appear out of place in a church parking lot.

Inside this grandpa car lurks pure, raw POWER. Beware.

The Belvedere was Plymouth’s bread and butter midsize, sandwiched between the compact Valiant and the full-size Fury.

Spanning a number of body styles, the Belvedere line included the Belvedere I and II trim levels, as well as the top-level Belvedere Satellite, available only as a two door.

After spending the early 1960s in a state of confusion trying to figure out its styling direction, Chrysler Corp. entered 1966 with a firm commitment to the slab-sided look, which adorned everything from lowly Plymouths to top-end Imperials.

The razor-edged styling motif, which served to emphasize the vehicles’ length, continued until the Fuselage Era of 1969-1974.

1966 was also the year Chrysler began hitting the gym and showing off.

The fastback Plymouth Barracuda and Dodge Charger bowed that year, the latter backed by a youth-oriented ‘Dodge Rebellion’ advertising campaign.

It’s got the power. The top-level Belvedere engine made 425 horsepower.

The corporation capitalized on the success of its vehicles – including the Belvedere – in the hands of NASCAR drivers like Richard Petty, inserting those wins into ad material to bolster its growing street cred.

Midsizers often prove to be versatile vehicles, and the Belvedere was eager to be anything its owner wanted it to be.

With a 225 c.i.d. Slant-Six serving as a base engine, the Belvedere could be equipped with a vast array of V-8s. A 273 c.i.d. with 180 hp, a 318 with 230hp, a 361 with 265 hp, and a Commando 383 with 325 hp were available, as was the range-topping 426 Plymouth Street Hemi.

That engine, introduced in 1966, made 425 horsepower and 490 ft-lbs of torque. When coupled with the Belvedere’s fairly light midsize body, the engine was a performance monster.

The Belvedere spotted here sported ‘383’ badges and the popular and bulletproof 3-speed TorqueFlite automatic. No doubt it could lay some rubber in a hurry. But, if you were to take away the white letter tires and sport rims, there’d be little to give away this car’s performance secret.

In a word: discreet.

The early rumblings of the muscle car could be heard in 1966.

Join the club

The must-have feature for modern vehicle styling - a faux perorated fender (Pictured: Kia K900)

The must-have feature in modern vehicle styling – a faux perforated fender (Pictured: Kia K900)

When it comes to styling trends, everyone’s invited to the party

2015 Ford Taurus (Image: Ford Motor Company)

Call them what you want – fender vents, side vents, fender holes, speed holes – perforated fenders are the latest in a long line of must-have automotive design clichés.

Styling cues come and go like any other fad (hula hoops, disco, anti-vaxxers), but when they’re in vogue, we’re stuck seeing them everywhere.

Not to long ago, at the dawn of the Third Millennium (*music swells*), the cue du jour was the elaborate and lofty decklid spoiler. In the ’70s, it was vinyl landau roofs, opera windows and concealed headlights. In the ’50s, it was high-flying tailfins and wraparound windshields.

There are always exceptions to the rule, and the styling cue never reaches full market saturation, but it can be a wild ride as each era plays itself out.

2015 Kia Optima (Image: Kia Canada)

Perforated fenders always used to be the domain of Buick, which had tell-tale ‘portholes’ adorning its forward flanks in the late ’40s and ’50s. Those holes (six for lower-end cars, eight for top-end) became rectangular and melded together when they reappeared on full-size Buicks in the late ’70s.

The circular portholes returned for the last years of the Park Avenue in the early 2000s, which was still a ways before our current design era.

The thing about the Buick portholes was they were unmistakably ‘Buick’. They were a design cue attributable to a single make of car. Pontiac, Chevy and Oldsmobile never took them for a spin. Hell, you’d have to seek out a foreign roadster or sports coupe to find another example of fender slats, holes or gouges.

1978 Buick LeSabre with tell-tale ‘portholes’ and awesome stock rims. Ignore the loud slacks on the kid.

These days… (*leans back in rocking chair, takes out pipe*) …seemingly every vehicle from family sedans to hatchbacks to crossover utility vehicles has adopted them.

The Americans, Brits and Koreans seem especially enamoured with them.

Some are okay. Some fit the body style, are integrated nicely into the car’s bodyside sculpting and trim, and do something for the overall package.

Other faux vents are very clearly a tacky, glued-on embellishment slapped into any available space ahead of the door but behind the front wheel well.

2015 Range Rover Sport (Image: Jaguar Land Rover)

Cheap-looking and devoid of any grand styling purpose, divorced from the rest of the car’s body, they’re like a Rambler American sporting stratospheric tailfins because hey, they’re all the rage these days.

The problem for other automakers – namely, the ones who pull of a good fender vent – is that the posers drain their vehicles of the exclusivity the cue is supposed to signify. It’s a caché killer.

We’re in luck, though. Much like college-age experiments in vegetarianism and bisexuality, this phase will soon pass.

2015 Subaru BRZ (Image: Subaru Canada)

Fender vent heroes:

Jaguar F-Type

Ford Taurus

Range Rover Sport

Fender vent zeroes:

Ford Escape

Kia Optima

Subaru BRZ

Honourable mention – Kia K900

Iron Curtain joyride

There are few old car films quite as surprising and joyous as this unlikely clip from 1962 Czechoslovakia, featuring the amazing abilities of the Tatra 603.

It’s so good, it just has to be shared as widely as possible.

The Tatra 603 was an odd high-end vehicle manufactured in limited numbers for Communist Party officials and other ruling-class members from 1956 to 1975. Powered by a 2.5-litre, air-cooled V-8 mounted behind the rear wheels, the car was blessed with unusual traction and handling capabilities.

Yes, this Eastern Bloc sedan seems to be able to do it all – slalom, jumps, mountain-climbing, rollovers, river-fording – all while keeping its impeccably dressed occupants comfortable and safe.

Not speaking Czech, I’m not quite sure what’s going on in this tale, but the words on the covered-up license plate would probably shed some light. I assume a father, his daughter and their chauffeur are going joyriding, shake their cop tail, then pretend Mr. White Gloves is a stuntman when the heat catches up.

Sporty and subversive all at once.

The original promotional clip, titled ‘Happy Journeys,’ runs about 12 minutes. The joy of this clip is that the skillful driving (and editing) of the original film is boiled down to its essence and mashed with an uplifting pop song that seems custom made for the Tatra’s soundtrack.

Watch and enjoy, and marvel at the car that does it all. By the end of the five-or-so minutes, you’ll be wishing you were behind the wheel of one of these superhuman Cold War sedans. I found the design of the fastback car – with its upside down bathtub front and bizarre headlight configuration – grew on me before long.

Like the front, the rear end of the Tatra 603 was charmingly unique (Image: Wikimedia Commons)

The film seems timed to introduce the second version of the 603, which came out in 1962 and featured two conjoined pods of two recessed headlights each. The initial model had three headlights (the middle one turned with the wheel) located in the centre of the front end, while the third model (1968-) pushed apart the headlight pods to their normal locations.

Tatra, which started life as (wait for it) Nesselsdorfer Wagenbau-Fabriks-Gesellschaft A.G., was a central European carriage maker in the mid-19th Century and produced its first gas-powered automobiles in 1897.

A long line of successful vehicles followed, including the radical, streamlined Tatra 77, introduced in 1934. Designed with the help of an aeronautical engineer who had worked at Germany’s Luftschiffbau Zeppelin company, the 77 was an ultramodern vehicle incorporating a tube frame, lightweight alloys, and an advanced, rear-mounted V-8.

Though the company still manufactures heavy trucks, the last Tatra passenger car – the T700 sedan – ceased production in 1999. Throughout the company’s history its car sales remained pretty regional, with no buyer uptake occurring in western Europe – even after the fall of the Berlin Wall.

This makes all Tatras, including the shapely 603, rare beasts on any road or at any car show. Which is a shame – not only are they unique, just look at how much fun their occupants can have!

We got the beat(er)

1967 Ford Falcon, spotted in Savannah, Georgia. 1960s beaters are nonexistent in Canada, but live on in the Deep South.

The great thing about temperate winters (besides not getting frostbite, slipping on ice, or having to pray for vehicle ignition on cold mornings) is the lack of salt.

Road salt is to cars the way Father Karras was to the demon inside Linda Blair. It destroys them, dissolves them, and sends them back to nature in their elemental state – in this case, iron oxide (rust).

Because of this, you rarely see any classic cars operating as daily drivers in northern climes. In the south, it’s a different story – if you’ve got the patience and the cash, your road-going classic can also be your grocery getter.

There’s also more to choose from, thanks to the preservation qualities of a warm, dry climate.

The ’67 Ford Falcon isn’t anyone’s idea of a ‘classic’, but it is a historic vehicle that saw many buyers back in the day. And this example, parked under hanging moss on the sultry streets of Savannah, sure has seen some use since the Summer of Love.

The Falcon carried Ford’s round taillight motif until 1967, but no further.

Dents and dings adorn the bumpers and body panels of this cream-coloured Falcon, with the rear fender displaying what is probably a do-it-yourself Bondo job.

It’s a beater, but unlike the rusty Civics and Cavaliers we see up in the Great White North, it’s got history and character backing it up. Think of the tumultuous events occurring in America in 1967 (few of them non-violent).

The deadly Detroit Riots took place that tension-filled summer, along with smaller riots in Buffalo, Minneapolis, Milwaukee and Washington, DC. The Vietnam War escalated amid a growing anti-war movement, while America’s space program recorded its first deaths – the three-man crew of Apollo 1 lost in a launch pad fire.

In Georgia, Democrat Lester Maddox – a staunch segregationist – took office as the state’s governor. Despite his controversial views, the state soon embarked on an economic development strategy that included the hiring of African-Americans to public positions, as well reforming the state’s health care, education and prison systems.

Future Georgia governor Lester Maddox, seen here chasing black restaurant patrons with a gun, 1964.

Culturally, 1967 saw an explosion of counterculture that steadily progressed over the next few years. Jimi Hendrix and The Doors released their debut albums, and overseas The Beatles released what many consider one of the most influential albums of all time – Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band.

It, like the rest of their material, was hit-and-miss.*

*Says this Stones fan

The Ford Falcon was not new, or all that exciting, in 1967. It was, however, competent and – as always – offered good value to the car buyer.

The simple, unibody Falcon was born in 1960 amid the ‘compact craze’ that afflicted the American auto industry following the dismal sales year of 1958 and the subsequent success of the Rambler American.

Oddly, the architect of the Falcon – Ford Motor Company ‘Whiz Kid’ Robert McNamara – was also the architect of the Vietnam War (he served as U.S. Secretary of Defence from 1961 to 1968).

Former U.S. Secretary of Defence (and creator of the Ford Falcon) Robert McNamara on the cover of Time, 1963.

Designed to be roomy, easy to live with and easy on the pocketbook, the Falcon – though bland – outsold its competition handily. Powered by two economical and reliable straight-sixes (144 and 170 c.i.d.), it could be optioned with Ford’s smallest V-8 (260 c.i.d.) for more spirited performance.

The Falcon platform came in handy when then-exec Lee Iacocca was hunting for a cost-effective way to create an all-new sporty car to help shake up the company’s stodgy image. In 1964, the bones of the staid and sensible Falcon made way for the sexy and seductive Mustang.

The Falcon soon became available in a wide variety of body styles – sedan, coupe, convertible, and wagon – and served as the underpinnings of the Ranchero pickup.

More style and a longer list of engine options were on tap for 1964, in a bid to tap into the growing youth market. The third generation Falcon was introduced in 1966, this time based on a shortened Fairlane platform.

Ford Falcon – the vehicle of choice for Flower Children everywhere.

Signature round taillights continued to be used on the Falcon for ’66 and ’67, changing to a square setup from ’68 to the end of the model line in 1970.

Engine options for the third generation were many, ranging from the 144, 170 and 200 c.i.d. Thriftpower Six, to the 260, 289 and 302 c.i.d. Windsor V-8.

The Falcone name was retired from the American automotive landscape at the dawn of the 1970s, as Ford continued in the compact market with the Maverick and the Pinto. Overseas, the model name had longer legs – it continued in Argentina-built Fords until 1991, and is still in use in Australia.

An upmarket version of the Australian Falcon was sold from 1965 to 2008 under the equally familiar name Fairmont.

So, while this beater of a Georgia Falcon didn’t initially seem that significant, its history and the culture of its era say otherwise. For all we know, Lester Maddox or Jim Morrison once drove in it.

Lost highway

Pennsylvania’s abandoned Route 61, one mile south of the equally abandoned town of Centralia.

With an old year giving way to a new one, it’s customary to reflect on the experiences of the past 12 months.

Those experiences include drives, and this year your humble author saw plenty of them. From the sunny coast of Georgia to the majestic mountains of British Columbia, 2014 delivered when it came to motoring.

But, as nice as the highways in those picturesque locales are, only one gets an end-of-year story devoted to it. And the ultra-worthy roadway of 2014 was chosen not for its views or its twists and turns, but for the fact it can’t be driven on.

Heading north from Ashland, Pennsylvania.

Notoriety trumped scenery this year.

If the large picture and descriptive caption above somehow escaped your attention, I’m talking about the seriously unsexy Pennsylvania Route 61, or more specifically, the portion immediately south of the town of Centralia.

‘Town’ is a misleading word, because Centralia, once home to over 2,7000 hardy souls in the 1890s, currently contains about seven people. The ghost town the bustling community became still exists on some maps, but resides more in memories and in the pages of history books.

You see, Centralia, a once-prosperous coal-mining community nestled between rolling ridges about equal distances from Harrisburg and Scranton, had the bad luck of catching fire… gradually… underneath it.

Shiny, pure anthracite coal is everywhere in Centralia – in ditches, on hillsides, and on fire deep below the town’s surface.

Perched atop an expansive subterranean spiderweb of high-grade (soot-free!) anthracite coal, the town remained unaware of its eventual fate for nearly two decades.

The ignition of the fire wasn’t an exciting event. Sometime on or around Memorial Day, 1962, a trash fire (or discarded ashes) at the town’s landfill ignited an exposed coal seam, starting an underground fire that even now is predicted burn another 250 years.

The townsfolk started to get wise to the growing danger in the late 1970s. Underground gas tanks began heating up, air quality plummeted due to carbon monoxide, and eventually – in 1981 – a young boy plunged through the street and into a FIERY CAVERN TO HELL while riding his bike.

He was just fine! Really!

Centralia, seen here in 1962, was small-town Rust-Belt America incarnate (photo by Robert Evans via www.offroaders.com)

Centralia, seen here in 1962, was quintessential ‘small-town Rust-Belt America’ (photo by Robert Evans via offroaders.com)

Having just enjoyed a whole decade filled with high-profile pollution issues and man-made ecological disasters, the news media focused like a magnifying glass on little ol’ Centralia.

The town that no one outside of central Pennsylvania had ever heard of became a household word, which (like Love Canal, N.Y.) was now synonymous with a creeping industrial disaster. Cries for somebody to “do something!” grew in the wake of the media exposure, and in 1984 the U.S. Congress voted to approve $42 million for relocation efforts.

In the years that followed, residents of Centralia allowed themselves to be bought out and moved to the nearby communities of Mount Carmel, Ashland or Frackville.

Pennsylvania Route 66 diverts abruptly past the berm blocking the abandoned Route 61.

A few holdouts (seven, according to estimates) remain to this day, even after the state of Pennsylvania invoked eminent domain in 1992 on all remaining homes in the town.

The state highway that ran through Centralia was also undermined by the constantly shifting coal fire, which would pop up near the surface in random areas only recede to a new locale.

Efforts to repair the damaged road surface were eventually abandoned, and a mile-long section of Route 61 immediately south of Centralia was closed off and crudely bypassed by a new Route 66 in 1993.

Abandoned in 1993 after multiple repair attempts, Route 61 is an apocalyptic paradise.

The abandoned stretch of highway is spooky even in the best of weather, and is something of a tourist attraction, drawing photographers and graffiti (both professional and lewd) to its cracked surface.

The highway and town, both bordered by deep, dark woods, are now ideal shooting locations for desolate music videos or post-apocalyptic films (the 2006 horror film Silent Hill was inspired by Centralia’s plight).

Just watch out for that massive, underground coal fire.

A visitor to Centralia will quickly notice that on the ground everywhere – on wooded slopes or next to roadways – is the substance that spawned the town and ultimately caused its demise. Coal. Shiny, flaky anthracite coal, which powered the blast furnaces, locomotives and steamships of America during its 19th Century industrial expansion.

Coal, still mined in small quantities nearby, which heated homes and public buildings in large numbers well into the 1980s and is still in limited use today.

The land that giveth also taketh away.

Coal Country, U.S.A., and the site of one of the country’s most notorious environmental disasters.

Dream on

Regrettable car decisions don’t go away just because you’re asleep…

There was a great independent film released a few years ago called Take Shelter, in which a simple, hard-working family man in Ohio begins having horrific, recurring nightmares.

All of the dreams, which are the most realistic I’ve ever seen on film, contain the same hallmarks – an atmosphere of uneasy tension, the approach of a thunderstorm, a deluge of rain that seems thicker than normal, and the appearance of an unexpected menace.

In the film, those dreams are trying to tell him something (I won’t say what). In our own lives, theorists tell us that recurring dreams are our mind’s way of telling us something about ourselves, and are often caused by a psychological trigger.

Michael Shannon in a scene from Take Shelter.

Sure, it’s common for illnesses like anxiety and Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder to trigger such dreams, but could something as benign as selling a car lead to Slumberland disturbances?

I say it can, because it happened to me.

After trading in my old ’94 Camry in 2008, that same car appeared in my dreams for years on end. Unremarkable dreams, sure, and ones that gradually diminished in frequency over time, but it was still something.

The dreams were simple. No matter what car I was presently driving, I would wake up to find that my old Camry had returned sometime during the night and was again vying for my driving affection. I would then scramble to make arrangements to house my returning friend.

I loved that car. It took me anywhere and everywhere, competently and without drama or mishap. I firmly believe that era of Toyota Camry – 1992 to 1996 – was the pinnacle of bulletproof Japanese quality.

Not my actual Camry, but a near copy of it, right down to the colour. Mine kept its wheel covers (Bull-Doser/Wikimedia Commons)

Built like a bank vault, oozing quality, that car never once left me stranded, never burned oil or required engine or transmission work, and still ran fine with 420,000 kilometres on the odometer.

It drove me to Newfoundland and the south coast of Labrador , and shrugged off impacts with two deer over its lifetime, suffering next to no damage. Even on the harshest sub-zero mornings in Ottawa, the aging battery (which had been replaced only once, at 91,000 km) turned over the engine without hesitation.

Oh, and it was rare, too. Beige, yes, but rare. Somehow I had managed to find a 2-door model with a 5-speed manual transmission bolted to the base 2.2-litre four-cylinder, which made for a fun, economy-minded Japanese rig.

I could go on and on (oh yes!) – about the roominess, the fold-down armrest in the rear, the wonderful placement of the ignition in the dash, the high-quality upholstery – but you get the picture.

Oh, it’s MORE, baby! Could the ’92-96 Camry be the most rock-solid midsize ever?

Eventually, the list of non-drivetrain fixes that needed to be performed to keep the car on the road became too long. I was starting a new job that required a daily driver, and the psychological impact of the extremely high mileage on the odometer worried me.

Forget range anxiety – this car was starting to give me lifespan anxiety!

So, it went to the wreckers shortly after the trade-in. And I felt bad about that. Worse, I felt guilty, like I had betrayed a loyal, trusted friend. I had taken it out behind the barn while its little 2.2-litre heart was still beating (and not burning a drop of oil, either).

Guilt, regret, sorrow – all of those emotions compelled the Camry to return to me in my dream state. It’s been about a year since the last time it happened, and I credit a frenzied January search for a worthy buyer of my last vehicle (rather than trading it in) for making the dreams cease.

After years of thinking my Camry guilt was outside of the realm of normal, a confession by two car-loving friends made me realize my experience wasn’t so unusual.

For one friend, it was a childhood car that kept coming back in his dreams; for the other, it was a car frequently borrowed as an adolescent that “got away” before it could be owned.

I felt pretty normal after that, and began to wonder – what was the frequency of car-related dreams amongst drivers? I don’t have the funding to perform a survey, so we can only guess.

I also wonder when Toyota will bring back the 2-door Camry, so that me and (maybe) three other drivers can buy one. How about it, huh?

Magic bus

Patriotic people-mover: a pre-1972 Volkswagen Microbus resting in Kingston, Ontario.

There are few vehicles are more soaked in stigma than the iconic Volkswagen Microbus, in all of its many forms.

(For a car that comes close, see the Chevy El Camino)

Nothing says hippie counterculture, free love, and daisies shoved down gun barrels like the Microbus, which defined an era thanks to its spacious interior and ability to serve as a rolling canvas for wannabe artists.

While the lovable German people-mover was indeed the ride du jour of the Age of Aquarius, it should be remembered that the Microbus line both preceded and outlasted Jim Morrison’s career.

Born in Germany in 1950 to serve as the utility-minded stablemate of the equally iconic Beetle, the Microbus was designed to fill many niches. Called the ‘Type 2’, and known in Europe as the Transporter, the bulbous VW was produced in numerous body styles ranging from pickup to panel van to camper, not to mention the desirable ‘Deluxe Microbus’ (a model festooned with tourist-friendly skylights).

A second-generation Microbus (right) reverts back to nature alongside a 1980s-vintage Vanagon in Ottawa, Ontario.

A slow evolution followed the introduction of the Microbus. Though it departed the U.S. market in 1979, continued in production in Latin America until 2013.

The first-generation Microbus ran from 1950 till 1967 and featured engines ranging from 1.1 to 1.5 litres, while the second-generation took the model from The Summer of Love until the end of the Carter Era (1979). A slightly modified Gen-2, still containing an air-cooled engine, lived on in Mexico and Brazil well into the 21st Century.

Those second generation models are often remembered by North American non-owners as impassable barriers encountered while struggling up a steep mountain grade.

Ready for soccer practice or a Woodstock revival, these ’72 VWs had space to spare.

Certainly, the Microbus was no rocket. The second-generation engines were gutsier than before, but those 1.6 to 2.0-litre power plants still topped out at 70 horsepower.

Diesel Volvo wagons (the kind favoured by those with grey beards and elbow patches) could blow them into the weeds.

But speed wasn’t why owners and enthusiasts gravitated to the Microbus. A unique sense of character, combined with space and efficiency, was the vehicle’s true charm, and it continues to draw new fans.

A quick Google search will reveal a world of potential friends to any Microbus owner.

The longevity and continued adoration of the VW Microbus proves that a vehicle doesn’t have to be fast to be fun, and that practicality and familiarity counts for something in an industry obsessed with the Next Big Thing.

Green energy

Call me, please: 1971-72 Ford Mustang Mach 1, spotted in L' Ange-Gardien, Quebec.

Call me, please: 1971-72 Ford Mustang Mach 1 (L’ Ange-Gardien, Quebec).

It would be great if a person could live vicariously through a parked car.

I mean, think of the boosted levels of personal satisfaction and contentment that could come from lifestyle redistribution. A society’s collective frown would be turned upside down!

Sailing… in your new Mach 1. This ’72 ad looks like it should come with a Carly Simon record.

In the real world, however, I was forced to just stand there and drool as a spotless early-70s Mustang Mach 1 rested driverless on the roadside. Of course, it had to be a warm, sunny weekend, with nearby autumn-tinged roads – twisty ones, no less – beckoning nearby.

An unfortunate moment for yours truly, but a dream come true for the lucky owner. This fastback was a real gem, too – almost too flawless. As for power under the hood, that’s anyone’s guess, as the Mach 1 told few tales via its exterior.

’71 and ’72 Mach 1’s are visually identical, but the powertrain options differ greatly. The ’71 (a year sometimes viewed as ‘the last good year’ amongst horsepower enthusiasts) could be had in more flavours than Baskin Robbins, starting at a base 302 Windsor V-8 and moving up through FOUR 351 Clevelands before topping out with two 429s (Cobra Jet and Super Cobra Jet).

Sean Connery (the life of any party) in ‘Diamonds Are Forever’.

The U.S. government let some of the air out of the high-compression fun in ’72, when the 429s were dropped in favour of just the base 302 and three 351s (in either 2-barrel, 4-barrel or 4-barrel High Output designations).

So wild was the ’71 Mach 1 that even Seam Connery got behind the wheel of one in the campy Bond flick Diamonds Are Forever, outwitting both bad guys and cops on the streets and alleyways of Las Vegas.

Solid, man.

While the Mach 1 soldiered on as a Mustang trim level until 1978, the latter four years of its run saw the famous moniker applied to the unappreciated and wimpy Mustang II.

For Mach 1 enthusiasts, the name will always bring to mind the glory days of 1969-71, an era that was (at least for car lovers) a gas, gas, gas.

Road trip diaries (Book 1)

Driving the Trans-Labrador Highway in 2009 in the Grand Am ‘1.0’

Ottawa to Wabush, Labrador (2009)

I give full credit to lengthy childhood road trips for giving me the patience and imagination needed to perform epic solo road journeys later in life.

There were no headrest DVD players or iPads in those primitive days – the world outside my side window was my only entertainment as the countryside rolled past at 60 miles per hour.

The inspiration for my journey.

Winging to the downtown of various cities is nice, but you don’t get a sense of the enormity of Canada by skipping the vast swaths of land in between. If you want to be a latter-day explorer, the car is your friend.

Five years ago, during a tumultuous time in my life (cue violins), I decided to cleanse my psyche and challenge myself a bit by throwing off the chains of civilization and driving into the unknown. It was just like Into the Wild, except that I survived and was back in four days.

My destination was Wabush, Labrador – a small mining town in the western part of the mainland area of the province. High in the taiga of Canada’s subarctic, the area harbours the world’s largest iron ore deposit and didn’t even exist on a map before the 1950s.

I had never heard of the place before then, but I had unknowingly read about it. Many people have, in fact – especially if they’re fans of 20th Century science-fiction.

The 1955 novel The Chrysalids by British author John Wyndham (Day of the Triffids, Village of the Damned) is a post-apocalyptic story set in the far future. A tale of a young boy growing up in an ultra-fundamentalist farming community in a now-temperate Labrador, the novel uses real geography to frame the tense, restricted world of 10-year-old David Strorm.

Wabush, Labrador – a remote iron mining town and the setting of the famous 1955 sci-fi novel ‘The Chrysalids’.

The village of Waknuk, where the novel’s characters obsess over maintaining a strict genetic purity out of fear of divine punishment, is really Wabush, Labrador. Other locations in Newfoundland and Labrador (with names changed slightly) make up the rest of the known world for the fearful inhabitants of the village.

The areas further from Waknuk and other such outposts are designated as “Badlands”, an endless area filled with genetic “Blasphemies” and “Deviants,” where humans fear to tread.

Thousands of years earlier, before God sent “Tribulation” to the land, Waknuk’s elders tell of great cities of light that buzzed with horseless contraptions and other unthinkable inventions – cities filled with people who fumbled with a newly-conceived type of bomb.

Having read the book not too recently, and wanting a road trip to a very unlikely location that would test my will, this became my goal.

Getting to Wabush from Ottawa is straightforward. Travel along the north shore of the St. Lawrence past Montreal, Quebec City and the Saguenay until you reach Baie-Comeau, Quebec. North from there runs a highway – Quebec Route 389 – better known as the Trans-Labrador Highway.

Since my 2009 trip, the Trans-Labrador Highway has seen nearly a half-billion dollars of completed or planned upgrades.

Since 2009, the Trans-Labrador Highway has seen nearly half a billion dollars in upgrades.

The only road link between Labrador and the rest of Canada, Route 389 runs 570km north from Baie-Comeau before it hits the border. Along the way, which is more unpaved than paved, there is a single town (about 8km from the border).

Newfoundland and Labrador Highway 500 takes over on the other side of the border, accessing Churchill Falls, Happy Valley-Goose Bay, and, since a few years ago, the southern coast of Labrador (Cartwright, Red Bay) and the ferry to St. Barbe, Newfoundland.

Wabush, a few kilometres from the larger Labrador City, is accessed via a spur highway that connects to highway 500. In 2006 I crossed the Quebec-Labrador border at Blanc-Sablon by way of Newfoundland, but Route 389 still remains the only mainland road link to Canada’s mainland highway network.

(Who can say they drove to Labrador twice for no particular reason? This guy!)

Into the unknown

At the time of the Wabush trek, I was driving a 2003 Pontiac Grand Am 4-cylinder with a 5-speed manual. A minimum amount of research showed me I’d be leaving civilization behind on the northern leg of the trip, and that basic preparations were needed.

A short walk to salvation! Emergency services on Quebec Route 389, aka the Trans-Labrador Highway.

Imagine driving the distance from Mississauga to Montreal on a narrow, winding, mountainous gravel road with no cellular reception, radio reception, intersections, streetlights, houses or towns. That’s what I was facing.

I later learned you can rent a satellite phone at the major points along the Trans-Labrador, and drop it off at any place that rents them. Other than that, the only emergency services were SOS call boxes placed every 50km along the highway.

Car quit on you? Help is only a 25km walk away! Mind the wolves.

It helps to have something of a fatalist approach on trips like these, because you’ll never be able to cover all the bases when it comes to your car’s reliability. Extra water, oil and especially a full-size spare (along with donut spare) are essential, but if your car decides it’s time to bite the dust, that’s it. You’re at the mercy of those unthinking, moving parts.

Best to just put those nagging worries at the back of your mind and watch the scenery unfold through the windshield.

Sharp turns and a bad road surface makes encountering other traffic on Route 389 an adventure!

Now, back to the trip. Bypassing Montreal by way of Autoroute 640, the trip to Quebec City via the 40 is a pretty dull 4-lane affair. Wanting to get to Baie-Comeau by dark (it was August, and the days were starting to get shorter) I blasted through Quebec City via the 440, leaving modern highways in my rear-view at Beauport.

Route 138 – the North Shore highway – is a scenic, narrow 2-lane road that hugs the shore of the rapidly-widening St. Lawrence, winding around quaint coves and along high bluffs.

Two hours northeast of Quebec City lies the Saguenay River, which is actually a sea-level fjord capable of accepting oceangoing cruise ships.

A short ferry ride across the Saguenay gives motorists a chance to stretch their legs before picking up the 138 again on the other side.

Hydro-Quebec’s Manic-5 hydroelectric dam (212 km north of Baie-Comeau) holds back the massive Manicouagan Reservoir.

Population and vegetation becomes much more sparse east of the Saguenay. Only one major town – Forestville – lies between that point and Baie-Comeau, which is itself 415km from Quebec City. Fewer villages, road signs and stunted trees set the stage for the next day’s journey into nowhere.

Baie-Comeau is one of those places that exists for some unknown reason. Unlike the only two places of consequence further up the coast – Port Cartier and Sept-Iles – Baie-Comeau doesn’t have a major railroad or seaport to justify its existence. Famous for being the birthplace of Brian Mulroney, the town of 22,000 has an infuriating road system that makes unfamiliar motorists drive parallel or away from the places they want to be.

GPS would have made short work of this problem, but it was 2009, remember. Dinosaurs still roamed the earth.

The next day dawned gloomy, windy and rainy, which was just perfect for a gravel road trip to Labrador. Like a responsible person, I brought along no food. Well, there might have been a bottle of pop or two (I tend to eat very little on road trips).

A narrow 2-lane forced road with aging pavement greeted me for the first 200-or-so kilometres of the trip. Being used to driving anywhere in Quebec, this was nothing new or shocking. Near the beginning of the highway, a roadside sign warned of the need to turn around and fill up if you didn’t think your tank would last you to the next service station, 211km away.

Iron oxide turns a lake blood-red near the Mont Wright iron mine, just west of Fermont, Quebec.

The only tourist site along the road appears 214km north of Baie-Comeau, and serves as the division between paved and unpaved road (or, at least it did in 2009). The Daniel-Johnson Dam, also known as ‘Manic-5’, is a hydroelectric generating facility featuring 14 buttresses and 13 arches – the largest of its type in the world.

Built from 2.2 million cubic metres of concrete, the 702 foot tall, 4,311 foot long dam holds back the 139.8 cubic kilometres of water contained within the Manicouagan Reservoir – itself an old asteroid impact crater.

Leaving the dam and its steady traffic of white, Hydro-Quebec Silverado crew cabs behind, Route 389 gave way to gravel and hard-packed dirt, the latter of which had the strength of dried mud. Near the edges of the road, soft sand would pull at your tires if you took a turn a little too wide. Another sign, too – this one reading ‘249km till next gas station’.

Crossing a gulf of nothingness usually leads to greater-than-posted speeds, and my car was no exception. After a few hours on that twisty course, my rally credentials were already half formed. I tried to maintain an average of 80 km/h to get the journey down to 8 hours or so.

In one picture, the Trans-Labrador Highway, the iron mines at Mont Wright, Quebec, and the Cartier Railway line, which connects to a distant St. Lawrence seaport.

There’s a saying by those who use the road that states in some places, you’ll be able to see your own taillights.

This isn’t far off. The Labrador and North Shore Railway, a rail line that originates in Sept-Iles and terminates in Schefferville, Quebec (northwest of Labrador City), intersects with the road multiple times over the space of a kilometre or so.

Up there, you don’t have flashing lights and a gate to warn of heavily-laden iron ore trains.

I’m told the Quebec government made significant upgrades to the road after 2009, so I can’t vouch for its current alignment.

The terrain along the route is typical of northern Quebec and Labrador – low to moderate rocky hills, small lakes and shallow, fast-flowing streams.

‘Lambkill’, a beautiful and deadly poisonous flower that grows across the north and in alpine regions.

Forested hillsides give way to peat bogs ringed by miniscule tamaracks and black spruce, while the ground is covered in white, spongy caribou moss.

In places, pink Sheep Laurel flowers (aka Lambkill) and white Labrador tea blossoms added much needed colour to a brown-grey-and-green landscape.

The flowers were nice, but my eyes were kept on the road, mainly to save my backside. A lack of alternatives means Route 389 handles lots of trucks lugging wide-load machinery – even whole houses – on their heaving, flatbed backs. Going into a blind corner carrying too much speed will spell the end of any over-enthusiastic motorist.

And don’t expect an ambulance to show up.

Modern civilizations 101

After the thrill of filling up at one of Canada’s loneliest gas stations (about two-thirds of the way up the road), an outpost that featured rentable cabins for overnight stays, I eagerly awaited reaching a town, a village, anything.

Being removed from civilization for the better part of a cold, dreary day makes you appreciative of things like traffic lights, electricity and the prospect of a hot meal and warm bed. The bed would have to wait, but it was with giddy excitement that I made my first turn after 562km of driving – a right turn, into Fermont, Quebec.

Between Baie-Comeau and Fermont, 562 km of mostly unpaved driving, there are two gas stations. You’ll use at least one of them.

Located about 8km from the border and 23km from Labrador City, Fermont’s roughly 2,800 residents make their living in the iron mining industry. It’s sole purpose is to house the workers at nearby Mont Wright (“Iron Mountain”) Mine, which started operations in the early 1970s.

The town, which is the northernmost francophone settlement of any real population, was modelled after a northern copper mining settlement in Sweden.

The word ‘town’ is misleading, as the inhabitants of Fermont and all of its shops, institutions and amenities are contained within a single, massive building. 1.3 kilometres in length and 160 feet high, the building allows occupants to travel to the bank, the hockey arena, and the liquor store without ever having to go outside.

A number of smaller buildings exist on the leeward side of the building, which serves as a windbreak in the winter. Fermont’s record low temperature is minus 49.5 degrees Celsius (not counting windchill), meaning that being inside the big building is best.

The Quebec mining town of Fermont (population 2,874) was created in the early '70s to supply a new iron mine to the west. The town is essentially a massive building that houses all apartments and amenities, measuring 4,300 feet long.

The Quebec mining town of Fermont was built in the early ’70s to supply a new iron mine to the west. The town is essentially a massive building that houses all apartments and amenities, measuring 4,300 feet long.

For that alone, the place is creepy. I ventured inside for a bit, stopping at the local bar where I polished off a Molson Dry amongst the mainly silent patrons.

For two small settlements hundreds of kilometres from the nearest town, Fermont and Labrador City-Wabush are a study in contrasts. Fermont is almost exclusively francophone, while Labrador City-Wabush is primarily English-speaking. Despite being separated by less than half an hour of driving, Fermont recognizes Eastern Standard Time, while all of Labrador uses Atlantic Time.

And, when the booze stores close up in Labrador, they’re still open in Quebec, meaning that stretch of highway gets a workout.

Speaking of which, after the rally race that was the previous several hours of driving, gliding along that freshly-paved highway Between Fermont and Labrador City was luxurious. I felt like Elaine in Seinfeld, stretching my neck and marvelling over the “extra-wide lanes.”

Crossing the border was a celebratory event, marked by a photo and a bathroom break. Even more exciting was entering Labrador City (population 9,354), where I bowed down at the base of a street light and saluted a Tim Hortons. It was good to be in a pocket of civilization.

With the exception of the Newfoundland ferry in Blanc-Sablon, Quebec, tis is the only way to leave (or enter) the Big Land by car.

With the exception of the Newfoundland ferry terminal in Blanc-Sablon, Quebec, this is the only way to leave (or enter) the Big Land by car.

Labrador City has the distinction of having the only indoor shopping mall in Labrador (fun fact!), so I made a point of visiting. Yes, the Labrador Mall (what else would it be called?) was hopping that day, as was the Wal-Mart.

Before finding a room and grub I briefly visited the offices of The Aurora, a weekly newspaper serving the Labrador West area.

When I judged a feature category of the Canadian Community Newspaper Association awards in 2008, the winning article came from The Aurora. It was a well-deserved win, though at the time I had no idea I’d find myself in their neck of the woods a year later.

Given the distance I’d travelled that day, leaving Labrador City to drive the five kilometres to Wabush (population 1,861) was a little anti-climactic, despite me having reached my goal.

In addition to the luxury of a warm hotel room, I celebrated by indulging in the weekly Chinese buffet (very popular, I was told) they held in the downstairs restaurant. Hungry as hell, I was halfway through my plate before I realized it was the worst Chinese food I have ever eaten.

“Oh, you’ve been up The Road,” said a gas station attendant upon seeing my car.

I’m no foodie snob. I like my meals like I like my gasoline – cheap, and plentiful – but this had the feel and texture of a cook approximating Chinese food, having never encountered the real thing before.

Now that I was in fabled village of Waknuk, I wandered next door to a community centre to talk to some folks about the literary significance of their remote town. No one at both the centre or the hotel knew of the connection, nor did the reporters at the newspaper.

It is, at the end of the day, just one novel. I shouldn’t have been surprised.

In conversation with a mother and son who worked at the community centre, I was told of how Labrador exists off the radar of most Canadians, and how this is the perception of most Labradorians.

“People don’t have much of a sense of what Labrador is,” I was told by the friendly family, and I couldn’t have agreed more.

I have more of a sense now, after having visited twice, albeit briefly. A new life goal is to drive the entire Trans-Labrador Highway, from the border with Quebec in the west, to the border with Quebec in the south. Bridging the two areas I’ve seen, while filling in all the rest.

I left Wabush the next day, heading home. Stopping for coffee, I was told by an employee of Tim Hortons that they brew their coffee stronger “than on the outside,” an interesting use of terminology.

At the gas pump (full service!), the attendant looked at my mud-and-grit-plastered Grand Am with an expression of surprise.

“You’ve been up the road!” he said, before noticing the out-of-province plates.

“Yes, and I’m headed back down now,” I replied.

He looked me in the eyes and said, almost like a pastor, “Have a safe journey.”

****************************

The road back (as you can imagine) was more of the same, but my rally instincts were honed again just south of Manic-5 when those same Hydro-Quebec crew cabs decided to tailgate me on their 214km trek back to Baie-Comeau.

Maybe my Ontario plates made me a thing to be toyed with. Regardless, this lone individual in his old Grand Am gave those seasoned back-roaders a run for their money. We all made record time back to town.

The Quebec-Labrador border (in distance, at curve) appears after 570 km of Route 389. This is Labrador’s only overland road link to the rest of Canada.

Driven to Attraction

If it has an engine, it has a heart