Category Archives: Spotted in the wild

Classics, rarities and who-knows-what-else I’ve encountered in my travels.

Diff’rent strokes

They see me rollin’… They hatin’…

There’s no accounting for taste, as the old saying goes.

And this PT Cruiser, a borderline vehicle at the best of times, proves it.

I’m not about to perform a full inventory of the trinkets adorning this horror show of a vehicle (your eyes are already bleeding), but a couple of things must be pointed out here.

First off, isn’t it damned odd that the wheels and tailpipe are completely stock? After all, those are usually among the first items to be bastardized by this kind of offender.

Secondly, why go to the trouble of tarting up your vehicle to this degree if you’re not going to address the growing rust problem? I have to assume that even the mind who thought these add-ons were tasteful must know rust kills sex appeal (if the car has any to begin with).

Clearly, the psychology of this individual was complex and oblique. I didn’t come any closer.

“You there! Stop that. Just stop it.”

One last thing:

It’s great to see the phenomenon that breeds eyesores like this declining as each year passes. The high-water mark for spoilers/painted hubcaps came in the very early 2000’s (an era I call Peak Tacky) and slowly faded thereafter. Good riddance.

For some reason, in the past five years or so, the ‘Buick ventiports on everything’ craze really took off – hopefully that fad will go the way of Plymouth before long.

Shooting star

1965 Meteor Montcalm and 1966 Rambler American (Hull Sector, Gatineau, Quebec).

Isn’t this picture a perfect, quintessential Quebec winter scene?

If you’re not sure, probably because you’ve never been there, just know that yes – yes, it is.

Grey, leaden skies, drab streetscapes, and crater-filled roads encrusted with a white rhime of road salt. Oh yes, and a frigid, icy wind that cuts through you like a knife from early November onward.

Come one, come all.

Against this ultra-Canadian backdrop – worthy of a depressing film nominated for multiple awards – we find a distinctly Canadian classic car cuddling up to a (literal) American classic, possibly for warmth.

A rare encounter at the best of times, the frozen stars aligned enough to bring this 1965 Meteor Montcalm within door denting distance from a 1966 Rambler American. Amazingly, both vehicles appeared in great shape, though the Rambler was the only one to escape present-day modifications (though I suppose rims and window tinting is benign enough).

The complicated history of Rambler was covered by moi not long ago on this very page (scroll down! scroll down!), so the Meteor gets the spotlight in this post.

Now, an American viewing this photo would insist we were looking at a ’65 Mercury, but they would be wrong. The devil is in the details.

Meteor, a Canada-only product of the Ford Motor Company introduced in 1949, did what the much-maligned Edsel failed to do a decade later – it fit comfortably into the Ford-Lincoln-Mercury stable as a standalone make.

Not factory rims.

Slotted between Ford and Mercury at the lower end of the ladder, the Meteor was essentially a Ford with more brightwork and niceties, but at a lower price than Mercury.

Canadians took to the Meteor instantly, and the make soared through the ’50s, enjoying lofty sales as the Greatest Generation was busy cranking out the Boomers while staring into a glorious, limitless future.

Coincidentally, it was the success of Rambler in the late 1950s (spurred by the sharp ’58 recession) that led to the first death of Meteor following the 1961 model year. The popularity of Rambler’s cosy, fuel-efficient compacts prompted the Big 3 automakers to enter the compact field in 1960, spreading the big car field too thin at Ford of Canada.

Something had to give, and Meteor was canned – but not for long.

Like most fads, the compact craze proved short-lived as the economy returned to normal and a thirst for big cars returned to the car-buying public. Meteor was back for 1964, this time based on a Mercury.

Mercurys of that era – especially the ’65 – had an upscale appearance thanks to their Lincolnesque, slab-sided bodies, something that gave the Meteor an injection of class.

1965 Meteor Montcalm: more than a Mercury?

To keep the price in line with its place in the company’s lineup, the Mercury-bodied Meteor was outfitted with the seats, dashboard, base engine, and roofline of a Ford.

Flashy on the outside and restrained on the inside, the ’65 Meteor came in the same body styles offered by its stablemates, in either the Rideau, Rideau 500 or top-line Montcalm trim level. From a vinyl bench and a 240 c.i.d. six-cylinder to plush buckets and a 390 V-8, if you had the cash (or didn’t), there was a Meteor with your name on it.

Meteor soldiered on in the Canadian market well into the 1970s, as before, based on the Mercury line of vehicles.

Towards the end, the line between the two makes grew increasingly blurred, as Mercury badging could be found on a Meteor, in addition to Rideau 500 and Montcalm model designations.

1976 proved to be the last year for the standalone Meteor brand. However, in keeping with the make’s original intent, the name survived until 1981 on a low-priced base model of the Mercury Marquis offered exclusively in Canada.

The Meteor’s rise in the Canadian automotive scene was truly meteoric, but its fall back to earth was much more gradual. Kind of like a golden Muskoka sunset fading to dusk, slipping into twilight, and then… nothing.

1978 Mercury Marquis Meteor – a low cost Mercury full-sizer offered only in Canada (note fake vinyl roof crease).

Big… juicy… VAN… !

“Interesting trades considered.”

I’m not one of ‘those guys’, but I know a bitchin’ van when I see one.

And this particular van in Val-des-Bois, Quebec HAD IT ALL!

Sure, this 1980s-vintage Econoline dates to after the ‘Van Culture’ phase that America went through in the always-entertaining ’70s ( an era that terrified parents but made it easy to move stuff around). However, the owner clearly knew where to draw the line.

Driving right up to the edge of cheesiness before making a panic stop, this van has all the trappings of a performance car PLUS all the add-ons that drive Van People wild.

Sun visor (for the harsh glare of the open road), TWO bubble sunroofs (for ambiance as well as smoke venting), side pipes, mag wheels, white-letter tires and glorious chrome aplenty – truly, a van that covers the bases while doing everything right. And let’s not forget the tasteful pinstripe depiction of a lady on the side panel.

I didn’t get close enough to this rolling sideburn to take a peek inside, but I would hope that it ditched the stereotypical shag carpeting/velour interior for something classy – like vinyl (and wood grain veneer).

Yeah.

If this beast ever finds its way onto the market, I’ll be sure to put in an offer they can’t refuse.

“Is this thing bent?”

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KRSd_ko9HG4

Running mate

1961 (AMC) Rambler Classic, spotted in Gatineau (Hull sector) Quebec.

Sometimes, the underdog wins, if only for a brief, shining moment.

That was the situation at American Motors at the dawn of the tumultuous 1960s.

The years 1958 to 1961 don’t take up much space in history books (unless you’re focusing on the Space Race), as there existed relatively little conflict in a world now used to global battles. The Baby Boom was in full swing, the Camelot years of the JFK presidency was poised to begin, and hippies, women’s lib, and the incendiary final years of the civil rights struggle were still years away.

Only the pesky matter of The Bomb kept people up at night, though a solution (Diazepam, aka Valium) was imminent.

In the auto industry, however, things weren’t so Leave It To Beaver placid. Competition was fierce between the Big Three automakers, and by the late ’50s the smaller companies had either thrown in the towel or were struggling to stay afloat.

After a merger with Studebaker, Packard’s last year was 1958 (and what a grotesque thing it had become by then). Studebaker brainstormed to find a way to overcome the massive financial hit it took following the merger a few years earlier, and managed to pull off a modest recovery that lasted until the mid-60s.

Nash and Hudson, whose best years were marked in the ’30s and ’40s, ceased to exist after 1957, the result of a mighty 1954 merger between Nash-Kelvinator and Hudson Motor Car Company – at the time, the largest in history. That merger saw the birth of a new automotive entity – American Motors Corporation (AMC).

Leading the new company was president and CEO George W. Romney, a former VP at Nash-Kelvinator who took on the top role after the death of George W. Mason a few months after the merger. Romney (father of 2012 Republican presidential candidate Mitt Romney) had the old makes soldier on in an increasingly competitive marketplace while planning a new strategy for success (or at least survival).

Official portrait of George W. Romney, taken while he was U.S. Secretary of Housing and Urban Development. (Public domain image)

Luckily for the company, Romney had brought binders full of ideas to his new role, and quickly decided that in order to compete with the Big Three, AMC had to offer something the big guys weren’t. That meant compacts.

Romney viewed the competition’s offerings as “gas-guzzling dinosaurs”, ripe for slaying, and set out to do just that.

With the remaining Nash and Hudson models killed off at the end of 1957, AMC poised its new lineup for a 1958 debut, led by the compact Rambler brand – a make AMC had poured all of its efforts into.

Engine size, vehicle size, tailfin height and sticker prices were all reaching for the stars in the late ’50s, but luck was in AMC’s corner.

As 1958 dawned on the gaudiest, most excessive and expensive vehicles Americans had ever seen (especially those offered by Buick, Cadillac and Lincoln), a sudden, sharp recession – by far the worst of the post-war boom – hit the United States. Consumer prices rose across the board and vehicle sales dropped 31% industry-wide.

The only American car company to turn a profit that year? American Motors.

Helped by favourable reviews that emphasized the Rambler’s price and fuel economy, as well as a widespread television and product placement marketing campaign (which included Disney!) orchestrated by Romney himself, Rambler – and AMC – was off to a roaring start.

With the success of the Rambler American and Rambler Classic line of vehicles, the traditional big players in the industry soon took notice and immediately began designing their own small cars, which were introduced in the early ’60s.

In 1960 and 1961, Rambler ranked third in domestic auto sales, with the latter year seeing the company enter into the industry’s first profit-sharing plan for its United Auto Workers-represented employees. Innovations followed that were later picked up by the Big Three, including standard reclining front bucket seats, optional front disc brakes, and the ‘PRND21’ automatic transmission sequence.

Research work was even done in support of a fully-electric car powered by a self-charging battery, though that effort clearly went nowhere.

The company took a shift away from the ‘think small’ strategy in 1962, after Romney resigned in order to run (successfully) for Governor of Michigan, where he grew the civil service and imposed the first income tax in the state’s history. Later, he went on to serve as Secretary of Housing and Urban Development under President Nixon, where his ideas – including ambitious social housing and de-segregation proposals – fell mostly on deaf ears.

For an interesting look at Romney’s policies (contrasted with those of his son), enjoy this somewhat long article in a liberal-perspective magazine:

http://prospect.org/article/cost-living-apart

(Romney was also a strong civil rights supporter who expanded state social programs and championed anti-discrimination laws. For more on that… http://www.theatlantic.com/national/archive/2012/08/how-george-romney-championed-civil-rights-and-challenged-his-church/261073/)

Trouble at the ranch

Anyhoo, back at the AMC camp, Romney’s departure meant there was a new captain at the helm – Roy Abernathy – who shifted the company towards a more diverse lineup. This meant a newfound focus on large cars, with the thinking that people weaned on Rambler’s compacts would one day want to move up to something bigger.

This strategy didn’t pan out and Rambler floundered in the marketplace, with overall sales slashed in half by 1967. Bleeding money at an alarming rate, AMC’s end looked near until new CEO Roy D. Chapin, Jr. arrived with famed designer Dick Teague in tow.

Chapin brought on a new executive, cut costs where possible, and made the compact Rambler American the company’s short-term focus, chopping down the sticker price to lure in buyers. In the background, Teague and his fellow designers worked to create new, youth-oriented vehicles from existing parts and vehicle stampings.

Once again, all of this work was backed up by aggressive advertising.

The intermediate-sized Rambler Classic, introduced on an existing chassis in 1961, was renamed the Rambler Rebel in 1967, before the Rambler name was dropped in favour of AMC badging in 1968.

This ’61 Rambler ad shows sensible people enjoying a sensible car.

The Classic had long been the bread and butter of the Rambler lineup, first offered with a 195 cubic inch straight-six or 250 cubic inch V-8. Covering three trim levels and multiple body styles, the Classic’s engine choice was fleshed out to three sixes and two larger V-8s as the ’60s progressed.

The renaming of both Rambler and the Classic had the goal of shaking up the brand’s image and moving buyer’s minds away from negative connotations of the recent past.

Under the new strategy, AMC entered the 1970s in good shape and with lots of buzz, purchasing Jeep’s vehicle operation in 1970 before things started to get really weird (Pacer, Gremlin, Matador coupe) in the mid-to-late ’70s. Obviously, at some point the company’s water supply had become tainted with hallucinogens.

After introducing the renowned and innovative AMC Eagle 4-wheel-drive wagon in 1979, the company entered into an ill-fated partnership with Renault in 1980, and immediately began a fast slide into oblivion. Renault left the American market in 1987, dropping its majority stake in AMC, at which point Chrysler Corporation purchased those remaining shares.

The formerly AMC-owned Jeep was folded into the Chrysler stable, while Renault-designed AMC products that had been in the works were marketed under a new brand, Eagle, starting in 1988. Eagle soon became just another make selling badge-engineered Chrysler products, like Plymouth and Dodge, though with some sporting pretentions in the form of the Talon coupe.

Eagle was unceremoniously dropped in 1999.

And so ended the rocky, confusing lineage of American Motors – the quirky car company that was once part of a refrigerator company and was once run by Mitt Romney’s unusually progressive yet devoutly Mormon/Republican dad.

If this tale has taught us anything, it’s to not go all-in on identity politics, and to be very wary of mergers.

What’s old is new again…

1979 or 1980 R-body Chrysler New Yorker, spotted in Gatineau, Quebec.

1979 was a turbulent year in America.

Gasoline had suddenly became expensive again thanks to the Iranian Revolution, interest rates were rising like mercury in a noonday Texas thermometer (as was inflation), and disco seemed poised to take over the world…and our kids.

On the automotive front, the Big Three automakers were struggling against economic pressures and the sudden appearance of a new competition – fuel-efficient Japanese compacts that tempted buyers with savings at the pump and low starting prices.

Nowhere in Detroit was the financial pressure greater than in the headquarters of Chrysler Corporation, which was desperately trying to avoid bankruptcy following a decade of non-stop punches that shook the industry to its core.

In addition to trying to secure bailout money from the federal government (while wooing eventual savior Lee Iacocca into their top-floor office), Chrysler was trying to compete against new, downsized models from GM (1977) and Ford (1979). And, given its dire situation, it had to create something competitive using little money and mostly off-the shelf parts.

As a rule, the downsized full-sizers introduced in the late-70s needed to appear fresh and new, have as much interior room (or more) than their land-barge predecessors, weight less, while consuming less precious, endangered gasoline.

For Chrysler, that meant the creation of the ‘new’ 1979 R-body line of vehicles – the Chrysler New Yorker and Newport, Dodge St. Regis, and (eventually) Plymouth Fury. The R-bodies have long fascinated me, as they really represent the end of the traditional full-size lineage of Chrysler vehicles – a slapped-together vehicle created in desperation to bridge the gap between the excessive 1970s and the lean, modern 1980s.

As a result of the rapidly changing era – one advanced by Chrysler itself following Iacocca’s appearance – the R-bodies (produced from 1979 to 1981) quickly became rolling dinosaurs, and faded from both roadways and the public consciousness in a hurry.

A ’62 dressed up as a ’79

The word ‘new’ appears here with quotation marks because the R-platform wasn’t new at all. Rather, Chrysler had simply taken the old B-platform that underpinned the previous Dodge Monaco and Plymouth Fury (and dated from 1962), and created a new, yet traditionally-styled body atop it, while doing everything possible to shed weight.

The old, big-block 400 and 440-cubic inch engines were put out to pasture, replaced by the venerable 225-cid Slant-Six, as well as the trustworthy 318 and 360-cid V-8s. So extreme was the need for weight loss, Chrysler fielded the ‘new’ line of sedans with stamped aluminum, chrome-plated bumpers, aluminum radiators and brake cylinders with plastic components. The weight loss, totalling several hundred pounds, helped the car’s lineup of aging engines (strangled of horsepower by government-mandated emission controls) haul the lengthy sedans around town.

Once on the market, the R-bodies represented the most traditional of the Big Three’s big sedans. Big on the outside as well as the inside, the Chrysler stablemates could be had with all the baroque trappings a late-70s driver could desire – vinyl top, pillowed velour interior in gaudy colours, and the classic fake wire wheel hupcap/whitewall tire combination. The New Yorker, which was available in top-shelf ‘Fifth Avenue’ trim, continued the hidden-headlamp motif popularized by its predecessors, as well as offerings from Lincoln.

“Do you park your 1979 Chrysler New Yorker here often?” (Chrysler promotional photo)

Sales of the R-body ‘pillared hardtops’ (ie – no window frames) started off brisk, helped by commercials that searched high and low for fiscal bright spots in an R-body purchase, but soon tanked once the effects of the Iranian Revolution began to impact people’s wallets. 1980 saw an exponential decrease in units sold, and the same for 1981.

Police fleets snapped up the Newport, Fury and St. Regis in fairly large numbers, given their imposing size and sturdy platform, but none were ever regarded as performers. Most pursuit vehicles were bought with a decent 195-horsepower 360 under the hood (for 1979), mated to the ubiquitous and bulletproof 3-speed Torqueflight automatic transmission, though California fleets made do with less (190 horsepower), and Canadian fleets with more (200 hp), thanks to better exhaust systems and boosted engine compression.

In 1980, California’s air pollution regulations mandated that all police R-Bodies come equipped with a 165-horsepower 318, which caused “a monumental firefight” between Dodge and the officers and management of the California Highway Patrol, who complained of embarrassment when the car performed dismally in real-life applications.*

(Apparently, one of the requirements of a police vehicle is the ability to catch fleeing suspects)

By 1981, the jig was up for the R-body. Sales of the big Chryslers were circling the bowl, and the company had already bled so much cash that CEO Iacocca was forced (starting in ’79) to slash all unnecessary overhead in a bid to save the company. Iacocca’s ‘triage’ approach meant that the company’s attention was primarily focused on keeping costs down while it produced and aggressively marketed a revenue-generating vehicle tailored for the economic climate America found itself in.

That vehicular saviour was the K-car line of compact, front-wheel drive vehicles that first appeared as Dodges and Plymouths in 1981 and branched out to the Chrysler brand in 1982. After ’81, with the R-body gone, Chrysler’s full-size spot was filled by the (formerly) intermediate-sized M-body Chrysler New Yorker, Plymouth Gran Fury, and Dodge Diplomat.

The real, honest-to-goodness full-size Chrysler was dead.

Adios, big guy…

Today, 33 years after the last R-bodies rolled unceremoniously off Chrysler’s embattled Detroit assembly line, seeing one in the flesh is a rare occurrence. The 1979 or 1980 New Yorker pictured at the top of the post was such an uncommon sight, it needed to be documented. These cars do look better in black, though this example is suffering from sagging lower body trim, missing front bumper guards, and an absent wheel cover.

However, under the hood there likely lies a 318 that can be nursed back to life without too much trouble, if it isn’t already serviceable.

Hopefully, the owner of the New Yorker will ensure this relic of a largely-ignored chapter in American automotive history stays alive, and on the road.

1979 Chrysler Newport, the less-flashy brother of the New Yorker. (Image: Bull-Doser, Wikimedia Commons)

*(http://www.allpar.com/cars/dodge/R-bodies.html)

Carefree highway

“Check it out – we’re nearly hitting 12 miles per gallon!”

Who’d like to trade places with the driver of this 1972 Mercury Marquis and ply the rural highways of Prince Edward County, Ontario?

Anyone?

Given the ample evidence of my land yacht fetish splashed across this blog, it’s clear I’d risk my life trying.

Think of it: V-8 engine purring, windows down to let in the warm, fragrant breezes of a late June evening, maybe some classic rock on the radio.

Heaven… (if you can ignore the economic realities of a thirsty 429-cubic inch V-8 hauling a 4,500-pound car and $1.41/litre at the local gas pump)

Just for kicks, take this scene and run wild with the possibilities.

Young lovers filled with passion and ambition but barely a buck’s worth of change in their pockets? An elderly man reunited with his long-lost granddaughter after making amends with his estranged son?

You decide who inhabits this classic Merc. And may that carefree highway always be with you.

*Cue music montage*

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ewhM7I9gD4U

Retronaut

“Are you from the past?”

It’s hard to figure out how to respond to a sight like this.

A sight, I might add, that didn’t get better the closer I got to it.

Regardless of whether you love it or hate it, this driver clearly wasn’t going to be stopped from getting the most attention out of his retro-styled compact wagon.

Chevrolet HHRs (or as all the kids call them, Heritage High Roofs) were sold between 2005 and 2011. Based on the Cobalt, the HHR was a fairly competent vehicle powered (mainly) by the durable 2.2 and 2.4-litre Ecotec engines, mated to a 4-speed automatic or 5-speed manual.

A rare SS model came with a turbocharged 2.0-litre making 260 horsepower, which promised really fast trips to the grocery store. I have to think this would be something of a find for a certain niche of collector.

Overall, I’d argue the HHR pulled off the retro wagon look better than the oddly-shaped Chrysler PT Cruiser. THIS, however, doesn’t count as part of the package.

With skull-and-crossbones faux chrome wheel covers atop painted steel rims, coupled with a do-it-yourself whitewall treatment, this HHR wasn’t busy hauling restraint or taste.

The wide pinstripe is a nice addition, however.

Monza mash

1963-64 Chevrolet Corvair Monza, spotted in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania.

It was a typical late winter day in Pennsylvania – chilly, flat grey overcast, ice breaking up on the Susquehanna, and Tiny Dancer playing on the car radio.

Everything around me conspired to put this driver into a wistful, reflective mood (the kind where you think about life choices). Thankfully, this funk was soon shaken off by the appearance of a controversial automotive classic – the loved, hated and sometimes feared Chevrolet Corvair.

The late-first generation Monza coupe I stumbled across – the Corvair’s most popular body style by far – was a pretty plain-Jane affair, with blackwall tires and pie-plate hubcaps complementing its spartan exterior. Likely, this model came equipped with the base 2.4-litre flat-six engine, making 80 or 95 horsepower depending on whether it was a ’63 or ’64 model.

The upgrade engine was a 2.7-litre, 110-horsepower flat-six, though signing off on a Spyder model would net you a 150-horsepower, turbocharged version of that same engine. In keeping with the car’s reputation as a rear-engined automotive oddity, the Corvair’s powerplants were air-cooled and had aluminum engine blocks.

Touted as a ‘poor man’s Porsche’, the Corvair sold in large numbers following its 1960 launch and was available in a wide variety of body configurations – even a pickup and van was offered – but the car’s sporty, go-anywhere lustre was replaced by a sales-killing stigma in 1965.

Unsafe at any speed?

That year, lawyer and consumer activist (and later failed presidential candidate) Ralph Nader published Unsafe At Any Speed, a hard-hitting look at the American automotive industry that revealed an aversion to fixing known safety issues. The Corvair, and the rear swing-axle suspension it used between 1960 to 1963 – was featured heavily in the book.

Nader referred to the vehicle as a “one-car accident”, stating the suspension design, along with the omission of front anti-roll bars, made the car vulnerable to fatal rollovers. Though his assertion was sometimes disputed – even by scientific studies – the damage was done, and the Corvair’s reputation as a rolling death trap was created.

Despite being redesigned in 1965 (and not containing the controversial suspension components), sales of the Corvair tanked following the release of the book. After a 50% sales drop for the 1966 model, and a 75% drop the year after, the Corvair withered on the vine until it was dropped from the Chevy lineup during the 1969 model year.

Going from industry darling to social pariah, the Corvair’s fall from grace served as a harbinger for the automotive scandals that cropped up in the 1970s – mainly, the fire-prone Ford Pinto and crappy-all-over Chevy Vega.

While those two vehicles are classic lessons on the dangers of cost-cutting, the Corvair exists as a cautionary tale – an example of the rewards and challenges facing any automaker intent on doing ‘something completely different.’

Hey there, Stude…

1964-65 Studebaker Commander (Lark), spotted inside the former RCAF Picton air base in Ontario.

There’s something about a late-model Studebaker Lark that commands respect.

From its homely beginnings in 1959, when it was introduced as Studebaker’s new compact car, the Lark eventually blossomed into a competent, competitive sedan with a distinctive style. By shedding its initially bulbous sheet metal, the Lark went from frumpy to foxy over the course of its life – one that ended when the Studebaker Corporation bit the dust in 1966.

In the early 60s, the compact class was a new breed in America, and a competitive one. Each major automaker tackled the new challenge in a different way, aiming for the biggest market slice but also appealing to different demographics.

Ford’s Falcon was bland as a wool cardigan (but sold well), while Mercury’s Comet stood apart with (purposefully) upscale, Lincoln-esque styling cues. The Dodge Dart/Plymouth Valiant twins emerged in the compact field with awkward looks in 1962, but soon evolved into a vehicle with safer styling and a reputation for performance. The basic Chevy II Nova of the period went so far as to offer a base 4-cylinder for economy, but later turned its focus to sporty models to battle Chrysler for youth-oriented sales.

In contrast, the Lark offered a combination of appealing traits – understated style, roominess, power, and economy but nothing too radical. The Lark was conceived at a time when Studebaker desperately needed a sales hit, as it was bleeding cash from its ill-fated merger with Packard.

With little to work with, Studebaker created its new compact by essentially ‘compressing’ an existing full-size bodyshell, resulting in a still-roomy vehicle of shorter length. Stodgy on the outside but spacious on the inside, the Lark tempted drivers into its un-flashy confines by offering a available, class-exclusive 289-cid V8 sourced from the Hawk.

A short recession in the United States in 1958 spurred interest in downsized vehicles, and the early Lark sold in respectable numbers. However, when Studebaker found itself facing a full broadside of new compacts from the Big Three in 1960-61, another design miracle needed to be pulled off for next-to-no money.

An industrial designer named Brooks Stevens was brought in to work design (and financial) magic on the Lark, a task he pulled of admirably. A longer body combined with creased, upright styling, a grille that emulated a Mercedes-Benz, and new trim options made the ’62 Lark a credible option.

Further refinements in design were made to keep the model fresh, and in 1964 what was to become the last Lark model started rolling off assembly lines – though not for long. The third model (1964-66) kept the crisp, upright body style but moved towards a more integrated, American-looking front end.

FIN

Alas, the end was nigh for the Lark and Studebaker as a whole. Struggling to keep its automotive division afloat amid stagnant sales, Studebaker’s top brass decided to wind down vehicle sales in in a bid to leave the market altogether.

Different… and soon to be dead. America kissed the Studebaker goodbye in 1964; Canada, in 1966.

The automaker’s South Bend, Indiana plant ceased operations in December, 1963, with production moving to Studebaker’s smaller Hamilton, Ontario plant. At this point, the Lark name was replaced by the Commander.

After producing a 1965 model that was a carbon-copy of the ’64, a refreshed ’66 Studebaker was produced in small numbers until the Hamilton plant closed in March, 1966.

Even as the automotive division was drawing its last breaths, dedicated staff at Studebaker Canada were busy planning how they could bring the company – and the car – into the 1970s.

That Studebaker managed to soldier on so long after its near-bankruptcy in the mid-1950s is a testament to the company’s determination.

Leaving a Mark

1969-71 Lincoln Continental Mk. III, spotted near Leamington, Ontario.

Perhaps the most quintessential American ‘personal luxury’ coupe ever, the 1969-1971 Lincoln Continental Mk. III was a rolling statement that you’d arrived.

Arrived at a high income, that is.

With this model, the Ford Motor Company seized upon a growing marketplace niche and cut a big chunk out for itself. A competitor to Cadillac’s Eldorado (and to a lesser extent, the cheaper Olds Toronado and Buick Riviera), the Mk. III was a high point in Lincoln’s history.

Like many other standouts in the automotive world, we have Lee Iacocca to thank for this iconic model. Then serving as president of Ford, Iacocca had the new Lincoln built on the existing frame of the four-door Ford Thunderbird, which, while not a sales success, provided a solid platform on which to rest a higher-end vehicle.

And there was a lot of resting.

Tipping the scales (or crushing them) at 4,866 pounds, the Mk. III fitted Lincoln’s new 460 cubic inch (7.5-litre) V-8 under its mile-long hood. With cheap Middle East oil flowing unchecked across the Atlantic and little concern for emissions controls, the Continental could be as big and thirsty as the car-buying public wanted.

Inside the imposing beast, optional leather upholstery and multiple electronic conveniences awaited the lucky motorist. Air conditioning was a must-have, and anti-lock front disc brakes was an option worth bragging about in advertisements.

The Mk. III turned into a huge money-maker for Ford and Iacocca, not just because of strong sales, but also because of the reduced manufacturing costs made possible by utilizing existing parts. The styling also set the tone for Lincoln in the 1970s – a style the Thunderbird quickly adopted after shedding its rear doors in the early 70s.

Car buffs and movie aficionados alike will remember the Mk. III as being the ride of choice for the bad guy in The French Connection (1971), with the Lincoln serving as a very classy container for piles of smuggled heroin.

Just as the earlier 1961-64 Continentals had defined American luxury in the early 60s, the Mk. III brought that same feel and presence into the 70s.

For sure, the sheer size and thirst of this vehicle would be hard to comprehend (or afford) for modern-day motorists long accustomed to stratospheric gas prices and tiny parking spaces, but that doesn’t mean the allure has faded.

If anything, the desire for this car – and the nostalgia for the era it came from – is only getting bigger.

Driven to Attraction

If it has an engine, it has a heart