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Hemmings Sports & Exotic Car columns by Karl LudvigsenReturn to Karl Ludvigsen main page How Big Are Wankel Engines? Your editor's eyebrows shot sky-high when I submitted my article on the design of the Mazda RX-7. I said that its rotary engine had "a displacement of 573 cc per working chamber. Since there were two rotors and three cells per rotor, that added up to a total capacity of 3,438 cc." Cue editorial response! "It's been my understanding that the 12A displaced 573 cc per rotor for a total of 1,146 cc," queried Mr. Fitzgerald, "and for Japanese tax purposes the engine was rated at 1.5 times the nominal displacement for 1,719 cc. I've never heard of the 12A being described as anything other than a sub-2.0-liter engine." The reason for that is simple, I told Craig: Mazda has been misrepresenting the actual displacement of its rotary engine for decades. I first got involved in this in the early 1970s, the Wankel's heyday. That's when almost everybody was interested in this ingenious new engine, for good reason. Covering it closely as a journalist, I was happy with the convention that the displacement of a singe rotor was rated as double the swept volume of one of the three combustion chambers that surrounded that rotor. There seemed to be some logic to this. At the output shaft this matched the pattern of power strokes of a four-stroke engine. This was the rating used by the international racing authorities for Wankel displacement. As well heavyweights in the Wankel world, Daimler-Benz, Ford and General Motors, concluded that the "equivalent displacement" was double that of a single chamber. On that basis the RX-7, with its two rotors, would have a displacement of 573 cc x 2 x 2 or 2,292 cc. Then one evening in 1973 I was dining at the Dearborn Inn with G. Fred Leydorf, an advanced-engine engineer at American Motors. Fred had worked on a joint rotary-engine project with Renault and was liaising with Curtiss-Wright on the Wankel engine that was scheduled to power the Pacer. He knew his rotaries. "The thing about the Wankel," said Fred, "is that its displacement is bigger than people think. You have to follow all its chambers through their complete working cycles. With the Wankel that takes three revolutions of its output shaft, not the four-stroke reciprocating engine's two revolutions. If you do that, you find that all three chambers of each rotor complete the four-stroke cycle - so they have to be counted in its displacement." The light dawns! Suddenly the Wankel is seen for what it is: a brilliant design that packs a lot of working volume into a small package. You'd think its creators would be boasting about how much "cylinder" capacity they've managed to build into its compact housing, a tribute to Felix Wankel's genius. In a 1963 study of racing classifications one of Europe's most respected engine experts, Prof. Eberan von Eberhorst, came down firmly in favor of a triple-chamber rating. That's just the way the engine was seen at first by Germany's NSU, the little company that took the gamble of licensing and building the first Wankels. When Max Bentele, then a Curtiss-Wright engineer, first visited NSU in mid-1958 he copied down a list of all NSU's present and future Wankels. NSU showed the displacement of each as triple its single chamber. The first engines, which had 125 cc chambers, were classified as 375 cc. Projected engines with 500 cc chambers were described as 1.5-liter units in single-rotor form and as 3.0-liter engines with two rotors. Bentele brought the NSU engineers up short. "Aren't you asking for trouble?" he said. "We have no problem in the US with taxation on the basis of engine size, but you do in Europe. Why do you mention three chambers when you could mention only one?" NSU did indeed go back to a single-chamber rating for all its Wankels. Mazda did likewise and has done so ever since. I did some writing on the subject in 1973 that led to correspondence with many experts including Felix Wankel. Then I got involved in the discussion for real in 1974 when I learned that the Society of Automotive Engineers (SAE) was setting up a Rotary Engine Subcommittee to establish clear definitions for the engine's components and functions so that all engineers could sing from the same song sheet. I managed to wangle a place for myself on the Subcommittee. Needless to say I pushed hard for all three chambers to be counted in a definition of displacement. My first proposal was for that to be adopted in parallel with an "SAE displacement" of two chambers per rotor to pacify the car makers who were comfortable with this. At a Subcommittee meeting on February 25, 1975 I made a major presentation, complete with slides, defending the counting of all three chambers of any and all rotors. Had I not weighed in as I did I'm pretty sure that SAE J1220, approved in June 1978, wouldn't have included a definition that counted all three chambers. In fact, unable to agree, we hedged our bets by satisfying everybody. One chamber was defined as "Geometric Displacement", two were "Equivalent Displacement" and three were "Thermodynamic Displacement". You can take your pick. But believe me, if you want to understand the Wankel's pros and cons the best way to do so is to consider all three chambers of each rotor - even if Mazda doesn't want to! - Karl Ludvigsen Connaught Capers - Part 3 I was at the Brooklyn docks to collect - with some trepidation - the 1949 Connaught L2 sports car I purchased in May of 1968 from London's Portobello Motors, one of the quirkiest car dealers on the planet. This was the company of which my friend Dennis May had written that it's "the sort of firm, scruffy and insouciant to the nth degree, that I'd hate to do business with at a range of 3000 miles." Dennis had been scathing about both the dealership and the condition of the Lea-Francis-based Connaught. By now my expectations were so modest that when I finally set eyes on AHC 82 I was pleasantly surprised. The dark-green Connaught was complete as described, with the regrettable addition of a fresh dent in its rear. Having brought a tow rope on the recommendation of Portobello's Eric Lister, in view of the supposed tightness of its recently rebuilt engine, colleague Judy Stropus gave me a tug. The 2.5-liter four fired up, ready to rumble. After stopping for gasoline I was soon home in Pelham Manor. Representing as it did a net investment of $450, the Connaught didn't disappoint. It did indeed have a dash full of instruments that all worked. There was no sign of the smoke and noise that had alarmed my inspectors. Although the bodywork had been modified, with added space behind the seats and a flow-through line joining the originally individual fenders, it had its own funky character. And it was a Connaught, the fourth car made by the company in Send, Surrey that in 1955 had scored Britain's first post-war Grand Prix victory. I was eager to show off my exotic new acquisition at a Bridgehampton meeting of the Vintage Sports Car Club of America. The trip out to the end of Long Island and back went well and the Connaught was competent on the demanding circuit. Its only fault was a tendency to jump out of gear; I took a passenger whose job was to hold it in. Back home in Pelham Manor I was looking the car over when I noticed water where water shouldn't be. I reported my findings to Eric Lister: "I have discovered that there is an extensive crack in the upper right water jacket of the Connaught block. I know this didn't happen during shipping because the weather was not cold and because the crack was covered up by some kind of plastic goop, over which was a fresh coat of red paint. Now, it's evident to me that the presence of this crack must have been known to you or to your mechanic, if you had the engine out for repairs, as you say you did and as I believe you did. This crack presents me with the most fundamental kind of additional work on this car." Completely in character Lister was insouciant in reply. "Most unfortunately our star mechanic Black Jake was recently involved in a rather serious industrial accident in the welding shop," he wrote, "and as he is in hospital I just can't broach the subject with him at the moment. However I have spoken to his assistant who tells me that he did have knowledge of such a crack. As I am not a mechanic myself I was not aware of this and would have notified you if I had been." I was on the horns of a first-class dilemma. I had a Connaught whose non-original engine - 2.5 instead of 1.8 liters - had a cracked block. It was a nice enough engine made by Lea-Francis that had been in the car since 1953. Should I fix it or should I find a 1.8-liter to replace it? Deciding on the latter course I found that VSCCA member Tom Stewart had a disassembled unit of just the kind I needed. Late in 1968 both the engine and the car were at the workshop of mechanical genius Jim McGee on Long Island to be rebuilt and mated. Jim never got around to the job. When after several years I collected the Connaught the proverbial trees were growing through its cockpit. AHC 82 languished in my garage while I continued to contemplate her future. Should the body be restored to its original shape? What about the engine? I hadn't made a decision when, in 1980, I went to work for Ford of Europe in England. Soon I arranged for the Connaught and its spare engine, still disassembled, to return to the country of their birth. The veteran was now in a sorry state. I explored options for restoration in the UK but the projected costs were daunting. Meanwhile with my Aston Martin I was starting from Bath on a classic-car run in 1986 when none other than Eric Lister came up and introduced himself. After some to-ing and fro-ing he met me in London at the Royal Automobile Club. Over a good lunch we put our differences behind us. Ultimately in 1987 I sold the Connaught to Duncan Rabagliati, eminent historian of racing cars in general and Connaughts in particular and a renowned collector of lost causes. Over years Duncan gradually brought her back to life, ultimately for his daughter to drive. I saw AHC 82 again in 1998 at a gathering at the old Connaught works to celebrate 50 years of the company's founding. She looked good. But I had no regrets. - Karl Ludvigsen Connaught Capers - Part 2 Last month I'd had the reaction of Eric Lister of London's Portobello Motors to the findings of the two men whom I described to him as "among the leading U.K. experts on Old Cars" concerning the Connaught L2 sports car I was planning to purchase from the other side of the Atlantic in 1968. "Mr. Rolls and Mr. Royce perhaps?" he hazarded in his reply. The concerns of my experts about the Connaught's smoky, noisy and erratic running had caused me to pressure Lister that the car's problems would be sorted before the car was shipped. Why - you might well ask - was I still willing to consider buying this car? After my Doctors of Motors had rendered a negative verdict on both condition and originality? Good question. But I was besotted by the idea of a Connaught. Starting with the sports cars, of which they made 14, Connaught went on to produce their A-Series Formula 2 racing cars and then, in 1954, their B-Series Grand Prix cars. Driven by Tony Brooks, one of these was the first British car to win a modern Formula 1 race at Syracuse in Sicily at the end of 1955. Connaught carried on through 1957, after which season it closed its doors. When its assets were auctioned they gave Bernie Ecclestone his first step on the Formula 1 ladder. In 1963 I'd met Rodney Clarke, Connaught's creative spirit, when he visited New York. His designs and ideas were always advanced, sometimes too much so for the modest finances provided by his backer Kenneth McAlpine, and his engineering standards first-class. Thus in addition to admiring the achievements of this pioneer British racing-car company I felt a personal link through the tall, red-haired Clarke, who'd been the first to build and race a fuel-injected Grand Prix car. Portobello's Lister did his best to reassure me that I wasn't altogether leaping into the unknown. "I would like to stress most emphatically on Black Jake's instructions," he wrote, referring to his mechanical minder, "that you must run this car in very carefully as it is exceptionally tight and that means that you should not exceed 45 mph in top gear for at least 1000 miles and then increase the speed progressively. The engine has been running for six hours only since the new crankshaft and bearings were fitted; it is still very tight indeed. When she feels easier, have the carburetors tuned and synchronized. "Don't forget my remarks about old cars," Eric Lister added. "They do give trouble, but this can be kept to a minimum if you put into them what you take out. It is my own policy never to drive old cars fast as they last longer if you treat them gently. It is quite ridiculous what people do with old cars. They expect a 20-year-old vehicle to have exactly the same performance as when it was brand new. No respect at all for nice old machinery." These admonitions weren't exactly what I wanted to hear, because as a member of the Vintage Sports Car Club of America I was planning to race the Connaught! After he drove my Connaught "out of the garage and made sure that it was fastened securely onto the transporter on its way to the docks at Southampton," Eric Lister felt it was time to brief me on what to do when it arrived. Doubtless, he wrote, "the battery will need charging as it really has to be at peak charge to start her, so these are the instructions: pull out choke to right of steering column; flip the first three switches on the left of steering column down; you will then hear the electric pumps clicking. With it being an open car, I am assuming that sometime during its journey people will fool around with the switches, so make sure that they are all up before attempting to start it. Then if she doesn't start on the button, fix a tow rope to the front axle, pull her for about 50 yards in third gear and she will definitely start. "After that," Lister admonished, "make sure the battery is very well charged and run her at least 500 miles at very low speeds before gradually opening her up a bit. The 'T' key for opening the trunk is under the driver's seat. There are no ignition keys, so make sure all switches are up before leaving the car. Side curtains are at the rear of the seats and that's just about all." The Connaught was put aboard the Blue Grass State on May 13th, 1968. The pre-shipment list of damages for insurance purposes contained an impressive litany of faults: "seat back seams split - upholstery and dashboard soiled and damp - rear panel and number plate surround chipped, rust and dented - boot lid chipped all over - left door chipped all over and scratched - right door chipped edges - bent left rear wing scratched and chipped, large piece touched up" and much more of that ilk. Before the end of May the Connaught was decanted at the Columbia Street Pier in Brooklyn. Al Rappaport of General American Shippers arranged for its customs clearance. With my assistant Judy Stropus and a tow rope I drove to Brooklyn to have my first sight of the fourth Connaught L2 to roll off the production line almost 20 years earlier. To be continued! - Karl Ludvigsen Connaught Capers - Part 1 A friend and business partner of Eric Lister wrote that "we started, as an expensive hobby, the Portobello Motor Company, mainly to indulge ourselves in the classic cars we loved to drive." Last month I related the saga of my non-purchase of a Burney in 1968 from Lister and his dealership in London's Notting Hill. At the same time I was negotiating with Lister the acquisition of a 1949 Connaught L2 sports car. Some explication may be in order. After World War II Rodney Clarke and Mike Oliver of Continental Cars, Ltd. in Send, Surrey were looking for a project to replace the Bugatti work they'd been doing in the 1930s. They hit on the idea of building a competition sports car on the basis of the post-war Lea-Francis. This had a conventional but effective solid-axle chassis and a 1.8-liter four with high-placed twin cams and hemispherical combustion chambers. They shortened the Lea-Francis frame, hopped up the engine and had new aerodynamic bodies fashioned in aluminum. The result was dubbed the Connaught and given the series designation "L" in recognition both of the car's origins and the fashioning of its body by Leacroft. Backing for the project came from Kenneth McAlpine, a wealthy racer and enthusiast. Completed in 1948, the first car was his. In 1949 four more L2 Connaughts took to the road. The first owner of the fourth car built, registered AHC 82, was P. L. Jonas, who raced it at Goodwood in 1950. In May and August he was seventh and sixth respectively in short races won by McAlpine in his sister car. In the early 1950s a new owner made substantial changes in AHC 82. He replaced its original engine with a 2.5-liter Lea-Francis four and modified its body with straight-through side panels and additional space, for youngsters, behind its bucket seats. "It has been rebuilt mechanically during the last three months," Lister assured me. "The engine has had a new crankshaft and has been thoroughly overhauled, likewise the gear box. The bodywork is hand painted but very neat and has a new hood and weather equipment, quite decent upholstery plus a very impressive array of instruments. The car runs well and has only done a few hundred miles since it was overhauled so the engine is rather tight but this will ease of after a couple of thousand miles." It was this point that, as related last month, I wrote from New York to ask Dennis May to have a look at the Burney and Connaught for me. When Dennis and Steady Barker arrived at Portobello "they didn't appear to be expecting us to either drive it or be driven," although ample notice of these intentions had been given. "Under gentle pressure they fitted its battery and a passenger seat and tried to start the engine. It refused to start on the button so all hands turned to and pushed. It then finally came to life on two and occasionally three cylinders, emitting a terrific noise from faulty gaskets and leaking near-lethal doses of exhaust gas into the cockpit (the top was up). "I couldn't legally drive it myself because it wasn't licensed," Dennis continued, "so I rode as passenger with their tame demonstrator, an amiable bearded negro. He excused the erratic running by saying he hadn't had time to tune the carbs, though why not I couldn't imagine; wasn't four days enough? The condition of the body isn't too bad but it's a rather ugly non-standard thing. They vowed it was standard but neither I nor Steady (a firm he worked for in his youth used to make bodies for Connaught) ever remembered seeing its like. It just doesn't have that distinctive horseshoe-like cross section at around the plane of the scuttle - know what I mean?" This was not very comforting. Nevertheless Eric Lister sought to reassure me. His mechanic "Black Jake", he wrote, "gave them a drive around in the Connaught which I am told performed very well." I replied that "in view of the findings of my Doctors of Motors…I can't be as sanguine as you about the operation of the Connaught. I gather that it had to be pushed to start it…this is not a condition in which I'd want to drive a car anyplace, even the relatively short distance from the Jersey docks to my home." I asked Lister for his "most candid and realistic summary of the condition of these cars [including the Burney] and the specific work you plan to put in hand on them before I send any more dollars over to follow those that have already emigrated." "We would like to use that well known New York East Side expression 'not to worry'," Lister replied. "I have found that a little knowledge is a dangerous thing and most people who come around to examine the cars think they know a lot more than they in fact do." This about two experts who'd seen more exotic cars than he'd had hot breakfasts! The push start, he said was needed because the battery was flat, while the noise was from "a rough temporary positioning of the silencer (you say muffler) which needs repairing or replacing as necessary and new exhaust gasket." Water in the plug wells had caused the misfiring, he explained, adding, "All these faults will definitely be rectified." To be continued! - Karl Ludvigsen Burned by a Burney In Motor Sport of February 1968 the Portobello Motor company in London's Notting Hill offered an astonishing array of cars. Why I didn't leap at the M-Type Allard for £265 or even the Maserati 3500GT Spider at £950 I'll never know. Instead my eyes were drawn as if by magnetism to "1930 Burney Streamliner, the best on offer, the only one on offer. Offers." Unfortunately I knew what a Burney was. Fascinated by the rear-engined experiments of the 1930s, I knew that a few such cars had been produced by Sir Dennistoun Burney, creator of the R100 airship. Responding to my query about this curiosity, Portobello's Eric Lister said that his Burney "was the very first car manufactured under license by the Crossley Motor Company." This made it a Crossley-Burney, of which some two dozen were built in 1933-34, powered by Crossley's own six-cylinder engine. This had been replaced, said Lister, by a Vauxhall four. That the Burney was admittedly "rather shabby and needs restoration" was vaguely attested to by three tiny, fuzzy photos. Remarking on these, I judged that "they were taken with the same special camera that is passed around from one British establishment to the next, prized for its ability to show the general outlines of an automobile without revealing too many details." In reply Eric Lister explained that "My grandfather purchased our Brownie (type) camera on a visit to Hong Kong in 1923. The street trader who sold it to him gave an unconditional guarantee. Although this is written in Chinese we are assured by scholarly friends that if any fault develops in this camera during the remaining years of this century, all we have to do is contact a certain Mr. Loo Fong in Hong Kong and he will be obliged to repair or refund the money on the camera. As yours is the first complaint we have received about our photography we are attempting to contact Mr. Fong by telephone today. "Believe me," Lister continued about the Burney, "I will be most sorry to see it go as it has become a kind of pet of mine which every now and then I go down and stroke. Actually I was hoping that it would go to a good home in this country where I could visit it occasionally. However, if you will invite me to your home when I am next in the New York area I will bring over a few carrots to feed it." In spite of (or because of) this hokey blarney, and with Lister's assurance that "it can be driven away from the docks", I offered $900 for the Burney and put down a deposit. As a precaution, however, I wrote to an old friend and colleague, Dennis May, asking him to visit Portobello Motors. He did so, taking along another knowledgeable friend, Ronald "Steady" Barker. On March 27, 1968 Dennis reported on his trip to Notting Hill. He found Portobello "the sort of firm, scruffy and insouciant to the nth degree, that I'd hate to do business with at a range of 3,000 miles." He judged the Burney "positively decrepit in every sense except its engine does run." It had an ENV preselector transmission, which Lister's man said lacked bottom gear but was otherwise fine. On the day, however, "there wasn't drive on any gear at present, so all he could do, and did, was to demonstrate that the Vauxhall engine runs in neutral. See what I mean about insouciance?" Insouciant as ever, Eric Lister took the inspection visit by "two gentlemen…both wearing identical white coats" in his stride. "Our genius mechanic known in the trade as 'Black Jake' (no kidding) because you can't see his face for hair and oil, started the Burney which requires some gear box adjustment before emigrating to the United States." "This 'runner' turns out not to run at all," I replied, "due to malfeasance by the ENV box. Are you sure that adjustment will suffice? There is a distinct shortage of ENV experts over here and I would very much like to have this part of the car, at least, in reasonable shape before it comes over." "Blake Jake has removed the gear box," Lister reassured, "and finds that there is very little adjustment left so the gear box has gone back to the preselector experts in London and will be overhauled as necessary. Just leave it to us to sort out the aggravating bits and pieces." In May, while discussing shipping arrangements, Eric Lister added to the "bulging files" of our correspondence with the note that he was "particularly sad to let the Burney go to America", adding, "The other day I had a representative of the British Science Museum looking at it. He was most intrigued and knew quite a lot about these cars and said he was very disappointed that it was going abroad, which made me feel a bit of a heel but, as you say, that's the way the cookie crumbles." In June, my feet getting colder by the day, I was able to relieve Mr. Lister's conscience with the news that I was relinquishing my deposit and wouldn't be taking the immobile Crossley-Burney after all, "especially in view of the interest of the Science Museum in this important car." But I did buy another car from Portobello Motors - about which more next time. - Karl Ludvigsen Crown Wheels For many years my abiding criterion for car ownership was never to buy the same make twice. I figured there were enough good and interesting cars out there that I'd always be able to find something that suited me without having to duplicate brand ownership. Also in the process I'd learn a lot about different cars and their makers. This strategy was put to the test after I left General Motors in 1967 to pursue a free-lance writing career. It was time to check out these Japanese cars that were starting to make inroads in the American market. Did the Japanese have anything that would suit the Ludvigsens? The answer was yes: Toyota's Crown. This was the top of the Toyota range, newly restyled and enlarged for 1967 as the S50 series, as I learned in Jeff Koch's story about the Crown in our August 2007 issue. Take a look at the sedan at the bottom of page 92. This was a handsome piece of kit on which the ever-ambitious Japanese stylists had, for a change, shown some restraint. Now imagine it as a station wagon with glazing all the way to the rear - a good-looking and spacious load-carrier. Ours was cream with a black interior. Transmission was automatic, a three-speeder with torque converter, while steering was manual with five turns lock to lock. Suspension was conventional for the time with a live rear axle and coil springs at all four corners. Toyota went to some trouble to design an advanced in-line six for its Crown. It had an aluminum cylinder head and carried its crankshaft in seven main bearings. A single overhead camshaft was chain-driven. Its 2,253 cc were produced by dimensions of 75 x 85 mm, unfashionably undersquare but aiding shortness and lightness. The under-hood scene was impeccable, an object lesson in neat and orderly disposition of piping, wiring and accessories that contrasted vividly with the chaos of British imports. When asked about the Crown I would answer, "Well, it does everything I want in a car except go, handle and stop." It did not have strengths in these departments. Elegant though the engine was its output was a modest 115 bhp at 5,200 rpm, and that by the SAE's gross rating. Referring to an Autocar road test of a Crown sedan I see that leaving the Toyoglide in "D" gave zero to 60 acceleration in 21.3 seconds. That's about what my MG TC managed. By holding it in second gear this could be reduced to 16.0 seconds. The standing quarter-mile took 20.1 seconds. Once it got up to speed the Crown cruised comfortably at 70 mph and 4,000 rpm. Irrelevant thought it was, its top speed was between 95 and 100 mph. I don't recall testing its fuel mileage but Autocar measured 15 mpg for its sedan. The wagon would have been worse. This was our first air-conditioned car, a great luxury when driving from New York to Michigan and back for summer holidays. As for stopping, I recognize the Autocar comment about the brakes that "At first they seem alarmingly ineffective. The pedal scarcely moves and seems to meet dead resistance." Though vacuum-assisted, the front discs and rear drums needed heavy prodding to get their attention. Braking was available but required a powerful poke at the pedal. A peculiarity was a clicking noise from the brake-light switching relay. Handling wasn't even a consideration. The Crown could be aimed with reasonable accuracy. Though sluggish, its helm would eventually begin to respond. Looking back, this was clearly a car that was waiting for radial tires. "This is the most substantial and refined Japanese car we have yet tried," said Autocar, "and it offers very comfortable and roomy transport for five." This is what I was looking for and this is what I got in a transport machine that suited a family with two young children. An important part of my Toyota experience was watching the settling-in of the network. When I bought my Crown the dealer on the Boston Post Road in New Rochelle was little more than a hollow shell. He had a showroom and a back shop with a few tools scattered about. Luckily for him and his colleagues Toyota built its cars to demand little in the way of service. Parts supply, especially for the exotic Crown, was nothing to brag about in those early days. Gradually, step by step, New Rochelle Toyota started looking like an ordinary car dealership. Shop equipment arrived as did showroom décor. By the mid-1970s it was evident that Toyota was here to stay. One day we were heading out toward Bridgehampton when, in a bizarre accident, we smashed into the side of a Lincoln. I turned around to see our youngsters, still wearing their lap belts, bent over at the waist because their seat back was pushed forward by the Lea Francis engine I was delivering to Jim McGee. We were all okay but the Crown needed parts, some of which were slow to arrive. In 1977 I replaced the Toyota with Chevrolet's new Malibu Classic station wagon, sheer-lined and functional with a V-8 under the hood. This was, come to think of it, the first time I'd bought the same make of car twice. It was about time I got around to abandoning what was, after all, an unedifying criterion. - Karl Ludvigsen Newton, Franciamore and BMW I met Harry Newton in 1964 when I moved into his town, Pelham Manor, a New York enclave squeezed between the Bronx and New Rochelle. Harry was a man of many parts in the world of the automobile. A shrewd and often controversial observer of motor-industry trends, Newton made a living selling cars as varied as Aston Martins and Cadillacs. Soon after I met him, Harry Newton went to work for the legendary Max Hoffman. Max was then in his final phase as the importer of BMW cars. Though struggling with the perception among many folks that BMW meant "British Motor Works", Max was doing his best to expand sales of the Bavarian-built cars in which he wholeheartedly believed. On both coasts, using the finest architects, he erected new and handsome BMW distribution centers. Max Hoffman was a strong supporter of the new generations of BMW cars in the 1960s. But when in late 1965 he saw a new model the company was planning to launch he was flabbergasted. It was a slimmed-down, short-wheelbase, two-door version of its sedan, powered by a 1.6-liter four. As far as Hoffman could see it was a high-cost car that BMW would have to sell for a lot less money - a guaranteed profit-killer. He told BMW's executives that they were in for a big disappointment. BMW went ahead anyway. In fact at celebrations of its 50th anniversary in the center of Munich on March 8, 1966, surrounded by classic cars and motorcycles, it unveiled its new 1600 model. The next day the two-door was on BMW's stand at the Geneva Salon. There'd been a previous 1600, a small-engined version of the four-door New Class BMW, but this was a different animal. When I left GM and started free-lancing in 1967, I needed wheels. Interested in the 1600, I asked Harry Newton about it. "It's the perfect car," he said with his habitual assurance. In fact it was. Here was a four-passenger car weighing only 2,030 pounds powered by a smooth, high-revving overhead-cam four producing 85 bhp. All-independent springing gave it a good ride coupled with agile, neutral handling. In an airy interior with tall windows, gauges were handsomely cowled in a driver-centered nacelle. The trunk was huge and seats were decidedly upmarket. If BMW were going to lose money on these, I decided to take advantage. Harry recommended specific tires for it and Max offered a friendly discount. Soon I was the proud owner of a dove-gray BMW 1600. It immediately commended itself in many ways. Frameless door glass made its light doors a snap to open and shut. Visibility in all directions was unsurpassed. The wide hood gave excellent access. Top speed was just over 100 mph while second gear was good for 60 mph and in third it reached an astonishing 90 if you revved it to 7,500, which the sweet four easily attained. Drawbacks were relatively few. Floor-pivoted pedals were passé; oddly they were suspended on right-hand-drive cars. Outmoded too was the six-volt electrical system. No tachometer was provided but I arranged to fit one. The speedometer was wildly optimistic. With discs in front and drums in back its braking was good but not amazing. The 1600 was an ideal choice for my peregrinations from a New York base around the East Coast to cover various stories. After its warranty expired I drove it into the Bronx for servicing. I'd noticed that a repair shop there was called "Quattroruote", the name of the Italian monthly for which I was the American correspondent. Ignazio Franciamore chose the name to express solidarity with his native Italy. Iggy and his team performed yeoman service on various cars in the Ludvigsen stable. They ingeniously adapted a Saab muffler to my Type 87 Tatra. And when the BMW started getting tired they carried out a stem-to-stern restoration, including new ventilated wheels that I sourced. Although passionate about Alfa Romeos, for which he eventually became a dealer, Iggy had to admit that the BMW's independent rear suspension had the advantage in wintry conditions. Later trading as F&S Motors, Sicilian-born Iggy Franciamore's success in car repair and sales helped him satisfy his interest in fine Italian cars. One of his first acquisitions was a 1954 Lancia Aurelia with a rare PF 200 body by Pininfarina. Its unique design, with a jet-like air intake, attracted an Award of Excellence from the judges at 2005's Concours Europa in Greenwich, Connecticut. In 2000 the same concours featured Iggy's 1927 Fiat 509 touring car. Spotting it lurking behind a pizzeria on his way home from Watkins Glen, Franciamore bought the Fiat, which its owner had acquired in Sicily in 1987. Incredibly, its Italian papers showed that among its previous owners was Franciamore Senior, who had driven it in taxi service in Agrigento in the 1940s before selling it to a fishmonger who'd planned to convert it into a pickup truck, but didn't. I relied on my mini-Bimmer for a long time, well into the 1970s. Harry Newton lasted only briefly with Max Hoffman, finding the latter's business methods incompatible with his ideas of good practice. For a while Harry published a very insightful car-dealer newsletter and at the end of his career was a respected author on sports and classic cars. Sadly Newton, who gave me good advice on many occasions, is no longer with us. - Karl Ludvigsen The Skid-Pad Saga The idea of a so-called "skid pad" is to drive around a circular track to explore the steady-state handing of an automobile under controlled conditions. On such a continuous corner you can learn a lot about tires, suspension, steering and handling as the car approaches the limit of its ability to hold the road. Skid-pad testing of cars was first perfected in the mid-1930s by General Motors under the guidance of British engineer Maurice Olley, a far-seeing pioneer of suspension and handling research. By 1937 he and his colleagues had tested and defined the handling attributes of many cars, GM's and others. In 1952 Olley was asked to head up a new research and development section for Chevrolet Engineering. He brought along his skid-pad know-how, which was quickly absorbed by a newcomer to R&D, Zora Arkus-Duntov. A Belgian-born Russian engineer, Duntov was asked to race on the Porsche team at Le Mans in 1954. Unimpressed by the unpredictable handling of the early 550 Spyders, Zora suggested to Porsche's Helmuth Bott that he try testing on a skid pad. Bott found a suitable area: a paved runway at Malmsheim, west of Stuttgart. The airstrip's width limited the pad's diameter to about 260 feet. This was enough for the size normally used by Chevrolet, a 100-foot radius. Bott's tests were fruitful, hugely improving the Spyder's handling. They led to the establishment of a regular skid pad at Malmsheim, which was also used by Mercedes-Benz for tire testing of its 1955 Grand Prix cars. When Porsche established its own proving ground at Weissach one of its first and most prominent features was a huge skid pad. A similar pad soon became a feature of Mercedes's test track at its Untertürkheim factory. I was reminded of skid pads by an article in Racecar Engineering. Engineer and author Paul van Valkenburg recalled his work with Mark Donohue's Trans-Am Camaro in 1968, which was so useful that Mark set up a pad near the Penske racing shop in Reading, Pennsylvania. Skid pads were early speed secrets for both Donohue's Can-Am Lolas and Jim Hall's Chaparrals, tested on a pad at Hall's own Rattlesnake Raceway in Midland, Texas. As technical editor of Sports Car Graphic, Van Valkenburgh included skid-pad testing in the magazine's highly instrumented road tests from 1969. Using a pad of 100-foot radius, these gave remarkable detail, including maximum roll angle, maximum cornering grip in percentage of "g" or gravity for both clockwise and counter-clockwise running, and steering characteristics. Paul's tests, which far outshone any being done now, also revealed front and rear lift or downforce at 100 mph and aerodynamic drag as well. As he said, "that would still be an interesting comparison today." I took a different tack with skid pads. In Sports Cars Illustrated I established a super-duper road test, the Road Research Report, to take an in-depth look at important new cars. The first RRR appeared in our February 1960 issue. A feature of the RRR was a graphic representation of what I called "steering behavior". It showed the car's steering wheel and, at its rim, the amount of wheel movement that was needed to maintain the car's course at increments of 10, 20, 30, 40 miles per hour and upward to the highest speed the vehicle could maintain on a circle of 200-foot radius. This gave a useful guide to steering responsiveness and handling behavior. If wheel position changed little for increasing speeds it showed that the handling was neutral or nearly so. Cars manifesting this quality were the Plymouth Valiant, Austin-Healey Sprite and Maserati 3500 GT. If higher speeds meant a lot of wheel-turning to stay on course this showed the onset of heavy understeer. Cars like the Volvo P1800, Studebaker Avanti, Peugeot 404 and Facel-Vega Facellia were in this category. Strong but not excessive understeer was a feature of the short-wheelbase Ferrari 250 GT, which with the Jaguar XK-E and Shelby Cobra reached 55 mph on our circle. Most sporty models could attain 50 mph while 45 mph was the limit for the Austin 850, Pontiac Tempest, Lancia Flavia and Jaguar Mark X. Slowest around the circle were the power-limited VW Karmann-Ghia and Renault Caravelle. The highest-speed figures required the wheel to be back-tracked for the early Corvair, the Tempest and the Triumph TR4, showing their oversteer at the limit. SCI, later Car and Driver, was headquartered at One Park Avenue in Manhattan. Where in the vicinity would I find a skid pad of 400-foot diameter? Thought you'd never ask. Not far from where I lived in Pelham Manor were the roads into Pelham Bay Park. Taking the exit from the Hutchinson River Parkway, the road led straight to a big traffic circle which measurement showed to be 400 feet in diameter. This was my skid pad. One disadvantage of course was that I could only navigate it in the counter-clockwise direction. Another was that fellow road users might object. A third was that the cops might take a dislike to my shenanigans. It was the job of the riding observer to look out for the fuzz while jotting down the driver's assessment of the wheel angle needed at each increment of speed. We got away with it, though I'll never know how. Wailing around that traffic circle in the 250 GT Ferrari was a highlight of my days in the editor's chair. - Karl Ludvigsen Wheeling Yarns Every few months a planeload of us senior Ford of Europe executives arrived at the proving grounds at Lommel in Belgium to try prototypes of new models in our pipeline. Lommel has a good mix of fast and twisty roads that serve to probe a chassis well. During our drives we awarded numerical scores from 1 to 10 for all the key attributes of the cars we were driving. While we had lunch the scores were tallied so we could have a good discussion of the findings in the afternoon. These were the years when we were developing the front-drive Escort, the Sierra, the updated Fiesta and the Scorpio. The drill was that two executives took turns driving each car, the passenger noting down the driver's grades. The only exceptions to this were the chairman, Bob Lutz at the time, and the chief engineer, first Charlie Knighton and later Ken Kohrs. They drove the full course with Ford engineers riding shotgun to note their comments and ratings. On my last trip to Lommel we all moseyed out to our cars for the drive session when I discovered, to my surprise, that one of the engineers climbed in beside me, clipboard in hand. I acted as if this were an everyday occurrence as we set out on the designated test routes, wringing out Ford's latest. But when we ended our run I couldn't contain my curiosity. "How come I'm on my own today?" I asked him. "You get what you deserve" was his succinct reply. It was one of the high points of my Ford career. It reminded me of a press trip to Sweden to drive the first Volvos with the new V6 engine shared with Peugeot and Renault. It was a damp day as a gaggle of American journalists herded their test Volvos along proving-ground tracks. Later we sat down with the engineers over a drink. One of them came over with a questioning look: "Why are you so much faster than the others?" I didn't have much of an answer to that, except that I've always enjoyed testing a car to its limits - or at least to my limits. Some of the best such episodes were at Detroit's car launches on their respective proving grounds. New-car introductions for GM's makes moved into high gear after the General paved a quarter-mile square of his Milford site, so big it was nicknamed "Black Lake". Each division laid out its own courses with traffic cones so we could flaunt our incompetence against the clock. Of course things didn't always go to plan. At one Pontiac launch I overdid it with the result a (small) dent in the rear fender of a hand-built GTO prototype. Then at a Corvette launch Zora and his merry men brought out some heavyweight machinery with quasi-race underpinnings. Things got serious and I overdid it big time. I still have a vivid mental picture of the view through the 'Vette's rear window as the technicians scrambled for safety when I completely wiped out their timing apparatus in a desperate banzai slide. End of timed runs for the day. Speaking of Corvettes, Corvette News invited me to write the launch article for the LT-1 version of the new 1970 model. They brought their one and only orange prototype up to Boyne City, Michigan's skiing center, in the dead of winter. The idea was to feature the snowy background of the ski resort in images by ace cameraman Don Sudnik. To get some action shots on the snow-covered roads Don crouched in the open back of a Chevy station wagon while I piloted the Corvette in his wake. Proud of my tail-sliding skills, I decided to give Don's Hasselblad some fishtails to liven up his coverage. I swung the tail this way and that and then…much too far. Skidding at an angle the Corvette's nose caught the snowbank on the left and threw up a huge white spray as the mailboxes hurtled by. With a decisive "whump" the priceless LT-1 prototype did a 180 and slammed right off the road into the snowbank and down the slope. Yours truly exited, abashed. Incredibly, miraculously, it was undamaged. We missed the mailboxes. Towed out, the Corvette was good as new. My stupid stunt's only legacy was a bit of snow left in the grille, visible in some of the Corvette News pictures. Another memorable car launch was Triumph's Herald, introduced at Palm Springs. The trip west was my first flight on a jet airliner, Boeing's 707. We all had a great time bombing this British jitney around the California roads. Festivities wrapped up at a gala dinner. During it Triumph's p.r. man Dave Allen stepped to the rostrum: "Though you didn't know it, we've been observing you out on the roads, watching your driving. And we've identified the person we think was doing the outstanding driving job. I'd like to ask [name forgotten] to step up to receive the Triumph Best Driver Award." There was a smattering of applause as we looked at each other, wondering why that guy deserved the handsome silver cigarette box, carrying the Triumph crest and engraved with "Best Driver Award". But then Dave topped it: "And you'll all leave here this evening with the same Best Driver Award." It was one of the best p.r. stunts I can recall. - Karl Ludvigsen From Lebanon to Bad Tölz Some interesting things were happening in the summer of '58. At the Radio Show the big news was a technique called "stereo" sound. It used two microphones for recording and two speakers for the playback to give a stereophonic listening experience. It was forecast to have a big future. In May of 1958 Christopher Cockerell, a boatbuilder in Britain's Suffolk, revealed that he'd created a vehicle that rode on a cushion of air created by an on-board engine and fan. Calling it a "hovercraft", Cockerell said that it would give frictionless movement over both land and water. It too was seen as a highly promising development. Under instead of over the water a maritime breakthrough was that summer's voyage beneath the North Pole's ice cap by the nuclear submarine Nautilus. Beginning in Pearl Harbor, its track led through the Bering Strait and under the Pole, to emerge in the North Atlantic and finish its historic voyage at Iceland. Meanwhile, in a US Army base on the north side of Munich, Germany yours truly was several months into his duty as a second-echelon field-radio repairman for the Signal Corps. Under the genial supervision of Sergeant Bridges, a down-home character, a half-dozen of us fixed walkie-talkies and mobile radio sets while listening to Bob and Ray and the radio version of Gunsmoke starring William Conrad. Sick radios were brought in from various units including a mysterious Green Beret outfit at Bad Tölz south of Munich. By midsummer I'd already been to the Grands Prix of Monaco and Belgium, seen the Brussels World Fair and attended the 24 Hours of Le Mans. Enough leave was available to allow me to see, at last, the racing cars I'd been writing about at Sports Cars Illustrated. But a cloud hovered over these cozy arrangements. I was reminded of it, and of those days, by Israel's ill-fated incursion into Lebanon in July of 2006 and the recent recriminations in Jerusalem about their army's poor performance. Lebanon was under an international spotlight that summer of 1958. To the east in Iraq the regime of King Feisal was toppled by a coup led by young army officers. In deposing Iraq's pro-Western regime they were inspired by the success in Egypt of Arab nationalist Gamal Abdel Nasser. Next in the Muslim firing line, it seemed, were the West-leaning governments of Jordan and Lebanon. In Beirut the Lebanese government had been led since 1952 by Camille Chamoun. He earned Arab enmity by failing to break relations with France and Britain when those nations sent their armies to attack Egypt's occupation of the Suez Canal in 1956. In that summer of 1958 Chamoun faced armed rebellion in Beirut. Meanwhile on the borders of Jordan the Syrian military was massing, evidently preparing to invade. In Washington President Eisenhower and his military chiefs were kept up to date on these developments. While Ike had forestalled the 1956 attempt to take the Suez Canal back from Nasser, he wasn't about to stand by and see these friendly Near-East regimes toppled by the Muslim movement. Eisenhower initiated preparations by sending troops to await further orders in 44 warships afloat in the Eastern Mediterranean. Units based in Augsburg, Germany were among those activated, including their Signal-Corps complements. When their bases emptied we moved west to Augsburg to take their places. We bedded down in their barracks and set up shop in a big well-equipped mobile repair vehicle, a special body on a truck chassis. It was a move that brought all of us, Sergeant Bridges included, that much closer to possible conflict in Lebanon. Early in July the situation in Beirut worsened. On the 14th President Chamoun issued a call for western aid which, he said, was needed "very quickly". Taking him at his word, the next day the American Sixth Fleet landed 1,700 Marines on the shores of Lebanon. In what was called "the most unopposed landing in the history of amphibious warfare" the Leathernecks were welcomed by bikini-clad Beirut babes handing out ice cream. The Marines' presence, plus a landing of British paratroops in Jordan two days later, helped calm the region's turmoil. Our forces returned to Augsburg and we went back to Munich to end the closest brush I had with active engagement during my two-year stint in the Army. All this came back to me on Saturday, March 21, 1970 when I drove the 30 miles south from Munich, past the Special Forces base at Bad Tölz, to the Alpine village of Lenggries. There I met a former Green Beret, Francis McNamara, a mid-western American who'd set up shop in Germany in 1968 to build racing cars. Starting with Formula Vee, McNamara moved up the ranks so rapidly that only five days before my visit he'd air-freighted his first Ford-powered Indy car to America to be prepared by Vince Granatelli and raced by Mario Andretti. Designed by Austrian Joe Karasek after he served a spell at Lola, the turbocharged and STP-sponsored McNamara-Ford turned out to be a fairly decent car. Soon after its completion it finished sixth at Indy. It scored its first - and only - win on the Championship Trail at Continental Divide on June 28, 1970. But by 1972 Mario Andretti left Andy Granatelli's embrace to drive for the Vel's Parnelli Jones Viceroy team. With them he would, frustratingly, be no more successful. - Karl Ludvigsen I Go Yugo It all started innocently enough. When I set up a motor-industry consulting business in London in 1983 one of my first clients was International Automobile Importers, the company founded by Malcolm Bricklin to import the X1/9 and 2000 Spyder after Fiat decided it wouldn't make these sports cars any more. Bertone and Pininfarina carried on production under their own names and Bricklin's IAI took over their American importation. Always the entrepreneur, Malcolm was soon on the lookout for additional brands to import. This was one of the areas where we helped by researching and qualifying possible candidates. Suddenly, however, a candidate dropped into Bricklin's lap. International dealmaker Armand Hammer had been asked by the Yugoslavs to identify business areas in which they could generate imports to earn the hard currencies they desperately needed to bolster their economy. Hammer hit on the idea of exporting the small cars made in Serbian Kragujevac by Zavodi Crvena Zastava. For many years an armaments producer, with a magnificent museum to prove it, Zastava's fine socialist name meant "Red Flag". In 1953, when Zastava celebrated its 100th anniversary, it started meeting the local market's transportation needs with vehicles made under license from Fiat, just across the Adriatic. Thirty years later it was still producing the perky rear-engined 600 and the 101, a bustle-backed version of Fiat's evergreen 128. On its own initiative, in 1980 Zastava introduced its Jugo or Yugo model. Still using Fiat-type power train and underpinnings, it was an update of the Italian company's 127. It was very neatly done. Styled in Turin, the boxy two-door hatchback's lines were pleasantly reminiscent of the original VW Golf or Rabbit. Zastava was already exporting its new creation to other East European markets, installing the bigger 128 overhead-cam engine for a top speed of 90 mph. Setting up Yugo America to import the car, Bricklin assigned Bill Prior to sort out the distribution and Tony Ciminera to sort out the Yugo. Ciminera, a car-mad former Fiat executive, descended on the Kragujevac factory with such vigor that they nicknamed him "Hurricane". Tony carried out a bumper-to-bumper audit that resulted in more than 500 changes to meet the needs of the American market, including the safety and emissions improvements that US laws demanded. At an early stage I visited the factory with Ciminera. It was vast, patterned after the Fiat factories of the early 1950s, and poorly maintained with dirt and grease underfoot. Its 50,000 employees were internally divided among "85 basic associated labor organizations and 25 work committees", each of which had its own agenda. Nonetheless they appreciated the opportunity that America represented. They set up a separate assembly line, with handpicked elite staff earning extra pay, building Yugos destined for the New World. I was introduced to a new working style during the visit. We started at something like 6:00 in the morning and with meetings, tours and discussions carried right through to 2:00 in the afternoon. Yours truly mused, "This is the first time I've worked an eight-hour day before breakfast!" There was method in their madness. To earn an adequate crust the Serbs had organized their days so they could hold down two jobs. After a brunch break they headed off to their other workplaces. Head of Zastava's R&D Institute and thus effectively the company's chief engineer was Zdravko Menjak, a dynamo of improvisation. Having led the Yugo model's development, Menjak was now responding to the many changes needed to qualify the car for sale in the West. Bricklin had his own people at the plant to monitor the effort, constantly stressing the need for high quality. Communicating the need for world-class quality wasn't easy. Zastava defended its efforts, saying, "We have the best quality of all Comecon cars!" Needless to say, this wasn't going to get the job done. We located a team of British quality experts who sent a cadre to Kragujevac to study the factory and recommend improvements. Their resulting report was scathing, so much so that the Zastava officials took offense and barred them from continuing to work at the factory! When troubles began surfacing with Yugos in service in America, we discovered that Zastava had been badly let down by its licensor. Take the car's 128 engine. Over the years Fiat had made many changes and improvements but hadn't communicated them to Kragujevac! The Italians had long overcome the piston problems that started plaguing Yugos driven by lead-footed Americans. In spite of their problems Yugo America and its plucky Serbian supplier were preparing a fightback in the late 1980s. They'd produced an ingenious Yugo cabriolet that was being tooled up for production. An automatic transmission was being sourced from Renault. A larger car, the Florida, had been styled by Giugiaro and was in the early manufacturing stages. With communism's collapse, however, Yugoslavia began to unravel. After embargoes stifled production the coup de grace was NATO's bombing of the Kragujevac factory, rightly enough shown on its maps as a producer of military equipment. Their accuracy was impressive. Only in 2000 could production be restarted and not until 2003 was the Florida launched. Not for a while, if ever, will we again see Yugos on sale in America. However, the 1980s effort was a brave one for all parties. A new car for $3,990! It was, as the ads said, "A new kind of sticker shock." - Karl Ludvigsen Porsche's Bad Idea "I'm mad as hell and I'm not going to take it any more!" If you're a cinema fan you may remember this as the rallying cry of suicidal anchorman Howard Beale in the 1976 film Network. Well, I feel just like Howard. Living in Britain I'm used to seeing every road test of a 911-series Porsche spend half its text moaning about its rear-mounted engine being an offense against God and man that has somehow been made to work by the Porsche people even though it defies all logic. Now, to my disappointment Road & Track has joined this benighted bandwagon. As one of its 50 Things Enthusiasts Should Do, number 44 on the R&T list is "Celebrate a bad idea brought to brilliance." Yes, you guessed it. That refers to the Porsche 911, which it calls "a design that has confounded competing auto-makers for more than four decades" with its "less-than-ideal rear-engine layout." Though the magazine admits that "the Porsche 911 remains one of the world's greatest sports cars" in its latest Type 997 guise, it thinks that this has only been achieved by overcoming the appalling faults of a "bad idea"! The decade in which the rear-engined Porsche concept was born, the 1930s, was rife with automotive novelty including the first extensive modern use of rear-mounted engines. A leader in this respect was Czech company Tatra, whose Erich Übelacker was keen on rear-engined aerodynamic cars. He used V8 engines behind the rear axle, first in his Type 77 of 1934 and from 1936 in the much-improved Type 87. With air cooling its engine was light enough to keep the Tatra's share of weight on the rear wheels from exceeding 62%. In those years some engineers were reluctant to recommend putting the engine behind the rear wheels. Among them was Dutch innovator John Tjaarda, creator of the rear-engined prototypes that evolved into the Lincoln Zephyr. His engines were above or ahead of the rear axle. In a letter to me Tjaarda noted that he had "never made one design with the engine behind the rear axle. It is, with the present type of engine, the wrong place. It offers no advantage; it multiplies the gimmicks required to make the car behave." Nevertheless, waving aside the misgivings of some of its engineers Mercedes-Benz introduced its Type 130 in 1934 with a water-cooled side-valve 1.3-liter four extending behind its rear wheels, complete with radiator. This positioning put 65-66% of its weight on the rear wheels. Engineer Josef Ganz wrote in his Motor Kritik that this wasn't a pure rear engine but rather an "outboard-motor" that brought "undesirable tail-heaviness". In the Mercedes the "outboard motor" wasn't a success. British engineer Maurice Olley, an expert on handling and suspensions, drove a Type 130 and said that "the oversteering on corners is the worst I have ever experienced." At London's motor show of 1934 he "appealed to" Ferdinand Porsche and asked him "to enlighten me on this matter." Just what were Germany's engineers up to? "He agreed that a weight distribution of 33% front, 66% rear is unsatisfactory," Olley reported on his conversation with Porsche. "On the cars he is laying out for Auto Union he hopes to get 42% front, 58% rear and on his racing cars with engine ahead of rear axle he gets 45% front and 55% rear, which is as good as most normal cars. The Germans recognize the fact that a car carrying 2/3rds of its weight on the rear wheels is not in a favorable condition for safety in handling." In fact the landmark rear-engined car that Porsche and his team designed in the 1930s, the Volkswagen, had 59% of its weight on the rear wheels. Contributing to this relatively modest proportion was the engine's short "boxer" format and the lightness of its air cooling. Significantly, during the war the Porsche office conducted tests with cast iron instead of scarce strategic aluminum for the VW engine's crankcase and gearbox casing. It rejected this expedient because the added weight at the rear disastrously impaired the vehicle's handling. After the war an imprisoned Ferdinand Porsche was asked to comment on the design, virtually complete, of the rear-engined 4CV Renault. He had many criticisms of its layout, among which was certainly the 65% of its weight carried rearward. This was well in excess of the limit that Porsche thought desirable. Some 40 years later the same proportion applied to the Renault-engined DeLorean DMC-12. Thanks to modern tire technology its handling was the least of its problems. When Porsche's son Ferry created his Type 356 Porsche, on the VW model, it had excellent weight distribution. Its rearward proportion ranged between 54.5% and 56.5%, with which the tires of the day could easily cope. A huge advantage of the layout was and is that weight transfer forward under braking makes full use of the stopping power of all four wheels. With its boxer six instead of a four, the 911 inevitably shifted more weight rearward, starting typically at 59%. Some were as low as 58%, while in 1979 the 930 Turbo went to the other extreme at 63.8%. This was the exception, however. Today's 911s typically scale 60% on their driving wheels. This is a boon to their traction as the racing versions demonstrate every weekend. All in all, pretty good going for such a bad idea! - Karl Ludvigsen Triumph Triumphs My coccyx made me do it. I'd enjoyed driving my MG TC around New England and the Boston area when I was studying at MIT. Then in 1954 I switched to Pratt Institute in Brooklyn to become an industrial designer. I carried on for a while with the MG but New York's potholed streets started knocking heck out of the car and, dare I say it, the driver. I think it was the Kosciuszko Bridge that was the last straw, practically bouncing me out of the MG. Thinking about alternatives, I hit on the TR2. I'd read a lot about Triumph's sports car, whose looks had a pleasingly functional honesty. It wasn't as pretty as an Austin-Healey but its drive train was much less tractor-like - even though its engine was in fact derived from one that also powered Ferguson tractors. It would still be stiff-riding but at least it had independent front suspension! This was of course a feature of the MG TD but I'd never felt that its looks measured up to its rakish predecessor. Checking the New York Times classifieds, as usual, I found a little-used TR2 at a dealership on Long Island. Like so many of them it was white with a red interior. One of only 248 cars delivered in 1953 after production started that August, it was a "long-door" model whose doors extended right to the bottom of the bodywork. From 1954 the door would be shortened so that it could swing over curbs more easily. Compared to the MG this was a serious car with its top speed of just over 100 mph. Ken Richardson, whose racing experience helped develop its chassis, drove a TR2 at a timed 124 mph in Belgium with an undershield and tonneau cover. Its acceleration was lively and its fuel economy remarkably good. It had snap fasteners galore for its top and side curtains, which stowed neatly away. Its dash was neatly designed with all necessary gauges and a proper glove box, which housed the T-handled key that opened hood, rear deck and compartment for the spare tire. Graham Robson wrote that the TR2 "soon won itself a reputation for doubtful handling," which was no great surprise in view of its short wheelbase and the humble origins of its running gear, largely scavenged from Standard's parts bins. I don't recall it as being all that doubtful, although I like a car that breaks away at the rear in a controllable manner. It was very easy to catch when it did start tail-sliding. The Triumph would have been well-suited to competition but I never had a chance to do any serious racing with it. I did take it on a loose oval track near my home in Kalamazoo and greatly enjoyed throwing it around. Even without pressing it too hard, however, I did manage to fail the TR2's rear axle. That was the only major problem I had with it. This was of course my car for commuting back and forth between Pratt and Kalamazoo. On one such trip I kept track of my time and distance between landmarks, starting in the afternoon and driving through the night. The key landmarks along the way were Stroudsburg, Kingston, Williamsport, Du Bois, Sharon, Bowling Green and Angola. My average speed for the whole trip of 762 miles was 50.6 mph, which was pretty good over ordinary roads. My speeds went up in the early morning hours through Ohio and into Michigan, averaging 60 mph over the last two legs. My speeds went up for another reason. Dawn was just beginning to break as I left the outskirts of Battle Creek at around 5:00 a.m. It wasn't far now to Gull Lake, where my family had a cottage. But behind me I saw, gaining, a patrol car. He wasn't happy with the speeds I'd been clocking through his town. But I hadn't come all that way just to get nabbed on the last lap of a long trip. I put my foot down and the Triumph responded. I knew the roads, taking full advantage of that high top speed to lope off into the middle distance. Needless to say I kept moving until I was well out of the orbit of a Cereal City patrolman. By 5:30 I was home and happy sans citation, thanks to the TR2's punch and low-drag design. In the 1970s it was a pleasure to renew my relationship with Triumph cars thanks to my friend John Dugdale, the urbane and talented British expatriate who was responsible for marketing at Jaguar and Triumph in New Jersey. Just around the corner from fellow columnist Mike Cook, John and I worked on the brochures for Triumphs for some years. He had a fine art director in Bill Freeman while I produced the texts, accentuating the positives of these British offerings. This was around the time of the launch of Triumph's Stag. To position this unusual car in the marketplace I produced and copyrighted my Car/Parator to compare its specifications with those of the Alfa Romeo 1750 GTV, BMW 2800CS, Chevrolet Camaro Z-28, Jaguar XKE 2+2, Mercedes-Benz 280SL and Porsche 911T. I enjoyed writing the Spitfire brochures and did a few as well for Jaguar and Land Rover. The launch of the Triumph TR7 was on my watch as well. So you literature collectors will be holding some secret samples of the Ludvigsen prose! - Karl Ludvigsen Delightful Dauphine (January 2007) We were bombing along the Autobahn at the highest feasible cruising speed of our Renault Dauphine, which I reckoned to be about 65 mph in a car whose top speed was 73. In the mirror I saw a Fiat 600 gaining on us. Finally he swept by. Not unaware of the relative performances of the cars and the pecking order on the Autobahn, my wife said, "How can he do that?" "He can't," was my answer. "It's impossible." Not many kilometers down the road we passed the Fiat 600, stationary and smoking at the roadside. We looked at each other and laughed. It was one of those moments that gave me confidence that as an expert on automobiles I was not entirely out of my depth. This was 1958, and you may well ask why I was driving a French car in Germany where a Volkswagen was the obvious choice. I'd arrived in Deutschland that February to begin my service as a field-radio repairman for the U.S. Army. Assigned to a base in Munich, I needed wheels to commute from our two rented rooms in Schwabing to the military compound north of the city. My wife and I required something that was cheap to buy and run yet roomy enough for the European travels we planned. Back in New York I'd been technical editor of Sports Cars Illustrated at a time when Renault was gaining ground in the American market hand over fist. Its feisty little 4CV was its pilot offering in the U.S., starting with 1,500 in 1955. At the end of that year the first Dauphines rolled off the line at Renault's new factory at Flins. Charmingly named and attractively styled, the Dauphine was the last creation of Pierre Lefaucheux, who led Renault after its post-war nationalization and launched Project 109, to build a bigger and better 4CV, before his unfortunate death in a 1955 auto accident. It had been Lefaucheux's daring decision to sweep away the Louis Renault reliance on a huge range of models to concentrate on the 4CV as the right car for a post-war world. Now with Project 109 he commissioned a car to keep pace with Europe's growing prosperity. His legacy came to market in March of 1956 with simultaneous launches in Paris and Geneva. Before I'd left for Germany in early 1958 the new Dauphine had been making a good impression in America. It was well priced at just under $1,500, economical and remarkably spacious for both people and luggage. Its four doors, a sine qua non of the French market, offered convenience while its water-cooled engine offered comfort in the form of a decent heater compared to the Bug's intermittent exhalations. These were among the considerations that found me at the Renault dealer in downtown Munich, taking delivery of my robin's-egg-blue Dauphine. This amiable car took us all over Europe, from the world's fair at Brussels to the north of Germany and south to Monza for the Grand Prix and Turin for the auto show. I don't recall any special problems, though its three-speed gearbox was a handicap going up and down the Alpine passes. It's always fun to drive an underpowered car - 26.5 net bhp from 845 cc - because you're constantly challenged to maintain momentum, stay off the brakes and corner like crazy. Underpowered or not, the Dauphine collected its fair share of speeding tickets. I already had one to my credit when the Army announced an Operation Crackdown on its military motorists in the Munich area. No sooner was this launched than I was ticketed for speeding a second time. This meant an intolerable suspension of my license for at least six months. Fortunately I had a friend at the company headquarters who agreed to make the citation "disappear" for a small consideration. There was a follow-up system, he said, but this was unlikely to catch up with me. It didn't. In my spare time I was pounding away on my Olivetti Lettera 22 for Sports Cars Illustrated, saving my earnings with the objective of buying a Zagato-bodied Alfa Romeo Giulietta. This idea went by the boards, however, when I saw an ad for a Mercedes-Benz 300SL. It said that taking a car in trade would be acceptable; the owner was looking for a runabout for his wife. The Dauphine was just the thing, he agreed, so combined with my Alfa Romeo hoard I became the owner of a Gullwing. For Renault the Dauphine saga didn't end so happily. Pressed by its owner, the government, to earn hard currency abroad, the Regie was emphasizing exports. When I came back to the States in 1959 the little car was flying high, leading Renault's sales of 102,000 in America. Unlike arch-rival Volkswagen, however, the Regie failed to provide service support. "Renault, in a hurry, entrusted its signs to anyone willing to sell its wares," wrote Edouard Seidler. "Overseas we seem to rush at the market like a bull at a gate," admitted Renault chief Pierre Dreyfus. When America slipped into recession in 1960 Renault's house of cards began to collapse. Sales that year fell to 63,000 and in 1961 plummeted to 28,000. Clearing the unsold Stateside inventory became a task of Herculean proportions. The promise of the charming Dauphine, a car that if properly developed and marketed could indeed have challenged Volkswagen for import leadership, had been wasted. - Karl Ludvigsen A Count in the World of Cars Opening my copy of the 1951 Enlarged Super Edition of Dan Post's Original Blue Book of Custom Restyling I find three photos of a rakish coupe based on the post-war Studebaker. It had a teeny-tiny cab and an ultra-low hood beneath which was one of the Granatelli brothers' hot-rodded Mercury V8s. Standing next to it in one photo is a tall fellow with swept-back hair wearing a tee-shirt, a moustache and a big smile. This was none other than Albrecht Graf von Schlitz gen. von Goertz und Freiherr von Wrisberg. Inheriting titles that included both Count and Baron, Albrecht Goertz was born on January 12, 1914 into one of Germany's noble families. Their properties were in Lower Saxony between Hanover and Göttingen at the village of Brunkensen, set in an idyllic valley. The family's scions would be expected to maintain its traditions, but Albrecht was the second son with few prospects of inheriting its stewardship. In 1936 at the age of 22 Goertz decided to seek his fortune in America. "I did all kinds of odd jobs," he said. "In 1939, the beginning of the hot-rod era, I rented a small body shop - a corrugated metal shack on Rodeo Drive in Beverly Hills - and modified Fords." One of his creations based on a 1940 Mercury was a low, handsome coupe with suicide doors, clearly influenced by Jean Bugatti's pre-war designs. Adopting this as his personal car, he named it the 'Paragon'. Albrecht Goertz had little time to enjoy his creation before bring drafted into America's army. After V-J Day he was mustered out with little more to his name than the Paragon. Exemplifying the theme of his autobiography, You've Got to Be Lucky, Goertz was driving this spectacular machine in New York one day when he was spotted by Raymond Loewy. Sensing a diamond in the rough, the famed industrial designer sent Albrecht to Brooklyn's Pratt Institute to learn the rudiments of formal design before granting him an apprenticeship at the South Bend styling offices of Studebaker. "This was possibly the best education into design that one could get," Goertz said later. After helping with Studebaker's spinner-nose facelift he left South Bend to set up his own industrial-design office in New York. There the tee-shirt-wearer took full advantage of his exposure to the stylish Loewy. He metamorphosed into a suave and affable European who lost no time in making contacts in New York's motoring circles. One of his calling cards was a series of sketches of car-design proposals for Motorsport magazine. Another émigré who'd made a home in New York was BMW importer Max Hoffman. The two met at the city's automobile show in the spring of 1954. Hoffman had just returned from a visit to Munich where he'd been disappointed by design proposals for a sports car on the V8-powered Type 502 chassis. Showing photos of it to Goertz and explaining the situation, Hoffman said, "Why don't you make some sketches?" Ten days or so after sending a portfolio of drawings to BMW Albrecht Goertz received a telegram asking whether he could come over to discuss the project. Flying to Munich, he reached agreement on a design project for two cars. In November of 1954 he started work on them both at BMW and in his New York studio. One, the 503, was a 2+2 model on an unaltered 502 chassis. The other, the 507, was a pure two-seater sports car on a new chassis shortened by 14 inches to a 97.6-inch wheelbase. What Goertz called his "breakthrough" came at the Frankfurt Show in September of 1955 when the two new BMWs were shown. The 507 in particular has stood the test of time as one of the most stunningly beautiful cars ever created. In his eyes the design had a particular cachet, he said: "I think I was the only guy able to change the BMW front without anybody saying a word." He did change it but sympathetically, with the 'kidneys' split horizontally instead of vertically. In 1961 Albrecht Goertz became one of the first occidental designers to take up the challenge of Japan. After five visits Nissan assigned him a consulting contract. Working with their designers he created the handsome Sylvia coupe of 1965 and a fast-back sports car that failed to reach production. After no little controversy, Nissan later grudgingly granted that "the personnel who designed [the 240Z] were influenced by your fine work for Nissan and had the benefit of your designs." In New York in the 1950s and 1960s I enjoyed my contacts with the well-informed Count. He was engagingly persistent in his attempts to arrange, through me, a design-consulting relationship with the people in our GM Overseas Operations who had product responsibilities, but that never came good. Meanwhile he was busy with his work for companies that eventually numbered 62, creating boats, cameras, furniture, jewelry, sportswear, pens, clocks, irons and lighters, to name only a few of the products of a versatile industrial designer. In 1990, at the age of 76, Albrecht Goertz upped stakes and transplanted his design business to the family estate at Brunkesen. Rightly enough he continued to be feted throughout the world not only for his creativity but also for his effervescent personality. While at the resort city of Kitzbuehl on October 27, 2006 Goertz passed away. The world of cars lost one of its most engaging and colorful individuals. - Karl Ludvigsen Ferrari: Formula 1 Forever (November 2006) My friend Jean Sage was prowling around the sports cars mustered for the acceptance ritual in Brescia's Piazza Vittoria before the start of the 1998 edition of the retrospective Mille Miglia. Jean knows his cars; he's a noted Ferrari collector and a former team manager for Renault in Grand Prix racing. His stooped figure came over to us, his head shaking: "Karl, there are a lot of very peculiar cars here." It's no secret that at the stratospheric level of values among great collector cars, falsification is a temptation to which many are vulnerable. If the skills are there to repair a Ferrari, they're also there to create one from scratch, or at least to fashion a GTO or short-wheelbase 250 GT from the raw material of a lesser product of Maranello. The result can be a nice car - but a big risk for the unsuspecting purchaser who may be convinced, by omission if not commission, that it's the real article. This has been no small issue for Ferrari itself. Its guardianship of an unparalleled legend depends in part on maintenance of the authenticity of its cars on the road, cars that of course have long since left its direct control. A few years ago Ferrari did bring legal action to terminate the activities of a blatant counterfeiter of its products. Now, with the opening of Ferrari Classiche, it's taking direct action to establish a means of verifying the authenticity of its cars and, where necessary, of bringing Ferraris up to a standard that's consistent with they way they were made in the first place. Headed by Robert Vaglietti, formerly chief of Ferrari's service activities, Ferrari Classiche represents the company's first effort to get a grip on the cars that constitute its heritage. Its offices and a well-equipped workshop of more than 10,000 square feet nestle into the historic buildings at the center of the company's Maranello complex. Ferraris more than 20 years old - and single-seater Ferraris of any age - are eligible to be worked on by ten well-trained mechanics. They can refer to original factory drawings to achieve authenticity. In addition Vaglietti is investing in a massive program of remanufacturing critical Ferrari components, especially for engines. This includes blocks, heads, crankshafts, pistons, connecting rods and cylinder liners for key V12 and flat-12 models. Some parts are made internally while others come from the original suppliers. Crucial to the success of Ferrari Classiche is the new operation's program for certifying the authenticity of early cars. Rolled out in a Beta version in 2004, the certification process was streamlined for its full launch in 2006. It places an initial burden on the car's owner to provide detailed information on his Ferrari, according to a factory questionnaire, and to dispense a certification fee of $3,000 for cars made before 1980 or $1,500 for younger Ferraris up to 20 years old. Inspection of the submission by a panel of experts will result either in the issuing of an impressive certification brochure or the provision of recommendations for bringing the car up to snuff. The adjudicating experts aren't just dragged in off the street. Among them are Enzo's son Piero, keenly interested in historic aspects of the company in which he still holds a 10 percent share, and Angelo Bellei, who headed the engineering of production Ferraris well into the 1960s. On July 25, 2006, when Ferrari Classiche was officially launched, it had 250 applications for certification in hand and had approved 190. One motivation for going through the process is that only certified cars will be eligible to take part in official Ferrari events. Other advantages include inalienable proof of provenance and authenticity when selling a Ferrari. Visibly installed as it is in the core of Ferrari's Maranello factory, the Classiche operation is another enhancement of the spirit of heritage that infuses all aspects of the company and its activities. Everywhere throughout the facilities you see evidence of the racing, the engines and the hero drivers of the past and present. In the racing department the meeting rooms are named after Ferrari's world champions. In a network of tubing in the factory's main square a modern Formula 1 Ferrari is enmeshed like a butterfly in a net. Most importantly, Ferrari's people are proudly kitted out in red and beige outfits with Shell and Ferrari patches that communicate the emotion of the race track. The weekly workforce bulletins feature the previous week's achievements on one side and the coming week's activities on the other with red and yellow colors that are pure Ferrari. A competition for higher manufacturing quality is the "Quality Grand Prix" with a checkered flag for the winner. Teamwork on manufacturing-systems improvement is graphically portrayed in the style of a race track. In other words, Ferrari has so thoroughly integrated racing with its road-car activities that the two are inseparable. This was made official by the promotion of Jean Todt, formerly in charge of the racing team, to the post of general manager of all of Ferrari. So in case you're wondering how committed Ferrari is to Formula 1 racing, you need wonder no longer. For Ferrari in the 21st Century Grand Prix racing, at the very apogee of world-wide competition, is as irrevocably an integral part of the company's activities as the beating heart of a racing driver. - Karl Ludvigsen Cariocan Cars (October 2006) From 1964 to 1967 I was in New York, working for GM's Overseas Operations Division. Looking after the overseas press, I had the pleasure of a visit from an ebullient character, Leszek Bilyk. Les, who had flown for the Polish Air Force and the RAF during the war, was editor of Brazil's leading car monthly, Quatro Rodas. We got along well and when I left GM in 1967 to make a career as a free-lance writer Les named me North American correspondent for Quatro Rodas. In 1969 Alcantara Machado, the organizers of Brazil's automobile show, had the happy idea of inviting some journalists and others from abroad to Sao Paulo to see what was happening there and to promote their show, Brazil and its car industry abroad. Thanks to Les Bilyk's recommendation I was invited, together with veteran Gordon Wilkins from Britain and retired racing icon Stirling Moss. Like the rest of us Stirling was taken with the exotic beauty of the Brazilian ladies but frustrated at the same time: "How can you chat them up if you don't know the lingo?" was Stirling's despairing plaint. Les Bilyk met our plane and drove us directly to the show at Ibirapuera Park where, on entering, we immediately shook hands with Brazil's president Costa e Silva. This was a coup of which Les was justifiably proud. Among the others to whom Les Bilyk introduced me were local racing stars the Fittipaldi brothers, Wilson and his younger brother Emerson. The latter was just back from his first season of racing in Europe. In 1970 he'd be promoted by Lotus to Formula 1, which saw him the surprise winner of the Grand Prix at Watkins Glen. With everyone else saying, "Emerson who?" I was among the handful at the Glen who had any inkling of the credentials of this brilliant young Brazilian. On his way home it was my pleasure and honor to introduce him to René Dreyfus at Le Chanteclair in New York. Brazil's big players in 1969 were Volkswagen, dominating the market with its Beetle, locally the Fusca, Chrysler with its Simca-derived models, GM with the Opala, an Opel Rekord with Chevy engines, and Ford, which was just introducing its Corcel, a new front-drive model with a drive train based on the Renault 12. Interesting anomalies abounded. In cooperation with Karmann's Brazilian operation VW's Rudolf Leiding developed a sports coupe unique to Brazil, the handsome SP2. With the Brazilian industry and market a demanding training ground for executives, Leiding went on to head Audi and then Volkswagen, where he created the Golf and Scirocco. My major discovery in 1969 was Puma. This little company had the genial idea of building a sports car on the VW Fusca chassis. Though far from a novel concept, it was executed brilliantly by Puma in the form of a great-looking coupe. Looking after the technical side was experienced engineer Jorge Lettry, who'd been involved in DKW's racing activities in Brazil. Executed in glass-fiber in Puma's own facilities, the result was an attractive sports car that stole the hearts of Paulistas and Cariocans. Among the stories I wrote after that '69 visit for many magazines around the world was one on the Puma. This aroused tremendous enthusiasm and interest. My friends at Puma said that after these articles appeared they received letters expressing interest in the car from all parts of the globe. Exports of Pumas began, especially to Switzerland and the Low Countries. The Puma story deserves - and will get - separate treatment in Sports & Exotic Cars. Suffice it to say here that they later introduced a convertible version, after which they took on the ambitious challenge of building their own chassis for a Chevrolet-powered car to get away from their dependency on VW. This failed to produce a car with the undeniable appeal of the original rear-engined Puma. I was back in 1970 for the next show, the first in completely new facilities in Anhembi Park with more than twice the space. My last two auto-show visits were in 1972 and '74. These saw some notable product launches. Fiat opened its factory at Belo Horizonte, producing a local version of its 127. Ford introduced its Maverick to Brazil, with both sixes and V8s. GM gave Sao Paulo an important role in its T-Car project which saw similar cars introduced as the Kadett in Germany and as the Chevette in America and Brazil. One constant through these years was the Brazilians' fantastic enthusiasm for cars. They were passionate about new models, eager to see what was being launched both at home and abroad. This made Brazil a lodestone that attracted engineers and designers like GM's talented Dick Finegan, who made a career commitment to Sao Paulo. I carried on contributing to Quatro Rodas until I went back into the auto industry in 1978. I can say that I fell in love with Brazil and its people, so much so that when I married in 1987 I arranged to honeymoon in Brazil. Later when I was a management consultant I was invited to speak to a group in Porto Alegre about new developments in the motor industry. I still keep a weather eye on Brazil, which has often been hailed as the country of the future. It always will be! - Karl Ludvigsen The Tragedy of the Corvair (September 2006) The first time I properly met Zora Arkus-Duntov was at a drinks party at Harder Hall before the 12 Hours of Sebring in 1960. His first question to me was straightforward enough: "Why did you write what you did about the Corvair?" In the autumn of 1959 my first big project for Sports Cars Illustrated after returning from the Army was to cover Chevrolet's all-new Corvair. I went out to Milford to drive this most radical of new American cars. In my report in the November 1959 issue of SCI I said that "the Corvair is fundamentally a profound oversteerer." This was what Zora wanted to ask me about. How had I reached this conclusion? I explained that I'd taken the car to the Truck Loop where there was a huge turning circle that could be used as a skid pad. Turning laps there I explored the limits of the Corvair's handling envelope. I wrote that it was "possible to hustle hard into tight corners and bring the tail around with just a twitch of the wheel, counter-steering until the slide stops and the time for acceleration arrives." Duntov acknowledged that under skid-pad conditions the car did indeed behave just that way. I was tough on the Corvair in several respects. One was Chevrolet's recommendation of "normal inflation in the rear tires and a reduced pressure in the front tires", which amounted to 26 and 15 psi respectively when cold. Saying that "such a difference reflects poorly on the basic chassis design," I warned that "it's unlikely that most Corvair owners will ever maintain the pressures recommended." I was even more amazed than I let on in the article that Chevrolet hadn't done more to mitigate the effects in handling of a weight distribution that was 62 percent rearward. A front anti-roll bar would have helped, but it was eliminated at the last minute by the bean counters. I urged that it be restored. The architect of the Corvair's suspension was Robert Schilling, an experienced chassis engineer from GM's Research Staff. I knew that Schilling had introduced an ingenious means of decoupling the two single-leaf springs that carried the de Dion tube at the rear of GM's turbine-powered Firebird I of 1953. He joined their rear ends by a pivoted balance beam which, Schilling said, reduced "the rear roll rate to less than 50 percent of its original value". Something like this was what the Corvair needed. Its rear springs, I pointed out in SCI, were twice as stiff as those of a full-size Chevy sedan. A system like the one Mercedes-Benz used on its 300SL Roadster, with a coil spring compressed between the swing axles to accept vertical loads and allow the individual wheel springs to be softer, was too cumbersome for the Corvair. But in 1959 Porsche introduce a simple pivoted transverse leaf spring that performed the same function. "For all its novelty," I finger-wagged about the lack of such a solution, "the Corvair is surprisingly naïve in this major respect." These were pretty tough criticisms of the chassis of a car that soon began to earn a reputation for going out of control without warning. Counter-steering to correct tail slides on dry roads wasn't part of the repertoire of most drivers, and with good reason. To boot, Chevrolet had deliberately given the Corvair relatively slow steering on the grounds that its drivers would thus be less likely to initiate the steering inputs that could cause them to lose control! Late in 1961 I left magazine editing to go to work for General Motors in public relations. As news of the Corvair's cranky road behavior began to flow in, especially to the Corporation's Legal Staff, an awareness gradually grew that someone now working for GM was among those journalists who had been critical of the car's design. I recall being interviewed by someone from Legal, who advised me to keep a low profile. Fortunately I wasn't among those quoted in the first chapter of Ralph Nader's Unsafe at Any Speed, dedicated as it was to the Corvair. One of my senior p.r. colleagues did his best to alert top GM management to the threat that Nader's book and actions represented, counseling a more proactive approach, but his initiative was waved off. For the 1964 model Chevrolet finally fitted the front anti-roll bar that had been optional and provided a transverse-leaf spring at the rear that allowed the wheel rates to be reduced. It is a matter of history that it took far too long to make these essential improvements. The 1965 model had a much more sophisticated rear suspension on the lines of the Corvette Stingray's. Meanwhile, GM geared up to fight the legal challenges to the early Corvair. The former industrial-design offices of Ford & Earl Associates, on the south-east corner of Mound and 12 Mile Roads, were converted into a factory for the Corvair's defense with shelf after shelf of films and documents. Out at Milford a huge area was paved to create "Black Lake", a vast smooth surface on which handling experiments could be conducted without limits. Black Lake became an outstanding research tool that later contributed to the racing expertise of the Penske and Chaparral teams. This at least was a positive outcome from what can only be described as the Tragedy of the Corvair. - Karl Ludvigsen NSU Spider (September 2006) FIRST HEARD about the Wankel engine in 1959 from some friends who were consultants in Neckarsulm, hometown of NSU. The friends sketched my first glimpse of the now famous triangular rotor and hourglass housing. When I first saw an engine at a Curtiss-Wright's press conference in November, 1959, 1 was impressed by its sophistication and simplicity. This, I thought, was tomorrow's power. While NSU was talking publicly about how far in the future automotive Wankel applications would be, back at the laboratory their Research Director, Dr. Walter Froede, was busy fitting engines into two NSU Prinzes for road tests. Successful demonstrations of these cars were instrumental in convincing the NSU board that Felix Wankel's wild invention was worthy of pursuit. On a visit to NSU in August, 1961, I was given a ride in a Sport Prinz powered by a more advanced Wankel engine. It was noisy and not without smoke, but its smoothness, power and durability were impressive. By the end of 1962. NSU decided to use a 500-cc Wankel engine in a sports car. Early the following year design work was started for the production Spider. The first car, plus a display engine, was ready for unveiling at the Frankfurt Show, September. 1963. As an avowed Wankel fanatic I decided I must have one, and so advised the appropriate importer in New York City. I was assigned a "preference number" and settled down to await my Spider. Production of Spiders was initiated Sept. 20, 1964. During that year some 300 cars were made, but the outlook for 1965 was said to be 5000 units, an estimate that dropped to 3000 in May. Actual 1965 production was 930 Spiders. Production rose to more than 1000 cars in 1966. NSU's maximum rate for Wankel Spider production now is 15 cars per day or approximately four times greater than last year. Not until the first Spiders were proved in Europe were the trim little convertibles brought into the U.S. Mine was in the first batch of 15 cars to arrive. I had a distinct impression that the 14 others were destined for Dearborn, Pontiac, Highland Park and Chelsea. My car was the 455th to be built, fitted with engine number 350. It drove out the importer's door at $3046, a price I still think is amazingly low for an automobile with an experimental engine built with racing powerplant techniques. Fine handling of the Spider frankly surprised me, because I was mainly interested in the engine and hadn't thought much about the remainder of the car. Near-neutral handling tended toward understeer, especially on wet pavement. Its quick rack-and-pinion steering offered good road feel and could be faulted only in the amount of attention it required on a straight road. Lockable front and rear trunk compartments provided useful volume. Neither became too hot to be practical. Forward volume was limited by the wide radiator, behind which was an electric fan turned on by a thermostatic switch in the cooling system. This fan came on only in heavy traffic in summer. When it switched on, it sounded much louder and rougher than the engine, so much so that the first time it functioned, I thought my Wankel power unit was about to expire. To start the Spider one uses a hand choke lever on the center tunnel. A dashboard light shows when the choke is in use and the owner's manual urges its activation as seldom as possible. Fortunately the engine runs smoothly without choke after very little warmup. The Wankel does not fire immediately, but it does so unfailingly after a few cranks of the starter, then settles down to an idle at about 900 rpm. The complete engine/ transmission assembly is very softly suspended, together with the elaborate muffler system, allowing easy oscillation at idle. To bystanders, the exhaust pipe seems to be moving excessively, but on the Wankel this is normal. Just above idle, at 1500 rpm, there's a marked vibration period, at which the engine's balancing masses cause it to shake heavily on its mounts. Another resonance period occurs in the exhaust system at 2400 rpm. To the first-time driver, the Wankel's response to its throttle seems slower than that of a piston engine. It is as if rotating masses were somehow heavier, which in fact they are not. This impression was given by the extremely long travel of the throttle pedal. required to provide progressive opening to the 2-barrel carburetor. Rapid opening to full throttle would give very quick response. On deceleration, the Wankel engine's low inertia gives it less engine braking effect than is provided by the majority of reciprocating engines. With an explosion in a 500-cc working chamber for each revolution of the output shaft, the Spider's Wankel engine is the equivalent of a 61-cid 2cyl., 4-cycle reciprocating engine. It's tuned for performance. and not until the tachometer needle moves past 3000 rpm does it start to come to life. From there upward the power curve rises steeply and the engine pulls with progressive strength. Quite often writers have likened the Spider's engine to a 2-stroke in feel, but I can't support this analogy. There's absolutely no "popcorn-popping" or missing at idle or on the overrun, and the only time it smokes is very slightly just after the engine is started. How fast will the engine turn? There are many answers to this question. Quite a few of the early Spiders had a 6000-rpm tachometer, which also is shown in the owner's manual. My car, however, had an 8000-rpm tack, which reflected improvements made in spark plug life and oil sealing, two factors that Dr. Froede savs limit the peak usable speed. I followed the guidance given in the owner's manual, which, like all NSU manuals, is refreshingly written in a frank and amusing style. It says 6000 rpm should not be exceeded, but, "you may, however, if the occasion should arise, overrev in the lower gears above the 6000 mark, to get out of a difficult situation such as a passing maneuver. We ask you only on behalf of your engine's durability: Don't make it a habit." The standard Spider engine pulls beautifully to 7000 rpm and only at 7500 does it start to become short of wind. It will turn higher, however, and I took mine to 8000 more than once. Journalists who tested the early cars took them to 10,000 rpm and, in one case, even 11,000 in first gear. In this way they were able to record 0-60 times of approximately 14.2 sec. Normal time to 60, using a 6000 rpm limit, was nearer 16 sec. The Spider covered the standing quarter in 20.5 sec. and reached top speeds of 92-98 mph. As stated earlier, oil sealing affected useful peak speed of early Spider engines. The seals involved were those at the sides of the rotor, and over 6000 rpm they allowed oil to pass much more rapidly into the combustion chambers. In addition. oil from the sump is metered into the intake port by a small pump which is responsive to both engine speed and throttle position. The driver is encouraged to check engine oil level frequently, at every fuel stop, to maintain it within the 2quart margin between the bayonet gauge marks. Carrying out this check is seldom convenient if luggage is being stowed in the rear compartment. As with any sporting car, the Spider's fuel consumption was very sensitive to the way it was driven. My overall fuel consumption was 26.4 mpg, but on a trip from New York to Detroit the figure rose to 28.6 mpg. Road testers thrashing the car showed poorer figures, ranging from a low of 21.8 to a high of 25.9 mpg. My view was that mileage was not notably good, but was satisfactory in view of the very good performance delivered. Quite consistently, my Spider required 1 qt. of oil every 260 miles. Generally, the engine showed few operating faults. If I failed to downshift while slowing the car, when it reached 2500 rpm or so it would start to buck, the result of an imperfect fuel/air mixture on part throttle. So good was the all-synchromesh gearbox, however, there was little excuse for shiftlessness. After some 1600 miles the box became very noisy in reverse and first became difficult to engage. A new transmission was installed by my dealer at no cost. In August, 1965, NSU's managing director, Dr. G. S. yon Hcydekampf, reported that on the basis of field experience gained with the first 1000 Spiders, "We now believe that the Wankel is practically proven as a passenger car unit." Dr. von Heydekampf referred to problems met and solved in oil sealing, cooling, carburetion, gearbox and porous main-block castings. This verdict of success for the Spider marked the end of an arduous development trail for the first Wankel engine to be used in an automobile. Some of the early automotive trials were unpredictable. At one time it was common for the test drivers to take along a spare engine. Designated the KKM 502 by NSU, the Spider's engine had completed the design phase by the time of its unveiling at Frankfurt late in 1963, but little development work had been done then. It's not well known that development in the year following brought about an almost complete redesign of the engine before the start of production. Among the many changes made was enlargement of the water picketing all around the main aluminum housing for better cooling. The oil filler cap was relocated, the oil metering pump added, the ignition system mounting bracket redesigned, the oil pump pickup moved, and the generator replaced by an alternator and interchanged with the water pump. which was placed low instead of high. Major changes were made in the Spider's unusual carburetion system. The original KKM 502 had a single, simple inlet port. and though its power curve was strong from 3000 to 5000 rpm, it fell away too rapidly below 2000 rpm. To help solve this problem, Solex developed a special 2-stage carburetor with an 18-mm throat, for starting and low speed operation, and a 32-mm secondary throat, opened progressively by the throttle, for full power. The throttle valve of the secondary was placed as close as possible to the block to reduce the amount of exhaust gas that could be carried over by the rotor and lodged in the inlet port, fouling the incoming fresh mixture. These two carburetor throats were aligned with individual ports that opened separately into the engine's interior. Because location of the port on the housing wall of a Wankel engine determines opening and closing timing of that port, NSU placed the smaller low-speed port where its timing would be less radical. When the larger port is opened, by opening its throttle valve, it has the effect of advancing the engine's inlet timing. The ti |
