1981 Checker Marathon - Something Blue

People buy old, worn-out fleet vehicles primarily because they're looking for a cheap vehicle that can be rejuvenated fairly inexpensively; that or they need something for a demolition derby. That's harder to do these days since fleet vehicles, just like most cars today, are so technologically dense that even dealership mechanics can struggle to diagnose problems. Even if you can do the work yourself, figuring out what's wrong in the first place is more than half the struggle; then there's the cost of the parts, which can be prohibitive.

That wasn't necessarily the case years ago. Some hearty folks used to buy old police cars and taxi cabs, tweak them here and there, and then run them further into the ground. Few actually fixed them up as nicely as the man who bought this 1981 Checker Marathon did in 1995.

This had been a Cleveland, Ohio, taxicab. He made whatever repairs it needed and painted over its yellow paint in this pretty shade of what's described as "robin's egg blue." The top is painted white. Then he used it as his daily driver for more than twenty years.

If this car looks a lot older than something that was built and sold in 1981, that was not so much by design as by company operating philosophy.

Checker Corporation of Kalamazoo, Michigan, introduced the basic design that would become its famous Marathon in the late 1950s and continued building essentially the same basic body and chassis through 1982. The Marathon name itself was introduced for the 1961 model year. The idea was that incremental changes and improvements would be made as needed, while the basic body and tough-as-nails chassis would remain largely unchanged.

Built on a rugged body-on-frame chassis, Checkers were known for their durability, reliability and cavernous interiors, especially when compared with many other cars of the era. Their heavy-duty construction was particularly well suited to the punishment of taxi service.

Chevrolet often supplied the engines, and this one is powered by a Chevrolet-built 229-cu.-in. V-6.  Like the Checker itself, it's a relatively straightforward, durable engine that, aside from doing its assigned tasks with unassuming aplomb, is remarkable in how unremarkable it is.

Engines weren't the only parts glommed from the General Motors parts bin. Keen-eyed spotters will note that this is a late-'70's\'80's Chevrolet steering wheel affixed to a GM Saginaw steering column. Looks as out of place here as modern rims do on classic cars, but it gets the job done. 

Checker also sold cars directly to the public, although the vast majority of its production went to commercial and fleet customers. The company's consumer-market efforts began in earnest in 1959, and the A12 Marathon followed in 1961.

Sadly, the man who bought this old Cleveland taxi eventually became ill and passed away, His car sat in his garage for several years, unused and falling into disrepair. In 2022, as a tribute to his late father, his son restored the car to running condition. It was most recently used as "something blue" in his wedding.

Needing room in his garage for his children's toys, he has it for sale now on Marketplace, less than a half-hour south of the Triple Wide. Actual mileage is unknown, best bet is it's north of 200K. There is some frame rot. Asking price is $4,250.

 

1988 Mercury Colony Park - VCR's and Typewriters

If the notion of a luxury station wagon is as foreign to you as watching “over-the-air TV” or listening to the radio, well, kid, you didn't grow up in the 1950s, 1960s, 1970s or 1980s. The 1990s to some extent, too. And please, get off my lawn.

A luxury wagon like this 1988 Mercury Colony Park was what you drove back then if you wanted to swaddle yourself and your family in the lap of luxury while allowing yourself to be as pragmatic as possible.

This one found me on Facebook Marketplace for sale here in the Cleveland, Ohio, area with an asking price of $4,800. The ad lists it as a Mercury Marquis. Technically, that's not quite right: by 1988, the full-size wagon was the Colony Park version of the Grand Marquis. From 1984 onward, the Colony Park was Mercury's sole full-size station wagon, complete with its obligatory simulated wood-grain siding.

With its wood sides—no one ever thought they were real anyway—a Mercury Colony Park was Mercury's top-line full-size station wagon from its introduction in 1957 through 1991. While a fraction of the number of Colony Parks were sold compared with the number of Ford Country Squires, if buyers wanted the equivalent of a station-wagon Lincoln—which Lincoln never built—a Mercury Colony Park was about as close as they were going to get.

A family truckster for the well-heeled that looked as relatively at home at the country club as it did at Home Depot.

I know I'm not the only car guy who's got a thing for station wagons, and the more luxurious and stuffed with doo-daddery, the better.

                          

This one's got it all. Leather-trimmed seats, power windows and locks, air conditioning (I doubt it works), cruise control, tilt wheel and the apple of my 8- to 10-year-old eyes: twin, rear-facing fold-down, jump seats out back. 

Leather seating surfaces were an available option on the 1988 Colony Park rather than standard equipment. They weren't cheap either, figure about $415. The original owner of this "are we there yet" mobile spared no expense.  

By the end of the 1980s, station wagons as we knew them were circling the drain. The growing popularity of the minivan, followed by the rising popularity of SUVs, was eating into the traditional station wagon's territory. Ford's full-size station wagons disappeared after the 1991 model year, although Ford continued selling front-wheel-drive Taurus- and Mercury Sable-based wagons through 1995. GM continued to offer traditional full-size, body-on-frame, rear-wheel-drive wagons through 1996, when the Chevrolet Caprice and Buick Roadmaster wagons went away.

Chrysler got out of the station wagon business wagon after 1988. 

Curiously, Cadillac sold a wagon version of its CTS for the 2010–2014 model years, ostensibly giving luxury buyers an alternative to the German wagons from BMW and Mercedes-Benz that were still being offered at the time. Hey, don't laugh; the CTS wagon was an amazing car but found few buyers. 

Throw in the added surge in popularity of SUVs, and the station wagon, luxury or otherwise, was quickly becoming as irrelevant as VCRs and typewriters.

Our Marketplace gem here appears to have more than her fair share of problems. Rusted quarter panels mean there's probably more where that came from. The leather on the front seats is shot, and the door panels have been torn apart for an aftermarket stereo system, too.

Lastly but not leastly—and sadly—most of her simulated wood sides are faded and worn to the point that they only add to the dreariness of the whole package. Sorry, $4,800 seems like all the money in the world for this old luxury workhorse.

Perhaps it runs fine. Details in the ad, other than it “needs a windshield,” are scant.

It's fun to think about turning this into a sleeper of sorts. What massive junkyard truck engine and transmission could be stuffed into this thing to cost-effectively make it as fun as possible? Not before the interior gets sorted out first, though.

Today's do-everything-well crossovers and SUV's are not unlike our phones, which do most of the tasks we once needed separate appliances for well enough that we don't need those separate gadgets anymore. While some may lament the brand of the crossover or SUV they're driving, few, if any, complain about the vehicle itself per se—above and beyond its reliability or lack thereof.

That wasn't the case when this Colony Park's simulated—don't call it fake—wood siding was shiny and new. Back then, what type of vehicle you drove—sports car, pony car, personal luxury car, four-door sedan—said as much about you, whether you cared or not, as the logo on its hood and sides.

1972 Citroën SM - Nothing Says, "France" Quite Like An Old Citroën

How do you pronounce Citroën? See-troe-on? Sih-tron? Cee-trin? Best I can tell, since it seems no two people pronounce it the same way, Citroën is pronounced something like, see-tro-en—and this 1972 see-tro-en SM is up for sale on Facebook Marketplace less than an hour south of the Triple Wide, just west of Cleveland, Ohio. If you're interested, bring a trailer with a powerful winch.

While today’s Citroën's are generally less eccentric than their predecessors, they're part of the monolithic Stellantis Auto Group now, there was a time—particularly from the years just prior to World War II through the 1970s—when Citroën marched to the beat of its own cylinders.

I thought they were just plain weird and, without question, they were. For the most part, though, they were weird in the most wonderful ways.

Citroën was founded by André-Gustave Citroën in 1919 and quickly established a reputation for doing things differently.

The 1934 Traction Avant was a watershed. Its name literally means “front-wheel drive,” and the car combined front-wheel drive, a unitary/monocoque body structure, four-wheel independent suspension and hydraulic brakes at a time when many competitors were still building cars around separate frames and rear-wheel-drive layouts.

Then came the 2CV in 1948, a remarkably simple and inexpensive car designed to provide basic transportation to rural France. Nothing says “France” quite like an old Citroën, in particular a 2CV.

And then, in 1955, Citroën dropped the technological equivalent of a flying saucer on the Paris Motor Show floor. The DS.

The DS introduced Citroën’s famous hydro-pneumatic suspension, which used hydraulic pressure and gas-filled spheres to provide an extraordinarily smooth ride while automatically maintaining ride height. Hydraulic pressure was also used for other systems, including the brakes and steering.

Citroën began developing what eventually became the SM in the 1960s as a high-performance derivative of the DS. As the project evolved, however, Citroën decided it needed a more powerful engine for it than anything it had available.

Rather than go through the expense of developing its own engine, Citroën acquired Maserati in 1968 and used the Italian company’s expertise to develop the 2.7-liter, 90-degree, quad-cam V-6 that powered the SM. The engine produced about 170 horsepower with its original triple-carburetor setup; in 1972, Bosch D-Jetronic electronic fuel injection was introduced, increasing output to approximately 176 horsepower. 

Up front, European-market SMs have six headlights tucked behind a broad transparent cover. The inner pair swivel with the steering, allowing the lights to illuminate the road around corners. The car’s hydropneumatic suspension also automatically maintained ride height, and the headlights were hydraulically self-leveling so their aim remained consistent as the car’s load changed.

The SM’s love-it or what-the-hell-is-that styling, designed under Citroën stylist Robert Opron, is what makes it really stand out. Despite the deterioration visible on our Marketplace gem here, the basic shape still looks reasonably contemporary more than half a century later.

The list goes on and on with unique, different and debatably overly complicated, “Rube Goldberg-esque” engineering that makes it terrifying to think how much money one would have to spend to get this particular car roadworthy. Not to mention the interior and exterior work that needs to be done.

The poster of the ad is asking $2,500, but they're adamant they “need it gone,” so they're open to offers.  It might be hard to believe, but it's not running, although it was apparently running when parked in this field. Not surprisingly, in addition to all the other issues this car has, the floor pans are rotted out.

I’d love to know why anyone would buy this and go through the labor and expense of even getting it roadworthy. Especially since, unlike back in the 1970s, importing a 1972 SM from Europe today doesn't involve federalizing it to meet current U.S. safety standards. Doing that wouldn't be cheap, but it would probably be a lot less than fixing this thing up—and less of a headache, too.

Poster of the ad claims if you know what this car is, you know how valuable it is. Well, can't blame them for saying that, problem is, what something is really worth is only as much as someone is willing to pay for it. 

The SM was withdrawn from the American market after 1973 because Citroën could no longer get an exemption from evolving U.S. safety requirements, particularly the five-mile-per-hour safety-bumper mandates. Citroën pulled out of the U.S. market after 1974. 

1987 Porsche 944S - Reifen Kicking

I haven't seen a Porsche 944 in years. I mean, years. This 1987 popped up on my Marketplace feed this morning for sale out in Willoughby, Ohio, just east of Cleveland. Asking price is $2,900. What could a prospective buyer be getting themselves into? Let's virtually kick a reifen or two—reifen is German for tire—and see.

First, some backstory on what the 944 was.

The Porsche 944 was a front-engine, rear-wheel-drive 2+2 sports car built by Porsche from 1982 through 1991. It was based on the 924's platform but received extensive mechanical and styling changes, including a Porsche-developed 2.5-liter four-cylinder engine and the wide-body styling that made the 944 distinctly different from its predecessor.

The idea was to offer a relatively accessible Porsche sports car that was less expensive and less exotic than the company's flagship 911 and 928 while still delivering legitimate sports-car performance.

Like the 924, the 944 was powered by a four-cylinder engine.

Just like some Honda Civic or Chevrolet Celebrity.

Ha. Right. We're talking Porsche here, people.

The original 944, introduced for 1982, used a 2.5-liter overhead-cam inline-four developed by Porsche. In its original form, it produced about 160 horsepower. It was hardly your garden-variety economy-car four-banger.

And here's the really interesting part: the engine was essentially half of Porsche's 4.5-liter V8 used in the 928. In other words, Porsche didn't simply grab some ordinary four-cylinder off the shelf and slap it into a sports car. The 944's engine shared its basic architecture with one of Porsche's most sophisticated engines of the era.

This was heady stuff back in the day, kids.

In 1985, Porsche introduced the 944 Turbo, which turbocharged the 2.5-liter four-cylinder and bumped output about 217 horsepower. In 1988, Porsche introduced the limited-production 944 Turbo S with about 247 horsepower. For 1989, that 247-horse engine became standard in the regular 944 Turbo.

That kind of power from just 2.5 liters today isn't impressive; 40-years-ago, it was the stuff dreams. 

The 944 S arrived for the 1987 model year with a high-compression, naturally aspirated, 16-valve version of the 2.5-liter engine. Porsche rated it at about 187 horsepower. It sat neatly between the standard 944 and the Turbo in both performance and price.

And this is where the 944 gets particularly interesting. It wasn't just a Porsche with a four-cylinder engine. With its front-mounted engine and rear-mounted transaxle, the 944 had nearly ideal weight distribution, which helped give it the balanced handling for which these cars became known.

This car, though.

Hoo-boy.

The big-little engine isn't running; there are issues with the body seemingly all over; and the interior is a train wreck. In fairness, it may just need a deep cleaning, although this looks nasty.

Someone swapping out the Blaupunkt radio it was born with, got lost in the wiring maze and give up? 

The poster of the ad claims this car is a perfect project for that "special Porsche enthusiast" and, at this price, won't last long.

I beg to differ. To me this is a parts car. 

But what do I know?

Frankly, if you have to have a Porsche 944, while you'll spend upwards of four times more for one that's not this side of a roller like this one is, I think that money would be better spent. A running, reasonably sorted 944 S is a whole different proposition from a $2,900 non-running project with questionable cosmetics and an interior that looks like the German army in the days, weeks and months after D-Day.