1979 Jeep CJ-7 - Appearances Can Be Deceiving

Our golf outing this past weekend got delayed a couple of minutes when I found this 1979 Jeep CJ-7 parked across the street from the Triple Wide. I've seen it before. It belongs to—or at least is usually driven by—a kid who's friends with the late-teen or early-twenty-something who lives two doors down from us.

I've never met him, nor do I really want to, although it would be fun to talk to him about this Jeep.

The people whose house he was visiting have an inground pool and throw parties where the music is so loud that the folks living right next door say the pictures on their walls shake. They also carry on in a way that makes me wonder how the parents allow it to happen, especially in such a cloistered neighborhood where there's maybe thirty feet between houses.

In the interest of not creating a U.S.-Iran-style conflict, nobody says a thing. So, for the half-dozen or so weekends between late June and Labor Day when it happens, we grin and bear it. The chances of them reading this and not-so-subtly getting the gist of how obnoxious we find their parties are about as good as the chances of them figuring it out on their own.

In fairness, aside from the pool-party shenanigans, they're nice enough people.

Anyhoodle, I've always found Jeep CJs utterly beguiling. I'm equally intrigued by the handsome, square-jawed young man who supposedly drives this one—although it's probably his parents' Jeep. I could only dream of being that effortlessly cool when I was his age. Lucky bastard. Movie-star good looks, smart enough to attend the University of Dayton, and growing up in bucolic Bay Village, Ohio. He probably has no idea how good he has it.

Let's just assume that's true.

For all I know, he's sick of the Jeep, hates his parents and his friends, despises UD, has a drug or alcohol problem, questions his sexuality, or struggles with depression. Hopefully reality is much closer to the former image than the latter.

Long story short, Jeep CJs aren't for everyone.

Inspired by the legendary Willys military Jeep of World War II, the civilian Jeep—or "CJ," for Civilian Jeep—evolved through several generations. The CJ-5 was built from 1955 through 1983 under Willys, Kaiser Jeep, and later American Motors (AMC). Introduced for 1976, the CJ-7 rode on a longer wheelbase than the CJ-5, allowing for noticeably better rear-seat room and improved road manners. Buyers embraced it, and the CJ-7 ultimately outsold the CJ-5 by a comfortable margin.

The CJ-5 was discontinued after 1983, while the longer-wheelbase CJ-8 Scrambler remained in production through 1986. That same year also marked the end of the CJ-7, which was replaced for 1987 by the Jeep Wrangler of square-headlight infamy.

Although the breed evolved considerably between 1955 and 1986, refinement was never really the point. Even today's Wranglers ride and handle more like bouncy farm equipment than the average crossover SUV.

Take one for a long—really long—test drive before signing on the dotted line. It's best to know exactly what you're asking your back and backside to endure.

As painfully cool as they look, appearances can be deceiving.

My own time behind the wheel came years ago while driving one on the beach. I still romanticize rowing the gears in a machine of such mechanical simplicity, my testosterone seemingly pouring out of my ears. That part was glorious.

Driving it on the road to the beach? Not so much.

The bouncing. The shaking. The noise. The wind buffeting was so severe that every conversation required shouting at the top of your lungs. It's tremendous fun in small doses, but far less charming if it's your daily driver—which is probably why so few people use one that way anymore. Even as a weekend toy, every drive is tempered by the reality of what the vehicle actually is.

Some vehicles become more appealing the farther away you stand from them. The Jeep CJ may be the best example I've ever encountered.

Jeep, then owned by the Chrysler Corporation, switched the Wrangler's headlights back to round ones for the 1997 model year.

1961 Chevrolet Bel Air "Bubble Top" - X (frame) Marks the Spot

Full-size Chevrolets received an all-new body and body shell for 1961, riding on an updated version of General Motors' cruciform "X-frame" chassis. Chevrolet had introduced the X-frame for the 1958 model year, and while it helped create the low, sleek profile that defined GM styling at the dawn of the 1960s, it would later draw criticism for offering less side-impact protection than conventional perimeter frames.

The X-frame allowed designers to mount the body lower than previous chassis designs, perfectly complementing Detroit's "longer, lower, wider" design mantra. Ironically, although the 1961 Chevrolet looked lower and sleeker than its predecessor, it was actually a smidge shorter overall than the 1960 model.

The full-size lineup consisted of three series: the entry-level Biscayne, the mid-range Bel Air, and the top-of-the-line Impala. Our '61 is a Bel Air Sport Coupe dressed in its short-lived—but, in my opinion, absolutely gorgeous—"bubble top" hardtop body style, one of the most distinctive and desirable rooflines Chevrolet ever produced.

The seller of this "Honduras Maroon Poly" Bel Air claims it spent years tucked away in a Nebraska garage. I just wish they had mentioned exactly how many years it was essentially "moth-balled". 

With Nebraska's dry climate, there's a good chance the car escaped the rust that plagues so many vintage cars here in northern Ohio, where our roads get marinated in a salty brine for eight or nine months of the year. If that's true, the dry Midwestern upbringing may be one of this Bel Air's biggest selling points.

With an asking price of $35,500, it should be. Read that number again, slowly: thirty-five thousand, five hundred dollars. Around here, that's in the ballpark of what a modest house can cost. That's a staggering amount of money to spend on this car.

For your money, you get a car the seller describes as being in very good "original condition," despite acknowledging that it wears an "older" repaint that has been "shined up nicely."

They also claim the interior is original, just as it was when the car rolled off the assembly line during the early days of the "Camelot Era." The exterior, however, can't really be described as "original" once it's been repainted, regardless of how well the older paint has held up.

Under the hood is what appears to be an unmodified 283-cubic-inch V-8. Whether that's a good thing or not is a matter of opinion. Look closely and you'll notice single-reservoir, manual brakes, and there's nary a power steering pump in sight.

Paired with a "three-on-the-tree" three-speed manual transmission, this Chevy is no doubt a handful to drive, especially at low speeds. Between the lack of power steering, manual brakes, and a column-shifted gearbox, it offered a driving experience that's about as far removed from a modern car as you can get.

Perhaps there's some charm in that, but it's lost on me. Big old cars I've driven with this setup are downright terrifying. Between the manual steering, single-pot non-power brakes, and column-shifted three-speed transmission, they demand your full attention every second you're behind the wheel.

One thing is certain, though: you'd be hard-pressed to find a better-looking oldie anywhere, regardless of the price.

 

1971 Mercury Grand Marquis - Grab a Burt Bacharach 8-Track

This 38,000-mile 1971 Mercury Grand Marquis popped up in my Facebook Marketplace feed this morning, with the seller whimsically claiming you'd be the "envy at the car shows." As if anyone buys an old car just to impress people at car shows. For $22,500, I'd better be getting a lot more than envy.

This big old land yacht, oozing GM-inspired styling, rode on Ford Motor Company's all-new full-size platform introduced for 1969. Mercury's Marquis was positioned above the Monterey, while Ford's LTD offered much the same size and luxury for less money. Lincoln adopted a stretched version of this basic platform for the 1970 Continental, with a longer wheelbase and, depending on your tastes, a more prestigious badge.

For 1971, the standard Grand Marquis engine was a 429-cubic-inch V8. In most applications it was rated at 320 gross horsepower with a two-barrel carburetor and still benefited from relatively high compression, making premium fuel a good idea. That would all change quickly. Beginning in 1972, the industry switched from gross to net horsepower ratings, compression ratios fell to accommodate unleaded gasoline, and emissions regulations steadily robbed engines like this of much of their muscle. The 1973 oil embargo only accelerated the decline of big, thirsty luxury cars.

Contemporary road tests found these big Mercurys to be surprisingly quick. A 1969 Mercury Marquis—before "Grand Marquis" became a separate series for 1970—could reach 60 mph in about 8.2 seconds, impressive for a car tipping the scales at nearly 5,000 pounds.

The best part of this car, though, is this gloriously groovy interior. It's peak early-'70s American luxury, the kind of cabin that makes you want to pop in a Burt Bacharach 8-track, point the hood toward the interstate, and forget what gas costs.

1987 Chevrolet Cavalier Z24 - Lost Generation

Us "Kids of the '70s" are a lost or forgotten generation of sorts. We're not really Boomers—not that we'd want to be—and we don't always identify with Gen X either. Even the music and movies we grew up with often seemed aimed at people just a little older or younger than we were. The cars we drove were much the same.

                             

Growing up in the heart of the so-called Malaise Era, new cars were, frankly, pretty awful. So many of us gravitated toward older cars that at least looked better. They certainly looked cooler.

While we blamed the automakers for building dorky-looking, underpowered shitboxes that couldn't stay screwed, bolted, or glued together much beyond their factory warranties, in fairness, their designers and engineers were trying to cope with an unprecedented wave of government emissions, safety, and fuel economy regulations. Maybe we should cut them a little slack. Well... at least some.

Credit where it's due—they did try to dress up some of the otherwise forgettable cars they produced. A prime example is the 1986-87 "O.G." Chevrolet Cavalier Z24. Our Facebook Marketplace find, which looks about as worn out as most of us do these days, is a 1987.

The Cavalier Z24 was clearly intended to evoke the spirit of the mighty Camaro Z28, right down to its similar Regular Production Option (RPO) code. In Chevrolet-speak, a "Z" badge meant "sporty"—or maybe just "zporty." I'm here all week.

Buyers who checked the Z24 option box got a two-door Cavalier powered by a multi-port fuel-injected 2.8-liter V6 making a respectable-for-the-time 125 horsepower and 160 lb-ft of torque. They also got the F41 sport suspension and enough body cladding and striping to outfit an entire 1980s shopping mall parking lot.

So here was a car that looked the part—and to a degree, acted the part—but never quite excelled at anything. Still, thanks for trying, Chevrolet.

I won't lie: the styling completely worked on me. I wanted one badly. Of course, what I really wanted was a Camaro Z28, but beggars can't be choosers. Then again, when you can't even afford the table scraps the beggars turned down, that's how you end up driving a 12-year-old Chrysler Cordoba, as I did.

Our featured Z24 belongs to the first generation of GM's J-body compacts, introduced for the 1982 model year. In Chevrolet showrooms, the Cavalier effectively took over from the Monza, whose production had ended after 1980. The Monza itself had replaced the Vega. GM's other J-bodies included the Pontiac J2000, Buick Skyhawk, Oldsmobile Firenza, and Cadillac Cimarron, although not every division had its J-body ready at exactly the same time.

My seat time in these cars was, unsurprisingly, about as underwhelming as any Samantha Fox song. The V6's tuning emphasized low-end torque, making the Z24 feel quicker than it really was. Zero to sixty came in somewhere around nine seconds, which wasn't exactly setting the world on fire. The 2.8-liter V6 was certainly a welcome step up from the wheezy 2.0-liter four-cylinder in "lesser" Cavaliers, but it ran out of breath well before the fun should have started.

The F41 suspension delivered a ride that was stiff—sometimes downright harsh—without offering much of a payoff in the handling department. But it felt sporty, and apparently that was enough.

Like big hair and acid-washed designer jeans, the cladding and graphics had me hooked. What can I say? I was a wannabee upwardly mobile kid of the '70s. Too bad the rest of the package couldn't quite live up to the promise.

The seller doesn't sugarcoat this one's condition. The paint is cooked, which is obvious from the photos, but they insist the body is solid—aside from this rather significant ouchie. They also admit the oil pressure drops at idle after extended high-speed highway driving, though they speculate it might just be a bad sending unit or gauge. It'd be nice if they figured that out before putting it up for sale.

The asking price is $3,000, which sounds about $2,500 more than I'd be willing to spend. But that's just me.

For old times' sake, I think tonight I'll dust off the old VCR and pop in Fast Times at Ridgemont High. My spirit animal, Brad Hamilton (Judge Reinhold), and I have some catching up to do.

1987 z24 2.8L 5 speed manual fwd Paint is not perfect but the body is solid Engine has low oil pressure at idle after trips spent at high free way speeds but it could just be the cluster these are known for having problems

223000

 

2025 Genesis G80 - $85,000...for a Hyundai?

Got to hand it to Hyundai's luxury division, Genesis, for designing some of the best-looking cars, cross-overs and SUVs on the road today. Yes, they shamelessly borrow styling cues and design philosophy from some of the world's most prestigious luxury brands, but isn't imitation supposed to be the sincerest form of flattery?

I'm not sure exactly what inspired the design of this 2026 Genesis G80, but it certainly looks like an expensive, prestigious automobile.

Then again, isn't looking the part more than half the game? "Act as if," as they say. I've never quite mastered that trick but judging by how many people are willing to spend eighty grand or more on one of these, Hyundai—sorry, Genesis—ought to be teaching master classes on the subject.

At roughly $80,000, inflation or not, this is an expensive car. Very expensive. So expensive, in fact, that the value proposition upon which Hyundai built its reputation flies right out the panoramic sunroof.

Harsh? Perhaps. Then again, an argument could be made that a Cadillac is nothing more than a fancy Chevrolet that costs twice as much. The notion, though that this car can go tire-to-tire with anything from Lexus, Toyota's luxury division, still strikes me as a bit amusing. Seems someone's been huffing brake cleaner again. 

Forgive my skepticism. I've never been a Hyundai fan, and my prejudice goes back decades.

My first experience with one came in the late 1980s. A woman I worked with asked me to drive her year-old Hyundai Excel because the steering wheel wouldn't return to center after making a turn. That's not merely annoying—that's unsettling. I told her to take it straight back to the dealership and have them inspect the steering rack and front suspension. Again, this was on a car that wasn't even a year old.

To make matters worse, I thought it rode like a dumpster with square wheels, handled poorly, and was about as attractive as a cinder block. First impressions matter, and every Hyundai I've driven since has done little to change mine. Their slanted "H" emblem has always looked less like "Hyundai" and more like shorthand for "horrible."

 

Hyundai arrived in the United States in 1986 with the Excel, and I'll give them this—their marketing was brilliant. The message was simple: you could buy two Hyundais for the average price of one then brand-new car. What they didn't mention was that, in my opinion, you got two poorly built cars for the price of one. 

It didn't matter. Americans flocked to them. Hyundai sold more than 168,000 Excels in less than a year, setting a first-year sales record for an imported car in the U.S.

To be fair, they weren't quite as dreadful as the Yugo, the bargain-basement hatchback built by Zastava in the former Yugoslavia and imported by the ever-entrepreneurial Malcolm Bricklin from 1985 through 1992. Yugos were so poorly assembled they could almost make a Hyundai Excel seem like a Toyota Corolla.

Somehow—and I say this with genuine amazement—Hyundai kept improving. The company expanded its lineup with cars like the Sonata and XG300 before introducing the Equus. Eventually it launched Genesis as a standalone luxury brand, much as Toyota did with Lexus and Honda did with Acura. Today Genesis offers an impressive lineup of sedans, including this G80, along with a range of luxury SUVs.

I still don't buy into it.

Genesis unquestionably builds handsome automobiles, and many reviewers praise them for their features, refinement, and value. Even so, I remain unconvinced. My experiences with Hyundai products over the years have left me skeptical of the brand, and that skepticism naturally extends to Genesis and Kia.

Every new Hyundai, Genesis, and Kia comes with one of the industry's best warranties: a 10-year/100,000-mile powertrain warranty, a 5-year/60,000-mile bumper-to-bumper limited warranty, and complimentary scheduled maintenance for three years or 36,000 miles. Some people see that as a tremendous vote of confidence from the manufacturer. Cynics like me see it as something they may need to offer.

One important caveat for used-car buyers: if you're shopping for a Hyundai, Genesis, or Kia, buy a Certified Pre-Owned example from one of the manufacturer's dealerships. That's generally the only way the remainder of the original 10-year/100,000-mile powertrain warranty transfers to the next owner. Buy one from an independent used-car lot or a private seller, and the original powertrain coverage is greatly reduced. You may think you're getting a bargain on a feature-packed luxury car, but if something expensive breaks, that bargain can disappear in a hurry.

At seventy-five, eighty, or even eighty-five thousand dollars, this is playing in BMW, Mercedes-Benz, and Lexus territory. While I have my own reservations about many modern German luxury cars, spending that kind of money on what is, at its corporate roots, still a Hyundai completely undermines the value equation that made the company successful in the first place.

Now, if this G80 consistently matched or surpassed Lexus in long-term durability, reliability, and resale value, you could certainly make a compelling argument for it.

But for me, despite the styling, luxury appointments, and premium badge, it's still a Hyundai.