1977 Chevrolet Concours - Don't Call it a Nova

My high-school girlfriend's mother had a Chevrolet "Don't Call It a Nova" Concours similar to this 1977 for sale not far from the Triple Wide, with an asking price of $7,500.

Her car was all blue, with color-keyed wheel covers like this one from a 1975 brochure for the Concours' predecessor, the Nova LN. The one-year-only LN, followed by the 1976 and 1977 Concours, was Chevrolet's answer to the Ford Granada and Mercury Monarch: gussied-up compacts aimed at buyers being wooed by the wave of tony German imports then washing ashore here.

Forget the Bimmer, honey. I got us a Chevy Nova instead!

Chevrolet redesigned the Nova for 1975, its first major restyling since 1968. It remained an X-body, sharing some of its chassis and suspension architecture with GM's F-body Camaro and Firebird, although calling it a four-door Camaro would be stretching things a bit. Still, my girlfriend's mom's Concours felt positively athletic compared with my father's oafish and horrible 1972 Cadillac Sedan deVille.

That thing could move, too. Her car was powered by the 170-horsepower, 350-cubic-inch four-barrel V-8. This one has the 145-horsepower, 305 two-barrel V-8. Anytime she'd pick me up in her mom's car, I insisted on driving and having a sweet-old-time with the go-pedal. She'd also insist I chip in for gas, since the little car—which actually wasn't so little—used gasoline like a bus. Not as bad as my dad's Caddy, though, but it was hardly economical. 

Chevrolet went to considerable lengths to make the Concours look and feel like something more upscale than the ordinary Nova, even giving it its own sales brochure for 1977. That year, it received a finer-mesh grille, stand-up hood ornament, new wheel covers and wider bright wheel-opening moldings. Chevrolet's brochure even described it as "International in style, it is American in function."

In a vacuum, this is not a bad-looking car. Such as it was intended to be, though, it's no wonder it found fewer buyers than Chevrolet had hoped for. Chevy cranked out 365,264 Novas for 1977, with roughly 75,000 of them being Concours models.

If you think the four-door Concours sent out mixed metaphors or messages, check out the two-door. Sorry, even a ribald coupe lover like me can't quite get his arms around these cars, with their very odd proportions. That half-vinyl top isn't doing this one any favors, either.

Chevrolet continued the X-body Nova through 1979, although the Concours name disappeared after 1977. Chevrolet continued the upscale idea with the Nova Custom in 1978 and 1979. Must have been a bit crazy being a Chevrolet salesperson in the late '70's explaining why someone should pay more for the new for new-for-1978 intermediate Malibu that was just a scooch bigger than the "compact" Nova. Which, again, with a whopping 111-inch-long wheelbase, wasn't so little. 

The asking price on this one is $7,500, which seems out-of-this-world high to me. No doubt the seller did their research, because internet value guides peg the asking price as fairly reasonable. Those AI-powered sites do tend to be optimistic with their pricing.

There isn't a number low enough on this car that would sway me toward it at any price.

I wouldn't mind taking it for a spin, though, just to see if it's anywhere near as good as I remember it being.

1976 Datsun 280Z - Not an RX-7

My wife told me about this 1976 Datsun 280Z one divine, sun-drenched, humidity-free day recently. She'd spotted it while out running errands and texted me about it, although she didn't know what it was. She didn't send a picture, either. So, when she got home, we dropped the top on our '91 Corvette and bolted over just for kicks and giggles.

Best to take advantage of these perfect days—we get so few of them.

I knew what it was the instant I saw it, but I guess it's been so long now that a non-car person like my wife wouldn't necessarily recognize one.

The 280Z was an evolution of the legendary 240Z, which debuted in Japan in 1969 as the Fairlady Z and went on sale here as a 1970 model. Datsun sold the 280Z in the United States from 1975 through 1978, making it the final iteration of the original S30-generation Z before the considerably more civilized 280ZX arrived for 1979.

Ostensibly, the biggest difference between a 280Z and the original 240Z was what was under the hood: a larger, fuel-injected overhead-cam inline six.

But there were plenty of other changes along the way, including the big, federally mandated safety bumpers that appeared up front in 1973 and out back in 1974. They added weight while mucking up an otherwise wonderfully crisp, clean design.

For 1974, the 240Z's 2.4-liter overhead-cam inline six was punched out to approximately 2.6 liters, and the car became the 260Z. For 1975, Datsun went to roughly 2.8 liters and christened it the 280Z. The engine actually displaced 2,753 cc, and, more importantly, it ditched the troublesome carburetors of the 260Z in favor of Bosch-derived L-Jetronic electronic fuel injection.

That wasn't just techno-wizardry for the sake of techno-wizardry. The additional displacement helped compensate for the weight the Z had accumulated thanks to safety equipment and emissions hardware, while fuel injection helped Datsun meet increasingly stringent emissions requirements and improved drivability. The result was 149 horsepower by the SAE net rating used in the U.S.—a healthy improvement over the 260Z. 

While the fuel-injected 280Z wasn't quite the barn-burner the 1970 240Z had been, it was an improvement over the 260Z and remained one of the most appealing combinations of performance, style and affordability available to an American buyer.

Fuel injection as we know it today was still very much in its infancy in the 1970s. The Datsun's Bosch-derived L-Jetronic system was a glimpse of where the automotive world was headed.

For your $17,500, and that's a reasonably asking price, you get a car that is not only not a Mazda RX-7, but a fifty-year-old Z-car that may or may not still be wearing the British Racing Green it was originally painted—or perhaps not. Hard to tell.

The body isn't perfect. I didn't see any obvious signs of overspray, but the paint appears overly thick in places.

There are also a number of missing badges, a telltale sign that they were removed for painting or repainting. Perhaps they broke when being removed. While this isn't a "catalog car" like a Corvette—meaning there isn't quite the same massive cottage industry supplying every conceivable part—the good news is that 280Z parts and reproduction pieces are still readily available.

The aftermarket rims are nice, but for my money I'd want the O.G.s as part of the deal.

And here's where the 280Z gets interesting.

Despite what you might expect from a sports car of this era, you could get one with either a four-speed manual or an optional three-speed automatic. Steering was manual, and the car retained the wonderfully simple mechanical character that made the original Z so appealing.

No doubt, she's a handful to drive—but a different kind of handful than, say, a 1976 Corvette. The Corvette rides and handles like a limousine by comparison. For a car that was purportedly a sports car, I'm not sure that's necessarily a good thing, either.

But that's also part of the charm.

The original Z was never really a stripped-down, race-car-for-the-street kind of sports car. It was a relatively affordable, lightweight Japanese interpretation of the European GT—something that gave ordinary Americans a taste of the sort of style and driving experience that had previously required a much fatter wallet.

And then, in 1979, Datsun rebooted the Z with the 280ZX.

The transformation was significant. The new Z grew larger, heavier, quieter and considerably more luxurious. Datsun was deliberately moving the car toward the grand-touring/personal-luxury end of the spectrum, and contemporary road testers noticed it immediately. Car and Driver essentially described the 280ZX as a more comfortable, refined and luxury-oriented evolution of the old Z, noting that the new car was strongly biased toward the luxury side of life.

As far as sales went, it was a smart move. It broadened the Z's appeal and made it considerably more livable. It also helped further mainstream the Datsun brand in the United States.

But, as is so often the case, making something appeal to more people also meant sanding off some of the rough edges that made it special in the first place.

Datsun's transition to Nissan branding was well underway by the early 1980s, and by 1983 Nissan was essentially replacing the Datsun nameplate in the United States. But the company has built a Z-car of some ilk, off and on, ever since.

1964 Imperial Crown Convertible - Elwood Engel's Finest Work

Through my foggy goggles, styling-wise, the Big Three really had it going on throughout most of the 1960s. General Motors led the way, of course, with Ford and Chrysler constantly craning their necks to steal a peek—or ten—at what GM was doing. The end result was a string of spectacular designs. Chrysler's Imperial division, in particular, hit its stride with the 1964 and 1965 models. This drop-top Imperial Crown is a 1964.

This popped up on Facebook Marketplace this morning in Hinckley, Ohio, near Medina. It shows just 86,000 miles and carries an asking price of $7,500. A tad steep, in my opinion, but I can't fault the seller for asking it. Oftentimes, someone gets hold of a car like this and then finds themselves buried under the tsunami of bills that comes with restoring it.

Between needing a paint job and what appears to be rust in the floor pans, the cost to finish this car will add up quickly—and in a big way. And that's just what we can see it needs from the photos in the ad.

From 1955 through 1975, although sold through Chrysler dealerships, Imperial was a separate make from Chrysler. From 1955 through 1966, Imperials also rode on their own exclusive chassis, setting them apart from the rest of Chrysler's lineup.

Intended to compete with GM's Cadillac and Ford's Lincoln, Imperial never really managed to carve out a significant share of the luxury market despite being an excellent automobile. Chrysler abandoned the exclusive—and expensive—Imperial chassis after 1966. Beginning in 1967, the cars shared Chrysler's C-body platform, making the Imperial more of an upscale Chrysler than the uniquely engineered luxury marque it had been.

Hemorrhaging cash during the mid-1970s, Chrysler finally pulled the plug on the standalone Imperial marque after the 1975 model year. The Imperial Crown and LeBaron names disappeared with it. Chrysler later revived the Imperial name on the 1981–1983 Imperial coupe, then again on a series of front-wheel-drive luxury sedans from 1990 through 1993. Those later cars, however, were officially branded as Chrysler Imperials rather than a separate Imperial make.

I've always thought these cars were a better-looking interpretation of the 1961 Lincoln Continental. That's hardly surprising, considering they were designed by Elwood Engel, the same stylist who penned the Continental before leaving Ford to join Chrysler.

The 1964 and 1965 Imperials are, in my opinion, among Engel's finest work, even if he did return to the Continental well once or twice for inspiration. That distinctive hump on the trunk is pure Lincoln Continental. By 1966, it had disappeared, giving the Imperial a cleaner, more modern look, though arguably one that was less distinctive.

 

1994 25th Anniversary Edition Pontiac Firebird Trans Am - Funny Thing About Living the Dream...

I swear, sometimes these things find me.

When I came out of the gym the other day, this 1994 Pontiac Firebird Trans Am was parked a couple of spaces down from where I'd left my car in the parking garage. This wasn't just any Trans Am, though. It was a 25th Anniversary Trans Am.

It threw me for a bit of a loop at first. Pontiac introduced the Firebird in 1967, and these fourth-generation cars debuted for the 1993 model year. A fourth-generation, 25th Anniversary Trans Am? Then it dawned on me. While the Firebird arrived in 1967, the Trans Am didn't make its debut until 1969, just before the first-generation Firebird was put out to pasture after the '69 model year.

Ironically, although Pontiac campaigned first-generation Firebirds in the SCCA Trans-Am racing series during the late 1960s, it never raced a production Trans Am. The series limited engines to five liters (305 cubic inches), while the first Trans Ams came standard with Pontiac's 400-cubic-inch (6.6-liter) V-8.

Pontiac built just 2,000 of these 25th Anniversary cars, so running into one is a little like spotting a local celebrity—a star athlete or the city's best-known TV news anchor. Exciting, interesting and, at the same time, no big deal.

It's been so long now that not only are these Anniversary Trans Ams unicorns, but you hardly ever see worn-out, sun-faded, crusty fourth-generation Firebirds anymore. Like their Camaro cousins, they wore composite body panels that resisted dents and corrosion far better than conventional steel bodywork, helping many survive better than their predecessors.

Their steel unibody structures? That's another story, especially up here along the shores of Lake Erie, where our vehicles are marinated in salty brine for the better part of the year.

While I fell hard for the fourth-generation Chevrolet Camaro—I owned three of them over the years—these cars always left me a little flat-footed. I've always preferred the Camaro's more restrained styling.

For about $995 more than a Trans Am GT—which itself cost roughly $1,000 more than a standard Trans Am—buyers got an all-white car with distinctive Tyrol Blue graphics inspired by the original 1969 Trans Am. A single Tyrol Blue stripe ran from the nose over the roof and onto the hatch, or across the convertible's boot cover.

The 16-inch, five-spoke aluminum wheels were painted white, and inside were white leather seats embroidered with blue "25th Trans Am" logos on the headrests.

Mechanically, these cars were essentially Trans Am GTs wearing a commemorative paint-and-trim package. The GT package added Z-rated 155-mph tires, the tall pedestal rear spoiler and, on automatic-equipped cars, a 3.23:1 rear axle ratio. Standard Trans Ams with the automatic received a 2.73:1 axle, while six-speed cars used a 3.42:1 rear axle.

Power came from Chevrolet's 275-horsepower LT1 5.7-liter V-8, backed by either a Borg-Warner T56 six-speed manual—available only in coupes—or GM's electronically controlled 4L60E automatic. Four-wheel disc brakes with ABS were standard, and a six-speed car could cover the quarter-mile in the mid-14-second range, making it one of America's quickest performance cars in 1994.

The Anniversary package was available on hardtops, T-top coupes and convertibles. The car parked in the garage is the most common configuration: a T-top with the automatic transmission. The rarest of the bunch is the six-speed hardtop. Pontiac built 500 convertibles, and every one of them came with an automatic.

Like fourth-generation Camaros, these aren't for the faint of heart. They ride low and firm, have an awkward driving position, handle well—but not quite as well as they should—the steering is numb and short on feedback, the catalytic converter intrudes into the front passenger's footwell, they're difficult to get in and out of, and the back seat is practically ornamental.

As they age, it's also becoming increasingly difficult to find technicians who understand mid-1990s GM electronics, especially the OBD-I systems that preceded standardized OBD-II diagnostics in 1996.

The LT1 is a terrific engine, but it does have one notorious Achilles' heel. The water pump sits directly above the OptiSpark distributor. When the pump inevitably begins to leak, coolant can drip directly onto the OptiSpark, often turning one repair into two. If you're handy with a wrench, it's manageable. If you're paying someone else, your wallet probably won't appreciate it.

Like fourth-generation Camaros, the power window motors eventually fail, and replacing them is more aggravating than it should be because they're riveted into the doors. Plastic interior panels also become brittle with age, crack easily and are eye-wateringly expensive—if you can even find replacements.

When I was younger, I was all about these kinds of cars and more than willing to put up with their quirks and idiosyncrasies. Now all I see is a festival of compromise—especially as a daily driver. As a weekend toy, though, something like this makes a lot more sense.

I asked my 29-year-old, quasi-car-guy son what he thought of it. His response, and I quote, was, "Smokin' hot."

Like father, like son, I guess.

Funny thing about living the dream: once you finally get there, it can rob the experience of the mystery, intrigue and elan that made you want it so badly. 

General Motors ended production of the fourth-generation Camaro and Firebird after the 2002 model year. Pontiac itself disappeared seven years later when GM shuttered the division in 2009.

  

1967 Ford LTD - Fugazi

The other night, the wife and I were out, top-down, enjoying a sunset cruise along Lake Road in our 1991 Corvette when she spotted that 1969 Corvette I blogged about last weekend. I, of course, never saw it. I was too distracted by the 1967 Ford LTD parked several cars away.

Obligingly, I swung back around for another look at the Corvette. While I was snapping photos of it, though, my eyes kept wandering back to the big old Ford.

Mid-to-late-'60s Fords like this '67 LTD were everywhere when I was growing up on Long Island, just a stone's throw from Kennedy Airport; they were as common as potholes and litter. Corvettes, on the other hand, were almost mythical. At least where I lived, you rarely—if ever—saw one. They might as well have been Apollo rockets.

Ford's full-size lineup was completely redesigned for 1965 and received a substantial facelift for 1967. The updates included more sculpted sheet metal with pronounced "Coke bottle" styling, a redesigned interior, and a host of new safety features. Among them were an energy-absorbing steering column, four-way hazard flashers, dual-circuit hydraulic brakes, and other improvements introduced as the first wave of federally mandated safety standards began taking effect for the 1967 model year.

The LTD debuted in 1965 as the top trim level of the Galaxie 500. It proved so popular that Ford promoted it to a separate model series for 1966. The LTD remained a fixture in Ford showrooms through the 1991 model year before being effectively succeeded by the Crown Victoria.

The LTD was such a game changer that Chevrolet responded by introducing the Caprice as the top-of-the-line version of the Impala midway through the 1965 model year before spinning it off into its own model series for 1966. It was essentially the same formula: add a healthy dose of luxury, make standard what should have been standard in the first place, sprinkle in a generous helping of marketing fugazi, and voilà—an automotive icon was born.

Plymouth wasn't about to be left behind, either. For 1966, it introduced the VIP—short for "Very Important Plymouth"—its own attempt to lure buyers looking for affordable luxury.

I've always had a soft spot for the 1967 big Fords if for no other reason than they look like something a GM stylist drew up. Their styling flows better than the '65s and '66s, at least to my eye. A big Ford this Chevy girl could love? I wouldn't go that far, but it's as close as I think it could get. 

Ford lost me with the fussier 1968 redesign (my father had a '68 Ranch Wagon) before hitting the reset button with an all-new generation for 1969.

1969 Corvette - Stuff That Dreams (Nightmares) are Made Of

The other night I had a dream that literally shook me awake. It took me a minute or two to realize it was just that—a dream. Somehow, I had "rattle-can" spray-painted my 1977 Corvette in primer, only to watch most of it run down the sides of the car in giant drips. Yes, that's Lake Erie and no, that's not my house. 

If anything, my long-gone, woe-begone '77 was one car that didn't need a paint job. Maybe it was a combination of missing the old girl and stumbling across this 1969 Corvette that desperately needs one that conspired to wake me up in the middle of the night.

My wife actually spotted it out on Lake Road during one of our leisurely cruises in the 1991 Corvette convertible I replaced the '77 with.

"Did you see that red Corvette back there that looked like our old one?" she asked as I zipped past it.

I immediately turned around for a better look.

The front chrome bumper told me everything I needed to know. This was one of the holy grails of third-generation Corvettes—a 1968-1972 chrome-bumper car.

Beginning in 1973, to comply with federal 5-mph front-impact standards, Chevrolet replaced the chrome front bumper with a body-colored urethane nose over an energy-absorbing structure. The rear bumper received similar treatment for 1974.

In my opinion, the literal plastic surgery Chevrolet designers and engineers performed on their Plastic Fantastic was among the best work they did during the 1970s. It was so successful that, back then, some owners of 1968-1972 chrome-bumper cars actually updated them to resemble the newer rubber-bumper models.

Times have certainly changed.

Today, the simple elegance of the chrome-bumper cars has sent their values soaring. Although there's nothing particularly special about this example beyond being a 1969 Corvette, if it were in good-to-great condition, it could easily bring $50,000 or more. Some online valuation guides would even have you believe it's worth considerably more, though those estimates tend to be optimistic.

Which makes the $10,000-or-best-offer asking price dangerously alluring.

Let's roll up our sleeves and see what we'd really be getting ourselves into.

The paint alone could run as much as $25,000 if done to a very high standard. If you're going to do it, do it right. Otherwise, seriously what's the point? Even a cheapie paint job will run you ten-grand. 

Assuming the front and rear suspensions need rebuilding—as my '77 eventually did—you could easily spend around $4,000, depending on whether you tackle the work yourself and whether the differential also needs rebuilding.

If the engine and transmission both require overhauls, figure another $6,000 to $10,000, depending on what's actually wrong and, as the old saying goes, "How fast do you want to spend?"

Then there's another $2,000 or so for period-correct wheels and tires.

The frame is soft just ahead of the rear wheels, too. Repairing that with welded reinforcement brackets could add another $1,500 to $2,500. That's the sort of repair that does resale value and buyer appeal no favors.

The good news? The interior appears to be in respectable shape. I didn't open the car to take a sniff inside it; you know cameras and all. 

I'd also budget for electrical work. C3 Corvettes are notorious for electrical gremlins. If the wiring harness ultimately needs replacing, you could spend anywhere from $3,500 to $5,000. Personally, I'd want the body off the frame before tackling a job like that. Otherwise, you're just asking for headaches.

So, assuming you negotiate the purchase price down to around $8,500, you're looking at well over $60,000 invested by the time the dust settles. And after all that, there's no guarantee you'd recover your money if you decided to sell it.

Talk about a nightmare.