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.
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
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.
I cannot believe how much first-generation Camaros are going for these days. Even the non-SS cars, like this numbers-matching, L30 327 cubic-inch V8-powered, Powerglide-equipped 1967 base coupe. The asking price was $36,500. Holy schnikes!
It has power steering and brakes, a 12-bolt Posi rear end, a deluxe interior, and supposedly just 44,000 miles. on its 59-year-old ticker. It was repainted 30 years ago in its original factory color.
For years, you could pick these up cheap, and then all of a sudden, around 2000, values skyrocketed. They've stayed way up there ever since. Figures. If someone was say, 16-, 17-years-old in 1967 and wanted one of these, in 2000, they would have been pushing 50. Theory goes that flush with disposal income, first-gen Camaros are what they treated themselves to.
These were never on my wish list, but I wouldn't kick one out of my garage if one magically appeared in there.
About 10 years ago, maybe 12, I got some quality wheel time in a '68 Camaro RS convertible. Best was, the owner egged me on to really get on it. Hoo-boy. It had a built 350 in it, and it was stinking fast. While it handled like a truck with square wheels and had felt like it had the structure of cardboard box, this coupe no doubt would feel like a rollling bank vault in comparison, the real problem was the brakes. Not only had they not been upgraded, but they were also manual drums. Terrifying. Sorry, not sorry, but I wasn't impressed. Of course, I didn't tell him that.
1967 was the first year for the first-generation Camaro, the Camaro General Motors answer to the Ford's game changing Mustang that came out more than 2-years prior.
Fun fact: the way to tell a '67 from a '68 Camaro is by the vent windows. The '67s have them; the '68s don't.
The other morning, I had a flashback to 1982. For a moment, I was back in the student parking lot at Oceanside High School on Long Island when I spotted this 1961 Ford Galaxie parked next to a 1980 Buick Regal. The only difference? This wasn't the high school parking lot—it was the lot shared by the transmission shop next door to my office in Youngstown, Ohio.
Now this is my kind of high school reunion.
Back when I was in high school, while it wasn't an everyday occurrence, it wasn't unusual to see a big old Ford like this parked next to something brand-new, or at least relatively current, like the Buick. I may be more aware of this than others since my wife and I drive 17- and 22-year-old vehicles, but people generally didn't use cars that were 20-plus years old as daily drivers back then. Besides the fact that they simply weren't built to last that long, older cars also stood out much more than they do today—for better or worse, depending on your point of view.
As far as I was concerned, that was a good thing. The cars of my high school years were mostly boring, drab appliances like this Buick. This Regal is so uninspiring that I'm hard-pressed to find much of anything positive to say about it—and you'll find no bigger fan of two-door cars than me. I'll throw it one bone, though: beneath its forgettable styling lies the same basic G-body architecture that would later underpin the now-legendary turbocharged Buick Grand National and GNX. There's something to be said for becoming famous by association.
In fairness, the designers and engineers who created the Ford Galaxie weren't constrained by the emissions, safety, and fuel economy regulations that shaped the Buick nearly two decades later. With far fewer guardrails, Ford's stylists were free to take chances. Whether they grabbed the proverbial brass ring, missed it entirely, or fell off the carousel trying to do so is open to debate, but there's no denying the Galaxie is a far more interesting car to look at.
While tame compared to some of Ford's flamboyant creations from the 1950s—and positively restrained next to some of GM's and Chrysler's wildest designs of the era—the Galaxie still has a "throw caution to the wind" aesthetic that the derivative, purely functional Buick simply can't match.
The Regal is part of General Motors downsized 1978-1987 A/G-body intermediate lineup. Without question, it's the better transportation appliance. But viewed through my admittedly foggy nostalgia goggles, it's a car trying to be something it simply isn't.
This Buick Regal is simply an old car. The Ford Galaxie is a rocket-powered time machine, transporting us back to a time and place that many Generation Xers—myself included—would love to visit again.
Riding the wave of America's fascination with the Space Race, Ford introduced the "Galaxie" name as the top trim level of the Fairlane for 1959. Beginning in 1960, the Galaxie became its own full-size model and remained in production through 1974.
Buick's Regal enjoyed a much longer run. It debuted as an upscale trim level of the all-new midsize Century in 1973 before becoming a standalone model in 1974. The Regal remained in Buick's lineup through 2004, when it was effectively replaced by the LaCrosse. Buick revived the Regal for the 2011 model year as a rebadged Opel Insignia, and it remained in production through 2020.
