1963 Studebaker Avanti I - Fine Line Between Weird and Cool

To this day, my knee-jerk reaction whenever I see a Studebaker Avanti is that they're cheesy "kit cars" rather than real, actual cars. Technically, I'm not completely wrong in my assessment, given that most Avanti's were factory-built continuations and derivatives of the original Studebaker Avanti, which was sold for the 1963 and 1964 model years.

Our Facebook Marketplace find is allegedly a 1963 Avanti for sale about 45 minutes southeast of the Triple Wide. Asking price is $29,500.

You certainly don't see these every day—not that you did back in the day, considering only 3,834 were built for 1963 and another 809 were classified as 1964 models. The randomness of finding one for sale in a small town in Ohio adds some mystery and intrigue to it. I'm not going to find out why it's here at the risk of ruining it for me. Some stories are best left untold.

The poster of the ad claims it's "original," but it's been repainted, its 289-cubic-inch V-8, no relation to Ford's "289", has been rebuilt, and it has a General Motors 700R4 transmission. They also say it came from the factory with Jaguar front disc brakes, which isn't exactly accurate. The Avanti used Bendix-manufactured front disc brakes based on a Dunlop design, made under license from Dunlop. The same basic design was used by Jaguar.

Sorry, friend-oh. Details like that matter to us car geeks. Especially one priced high enough that a bank will require at least 24 hours' notice before you walk out the door with that much cash in your satchel. Some require 48 hours.

The Studebaker story began in South Bend, Indiana, in 1852, when brothers Henry and Clement Studebaker opened a blacksmith shop. The business soon expanded into building wagons and carriages and became one of the country's major wagon manufacturers. Studebaker began experimenting with automobiles in the 1890s, built electric automobiles beginning in 1902, and was selling gasoline-powered cars by 1904.

Although Studebaker had some boom years after World War II, like the other independent automobile manufacturers, it couldn't keep pace with GM, Ford and Chrysler in the late 1950s and into the 1960s. A merger with Packard in 1954 did little to help; Packard's Detroit plant closed in 1956, and the Packard brand disappeared after the 1958 model year. It was becoming obvious that the end was near for what was then one of America's oldest vehicle manufacturers.

What to do? Come up with an idea only an overly compensated executive who doesn't need the job would: build a "halo car."

The thinking was that if people came into Studebaker stores to see the Avanti, maybe they'd go home in a new Lark or whatever unusually styled, chubby little car Studebaker happened to be selling that made American Motors' offerings look staid and conventional by comparison.

The halo-car idea was the brainchild of Studebaker's new president, Sherwood Egbert, in 1961. His idea was a radically styled, high-performance four-seat coupe: something with the glamour of an exotic sports car but enough room to be practical. Egbert reportedly had sketches of the kind of car he wanted and turned to the one designer he thought could make the impossible happen: Raymond Loewy, the legendary industrial designer who had previously created influential Studebaker designs.

The catch was almost absurd. Egbert wanted a finished design in about 40 days.

Loewy accepted.

He assembled a tiny team of designers—Tom Kellogg, Bob Andrews and John Ebstein—and sequestered them in a rented house in Palm Springs, California. Instead of the usual corporate design process involving months or years of committees and revisions, they worked almost like a creative commando unit.

Within roughly 40 days, Loewy's group had produced the design. Egbert approved it, and the project moved from dream to engineering at remarkable speed. A full-size clay model was presented to the Studebaker board in April 1961. The finished Avanti was unveiled publicly in 1962 and went on sale later that year as a 1963 model.

Reactions were mixed. Some critics lauded its styling; others thought it unfinished-looking, bizarre even. One thing was certain: it was unique and different.

The Avanti, which translates loosely from Italian as "forward" or "onward," used a modified Studebaker Lark-derived chassis with a fiberglass body. Its four-seat fastback body was designed around a radically different approach to styling and aerodynamics, while the chassis received substantial suspension and brake modifications.

Seeing how quickly it went from concept to production, it's not surprising these cars had their fair share of problems. Production of the fiberglass body proved difficult, with distortion during curing contributing to delays, and getting the panels to fit correctly was a challenge. Those production problems meant cars weren't reaching dealers quickly enough to satisfy the initial wave of buyers, many of whom eventually canceled their orders and bought Corvettes or imports instead.

Whether or not the Avanti was a good car didn't actually matter; Studebaker was too far gone for one car, even if it was a watershed, to save it. Only 3,834 were built for the 1963 model year and another 809 were classified as 1964 models. The last Avanti was built in December 1963, as Studebaker shut down automobile production at its South Bend plant.

Curiously, Avanti production did resume in 1965 and beyond, thanks to South Bend Studebaker dealers Nate Altman and Leo Newman, who acquired the Avanti name, tooling and production rights. They formed the Avanti Motor Corporation and began producing the Avanti II, initially using the same basic Studebaker-derived chassis and a Chevrolet Corvette 327 V-8 in place of the Studebaker engine.

The Avanti II remained on the Studebaker-derived chassis for many years, while Chevrolet powertrains became the norm. Eventually, the chassis changed as well, with later cars moving to GM platforms, including the Chevrolet Monte Carlo-based chassis. Avanti production continued, in various forms and under several owners, into the 2000s.

So, again, I'm not completely wrong about the Avanti—well, most of them anyway—being some sort of kit car. They're not actually kit cars, of course; they're factory-built continuations and increasingly distant descendants of the original Studebaker. 

Tomato, ta-mah-toe, kit-car, replica or whatever, if anything, Studebaker's Hail Mary skirts that fine and subjective line between weird and cool.

 

1993 Plymouth Acclaim- Crossroad Between Death and Despair

These days I think you're more likely to find a pay phone that one of these things. 

This 1993 Plymouth Acclaim came up in my Marketplace feed this morning for sale about an hour southwest of us here on the far west side of Cleveland, Ohio. Just 52,000 miles on her now 33-year-old analog ticker, a 4-cylinder engine, power windows and locks, cruise control, all-new brakes and "good tires." Somewhat interestingly, they don't say whether it has air conditioning, which, back in the day, still wasn't a given. In fact, A/C was an option on the Acclaim. So, let's assume it doesn't have it. Asking price is $4,300.

These K-car-derivative little cars were never my thing. Actually, I don't think they were anybody's thing back in the day except for those who wanted or needed inexpensive, no-frills transportation. That said, its reddish hue seems extravagant, if not indulgent given its overall ethos. 

It seems Chrysler, the brand and corporation, has always been at a crossroads between death and despair. Through the '70s, Chrysler Corporation was still suffering from the consequences of poor product planning and a series of missteps that left the company in increasingly serious financial trouble. By the end of the decade, Chrysler was gasping for breath and facing bankruptcy. Lee Iacocca, the K-car and a controversial government-backed loan guarantee helped pull the company back from the brink.

By the early 1990s, though, it seemed Chrysler was making a go of things. Their new LH-series cars were arguably the best thing to come out of Detroit in years, and it certainly seemed things were on the up-and-up. The 1993 LH lineup—the Dodge Intrepid, Chrysler Concorde and Eagle Vision—was genuinely innovative, with its "cab-forward" design and substantially improved packaging. Curiously, Plymouth didn't get an LH although, technically anyway, Plymouth was more like a low-cost sub brand of Chrysler (the division) rather than its own separate brand. 

Plymouth was left with badge-engineered, increasingly dated offerings like this Acclaim. Although, and I always thought this odd, the Plymouth Prowler made its production debut for 1997, ostensibly as a halo car meant to inject some excitement into the Plymouth brand. 

So, they come out with a super-low volume, ultra-niche two-seater just when the division is capsizing? Plymouth was discontinued in 2001. The Prowler survived the brand by becoming the Chrysler Prowler for 2001 and 2002. 

And then there was the rest of Chrysler's rather remarkable corporate soap opera: the Daimler-Benz merger that created DaimlerChrysler in 1998, the sale of Chrysler's controlling interest to Cerberus in 2007, the 2009 bankruptcy and Fiat's subsequent involvement, and finally the 2021 merger that created Stellantis. 

Chrysler built these cars through the 1995 model year, although production actually ended in December 1994. The Acclaim was replaced by the Plymouth Breeze for 1996. Its Dodge counterpart, the Spirit, also ran through the 1995 model year, its direct successor was the Dodge Stratus. 

Fun fact: Did you know that Chrysler has essentially become a one-nameplate brand? In the 2026 model year, the U.S. lineup includes the Pacifica and the lower-priced Voyager, but for 2027 Chrysler is folding the Voyager into the Pacifica lineup as the Pacifica LX. So, effectively, it's down to one model nameplate—the Pacifica.

As far as this particular thing goes, if you're looking for a cheap car, I think your money better spent elsewhere. On a 33-year-old car, age can be every bit as important as mileage. Rubber, seals, hoses, belts, cooling-system components, suspension parts and other age-sensitive items don't care how slowly the odometer has accumulated miles.

And that four grand you drop on this could become six or seven thousand in the blink of an eye.

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.