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.
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