1985 Renault Encore - Bookish

Funny how we associate certain cars with certain people in our lives 

Whenever I see a Renault Encore, admittedly that's not that often, I always think of my wonderful friend Paulette who passed away last spring. We worked together at a radio station on Long Island in in 1987 and 1988. Paulette was a brilliant and compassionate journalist, kind, sharp witted and had a love-hate relationship with a Renault Encore she was driving when we worked together. Actually, it was more of a hate-hate relationship. Paulette's Encore was blue; I'm using this black '85 for illustrative purposes.

 

The French automaker Renault dates back to 1898, first selling cars in the United States prior to World War I. After that, they didn't import anything over here until 1957 when the odd-looking Dauphine sedan (left) found a cadre of loyal buyers. The Caravelle (right), Renault's sporty little rear-engine convertible, followed in the early 1960s. 

Renault imported other oddities here through the 1960's and in the 1970's like the R 10 (left), and R 12 (right). Renaults the perfect car for those looking something decidedly if charmingly left of center. The kind of car a pretentious, pipe smoking college professor would drive and swear to any nay-sayer they were better automobiles than anything else on the road at the time. 

Renault's American fortunes saw a real boost during the 1970s, when the oil crisis and growing demand for economy cars helped make the Renault Le Car a familiar sight on American roads. Far more contemporary looking than anything they had sold here before, it was still "what-the-hell-is-that" funky, but it was fuel-efficient and, as small cars went back then, fairly luxurious. Le Car was praised by contemporary reviewers for its entertaining handling and driving character. When I was a kid growing up on Long Island in the 70's, while I can't say these were everywhere, you saw enough of them to say they were something, if anything, of a fashion statement and helped mainstream Renault as a brand in the U.S. 

In 1979, Renault bought interest in struggling American Motors Corporation (AMC), Renault taking control of the company. Renault saw AMC's dealership network and U.S. manufacturing facilities as an opportunity to establish a stronger foothold in the American market.

Renault invested heavily in the partnership, and AMC's Kenosha, Wisconsin, factory became the birthplace of the Renault Alliance, an Americanized version of Renault's 9 sedan. Introduced for the 1983 model year, the Alliance was followed in 1984 by the Encore, a hatchback derived from Renault's 11.

While certainly no looker—I found the styling appalling—critics praised the cars' handling, packaging, and efficiency. Although the Encore was a subcompact, its 97.8-inch wheelbase gave it a reasonably roomy interior for its class.

Critics (and Paulette) weren't nearly as enthusiastic about its modest acceleration or its real-world fuel economy. Consumer Reports reportedly managed no better than 27.5 mpg over its combined test loops. That's respectable for a car from the mid-Eighties, but it fell well short of the 50-plus mpg highway figures they advertised it to get. 

Then there was the poor build quality, questionable reliability, and often disappointing dealership service. Paulette complained not only about how often her Encore wound up back at the dealership where she bought it for repairs, but also how long it stayed there. Sometimes, for weeks at a time.

In fairness, the number of times Paulette's Encore broke down was less than the number of times the 1975 Chrysler Cordoba I was driving at the time we worked together did but my car was already twelve-, thirteen-years old with more than 100,000-miles on it; Paulette's Encore was practically brand-new.

At least the Renault Encore was relatively inexpensive compared with many larger American cars. You could get a well-equipped one for around $8,000. 

On some level, though, the quirky little Encore fit Paulette her to a tee. Believing people put as much time and effort into their car purchases as I do, when I asked her why she bought such an offbeat automobile, her answer surprised me.

"My old car had broken down, and the dealership where I bought it was within walking distance of my house," she said. "They were desperate to make a deal, and they gave me a good one on it."

Renault, which these days is part of a literal Renault-Nissan-Mitsubishi alliance, hasn't sold anything in the United States since selling American Motors lock, stock and barrel to Chrysler in 1987. 

 

1977 Chrysler New Yorker Brougham - A Nice Sunday Afternoon Drive

There's something unapologetically old-school about these 1976–1978 Chrysler New Yorker Broughams, and I've loved them ever since I was first smitten by one back in the summer of 1977.

This one is a 1977 that found me on Facebook Marketplace this morning, listed for sale up in New Baltimore, Michigan, a good three-hour drive north of the Triple Wide. There's no information about its history, but based on its apparent condition, the seller's claim of just 68,000 miles on its nearly 50-year-old odometer seems plausible. The asking price is a fairly reasonable $12,000.

Still, that's a nice bit of change in these post-COVID, OMG-inflationary times, but I don't think it's unreasonable for an oldie that appears to be in near-pristine condition. A Cadillac Coupe de Ville of this era, in similar condition with comparably low mileage, could easily carry an asking price of $20,000 or more. Not saying they'd actually go for that, though.

I wish the wife were into these kinds of cars. She hates them.

"Old-man-fart cars," she calls them.

Well, dear, if the brake shoe fits.

Let's flash back to the summer of 1977. I'm with my parents, used-car shopping at the long-gone Conway Chrysler-Plymouth Motors dealership in Baldwin, New York, on Long Island.

I'd grown tired of my parents obnoxiously trying to work over a used-car salesman on a 1970 Buick Electra, so I moseyed over to the new-car showroom to get a closer look at a brand-new NYB two-door that had caught my eye. I carefully popped open its massive door, making sure it didn't rub against the Plymouth Volare parked next to it, jumped in, and slid across acres of impossibly soft and oh-so-slippery leather seats. 

In the silence of that tomb-like interior and in an era when thin-was-in in the car industry, that still-large-and-in-charge New Yorker had me hooked. I still am to this day although I wonder if I like these cars or we tend to romanticize everything about our childhoods to some degree. 

Perhaps I could convince the wife that the trip would be mostly about leaf-peeping and taking in the splendor of New Baltimore, nestled on the shores of Lake St. Clair.

The geography, for those keeping score, is a little more complicated than it might appear. The Detroit River connects Lake St. Clair to Lake Erie and forms part of the larger waterway system linking Lake Huron with Lake Erie. New Baltimore, meanwhile, sits along the northern shore of Lake St. Clair, in the northern reaches of the Detroit metropolitan area.

I'm considerate of other people's time, though, far more so than my own. And an ad on Marketplace isn't an invitation to a free-for-all for folks like me to test-drive cars they find cool or interesting. I've sold a lot of cars on Marketplace, and I don't appreciate someone who just wants a joyride. Not that this car is a joy to drive.

Built on Chrysler's full-size C-body platform, these cars put the yacht in land yacht. Despite Chrysler's innovative torsion-bar front suspension, steering was only in the relative sense. The suspension was tuned for isolation rather than handling, and the brakes had their work cut out for them trying to stop nearly 5,000 pounds of Detroit iron. 

Even with the 440-cubic-inch V-8 available in these cars, sorry, no picture of it in the ad, you're not going to keep up with modern traffic well. More power is something you could address at any speed shop; suspension upgrades for Chrysler C-bodies are tougher to come by. 

Although these seats look as inviting as a birthday cake buried in buttercream frosting, they're backbreakers, especially for the driver. These cars were meant to be ridden in, not driven. Still, I want to smear my face in them. I know. That sounds gross, but hopefully you get what I'm saying.

Never meet your idols, they say. The same is true of old cars. No good could come of this for me, although a trip up north this time of year, with autumn in full swing, would make for a nice Sunday afternoon.

 

1990 Chevrolet Corvette ZR1 - The Stuff of My Early Adulthood Dreams

 

In 1990, I was driving a brand-new Chevrolet Lumina Euro 3.1 with a 135-horsepower, 3.1-liter overhead-valve V-6 that could do zero to 60 in 10.1 seconds and the quarter mile in 17.8 seconds at 80 mph. Adequate, but nothing special, and I knew that. Still, it was a vast improvement over the woebegone 1982 Buick Riviera it replaced.

Therefore, kids, the notion of driving any Corvette, let alone a 375-horsepower ZR-1 like this 1990 model, was the stuff of pure fantasy.

These days, I could simply write an $80,000 check, drive less than an hour from the Triple Wide, pick this one up, and fulfill my early-adulthood dreams. This old man would then slaps his knee, adjust his teeth, laughs, and says, "And that's not going to happen, by crackie!"

Why? Are you serious? Well, before we get to that, this particular ZR-1 is interesting. It has just 300 miles on it and appears to be in museum-quality condition. A museum is probably where it belongs, too.

I'd be afraid to drive it, fearing that every additional mile on its odometer and every paint chip would cost me thousands in resale value. And the roads around here in northern Ohio wouldn't do the suspension any favors, either. Finding a mechanic willing and able to work on it could be challenging, too. 

You'll pay through the removable roof for parts, as well. Corvettes are "catalog cars," meaning you can find just about any part you need. But these ZR-1s are different because Chevrolet built so few of them, and their specialized components can be expensive and difficult to source.

Introduced for the 1990 model year and built through 1995, these ZR-1s represented the second generation of Corvettes to wear that designation. The first ZR-1 was offered from 1970 through 1972 and featured a high-performance, 350-cubic-inch LT-1 V-8, a heavy-, I mean heavy-duty transmission and suspension, upgraded brakes, and other performance enhancements. Its competition-oriented suspension and other beefed-up components were best suited to a track. 

Only 53 of those early ZR-1s were built. Above is a 1972 that sold at auction, in 2014, for $115,000. 

This 1990 ZR-1 featured a performance-tuned suspension and FX3 Selective Ride Control, which used electronically adjustable shock absorbers to let the driver tailor the ride and handling. Like other C4 Corvettes, it retained four-wheel independent suspension and transverse composite leaf springs.

The real magic, though, lies under the hood.

Dubbed the LT5, this all-aluminum, 5.7-liter V-8 featured dual overhead camshafts and four valves per cylinder. Developed by General Motors in cooperation with Lotus Engineering, the engine was manufactured and assembled by Mercury Marine's MerCruiser division in Stillwater, Oklahoma, before being shipped to Bowling Green, Kentucky, for installation in the car. The result was an unusual combination of American V-8 muscle and sophisticated, high-revving, overhead-cam engineering.

When first introduced, the ZR-1 was among the fastest American production cars you could buy. The numbers were blistering: zero to 60 mph in roughly 4.5 seconds, the quarter mile in the 13.1-seconds range, and a top speed of nearly 180 mph. 

In 1990, that was serious supercar territory. The idea that a Corvette could run with Ferraris, Lamborghinis, and other exotic machinery raised a few eyebrows. It seemed almost comical at the time, but the numbers were there, even if few would have equated, or would equate the ZR-1 with Italy's or Germany's finest.

At the time, it seemed that overhead-cam V-8s, particularly double-overhead-cam, four-valve-per-cylinder engines like the LT5, were the future of performance cars. That wasn't how things ultimately played out at Chevrolet.

General Motors eventually returned to a simpler, less expensive approach to high-performance V-8s. By the time the LS1 arrived in the redesigned 1997 Corvette, it delivered 345 horsepower using "old school" push rods and overhead valves.  It didn't match the original LT5's peak output on paper, but it demonstrated that a sophisticated, expensive engine wasn't the only way to deliver serious performance. 

And when Chevrolet increased the LT5's output to 405 horsepower for 1993, the comparison became even more interesting: the two engines represented very different approaches to extracting performance from a V-8.

As for blowing $80,000 on this or any car, I don't know where my portfolio would need to be for me to feel comfortable spending that much money on one. And I most certainly wouldn't spend it on a cream puff like this that I'd be too scared to drive.

2004 Mitsubishi Eclipse Spyder GTS - A Lovely Way to Start the Day!

I had a feeling something was wrong when my wife called me the other day just as she was getting to her job at the Cleveland Clinic.  

"Water is pouring out from under my car!", she said, rather frantically. 

"Are you safe?", I asked. 

"Yes", she replied sternly. "I'm in the parking garage". 

Trying my best to remain calm so as to not exacerbate her stress I asked, "ummm...did you notice if the temperature gauge was in the red?" 

"What!? Are you kidding me?!", she replied. "YES! It was pinned on H."

Concerned the engine was irreparably or not cost effectively damaged, I paused a moment before asking, "Do you know how long it was on H?" 

"Oh my God! I have no idea!" she said.

Lovely way to start the day. 

It's not like I hadn't noticed something was amiss prior to that calamitous morning, but when I mentioned to her that the engine was making the same noise it made when our mechanic diagnosed a bad timing belt tensioner, when he was doing work on the air conditioning about a month after he replaced the timing belt, water pump and tensioner, she poo-pooed my observation good naturedly accusing me of being an alarmist. Can't say I blame her seeing how slim the possibilities had to be the same thing could happen again. 

I sort of half-mindedly back burner-ed calling him about it but, I swear, your honor it was on my to do list. 

So, two-, maybe three-weeks later the water pump failed, hence the tsunami of anti-freeze on the garage floor at The Clinic. Was it related to the sound I heard? Honestly, I don't know but what a coincidence if it wasn't. 

After we had it towed it out to our mechanic, he replaced the water pump, timing belt and tensioner, again. Keep in my on these frisky 3.0-liter, SOHC, 24-valve Mitsubishi engines, it's a big, knuckle-buster of a job. Bless his heart, he didn't charge us anything, Frankly, he shouldn't have but I, for one, felt bad for him. 

I'm not sure why my wife insisted on driving this 2004 Mitsubishi Eclipse as her "daily" for as long as she did. Frugality? Guilt because I drive a "Dave Ramsey Car" too? To her credit, she claimed to really like it; I couldn't stand the damn thing and I regretted the purchase almost from the day I drove it home in the fall of 2021. I can't tell you how many times I pleaded with her for us to get rid of it. 

We bought it, technically, as a replacement for my rusting, long-in-the-grille, 2002 Dale Earnhardt Chevrolet Monte Carlo SS. Seemed like a solid purchase at the time. Only had 60,000-miles on it, not a spec of rust anywhere, and Japanese quality, right? Sure, the interior needed some work, which I took care of, but all in, seemed we done good. Real good. Well, that's what we thought at first. 

However, when I discovered it required premium gas, got worse mileage than the Dale did, and I found the car uncomfortable—with the interminable drone of road noise that came with it being a convertible—it made no sense as a long-haul, 200-miles round trip, commuter car. Yup, that's my haul to and from the office. Please. I know. 

All that, and the damn "SERVICE ENGINE SOON" light was on for most of the time we owned it, always requiring a four- to five-hundred-dollar credit card swipe to fix something wrong with the emissions system. I kid that the SERVICE ENGINE SOON light should have been a dollar sign instead.

The upside? It was surprisingly quick and nimble, if you blurred your vision somewhat it could pass as a poor man's Porsche Boxster. If you like such things, it was a convertible; something we rarely took advantage of, though.

When we sold my wife's 1995 Lexus SC400, that had developed an annoying and undiagnosable stalling problem, and we pulled out of a deal on 2015 Lexus RC350 (long boring story), this became my wife's daily driver. And, again, she claimed to love what she referred to as "her little scooter."

A little scooter that grew increasingly problematic as it got older and the miles piled on. So much for Japanese quality. I came to find out that Mitsubishi's aren't Toyota's or Honda's. 

Believing we were being financially prudent, once it became my wife's daily, we poured a relative fortune into it about 18-months ago. In addition to the aforementioned timing belt and water pump; we also had the valve-cover gaskets replaced—which is another massive job on this car, the radiator replaced—and had multiple repairs made to the air-conditioning system. All repairs above and beyond my knowledge base.

Once we got it back, though, since it left her stranded, her tune about her little scooter changed. Suffering from an automotive PTSD of sorts from the near-catastrophic breakdown, it could have been worse, the engine did overheat and it could have been toast which, somewhat amazingly if not disappointingly so,  she still loved her little scooter, but the trust was gone. 

She insisted I sell it and replace it with something newer—or at least significantly less old. And as quickly as possible.

Which, naturally, I did, although I don't know what was more stressful: dealing with a breakdown of the wife's car or shopping together for a car for her.

1968 Ford Ranch Wagon Custom 500 - Brittany Blue

 

Amazing what you find when you're not looking for it. Probably since the day I started this blog, I've been searching for a 1968 Ford Ranch Wagon in "Brittany Blue" just like the one I grew up with. While this one I found on Haggerty's auction site is a bit fancier "Custom 500" than my father's car was, all things being equal, this is the same car of my woe begotten "wonder years". 

Let's swing open or pull down her "Magic Tailgate", kick the "poverty" hubcaps and take this memory machine for a figurative drive down memory lane. 

First, some context as I attempt to see this car again through my then six-year-old, car-obsessed eyes. 

Late summer of 1970, I was thrilled to learn the "block was cracked" on my father's 1961 Rambler Classic, four-door sedan. While I didn't know what that meant, all I needed to know was we were getting rid of the damn Rambler and we were getting a "new", or "new-to-us", "new car". 

Long story short, my father picked up a literal rental grade 1968 Ford Ranch Wagon from a Hertz' used car lot not far from Kennedy Airport to replace it. I can still hear this impossible to baton down properly spare tire banging around behind it's plastic cover. 

Suffice to say I was disappointed and in more ways than one. Not only was I not thrilled with the dreary, featureless, utilitarian to a fault Ford wagon, but I was more upset my father bought it without consulting with me about it. 

Yes, I was all of six-years-old but still. Then again, my father was clueless when it came to stereotypical, father son bonding. We never played catch in the yard let alone go car shopping together. 

Knowing my father, he did what was most convenient and bought the first car he saw that fit whatever price point he was comfortable with. He rented from Hertz out at Kennedy Airport often as he traveled frequently for his job, they had a used car lot selling off some of their rentals and, voila. He bought a station wagon.  I doubt he even consulted with my mother about it. 

Back in the 1960's and 1970's, station wagons were big business for The Big Three.  For 1968, Ford sold seven different iterations of their full-size models, but they also sold intermediate- and compact-wagons. Note from this Ford sales brochure, "Ranch Wagon" is at the bottom of the wagon totem. 

The piece de resistance on this car, though, are these fold-down, "facing" rear jump seats; the stuff of prepubescent kid dreams back in the day. These non-removable seats increased passenger capacity up to, well, in theory anyway, ten people. For comparison's sake, the current Chevrolet Suburban has seating for up to nine. 

Fold the seats and rear seat down and you've got hauling capacity to rival a pickup truck. In my father's car, there were metal panels that opened and closed north-south giving access to a cavernous, subterranean trunk; in my father's car, a trunk loaded with sandbags to help give it at least some modicum of traction in winter. 

Owing to the ala carte nature of the way these cars could be optioned, this car is a bit an oddity. For instance, it has a column mounted three-speed manual, the proverbial three-on-the-tree that even by 1968 was increasingly rare; my dad's car had an automatic. Also, as we get under the hood, appears this car also lacks power-steering that my father's car had as well. 

Then again, my father's car had been a rental, Hertz no doubt wanted a car as accessible to the masses as possible. 

Like my father's car, this one has the new-for-1968, 302-cubic-inch Windsor V-8; I don't see a power steering pump. Smooth and torquey, my father, who was not a car guy, loved its power and, sign-of-the-times, thought the 17-miles-per-gallon highway it got the pinnacle of thriftiness. 

Adding to my verklempt was that the family across the street from us had a 1968 Ford Country Squire loaded with every accouterment on the options list. You name it, it had it. Including pie-in-the-sky air conditioning, a hedonistic option given that my parents didn't own even a single window air conditioner. We roughed it with these side-vent windows that opened via a separate crank from the regular door window cranks. I can still smell my parents' cigar and cigarette smoke whirl winding through the car when these vents would be open. 

Bidding on this, last I checked was at $2,800. Despite its indirect history with me, I have little interest in it. Blame the three-on-three-tree, lack of power steering and these shot-to-pieces front seat covers that, I have to imagine, are impossible to find anything close to OEM for. My father's car's front seats were split like this as well. Note the lack of head rests; who's up for some whiplash?

I do love its patina which I hope whoever buys it keeps. 

Nope, I'll pass on this one and simply bask in the very mixed, bittersweet memories I have of my father's Ranch Wagon. Even to this day and at my age, I vacillate, either laughing or coming to near tears reminiscing about the misadventures my parents put my brothers and I through in their Ranch Wagon. 

As far as cars go from back then, the Ranch Wagon was fairly reliable. Sure, it had its issues, but it was no lemon. If I recall, though, forgive me, it's a been a minute, my mother believed the Ranch Wagon "beneath us"; ironic since she didn't drive. After seven-years of "slumming it" (her words), she put her foot down demanding my father buy her a Cadillac. Took a while but dutiful husband he was, more like a sycophant, he eventually did.