These 12 Cars Are Automotive Black Sheep
Black sheep—seemingly every family has at least one. That’s true of automotive families, as well. The one model that’s considered not as good as the others, an embarrassment that most would rather forget. At club gatherings, it’s the car that’s tolerated rather than celebrated. For some, the scorn is well-earned, while others are unfairly cast out. Here, we shine a light on 12 examples of models that otherwise live in the shadows.
Jaguar X-type
At the turn of this century—much like today—Jaguar was a luxury brand with a great history but lousy sales. Looking at the market, it was clear that the entry-luxury segment was where the volumes lay, but Jaguar had no competitor in that field. With insufficient funds to tool up a compact, rear-drive chassis—or, since Jaguar was owned by Ford at the time, one might more accurately say, with insufficient will to spend the required funds—the company instead cast around for a suitable platform, settling on that of the European Ford Mondeo (our Ford Contour).
Jaguar X-type
The transverse-engine, front-drive Mondeo architecture seemed unlikely for Jaguar duty, but it was fluffed up with standard all-wheel drive, and the Ford Duratec V-6 engines got new heads. The exterior aped the bigger Jags with a miniature rendition of their chrome grille and four round headlights. The plasticky interior received a swath of wood veneer and a helping of leather. Sales in its first year, 2002, totaled a healthy 33,018 (more than twice what the brand sold here in 2014), but it didn’t last. Derided as a rebodied Ford and therefore Not a Real Jaguar, X-type sales quickly fell off. Ambitious pricing didn’t help (C/D’s long-term 2002 X-type stickered for $45,095—or nearly $60K today).
So profound was the embarrassment of the X-type that, after it was put down, its specter haunted the very idea of a smaller Jaguar. The new Jaguar XE is the first attempt at one since then, and it will be up to that car to finally drive a stake through the X-type’s heart. —Joe Lorio
BMW 318ti
No one likes driving a compromise. Even worse is driving a car that looks like a compromise—and that was the problem with BMW’s 318ti three-door hatchback. Based on the European 3-series Compact, the 318ti was introduced in America as a 1995 model. It was BMW’s play to bring in customers who were being left behind as the 3-series became more expensive. Initially, the 318ti carried an advertised base price of $19,900. A new BMW for less than 20 grand! That was about $5000 less than the 318i sedan.
The 318ti shared its front structure and styling with other members of the E36 3-series family, but it was chopped off in back into an awkward bobtail hatchback. And to accommodate the short rear overhang, the 318ti used the semi-trailing arm rear suspension from the previous, E30-generation 3-series rather than the multilink system used on the other E36s.
BMW 318ti
The 318ti’s only available engine was a 1.8-liter four rated at 138 horsepower, available with either a five-speed manual or a four-speed automatic. The standard 15-inch steel wheels came wrapped in skinny 185/65TR15 tires. Still, when equipped with the optional Sport package—which included 16-inch wheels and 205/50ZR16 tires—it handled well enough to finish second in C/D’s 1997 battle to determine the best-handling car under $30,000.
But the 318ti shouted “Cheap!” The interior was mostly plastic, the engine needed to scream to make any power, and that foreshortened rear announced to everyone that you couldn’t afford a “real” BMW. And it was slow, too, needing more than nine seconds to labor from 0 to 60 mph.
Buyers stayed away in droves. The best year was 1996, with around 7000 sold, but sales collapsed after that. The car was withdrawn from the market after the 1998 model year. The 318ti looked like two-thirds of a BMW, and two-thirds is not enough. —John Pearley Huffman
Ford Mustang II
As the bold primary colors and can-do attitude of the ’50s and early ’60s faded in the wake of the Vietnam War and the Watergate scandal, so did the Ford Mustang’s reputation as a brash go-getter for the young at heart. Whereas previous Mustangs wore stylish sheetmetal tailored for a swinging night out on the town, the Mustang II arrived like an indifferent appliance wearing a pair of brown corduroys, Earth Shoes, and an open collar.
Loosely based on the Ford Pinto, the Mustang II appeared at the behest of Lee Iacocca, the same Ford exec and future company president instrumental in cooking up the original Mustang a decade earlier. Available as a coupe or a hatchback, the Mustang II relied on either the corporate 2.3-liter four-cylinder Pinto engine or a version of the stalwart 2.8-liter “Cologne” V-6 to provide lukewarm motivation. Ford resurrected the well-regarded Mach 1 moniker for a top-of-the-line yet terminally mellow V-6 car, an action that drove many a former Mustang loyalist to toss all remaining eight-track copies of Black Sabbath Vol. 4 directly into the trash. Although the 302-cubic-inch V-8 would return in the ensuing years, it never topped the 140-hp mark, an embarrassment exacerbated by Ford’s insistence on offering flamboyant “Cobra II” and “King Cobra” appearance packages for the Mustang II throughout the rest of its four-year production run.
Ford Mustang II
Ultimately, Ford’s bet that the smaller, more fuel-efficient Mustang II would resonate with a new generation of peaceful, easy-feeling buyers paid off. Arriving just weeks after the Arab oil embargo, the smaller Mustang II sold more than 300,000 units in its 1974 model-year debut, and more than 1 million units by the time it was replaced by the Fox-body Mustang for 1979. What the milquetoast Mustang II lacked in raw swagger, it made up for in a sort of perverse practicality, just the thing for maintaining a mellow buzz in an uncertain world. Let’s hope things never get that desperate again. —Andrew Wendler
1990s Lotus Elan
When people consider the 1990s, they tend to begin with Kurt Cobain and end with Britney Spears. But the first 18 months or so of the decade, coupled with the last three years of the 1980s, were a profoundly odd time. Remember Kris Kross and their back-to-front fashion? Lotus, it seems, was totally on board with that microtrend, resuscitating the Elan nameplate and equipping it with an Isuzu powertrain that drove the front wheels. Aside the company’s experiments with four-wheel drive in racing machines, no Lotus had ever had power routed to the front wheels. And as of this writing, no Lotus has done so since.
1990s Lotus Elan
Lauded at the time for its excellent handling despite its unconventional drivetrain—available in 130-hp naturally aspirated and 160-horse turbocharged versions—the M100 Elan was the result of a significant amount of cash dumped into Lotus by its then-steward, General Motors. The General’s stake in Isuzu explains how it wound up with that powertrain, (and, oddly, how Isuzu Impulses wound up with “Handling by Lotus” badges slapped on their fenders). In a quizzical postscript to the M100 story, when the car’s run finished in 1995, Kia bought the design and produced its own version until 1999. Oh, if only Mahindra had done the same for the Esprit Turbo. —Davey G. Johnson
Ferrari 400i
What makes the Ferrari 400i a black sheep? There are a few possible suspects. First, it was the first Ferrari with an automatic transmission—initially, a Borg-Warner three-speed and later GM’s Turbo-hydramatic 400.
Second, it was never officially imported to the U.S., so any examples that did make it here as gray-market imports may have undergone less-than-stellar modifications to bring them into compliance with federal emissions and safety regulations.
Third, and perhaps most damning of all, Tom Cruise piloted one in the opening credits of the 1988 film Rain Man,.
But let’s step back and consider the facts: The sheetmetal was by Pininfarina, a design estimated by the legendary LJK Setright as “. . . one of the two most elegant bodies ever to lead the lead of Pininfarina’s penciling vision.” The interior was swathed in leather—even the dashboard and the headliner, fer cripes’ sake.
Ferrari 400i
Most important, under the hood lurked a DOHC 4.8-liter V-12 with Bosch K-Jetronic fuel injection (the “i” that distinguished it from the six Weber carbs of the 400), good for 310 horsepower and 289 lb-ft of torque. Redline was 6500 rpm—not bad for the day. We tested a manual-equipped 400i in our December 1982 issue and hit 60 mph in 7.1 seconds, making the 4350-pound car no slouch.
Really, there’s no such thing as a bad V-12 Ferrari. The truth is that the 400i was an understated GT perfectly suited to its mission: To transport its driver and three passengers in comfort and style, with a roomy cabin and ample trunk space to accommodate luggage for an elegant weekend in Saint Moritz, Lake Como, or whatever swank destination its owner desired. —Kirk Seaman.
Cadillac Cimarron
“Cimarron, by Cadillac.” The badge on the Cimarron’s posterior said everything you needed to know about the brand’s first stab at a luxury compact. The car hadn’t even gone on sale yet and Cadillac was already trying to drive a wedge between the Cimarron and what was left of its once-sterling reputation.
Concerned that European models like the Mercedes-Benz 190 were poised to sew up the burgeoning luxury compact segment before the fight even started, Cadillac grabbed the GM J-car small-car platform and began slathering on the glitz. Unfortunately for Cadillac, the content-heavy Cimarron (standard features included leather upholstery, air conditioning, alloy wheels, and—get this—intermittent wipers) was instantly recognizable as gussied up Chevrolet Cavalier.
Cadillac Cimarron
The first Caddy in more than half a century to be powered by a four-cylinder engine, the Cimarron used the same 1.4-liter inline four-banger as the remainder of the General’s easily forgotten J-car lineup. (The less said about them the better, Pontiac J2000, Buick Skyhawk, and Oldsmobile Firenza—whoops!) As a single bright spot, someone at Cadillac managed ensure that the corporate four-speed manual was the standard transmission, regulating the durable but reluctant three-speed automatic to the option list.
Cadillac stuck it out for most of the 1980s, offering a V-6 engine in 1985 followed by a surprisingly comprehensive aesthetic overhaul soon thereafter. But it was too little, too late for a car that wasn’t enough to begin with, and in 1988 the little Caddy was laid to rest. If nothing else, the Cimarron finally and rather harshly informed Cadillac, and GM, how much badge-engineering was too much. Or in this case, way too much. So enduring is the sting of the Cimarron, former Cadillac product director John Howell kept a picture of the Cimarron on his office wall with a caption that read, "Lest we forget." —Andrew Wendler
Porsche 914
Porsche needed an entry-level car that was cheaper to build than its 912 (which was essentially a 911 with a 356 engine). Volkswagen needed a replacement for its Karmann Ghia. What resulted wasn’t a total failure, but the Karmann-built bodies wound up being more expensive than Porsche anticipated, making the end result pricier than Zuffenhausen had hoped.
Sold in Europe as the Volkswagen-Porsche and in America simply as a Porsche, the four-cylinder cars were built entirely at Karmann and carried Volkswagen’s Type 4 engine behind the seats. Six-cylinder models featured a weak-sister variant of Porsche’s 2.0-liter flat-six, ran five-lug Fuchs wheels, and were assembled in Zuffenhausen. Regardless of the locale of their manufacture, the VW shadow hung over the 914, keeping its value depressed among Porschephiles—at least until the recent explosion in everything air-cooled.
Despite lackluster support for the 914’s racing program, the mid-engined mite managed to win the GTS class in the 1970 24 Hours of Le Mans, placing sixth overall in a rainy war of attrition that saw more than half the field fail to finish. Perhaps more impressively, 914s finished 1-2-3 at that year’s grueling 86-hour Marathon de la Route at the Nürburgring.
Porsche 914
Plenty of myths swirl around the 914, the most persistent of which is that the car was a repurposing of a concept penned by industrial designer Hans Gugelot. But the truth is Porsche’s Heinrich Klie, designer of the iconic five-lug Fuchs wheel, did the majority of the aesthetic work on the machine. The rear suspension isn’t shared with any other car, while the front is pulled from the 911. The five-speed transmission, though it may have VW emblems stamped on the case, is the same unit used in 1960s and early ’70s 911s. Did we mention that Ferdinand Piëch was in charge of the 914 program, at the same time he was spearheading the development of the vaunted 917?
In fact, aside from a corporate steering column used on the four-cylinder cars, some underdash wiring bits and pieces, and the Type 4 engine (which was reworked by none other than Hans Mezger in 2.0-liter guise), the 914 was much more Porsche than Volkswagen. It’s certainly more Porsche than a Macan or a Cayenne, and at least as much a Porsche as a Panamera. And if you argue that it was built at Karmann, might we remind you that the Boxster and Cayman were constructed at Valmet in Finland? Is the 914 a black sheep? Yes. Have a gander at the thing. It is kinda weird-looking. Is it a Porsche? Also yes. Very much so. —Davey G. Johnson
Triumph Stag
When it debuted, in 1970, the Stag was touted as “A Different Kind of Triumph.” It was, but not in a good way. Whereas Triumphs previously had been handsome, the Stag . . . wasn’t. Giovanni Michelotti had turned out a handsome concept car, but the production version suffered from awkward proportions, owing to its four-seat layout and sedan chassis. Furthering the uglification, Triumph compensated for the chassis’s weakness with a fat roll hoop—which additionally was attached to the windshield header—thoroughly bastardizing the convertible look.
Triumph Stag
As a four-place boulevardier rather than a true sports car, the Stag skipped the TR6’s familiar straight-six in favor of a newly developed V-8. Unfortunately, the engine was disastrously unreliable, even by the grim standards of a 1970s British Leyland product. Furthermore, nearly three-quarters of Stags were equipped with an automatic transmission because, really, why not? It all adds up to a Triumph convertible that is a sad sack among open-topped Triumphs, and a model that helped speed the brand’s demise. —Joe Lorio
Subaru 360
America had the Model T. Germany had the Beetle. And Japan had the Subaru 360. The what? The Subaru 360, a tiny, bubble-shaped 993-pound runabout that never quite became an icon like the other two cars. Mostly because it was absolutely, horrifically, dangerously awful.
Don’t let its adorableness—and it is completely adorable—fool you. It’s a terrible car. Less than 10 feet long, with a six-foot wheelbase and a wheezing 25-hp two-stroke engine, the 360 was born of Japan’s domestic “Kei-car” classification that afforded certain regulatory privileges to such small cars in urban areas in the late 1950s and 1960s. It didn’t go on sale in the U.S.—where its sub-1000-pound curb weight made it exempt from federal motor-vehicle standards—until 1968, at which point it was marketed with the catchy (and fitting) tagline: “Cheap and Ugly Does It.”
Subaru 360
The Subaru 360 was such a pile that even Consumer Reports deemed it too slow (!) in its April 1969 test, calling it a rolling road hazard that would “frustrate drivers behind them into rash passing maneuvers.” Indeed, top speed was 55 mph and the 360 accelerated from zero to 50 mph in CR’s test in an agonizing 37.5 seconds.
Should the 360 ever encounter a slower car, passing acceleration from 30 to 50 mph time also took over half a minute, according to the same test. And you know it takes a real heap to make CR end a review with this: "It was a pleasure to squirm out of the Subaru, slam the door, and walk away."
The 360 might be the cutest black sheep in this group, and at best it could serve as a delightfully retro golf cart in cabrio form. But whatever you do, keep it off the road. —Steve Siler
Dodge Shelby Lancer
Carroll Shelby and his namesake company were responsible for some of the coolest and fastest cars of the 1960s, like the 289 and 427 Cobras and the Shelby Mustang GT350. Then came the ’80s, and Shelby expended his efforts on a host of Chrysler products: the Dodge Omni, the Charger GLHS, the Dakota pickup. While some of those were credible performance machines for their day, the four-door, mid-size 1987 Dodge Shelby Lancer was more an embarrassment.
The Lancer used the same 175-hp 2.2-liter turbo four-cylinder as the Omni GLHS but weighed nearly 400 pounds more, huffing to 60 mph in 7.2 seconds. Half of the Shelby Lancers were equipped with a three-speed automatic that got a weakened, 146-hp version of the turbo four. Oh, and the Lancer commanded a premium of more than $5000 over the previous model year’s Shelby-ized Omni.
Dodge Shelby Lancer
No surprise, then, that fewer Shelby Lancers were built than most other Shelby-produced special editions. Their rarity, though, has no correlation to collectability, as the Lancers you find today are usually in worse shape and are worth far less than other Shelby Dodges. Perhaps the only less-respected sheep is the Dodge-built 1988–1989 Lancer Shelby, which never actually passed though Shelby’s Whittier, California, facility and is truly a Shelby in name only. —Rusty Blackwell
Maserati Biturbo
Introduced in 1983, the Maserati Biturbo was not so much eccentric as just plain ill-begotten. It was born after Maserati decided to build cars that were smaller and more affordable—often a vexing proposition for a luxury marque—and became the platform from which all new Maserati coupes, convertibles, and sedans would spring for a generation. And it nearly drove the company into the ground.
The first Biturbo was a wedgy, awkward clone of the BMW 3-series, with rear-wheel drive and a six-cylinder engine. Said engine was a twin-turbocharged V-6, the first-ever twin-turbo in a production car. Sure, it was laggy, carbureted, and sluggish, and it stalled when it was cold, but Maserati deserves some credit for going first. If the car had any other redeeming quality, it was its puffy leather upholstery. “Like relaxing into a catcher’s mitt,” we wrote in 1986.
Maserati Biturbo
With all the sex appeal of a Dodge Aries and the reliability of, well, an ’80s Maserati, the Biturbo was not a sales success in the U.S., prompting the company to pull out of this market about halfway through the Biturbo’s long life. Maserati continued to produce the Biturbo in various forms until 1994—it even blasphemed the Ghibli and Quattroporte nameplates with Biturbo-based spin-offs in 1993 and 1994. Seeing a Biturbo in the wild—or even at a gathering of Maseratis—is a rare occasion, especially if it’s moving under its own power. So Bi, Bi, black sheep. You will not be missed. —Steve Siler
Aston Martin Cygnet
Perhaps the blackest automotive sheep ever, the Aston Martin Cygnet was launched to give Aston owners a tender by which they could more easily dock in Europe’s congested city centers—after all, it can’t be easy to find a berth for a DB9 in, say, Paris, London, or Milan, which happened to be three of the Cygnet’s biggest markets.
But the Cygnet, a rebadged Toyota (Scion) iQ microcar with an incredibly sumptuous interior, was so far afield from Aston Martin’s usual supercar fare that many believed it to be a joke when it was introduced in 2009. Instead of the British firm’s usual muscular V-8, V-10, or V-12 engines, it fielded the iQ’s humble, 97-hp 1.3-liter four-cylinder mated to either a six-speed manual or—shudder—a CVT.
Aston Martin Cygnet
You didn’t have to be a current Aston owner to purchase one—for the equivalent of $50,000. A special-edition model rang in at nearly $70,000. (That one had throw pillows, though!) Despite the pricing, some 800 Cygnets were sold during its 18-month production run.
While the Cygnet was undoubtedly out of step with expectations when it was launched—even Aston Martin seems a bit bemused that it happened—it may yet prove to be ahead of its time. As the world’s city centers get more crowded, emissions regulations get ever tighter, and an increasing number of municipalities adopt congestion charges intended to keep out big-engined, big-polluting machinery, more luxury manufacturers just may introduce cars like the Cygnet. That doesn’t make it any less bizarre to see the Aston grille on a Toyota. —Erik Johnson
This entry passed through the Full-Text RSS service - if this is your content and you're reading it on someone else's site, please read the FAQ at http://ift.tt/jcXqJW.
from Car and Driver Blog http://ift.tt/1NmjDu3
via IFTTT
0 comments:
Post a Comment