Category: Classic
Dodge Avenger not on the level
What have the Romans ever done for us? Apart from the aqueduct, sanitation, etc etc, the Romans used water-filled tanks as an early type of spirit level. This method ruled until around 1661 when Frenchman Melchisédech Thévenot had a thought bubble and came up with what we know as the spirit level, featuring a bubble.
I’m thinking Dodge could have used either as a consultant on the dashboard decoration of my Avenger.
I bought the 2.4 litre 4-cylinder at auction, only inspecting it online, for a relatively small price. It had low kilometres for its age and seemingly only one owner. But I’ll level with you: it needed work.
After picking it up and seeing a “check engine” light, plus hearing a noisy alternator, I popped the bonnet (on the passenger side, because America) and discovered a rust spot in the passenger door frame.
However once those issues were fixed, the Dodge was a decent drive.
With the ignition key barrel towards the middle of the dash, my eyes were often fixed on the very 2000s grey plastic expanse that fronted the cabin.
On the very left of the dash, around where an American driver would place their hand to use the indicator, there’s a double Dodge.
The previous owner had stuck a large Dodge badge below a slightly raised Dodge brand stamp, part of a panel to cover what is a small oddments bin in left-hand-drive Avengers.
Look at the double Dodge closely.
See how the original Dodge has a slightly different font, but also sits slightly higher to the right, than the larger badge?
I’d like to imagine the alignment is on purpose: to counter the ever-so-slight curvature of the dash towards the middle audio stack. Had the extra badge not been added, lining up so nicely with the bottom of the panel, I might never have noticed the angle.
If you’re reading this in the US, I know what you’re wondering: is there the same alignment on the left-hand-drive Avenger dash? Well, after spending minutes looking for Chrysler corporate imagery, I may have an answer.
Looks pretty well lined up, to me! And those drinks in the Chill Zone™ also look good lined up – just chillin’
Let’s get a virtual ruler with a spirit level on this. “Enhance”.
If anything, perhaps the “Dodge” is a millimetre lower on the left, whereas on my RHD car it’s higher towards the centre of the dashboard.
Did someone at Dodge have a bad day when they drew up the dashboard for RHD Avengers? Was an Avenger team assembled for the task? Did they knock off early?
It would be great to have someone with a LHD Avenger confirm whether it’s just RHD Avengers that are dodgy with the dash branding. Maybe someone in my Dodge’s birthplace of Michigan, Melchisédech’s Paris.. or even Rome?
Avengers, assemble!
All the details on my ’07 Dodge Avenger RHD in Australia.. including an engine shared with Mitsubishi and some bizarre battery placement!
What is a ‘classic’ car? How long is a piece of string!
The comedic comeback line “how long is a piece of string” has been around at least since the mid-19th century. StackExchange says string was a way of explaining something unknown or variable in the world we could see, long before string theory tackled what we couldn’t see.
Pieces of string are also the yardstick for determining when a car is considered ‘classic’. In the UK, it might have to be 40 years old for tax exemption, while in America the collecting community sees 20 years as a starting point. In Australia, insurers might say a classic car has to be at least 15 years old, and recognised as a classic vehicle.
By that standard, even the last of the Hyundai Tiburons sold in Australia would qualify by age – but would they be “recognised”? Plus, is an early 90s more mundane car (albeit rare these days) a “classic”?
That’s the question I was pondering, when I looked at car-sharing (renting out) a piece of Australian automotive history: an Aussie-made 1991 Toyota Corolla sedan.
I’d found this low-kilometre example on Facebook Marketplace, at a car dealer just outside a regional town. On arrival, it was out the back of a shed full of cars, situated among cane fields. It was priced quite low, and the dealer said it was a trade-in he didn’t want.
A solo test drive revealed a Toyota that was clean, had obviously been owned by an older person who added a weather shield and headlight protectors, and a car that had seen more mechanical maintenance than models much younger. On my return, I bought it and arranged to pick it up. It became car 52 in my personal automotive history.
The 1.6 litre carburettor-engined Corolla did still need some maintenance, with an exhaust leak plus new tyres and rear shocks on the list. While that work was done, I made arrangements to list it as a “classic” on a car-sharing website. It has a category for cars over 25 years old. The site asked me all sorts of questions about the Corolla, and didn’t raise a red flag on its listing until the very end, when I’d already arranged car-sharing insurance.
Before the listing would go live, the site told me to talk to support. Now they wanted to know more about the car. They asked why I was listing a 33-year-old Toyota for car-sharing – I said it was to appeal to nostalgic renters, who grew up with the AE92 Corolla. The Dandenong-built 4A-F engine model is quickly becoming rare on the roads.
However, they refused to list it, saying the car was not rare or unique enough – but are those qualities what defines a “classic”? I checked on their website, and the only east coast listing for a car older than 25 was a 70s MGB sports car. Is that all a classic is: British-made, with Lucas electrics straight out of the Dark Ages?
With no rental use for the Corolla, I sold it to a first-time driver who loved the early 90s style and wanted a clean example of it. He sure got it – with no strings attached.
Stalking the indicator stalk
Forget putting your hand out the car window, when turning or stopping. That’s so 19th century. Hey, here’s Carl Benz’s carrier pigeon – go hang out with him and compare hand signals. Just bear in mind, you might want to actually have a window (or even a roof) on your car, first.
Electric turn signals on cars date back to the first few years of the 20th century, with a US patent filed in 1907 for illuminated “stop” and “turn” hand shapes. It would take a decade or two for indicators to be factory-fitted, and co-founder of The Autopian website, Jason Torchinsky, has written about which car had the first modern-style turn signals (and it wasn’t Buick).
Pretend-hands-as-turn-signals survived for some time. My dad used to drive tour buses, and as a child I’d go to the bus depot and sit in the driver’s seat of a coach, pulling a lever to raise a yellow plastic hand out of the driver’s side of the bus, used for safe turns across traffic. I don’t have any photo handy, but here’s how AI image generator Lexica imagined my instructions:
The plastic AI hand is a bit puffy, but it is yellow and extending outside of the bus.
Where is the Corona’s stalk?
Recently I’ve been thinking about the interior operation of turn signals/indicators/blinkers, after seeing an Instagram post by @garage_of_awesome writer Dave Carey. It featured 60s Toyota Coronas in all their “shovel nose” glory:
The post prompted me to remember the 60s Corona my dad bought around 1980 – the car I learned to drive in, at around 11 or 12, at the local showgrounds. Apart from unusual features like a front bench seat that wasn’t factory (or even Toyota) and a column gearshift you used like a horizontal Jenga game, the indicator “stalk” wasn’t a stalk at all – it was the horn rim on the steering wheel.
You swivelled the thick, horizontal part of the rim up or down, depending on whether you were indicating left or right. And going ‘up’ or ‘down’ depended on which side of the wheel you were grasping. On activation, there would be a delay and a quiet creaking noise as perhaps a bimetallic strip in the dash heated up to break a lighting circuit.
Dave tells a great story about noticing the lack of an indicator stalk on a Corona, and figuring out where it hid. And as he points out, it wasn’t the only car to have this horn rim indicator function.
Where is the Prefect’s stalk?
In the late 80s, a friend of my dad bought a 50s Ford Prefect off an old lady, who lived locally. He began to daily drive it, and one day while visiting our home he told me I could have a drive. I jumped at the chance, and after a bit of instruction on how to start it (pull a handle under the dash) I took off around the block.
The Prefect drove as slowly and stodgily as you’d expect, but it was fun to be transported back 3 decades. When it came time to turn the corner, I’d been warned where to find the indicator:
See that little chrome wing in the middle of the steering wheel? That’s pushed a little to either side to activate the indicators. I don’t recall whether the indicator then self-cancelled, or kept on blinking. I should have told Keith I wanted to buy his car when he was finished with it. I’ve no idea what happened to it.
Where is the Magna’s stalk?
1985 was the year my parents traded in their 70s Ford Falcon wagon for a new TM Mitsubishi Magna sedan. To me, it had a striking wedge shape and was the future – even if it was only the base model GLX. I got to drive it before buying my first car.
It was very conventional, but as you went higher up the spec list, things got strange for the Magna indicator stalk. This started with the SE, but the Elite had both a digital dash and this indicator arrangement:
That tab poking towards the driver on the right ‘wing’ behind the steering wheel, below the hazard light button, has control of the indicator – flick it up for left, and down for right.
I’ve never had the (presumed) pleasure of driving a Magna Elite – but if (when) I do, I’ll know how to indicate.
Where is the VW stalk?
In 2023, VW was making news for wanting to do away with indicator stalks altogether. They had plans to put the turn signal controls on the outer rim of the car’s steering wheel, along with other features like cruise. You’d be pressing buttons with your pointed finger, to activate the indicator – so, we’re basically back to hand signals again!
Square pegs in round holes: what fits in a car
English writer and lecturer Sydney Smith is said to have coined the phrase “square peg in a round hole” at the Royal Institution of Great Britain in the early 1800s. However, Wikipedia says he’s remembered in the US for his rhyming recipe for salad dressing:
Two boiled potatoes, strained through a kitchen sieve,
Softness and smoothness to the salad give;
Of mordant mustard take a single spoon—
Distrust the condiment that bites too soon;
Yet deem it not, thou man of taste, a fault,
To add a double quantity of salt.
I was reminded of his former saying, when trying to fit something in my 2006 Smart ForTwo. The French-made “art” of Swatch and Mercedes is a shade over 2.5 metres (100 inches) long, with probably at least a fifth of that length in front of your feet.
So, that leaves around 2 metres (6.5 feet) of interior space on the driver’s side. A foam block which covers the floor-mounted battery on the passenger side eats into that.
I recently found myself pushing a tape measure into my Smart from the back window, to see if there was enough room for a large, long window blind. The rear glass window gave me some leeway on length, which was just as well as I don’t think any other car in my fleet could have picked up the blind.
The Suzuki X-90 would need to have a T-top removed, and have the blind poking out of the rooftop.
The PolskiFiat 126p Niki was probably not long enough inside, although I could have tied it to the roof.
The Suzuki Mighty Boy wasn’t big enough in the cabin or the rear tray, and is on car club registration.
It would have fitted in the Subaru XT Vortex with the rear seat folded down, but that car is also on limited use club registration, so is not legally permitted to make a trip to the shops.
The shop website said the blind would be a little over 2 metres (6.5 feet).
I decided it would fit in the Smart, after removing the foam block in the passenger footwell and measuring the length diagonally from the driver’s side rear corner.
However, after buying the blind and seeing the tall, thin package tower over the 1.5 metre (59 inch) high Smart in the car park, I was worried I’d be taking the blind home with the back window somewhat open. I’d brought along a strap, just in case that was the solution.
Luckily, the package fitted – just – with the passenger side foam block removed. I once was blind, but now I see!
It’s not the first time I’ve fitted a seemingly impossible load into a vehicle. I once pushed a futon bed-style lounge into a 1996 Land Rover Discovery, via the rear door. It was in the ‘upright lounge seat’ position, to reduce its width. The lounge finished its journey through the car over the passenger front seat, which had to be folded down. It was previously moved in the Hyundai Trajet, but that wasn’t difficult at all with the seats taken out.
The Disco also took 2 old mattresses to the dump, with its creative capacity.
Also crammed into a car: long planks of timber, going through the rear ski port of my Hyundai Grandeur and resting on the leather-covered armrest between the front seats. I put down a towel underneath them.
Plus, in the back of a Citroen C4 VTR hatch, an 80s electronic organ I saw on the roadside, for giveaway. I scavenged some parts for my own Yamaha.
Perhaps the most ever crammed into a car, was in my 80s Mitsubishi Colt when I took on a new job in 2003, 10 hours’ drive away in Sydney.
In the back of the Colt was a plastic dining table, some plastic chairs, a bedside table and plastic drawers filled with clothes. Before I set up home in a poolside former billiards room, I’d have to squeeze a foam double bed mattress and portable TV into the Colt as well.
Sydney Smith’s salad dressing recipe might not impress Homer Simpson, who once said “you don’t win friends with salad”. But having a car that fits square pegs into round holes, with fold-down seats, a ski port, or a foam block to lift out, might widen your circle of friends. Friends moving house, that is.
Dalmatian dream car: a.. Pongo?
The 1961 animated movie “101 Dalmatians” (originally titled with the number spelt out – but who does that?) saved Disney from a slump after “Sleeping Beauty” didn’t stir the box office.
It also saved Walt on production costs, with the art department making use of “Xerox photography”. That’s where the artist’s drawings are transferred directly to animation cells, without any need to hand ink the images onto the clear top layer.
I’ve been reading up on Dalmatian direction, after a dream I had last night. In it I was standing at a new car dealer, next to my Suzuki Mighty Boy, and I was looking at a new, small, two-seater car – called a Pongo. Today I’ve rediscovered that’s also the name of the protagonist dog in the movie (c’mon.. it’s over 40 years since I saw the movie).
Thanks to A.I online imaging, here’s roughly what the Pongo looked like:
Ignore the empty headlight housings – free A.I. images only go so far. The Pongo in my dream had LED units, including a soft ring around the outside for daytime running lights. These are available for cars now, but the Pongo itself was like the Mighty Boy in the 80s: a cheap, cheaply-made runaround. In my dream I was contrasting the load carrying capacity of the hatchback Pongo with the tiny tray on the back of my Mighty Boy.
Unfortunately, I woke up before getting a test drive of the Pongo. Maybe that’s my brain’s way of keeping my faith with the Mighty Boy and its low seating, “armstrong” windows (crank ’em yourself) and dashboard feature of a large Suzuki logo.
I don’t recall whether the Pongo was ICE or EV. As a runaround it could certainly work well on petrol or electricity. In the A.I image above, the lack of airflow at the front perhaps indicates this is an EV. However, if it’s ICE there’s room for an engine behind those front seats, like a Smart car. Perhaps air feeds through around the headlights?
The Pongo doesn’t seem to have a steering wheel – or is that a hint of a Tesla yoke? If it’s an autonomous car, it gets marked down in my book.
The image shows the Pongo with what seems to be rear-hinged “suicide” doors – or perhaps they fold down, like a welcome mat. I’m trademarking that idea.
The doors have a button on top to release them – hopefully it’s waterproof. Putting buttons on a high horizontal plane, where rain falls, will trigger Range Rover L322 owners and get them checking their window switches on the top of the door cards.
The seats in the Pongo appear to have defibrillator pads in their backs. Perhaps they give you a jolt if you’re a bit too tired to drive? I’m trademarking that, too.
I nearly wrote down the car’s name at 3am, but said it enough times in my head that it was still parked there in the morning. I also easily recalled the Pongo’s styling: round headlights with a smooth front, two seats and a hatchback.
So what prompted this dream? Yesterday I had been on Instagram, looking at the Nissan Pao owned by co-founder of The Autopian website, Jason Torchinsky. All the “Pike” cars have round headlights, but they have rear seating – even the S-Cargo.
If I went back to the dream, could I be tempted to trade in the Mighty Boy for the Pongo? I don’t think I’d trade the Suzuki – but if the Pongo was cheap enough, it might be a reliable daily.
And with talk of buying a Pongo, one of the biggest questions: who makes it? Perhaps Disney does and it’s a monthly subscription. Hmm, I’m leaning more to not adding a Pongo to the fleet.
While searching Lexica for a Pongo approximation, I also asked it for a dalmatian image. Just like Pongo in the movie, the dog needed black ears. Here’s what A.I. served up, as a “realistic” image of a walking dalmatian:
That front leg will have Walt rolling in his grave.
Or, if the stories are true, his cryo-chamber.
Persistence of vision – with my former cars
The 1980s reboot of the TV series “Twilight Zone” ended each episode with a CBS logo and “In Cooperation With” the production company “Persistence Of Vision”. 1985 was the first time I’d ever heard of the term, and it would be a few years before I’d find out what it meant – as of course this was pre-internet, we only had cumbersome volumes of Encyclopedia Britannica on the shelf, and only occasional access to the local library.
From 80s Twlight Zone, the Wes Craven-directed episode “A Little Peace and Quiet” stays with me – not only because of the credits, but the content: a woman with a mysterious pendant could shout “shut up!” and the world froze, except for her – even as nuclear missiles were close to exploding over American soil.
Persistence of vision is where your eye ‘keeps’ an image that has disappeared, for a fraction of a second longer, due to the brain being a bit slow in processing it. The next image to hit the eye is merged with the remaining optical illusion. It’s why waving a bright object at night might make it look like a solid line in the air. It also helps us to see movies and animation as flowing media – not separate images.
This week I’ve been reminded – again – that cars I’ve sold years ago also persist in vision, and presence, to me.
Hyundai Trajet
I was driving home when I saw the “family truckster” we’d sold locally 8 years ago, waiting at the lights in the opposite direction.
See my video of the Trajet here.
It was the relatively unknown V6 Hyundai Trajet, that we bought with low kilometres for a very good price around 2010, because no-one else knew what it was. This “people mover” served us well, even without a sliding door on the side, but as kids grew up and got their own social lives, we didn’t need a somewhat thirsty 7-seater.
Given it was sold locally, it’s not that surprising that I’d see it again. I think this is the third sighting – but the first two were years ago.
Mazda 323
My first car was a rusty Toyota, so was probably scrapped after I traded it in. However, my second car – a 1981 Mazda 323 – was definitely re-sold by the dealer, as I saw it a couple of years later, with my distinctive spray-painted grill and wipers, in a fast food carpark on the other side of the city.
If that’s a lucky spot – the next one is even more amazing.
Ford Ka
In 2007 I bought a 2001 Ford Ka off eBay, collected it from 400 kilometres away and drove it around for a year or so, enjoying the sunroof and wheel-at-each-corner dynamics.
I ended up selling it to a young woman who’d been driven around 70 kilometres north to inspect it, and she bought it (rarity means long distance tyre-kicking, especially for me!)
She was still living at home, and that home was around 10 minutes’ drive from my parents’ house. So I was in her neighbourhood on the occasional weekend, driving through it to visit mum and dad.
One weekend afternoon, I was heading home from their place when I stopped at some lights in that nearby neighbourhood – and what car (sorry, Ka) should turn across my path, but the Ford I’d sold some months before. She was still enjoying it.
Hyundai Lantra
The next car is directly connected to my parents: it was their 1991 Hyundai Lantra (called Lantra at the time, not Elantra, because Mitsubishi was selling a Magna Elante). This dealer demo was replaced after some years (with “church on Sunday” kilometres and power locks that always played up) and my sister-in-law used it. When she was ready to move it on, I bought it and daily drove it. After a couple of years, I decided it was time to sell it (as I do).
For a 20-year-old car, it still had amazingly low kilometres and a young local couple bought it. I’d see it parked at their place – before one day it disappeared. I then saw an old man driving it at the local shopping centre (I stopped and spoke to him about it). Then, a couple of years later, it was for sale on Marketplace with the same registration plates. I asked the seller whether she’d bought it from an elderly couple, and she (rudely, I thought) said no. If she’d been more talkative, I might have bought it back!
But that wasn’t my final brush with this early Hyundai product: a year or so on, I saw it parked at the local railway station – this time with a new driver’s red P-plate in the windscreen.
Proton Gen2
Browsing eBay brought me together with the Proton Gen2. It was an unwanted trade-in at a dealer, and the price reflected that. After some minor maintenance, I was able to sample the Lotus-tuned suspension and hard plastic interior. It was actually quite a good drive – but of course, one day I decided to sell it.
This car was sold to a young lady in the local area – but not too local. However, the spot where I spied this car after selling it was a long way from both our homes. It was during the morning rush, but on a far western route, which I took to avoid the traffic. The orange Proton that drove up behind me stood out in my rear view mirror, and I double-checked the registration plate as I did the double take. Yep, it was my former Proton.
Land Rover Discovery
The 1996 Land Rover Discovery diesel that I bought for a song (and had a mechanic friend put in a new gearbox) took me on some of my first offroad adventures. When I sold the somewhat rusty “Monster” locally, the new owners were going to use it for parts – or so they said. It must have scrubbed up OK, as I saw it back on the roads a short time later.
Other encounters
Some cars I’ve seen again – just not in person.
My Daihatsu Copen was seen up for sale online (and sadly I missed out on buying it back).
The KS Mitsubishi Verada which I sold locally was put up for sale a couple of years later on Marketplace. I spoke to the current owner, and an interstate collector was buying it (it was a bit of a museum piece).
And I saw the 1998 MG-F I’d sold to a young man come up on the Instagram feed of motoring journalist William Stopford. He’d spotted it parked in the city, so the mechanical work I’d had done on the mid-engined Brit had kept it happy.
Then there’s also the Renault Megane I saw advertised by the new owners, the Smart which the new owner re-sold online within weeks, and the rescued Subaru Vortex which went through a few owners, and is still awaiting restoration.
There are other, even more tenuous, instances where I caught up with my old cars – but that’s just… “insistence” of vision.
Lost.. and then found.. in my cars
Over 200 years ago, French emperor Napoleon had police open an office for lost objects, that were found on the streets of Paris. It’s claimed to have been the first of its kind, anywhere.
Since then, Lost and Found offices (or Lost Property/Lost Articles in the UK/Canada) have stored found property and often tried to contact the rightful owner.
As I notch up the 50th vehicle I’ve personally owned, I’ve been thinking about what I’ve found in all those cars, as I investigate them after purchase.
Probably the most valuable item I found in a car, came from one of the cheapest.
I bought the very high kilometre Honda HRV from the auction place in late 2019, after it had been ignored by bidders for a couple of weeks, at a starting price of $500. So, on its third week in the lane, it was offered at just $300 – that’s what I bid, and I was a shag on a rock as the auction closed with no other bids. I picked up this dirty and dusty oddity from the auction backlot, then began to clean it at home.
Once I removed the giant Ronald McDonald face sticker behind the driver’s side sun visor, I got to work on the seating and carpet. An Oxley Bunnings docket in the boot told me that the car had perhaps lived in the city’s south-west. Finding a gold butterfly pendant down behind the back seat told me I was rapidly making ground on the surprise car purchase.
Cash Converters confirmed that it was real gold, but because it wasn’t very big – and, because “Cashies”.. they couldn’t pay me more than $30 for it. Still, it was 10% of the car’s purchase price. There were no books or details on the car’s previous owner, so I just had to pocket the payout. Tough day.
The next car on the list probably had the weirdest find.
The Ford Laser Lynx was a car that I’d long wondered about, so when one came up on Facebook in late 2021 cheap and reasonably close by I snapped it up – even with the “Police Aware” sticker on the windscreen. On cleaning it out at home, many gold coins were found – along with an oily residue in an under-dashboard storage. I didn’t want to know.
But the weirdest find was behind the passenger front seat, in the storage pocket:
Two plain white bread and butter plates – looking suspiciously like they’d been snaffled from a restaurant after a boozy lunch. Maybe the Lynx had done some picnic duty, ‘Luncheon on the Grass’ style, like Manet had imagined. That might explain the oily residue in that drop-down cubbyhole..
I contacted the former owner, who didn’t know why the plates were there, and didn’t want them. Neither did I – nor did my ‘china plate’.
Probably the most comprehensive amount of random items to come with a car, arrived with the 1985 Mighty Boy from its former home at a mechanic’s workshop in country Kingaroy. This car had been a workshop runaround, but had sat for nearly a decade before being put on Gumtree in early 2021.
Not only did it include the former number plates, from many years earlier (which I wasn’t allowed to reinstate on the bumper), but it also offered up the child seat harness point, which had been mounted in holes drilled through the back wall, between the front seats. I don’t know if the car was ever taken on the road with a child seat installed. Given the Mighty Boy’s Suzuki Cervo hatchback basis, it wasn’t such a radical idea.
I have found a number of CDs in cars. Usually only one, perhaps left in the CD player.. But the Ford Taurus I bought in 2019 was a jukebox on wheels.
This car was already in mint condition, but it had been cleaned to a high degree before auction, and then ignored by the wheelers and dealers among the bidders, because c’mon: it was a Taurus. I managed to buy it for a few hundred dollars, plus fees, after some negotiation.
I looked up the name in the owner’s manual and discovered that this mid-90s unloved blob had been bought new and kept on a cattle property, out in the country. It was serviced by the property workshop, and only traded in when the owner, the farmer’s wife, felt it was getting too big to take into “town” – which was no doubt a strip of 8 shops in a sleepy street.
With the car cleaned, there wasn’t much to uncover in the cabin – but in the boot was a CD stacker, which was stacked full of country music. I rang the property and spoke to the farmer, who said I could keep the collection of Loretta Lynn, et al. I said I might personally return them, if I was ever out their way. Loretta Lynn will have a top 10 hit before I have reason to head out there. And it’ll be difficult for her, seeing as she passed away in 2022.
A 2022 car purchase had both a death and a CD linked to it. It was the Suzuki X-90 I bought, after years of searching.
But first on this car and its hidden treasures: I’ve been able to connect with a former owner of the “most stupid” (according to Jeremy Clarkson) four wheel drive, because I found a docket under a seat.
I looked up the name on Facebook and made contact with the man, whose partner had owned the X-90 until around 2013. Kate had also written a ‘for sale’ spiel inside the back window (so, written in reverse), which still shows up when the window gets misty. After Kate sold the Suzuki, it spent some time being thrown around as a “paddock basher” before another owner put it in his garage, hoping to restore it. FIFO work got in the way, so he sold it to me.
Now to the CD/death connection: I took the X-90 out one Saturday in late September 2022 and visited a weekend market, where I bought some secondhand CDs. We’re talking the music you’ll take a chance on, because it’s just $1 a disc. So, Loretta Lynn then. (jokes)
With my handful of music streams on shiny discs, instead of the internet (yep it’s a thing, kids), I retired to the driver’s seat of the X-90 and pressed ‘eject’ on the CD player. With a bit of encouragement, out popped this CD:
Normally, a Coolio CD would make for a fantastic voyage – but the very day that I was out thrift shopping, news had come through on the radio (yep, it’s a thing, kids) that Coolio had died of a drug overdose. I found it spooky. The Clarion unit found any CD undigestible. So, there was no Coolio tribute for the trip home – and the CD was scratched and unplayable at home, anyway. To my mind, Coolio died twice that day.
Finally, in October 2022 I was the owner of a cheap 2004 Daihatsu Charade automatic with a 1-litre engine and some bonus rust, just breaking through a front panel. Roadworthy certificates for the sale of cars are, let’s say, a lucky dip. I could see the rust on my inspection (even though it seems the roadworthy mechanic could not) and I could also see that the driver’s side sun visor, that had been handed to me after paying the cash, had trouble staying up once screwed in (again, roadworthy blindness).
No huge problem for both – the solution would be to source the parts, individually and locally. However, this wasn’t so easy – so, facing a huge bill for getting parts sent from Japan, I found a Charade nearby that had overheated and was now only good for parts.
This Charade had endured a very busy life, visiting building sites all over the place. The former owner even had an umbrella he could mount in the roof racks, to shade him as he worked remotely, using a wall plug mounted under the dash to power his laptop.
The umbrella was included in the sale of the car for just a few hundred dollars. He also threw in spare auto store hubcaps for the tiny tyres.
But the big discovery would come when I opened another under-dash cubbyhole (yes, I know – I should stop doing this).
Enough floss to replace an engine belt. Enough painkillers to dull any roadworthy inspection. Antiseptic cream, lip balm and band-aids. This wasn’t just an office on wheels – it was a packed apothecary to help humans, as much as it was a coolant desert for the engine.
Needless to say, everything except for the sealed lip balm packet and band-aids got thrown out. The medication was out of date, anyway.
It had been lost, then found, then found to be a lost cause.
“Cut and shut”: crash repairs in days gone by
I just found a photo at Mum’s place, showing the driveway of my parents’ former home, around 1989.
It shows my Dad’s ’82 Mazda 323 (which I talked about in this article about my own) plus my brother’s ’82 XD Falcon, his ’77 HX Holden Kingswood and Mum’s ’85 Mitsubishi Magna. My own vehicle at the time isn’t seen – perhaps it’s in the garage.
Every one of these cars would visit the smash repairer, for some major repairs. With my brother at the wheel, the Kingswood hit a kerb at speed while cornering, and the front of the chassis was left quite bent.
The Falcon would be rolled on a back road. Yep, overturned.. with all four wheels pointing to the sky. The roof sported a slight peak in the middle until the repairs were finished.
Both were back on the road within a reasonable time.
The Magna was hit while parked in a street, by a car coming around the corner. It needed a new rear bumper and some minor bodywork.
Then there was Dad’s 323:
In late 1990, Dad stopped in traffic and a 4WD with a bullbar slammed into the back of the car – you can see the imprint of the bullbar uprights in the hatchback. The impact sent the Mazda into the back of the car in front, but thankfully only minor damage was caused there.
Here’s the kicker: Dad was driving the 323 after having signed a dealer contract to buy a used Land Cruiser, with the 323 as his trade-in. They told him to come back in a day or so, to pick up the new vehicle. So with the trade now an insurance matter, Dad somehow rustled up the funds to complete the deal.
Even with its bent rear quarter panel, squashed towbar and flattened hatch, the 323 was fully repaired (looking better than ever with new lights, paint and plastics) and was soon sold to a family friend.
These photos got me thinking about smash repair standards today, and in days gone by. Would a 12-year-old sedan with a visibly bent chassis be straightened out? Would a 7-year-old sedan, that had been found crashed and upside down, be brought back to life?
In 1989, at least, the answer was ‘yes’. I think today these cars would be written off.
Around this time, I was introduced to the body repair term “cut and shut”. That’s because my friend’s early 80s Honda Prelude was left in such a state after being hit while parked, that nearly half of another car was welded to what remained of his.
He’d left the car parked on the front lawn at his parents’ house, in a quiet street about 4 houses from the corner. One night someone took that corner too fast, and ran into the back of his Prelude. Unfortunately the impact pushed the car forward – into the power pole that also stood on the lawn.
So this Honda was a candle that had been burnt at both ends. The insurance company arranged for the repair, and the body shop gave him an awful, beaten up early 70s Toyota Corona to drive, for the months it took to fix the car.
After a very long wait, the car was returned, with the shop saying they’d “cut and shut” a new rear section on the car. The Prelude looked great, but never drove the same – and the sunroof often refused to open or close.
So much for “cut and shut”. It wasn’t long before the Honda was an open and shut case, and traded in.
Giocattolo inspires my Mazda ‘toy’ – a 323
For around 3 years in the late 1980s, a factory at Caloundra on the Sunshine Coast was making a supercar – despite many spanners in the works. It was called Giocattolo – the Italian word for toy.
Giocattolo Motori Pty Ltd was founded in 1986 by former IT consultant and De Tomaso fan/dealer Paul Halstead. His dream was to turn a mid-engined V6 Alfa Romeo rallying prototype – an Alfasud Sprint 6C – into a reality, after Alfa abandoned the idea.
Spanner 1: Alfa wouldn’t supply him with bodies or engines. So Halstead bought fully finished Sprint cars to take apart and convert. Then, with Busso V6s not plentiful, HSV teamed up with Giocattolo and supplied Holden V8s. Kevlar was used to add ‘lightness’.
Spanner 2: Customs duty and taxes on the imported ZF transaxle from West Germany were huge – as in tens of thousands of dollars – then you can add to the business model high 80s interest rates and the economy at the time.
Despite all that, 15 cars were built before investors pulled the plug. The Giocattolo was launched at Lakeside Raceway, just north of Brisbane, by Aussie 1980 F1 world champion Alan Jones. One was destroyed in a fatal crash at Eastern Creek in 2001.
Read the full Giocattolo story here on Top Gear
In the late 80s there were newspaper articles about this supercar – either on the establishment of the factory, or its fight to survive. I recall seeing the Giocattolo in the Courier-Mail, because the picture featured one styling move that stuck with me: painting the wiper arms the colour of the body.
At the time, I owned a white car – and I desperately wanted to give it a different look. It was a 1981 Mazda 323 hatchback.
Same car, but not mine. Source: Grays
I wanted to personalise my 1.5 litre 4-cylinder 323 because my dad owned the exact same car, in the same colour – but a 1982 model. The only difference was mine had a blue interior, and his was brown.
He bought it for me around 1989, because he wanted to help. I’d just driven my rust-riddled 1977 Toyota Corolla to the local car dealer, looking to trade my first car in on something. However, the prices were a bit steep for a uni student working part-time (who’d blown over $3,000 a year or so before on the cursed Corolla). I had to get to uni, but my dad had followed me down and had free time, so he promised to look after my need for new wheels.
Before I left, I saw the Mazda in the lot for around $8,000 and moved on, due to the price and its similarity to dad’s car. I did admire an early 80s Mitsubishi Colt (similar to this one I later owned) because it was priced lower and had the ‘split’ gearbox, with power and economy shifts offering 8 speeds. I was interested in automotive quirks, even then.
I bussed home from uni late in the day, and dad said he’d chipped in to buy me a car. I was hugely thrilled, saying “the Colt hatch?”. He shook his head and revealed that he’d bought the Mazda 323, because it was a familiar model and “we all know how good they are”.
They were good – spritely performance, a simple and clever interior, plus the hatch and fold-down rear seats (behind which I snuck into the local drive-in one night, with someone else driving). However, a young man trying to make his way in the world doesn’t really want to be a carbon copy of his dad.
So, when I saw the Giocattolo’s all-white presentation, I decided to paint the wiper arms on my 323, along with the grille (a trend I’d seen on other cars). White spray paint was bought, along with some tape to mask off the MAZDA badge on the grille.
The result looked a lot better than this artist’s (?) impression:
There was more I could have painted body colour, if I had the money/expertise (like mirrors and bumpers) – but these two augmentations were easily and cheaply accomplished.
Apart from needing rear wheel bearings and having extractors installed for some reason, the Mazda cost very little to maintain. I did find the forward-hinged bonnet annoying. Also annoying was the driver who ran into the car’s back bumper, when I stopped before an intersection (in the rain) to make way for an ambulance. She was uninsured, but paid for the repair – in instalments.
Despite my yearning for individuality, just a few months after buying my 323, dad sold his to buy a Toyota Land Cruiser – a “country vehicle” which had many problems, and prompted suspicion that it had been caught in the Charleville floods of 1990.
By the end of 1991, I’d saved some more money, noticed some surface rust starting on the doors of the 323, and also noticed its oil consumption rising a little. It was time to shop for another car!
New Year’s Eve 1991 is when I made that purchase: a 1989 Daihatsu Charade TS 3-cylinder.
However, the painted Mazda wasn’t done with me yet; a few years later, I was visiting Moorooka on Brisbane’s southside and noticed a white 323 in the shop carpark. It was mine, and stood out because it still had the Giocattolo-inspired styling, some years after the ‘toy’ factory closed. There were 15 Giocattolos made in Caloundra – but only 1 rattle can ’81 Mazda in Cleveland.
Classic and Clunker 