AARON KILEY

This story was conceived—hatched actually, whole and squirming on the kitchen floor—when the executive editor, following a fretful stop-and-go drive from the rehab center, made one of those pronouncements Laurent Kabila finds so alluring. "The problem with America," said the EE, "is that every citizen who ever entertained the notion of owning a car can own a car. Ergo, clogged highways. I'll tell you, vehicles are like VCRs, personal com­puters, and charities with the word ‘Kids’ in the title—too affordable and thus ubiquitous."

About 30 seconds of silence fol­lowed.

Then, "Oh, yeah, Mister Cash-in-­His-Pants," replied senior editor Steven Cole Smith. "What's the price of admission these days?"

In too deep to withdraw, the EE selected a figure, having contemplated it for perhaps four seconds. "One thou­sand bucks," he blurted. "For that, you can own a decent car in America—minimal upkeep, relatively reliable, and you can go out and make a half-dozen daily trips to the 7-Eleven and thereby induce gridlock coast to coast."

Really? Only $1000?

Maybe. It was our task to find out.

This we planned to do in an artfully fashioned 11-contest Special Olympics of Beaters (S.O.B.) in which, naturally, an array of semidangerous speed events would be integral to buttressing the EE's thesis, which, by this point, he had largely forgotten. It would work like this: Each of three editors would be entrusted with $1000 cash (and, at the same time, would be fitted for a deluxe electronic ankle collar) with which to purchase the beater of his choice.

AARON KILEY

As a kind of gratuitously cerebral afterthought, there was also a geographical stipulation. Technical director Frank Markus was to purchase something European. Senior editor Phil Berg was to purchase something Asian. Smith was to purchase something American.

"Blatz beer, for instance?" he asked.

There existed, in theory, a kernel or two of investigative high-mindedness in all of this. In part, we'd experience a microscopic sampling of thoroughly used cars; in part, we could test the mettle of original assembly from three culturally diverse con­structors; and, in part, we could impose a reality check on editors accus­tomed to driving week-old Benzes and Acuras whose clocks still ticked and whose ignitions still ignited the first time, every time.

"Tell me, this isn't simply an elab­orate ruse to wreck cars, is it?" asked editor-in-chief Csere as he doled out the $1000 stipends.

"Oh, God, no," replied Berg, looking perplexed and offended. "What must you think of us? But if, you know, a car or two accidentally became entangled in a couple of bizarre crashes, I mean, that would still be, like, totally the magazine's money, right?"

Right.

BUYING IT

If it is the journey and not the des­tination that shapes men's souls, then Phil Berg's soul is shaped something like a Birds Eye meat pie. Berg journeyed to Amelia, Ohio, where he purchased a '79 Mazda RX-­7 for $700. "The owner was gonna drop a Chevy small-block in it," he learned. "His wife said, 'Honey, I definitely do not think so.'"

The Mazda, which had 145,000 organic miles on it, came without keys. "The owner was using a small cold chisel jammed into the ignition," Berg reported. "And the tank was so rusty that the guy had to change fuel filters every week, so he moved the pickup tube higher so it wouldn't suck up rust. Now it runs out of gas whenever the tank is two-thirds empty."

AARON KILEY

Naturally, during Berg's test drive on Interstate 275, the RX-7 ran out of fuel faster than a Donovan Bailey–Michael Johnson race.

"A woman in a Ciera wagon stopped,” Berg said. "'God told me to pick you up,' she said. 'He loves you, you know."'

The Mazda had once been blue but was now antiglare flat black. The brake lines were leaking, the steering box was loose, the tie rods were shot, two tires were bald, and the exhaust was dragging. Berg spent an extra $297 to make it "trackworthy"—a Bergism meaning, "I added a bunch of lights and loose wires"—and his itemized list of investments shows a more-than-­passing familiarity with Bar's Leaks (con­tains patented Rhizex pellets!), 10 ounces at a gulp.

"It may look a little rough," said our big Norwegian unit as he flicked mouse droppings from the RX-7's ripped seats, "but I am ready to represent Asia. Think of my car as 'The Spirit of Hong Kong'—about to get its ass kicked by angry men in small, frayed sport coats."

Representing Europe—Pennsylvania, actually—was Frank Markus. Initially, Markus investigated a '67 Benz 250SE. The ad for it read: "A steal at $1000. Needs work."

"Didn't run at all," noted Markus.

He checked out a '72 Porsche 914 with a "fiberglass 916 conversion kit."

"Didn't run at all," Markus repeated, without irony.

The tech director was poised to pur­chase an '84 Saab 900 Turbo whose owner confessed, "Just needs a new starter—the mounting plate has busted off." Markus called Saab headquarters and talked to an Irish technician. "Yeah, it's not hard to fix," the mechanic said. "Pull off the turbo plumbing, then drop the clutch, plus the throw-out bearing and the slave cylinder. Oh, and don't forget the flywheel. Then it's just a matter of undoing a few bolts."

Staff loonies ogle the Pennsylvania hot rod while macho Viper GTS goes unnoticed. AARON KILEY

Seven investigations later, Markus came across a Pennsylvania-built '82 VW Rabbit—156,000 miles, $800—whose owner had transformed it into a GTI. Per­fect. With his leftover cash, Markus aligned the front suspension, reglued the headliner in place, slapped on four used tires, and twisted the distributor about 40 degrees until the engine achieved the idle resonance of a Huey over Hue.

Earning valuable bonus points was a bullet hole in the left-rear fender. Markus waxed the perimeter of this wound "to catch the sun in a dazzling fashion," he explained. And he appeared equally proud of a bumper sticker affixed by a previous owner: "Fukengrüven," it said, thus promising to enrage bumper-ogling Methodist constables throughout lower Michigan.

Meanwhile, Steve Smith lost many valuable bonus points when—this is so sad—his wife discovered a Camaro Berlinetta parked outside a hair salon. No suffering was involved. The car just showed up: an '84 automatic, three owners, with a 5.0-liter V-8 and a four-barrel carb. Our road test of this precise model con­cluded in January 1984: "Excellent alter­natives exist just a pencil's width away."

Nonetheless, Smith's Camaro ran fine with a mere 81,000 miles under its poly­ester belt, although the vehicle's left door appeared to have been rammed by one of those mid-size electric commuter loco­motives in service in Connecticut. Smith seemed sensitive about this—"a mere matter of a moment's inattention," he assured—so we never unearthed the true story and may have to await the arrival of revealing court documents.

AARON KILEY

Smith's Camaro we dubbed "Uncle Buck." Markus's Rabbit somehow took on the nickname "Tricia Nixon." And Berg's RX-7 acquired the happy-go-lucky moniker "That Total Shitbox in the Parking Lot."

Winner: RX-7 (most pain and suffering, had to be towed home)

Runner-Up: Rabbit

Total Loozer: Camaro

ACCELERATION (what there was of it)

In our 0-to-60 and quarter-mile tests (see chart, or for that matter, see Dick, see Jane, etc.), the victor, by a wide margin, was the not-found-in-the-NHRA Rabbit. Meanwhile, the Camaro and the RX-7, as described by photographer Aaron Kiley, "moved with the same agility and grace as mucilage."

"Single-digit 0-to-60 times, all the way," crowed Markus. That his 15-year old vehicle had accelerated to 60 mph 7/10ths of a second quicker than the orig­inal model, he explained, "was the natural outcome of pro driving. Plus, there's this new engine. Praise Jesus."

AARON KILEY

Smith was stunned by his Camaro's lackluster 11.2-second sprint to 60 mph. "Traction bars and Mickey Thompson retreads are what she'd be wanting," he blurted, obviously regretting the cavalier expenditure of his entire $1000 stipend. Smith later contented himself with a Pyrrhic victory in top-gear passing prowess. "Pyrrhic this," he was heard to shout, grabbing roughly at a portion of per­sonal anatomy whose function and loca­tion we need not itemize in elaborate detail.

Winner: Rabbit

Runner-Up: Camaro

Total Loozer: RX-7

LATERAL GRIP, BRAKING, FIRST-STAGE MADNESS

The Rabbit's suspension had a ure­thane-bushing problem—"actually, more like a zero-bushing problem," said Smith, anxious to impugn the reputations of his competitors. Curiously, the floppiness of the VW's suspension matched perfectly the floppiness of its engine, which moved in its mounts a length that some middle-distance sprinters would find taxing. During testing, the engine rocked sufficiently to yank free its coil wire. Miraculously, this slowed it not at all.

The Rabbit's shift linkage was also problematic. When test driver Larry Webster first climbed into the car, he inadvertently launched the vehicle in reverse, barking the tires with more vigor than he would subsequently accomplish in any forward gear. Explained Markus: "The previous owner sawed off the orig­inal linkage and welded in some pieces shaped like cheese doodles. First and reverse live together in there, in a kind of Pennsylvania tenement."

On the skidpad, the clear Guardian of Grip was the Rabbit, at 0.81 g, followed by the RX-7 (here's an entry from the log­book: "less self-centering than Billy Graham"), then the Camaro, which bil­lowed indigo smoke for six minutes after its skidpad adventure. The Camaro lost points when an oil warning light signaled empty, a clear fabrication given the cor­nucopia of petroleum dribbling and chan­neling in a kind of miniature Rainbow Falls at the tips of both exhausts.

AARON KILEY

In braking, the winner was (who else?) the Rabbit, at 197 feet.

"My car," said Berg of his Mazda, "doesn't so much have brakes as what I'd prefer you called 'delayers' or perhaps 'hesitators.' "

In deference to Berg's semantic preci­sion, we explained that his car hadn't flunked. It had merely earned an "incom­plete." "The man is anti-semantic," added Smith.

Winner: Rabbit

Runner-Up: RX-7

Total Loozer: Camaro

THE VALET TEST

Will a valet park a beater? In the name of science, we approached a local country club of vast pretense and acute snobbery. There, the valet—of indeterminate age but who displayed a receding hairline—was, in fact, eventually persuaded to park our Rabbit. But the Camaro—its tattered door all too visible to two golfers who had moments before disembarked from a red Porsche 911—caused a nasty crease to form on his scabby brow.

"I don't mean to be uncooperative," barked the valet at road warrior Erik Davidek, "but we have a dress code here!" Then, gesturing at the forlorn Camaro as if it were a soiled copy of the Utne Reader, he added, "Please, this vehicle goes to the far lot."

"Excuse me," replied Davidek. "But I thought you were supposed to do that." From this alert rejoinder no satisfaction did young Davidek enjoy.

Asked to park our Mazda, snooty valet refuses, scolds Davidek about dress codes. AARON KILEY

Naturally, the Mazda elicited rougher treatment still. A second valet—young and unsure of the difference between "igni­tion" and "starter button"—said the RX-7 was "not in keeping with local standards." He delivered this opinion after discovering that the vehicle was equipped with no key he could after­ward affix to the valets' "Big Board o' Keys." And he appeared disinclined to accept either Berg's cold chisel or a chrome vanadium screwdriver with which to toggle the rotary to life. We thus unearthed a genuine RX-7 key—alas, it opened only the fuel-filler flap and random tins of Skoal—but the valet made an ostentatious and needlessly fussy display of refusing it.

Winner: Rabbit

Runner-Up: Camaro

Total Loozer: RX-7

SPEEDWAY ALACRITY

Butler Battlegrounds is more than a battleground. It's a 3/8ths-­mile, high-banked clay oval (camping allowed) near Coldwater, Michigan (town motto: "You Gotta Live Somewhere"). Here, some impressive personal­ities have toiled at the wheel—Mel Kenyon, for example. On the other hand, Arie Luyendyk has never raced at Butler.

Anticipating his three-lap qualifying attempt in the sporty V-8 Camaro, Smith suddenly turned cocky. "My car is just all ate up with motor," he announced, and not too long after Darrell Waltrip had first announced it. As it turned out, the Camaro was actually all ate up with flaccid shock absorbers, which dashed Smith's hopes and more than a few clumps of off-the-pre­ferred-line clay. Smith was all ate up with mortification.

Meanwhile, the Rabbit's front-wheel drive was not suited to high-banked escapades. Nor was its driver. "I feared pushing too diligently," said Markus, who had nonetheless brought a spare anti-roll bar. "I didn't want to get it all dusty," he said.

AARON KILEY

Alas, Berg in the RX-7 was unbeatable, particularly after he located "the high groove," as he identified it, "which I once read about in Winston Cup Scene.

"Did you see me hang the tail out?" Berg asked following a 23.41-second lap in which he was seen fiddling with an aftermarket CB radio. Actually, no one had.

"I feel like that character in A Mid­summer Night's Dream who awakens to find asses' ears on his head," said a dejected Smith. The Car and Driver team, ever compassionate, immediately bought him a bracing Blatz, and the literary analo­gies ceased.

Winner: RX-7 (23.41 seconds)

Runner-Up: Camaro (23.75 seconds)

Total Loozer: Rabbit (24.76 seconds)

OFF-ROADABILITY

The off-road capability of beaters is, in a reductionist construct, key to judging their long-term value. This is because the owners of beaters often subject their vehicles to unscheduled field exercises following, for instance, intense stock-offering negotiations at the Dam Site Inn during free-pitcher night.

Sad to say, our off-road test was largely spoiled by immoderate precipitation. The winner, by default, was the first vehicle that attempted to navigate the course—a vehicle, it should be noted, that accrued further bonus points by continuing to block the course for 21 consecutive hours, a C/D record. Unfair? Perhaps. But such is the daily fare of a beater's harsh existence.

Stranded in water hazard, Bengt begs for help. AARON KILEY

Eventually, we did extricate the RX-7 from the water hazard, but only after road warrior Scott Mosher unknowingly reenacted a crucial scene from the movie Stand by Me, when he wailed: "Oh, God, something just swam up my pants. Will someone please help?" No editor marched in his direction.

Berg, the RX-7's proud proprietor, was characteristically modest in victory. "I'd like to thank my tire sponsors," he said, "Dunlop, Goodyear, Riken, and probably one other company soon, by the looks of that right front." As if in response, the RX­7's sole remaining forward-facing source of illumination failed. In the gloaming, Berg's Nordic bachelor-farmer features were thereafter bathed in the red, yellow, and sometimes green glow of flickering warning lights.

Winner: RX-7 (lone attempt)

Runner-Up: Camaro (willing but engaged in dilatory run to Taco Bell)

Total Loozer: Rabbit (balky owner frozen by fear)

MOST LIKELY TO LEAK

Although the Camaro ruptured a heater hose during its acceleration measurements, hereby later placing a literal spin on the term "skidpad," the RX-7 easily out-hemorrhaged it. At the conclusion of its top-speed run, the Mazda was leaking radiator coolant, Mobil 1 oil, transmission fluid, clutch fluid, windshield-washer solvent, Berg's personal cache of Diet Pepsi, and more than a few Kamel Red butts. Later, it would leak most of a swamp, plus a bottle of flat-black touch-up paint that was crushed by the combination spare tire/Mikuni carb that Berg had inscrutably insisted be carried "untethered in any manner at all times" tinder the hatchback.

We cool a blown heater hose. AARON KILEY

On the Mazda's VIN plate, we affixed this order: "DO NOT RESUSCITATE!"

Winner: Rabbit

Runner-Up: Camaro

Total Loozer: RX-7

GETTING RUBBER

First off, this contest to see which beater could put down the biggest patch of rubber was conducted on dirt, okay? That's because there was no wet grass available. The Rabbit, with a propensity to spin only one tire, earned a hollow victory here, laying a 62-foot patch. "What's the sound of one hand clapping?" asked a philosophical Markus, who does not affect the raiment of a Buddhist.

The Camaro and the RX-7 were virtu­ally tied at 52 feet—a sad day for hulking American V-8s—though it must be revealed that, to assist in wheelspin his RX-7 would not develop under normal cir­cumstances, our otherwise honest Mr. Berg urinated—yes, dear reader, your eyes do not deceive you—on his car's right-rear tire, thus imbuing it with not only illegiti­mate slip angles but also an odor not com­monly encountered anywhere this side of the Toledo Zoo's primate pen. Naturally, we awarded him bonus points.

Winner: Rabbit

Runner-Up: Camaro

Total Loozer: RX-7

INTERIOR ZOOT

What is a man's beater if not home to his family, his intimates, plus their pet fer­rets and Miller Lites?

Smith's Camaro Berlinetta was fitted with flipper-style turn signals mounted not on the steering column but on the instru­ment cluster, this in a long-treasured GM tradition of responding to ergonomic queries that no buyers have yet posed or have ever imagined posing, even during their drug-experimentation years at Oxford. Equally impressive was the Camaro's radio, mounted on a swiveling pod that nodded its head between the front seats like a somnolent plastic cyclops.

But the judges were persuaded of the Camaro's essentially unbeatable zoot quo­tient when they discovered its fingertip chronometer—an invention that Chev­rolet installed on the headliner. Smith spun the digits with a pinky finger. "See, you set important dates up here, to remind you."

"Of what?" we asked in one voice.

"Of, like, categories. See, you flip var­ious subjects into place: 'Kilometers' is one. Here's 'Celebration.' Also 'Medical.' I like 'Medical.' You don't get a fingertip chronometer in, say, a new Lexus."

He then adjusted the device to read "MEDICAL 0607."

"Meaning what?" we inquired.

"Prostate exam, June 7th," said Smith. "Or maybe the dentist. Same guy."

It must also be noted that the Camaro is a Berlinetta, a word that carries with it the obvious might of the Family Pininfa­rina, to whose familial functions our Mr. Smith has obviously never been invited. "Who stuck the pin in my farina?" he blurted, as if expecting any of us to laugh at such callow quippery. Instead, we smiled at Smith as would long-suffering parents, for this would be the only com­petition (of 11 eventually flung at the man and his heap) from which he would emerge victorious. Give young Smith a moment of glory, was our thinking, then later crimp his heater hose without apology.

Delightful fingertip chronometer (left). Cosmic repairs failed to enhance resale value of Camaro (right). AARON KILEY

Ironically, it was by dint of interior zoot that Smith began to fear his Camaro would be stolen, a not uncommon occurrence in Detroit. He thus affixed the Club to its steering wheel. "In this town, someone will steal the Club and leave your car," warned 24-year-old road warrior Bengt Halvorson, wise beyond his years. Smith agreed.

In contrast, the RX-7 scored poorly in interior zoot, shaming Hiroshima and its more recent southern-Ohio home, which are not near each other. "The seats may be ripped," said Berg, "but I'll tell you one thing—they're unsupportive!" The Mazda's cockpit smelled perpetually of Castrol and (sorry to bring this up again) urine. A road warrior inquired: "Is it pos­sible that, even at 65 mph, the smell of your car is actually preceding it?"

Here is what cameraman Aaron Kiley contributed at this critical juncture: "You know how they photograph naked girls through gauze? Well, we should photo­graph the RX-7 through Formica."

Winner: Camaro

Runner-Up: Rabbit

Total Loozer: RX-7

DESIRABILITY QUOTIENT

For purposes of determining each beater's Desirability Quotient (DQ), we asked three of C/D's keenest road warriors to spend a day cycling through the cars.

"We're cycling to the DQ?" asked a confused Mosher, who continued, alas, to search within his trousers for alien life forms.

"The RX-7 is fun, well suited for charging hard to redline in every gear," said the occasionally clear-eyed Davidek. "It's the kind of car you have to be ready to get hurt in." Much discussion ensued, yet we have no idea what this means.

Chisel and toggle switches were required to start the RX-7. AARON KILEY

"Nearly all the Mazda's functions are impaired," observed Halvorson, who is, on an unrelated note and through no fault of his own, about seven foot eight and appar­ently still growing. "Keyless ignition is a nice touch, though.”

"When the Camaro encounters rough roads, it wiggles and bounces like there's some gooey elastic substance that keeps the tires from touching the road," added Halvorson, who could slam-dunk if he wasn't Swedish. To pinpoint the cause of this phenomenon, we assigned a Lehigh-educated mechanical engineer (of which we oddly possess more than one) to investigate. From beneath the car, he poked and prodded, then shouted up confidently, "I'll tell you what this is, it's some gooey elastic substance that's under here."

In the end, the youth crowd voted the conservative ticket, nominating the Rabbit and ostracizing the non-eco-friendly Camaro V-8, even though it was Berg's RX-7 that was triggering fish kills in many of the streams and rivers it passed.

Winner: Rabbit

Runner-Up: RX-7

Total Loozer: Camaro

FLAT OUT

The top-speed test we conducted last, assuming it would actuate the mechanical termination of at least two reciprocative masses. Naturally, this test damaged nothing.

Except Steve Smith's ego. His V-8 Camaro, with its girly 85-mph speed­ometer, managed only 102 mph (versus the 114 mph we elicited from another one 13 years earlier). And it wasn't, as Smith put it, "thundering" around our high-speed oval. "More like a gentle whooshing," reported tester Webster. "Definitely a whoosher, I'd say."

"I was screwed by mangled aerody­namics," hissed Smith, kicking his dam­aged door and thereby inadvertently improving them. "That and having no engine compression to speak of." After the top-speed run, the Camaro's oil-pressure light became "a kind of John F. Kennedy eternal flame," noted Smith.

AARON KILEY

Meanwhile, Markus had logged an identical 102-mph lap in the Rabbit, down a trifling 2 mph from the velocity that C/D recorded from an original GTI in 1982.

"Your car couldn't beat a bucket of fried chicken," said Berg of the Rabbit's performance. He then climbed into his RX-7 and proved that he knows his fast foods, clocking a 106-mph pass. (The RX­7 went 118 mph in 1979, although it was driven back then by a tester who had, unlike Berg, consumed fewer extra-crispy entrees prepared by a Kentuckian wrapped in a white seersucker awning.)

Winner: RX-7

Runner-Up: Camaro (tie)

Runner-Up: Rabbit (tie)

THE WINNER

If you were to add up the wins, the kissed sisters, and the stunning defeats in each of the 11 competitions that have, in an unnecessarily protracted way, tran­spired so far; and if, further, you were to award three points for each victory and two to the runner-up, and one for each humiliating loss; then you would clearly see an outcome that had no relevance to your continued existence but would nonetheless look something like this:

1st place: Rabbit, 26 points

2nd place: RX-7, 21 points

3rd place: Camaro, 20 points

"Screw you guys—I ran more laps than that," shouted a now wild-eyed Smith, who then threatened to grasp Arie Luyendyk roughly around the neck.

Just prior to the lavish trophy-giving celebrations, Frank Markus steered his Rabbit into an automatic carwash, paying $2 cash. In the eyes of the judges, this earned further valuable bonus points in the ad hoc Most Futile Gesture contest, in part because a hand-brake cable hanging beneath his VW snagged the carwash monorail, sucking the actual hand brake through a section of otherwise sound center console and causing the wash-rack attendant so much angst that he could not attend his men's group.

In the midst of a victory celebration, Markus's VW was humbled by a lowly carwash. AARON KILEY

From this hard-fought contest, it is clear we have all learned valuable lessons about automotive residual values, about the duration of trim pieces, about the levels of fit and finish to which constructors aspired many years ago, about overinflated confidence in V-8 potency, and about drilling holes in footwells to drain char­treuse swampwater.

"I've noticed, in the past few days, how much I envy people in $4000 cars," said Berg, thoroughly beaten. "Now, I feel I should be allowed to attain closure."

"Always put Horace before Descartes," blurted Markus, again undeterred on an embarrassing philosophical bent. "I'm selling this thing for a grand, baby—Full-Whack City."

"Cheaters never prosper," said Smith, "except those who sell used cars to Phil Berg."

"Never invest in anything that eats or needs repairing," said songwriter Billy Rose.

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