Z-cars sit silently near site of Rhode Island tragedy
The air of tragedy surrounds a small collection of Datsun Z cars in the town of West Warwick, Rhode Island.
Hidden behind a defunct Nissan dealership, surrounded by two rows of fencing sit three Z cars — mostly 240-Zs judging from the taillight panels. They sit about 300 yards from the site of the former Station nightclub, where 100 people died in a fire in 2003 sparked by pyrotechnics from the band Great White.
The mom and pop dealership, Knight’s Nissan, had been the oldest car dealership in Rhode Island until they sold out to Penske’s United Auto Group. The franchise then moved off this small tertiary road onto the main drag full of car dealerships and retail shopping.
These are in what appears to be where the dealership’s wholesale line would have been. The blue one, looks like the interior has been stripped out, and the orange one sports a University of Rhode Island parking sticker on the back window indicating it may have been a college kid’s car.
These Z cars have just sat there slowly rotting ever since that dealership had left. A recon of imagery from 1995 on Google earth show these cars arriving in their final resting spot the same year as the dealership sold (2007). A close inspection inside the cars shows there isn’t a whole car between the three but they have donated their better parts at some point in time.
— Bill Gouge
Make mine a second-generation Camaro (or Firebird)
Blame it on too much television as a kid, but I always think of “Walking Tall Part II” when I spot a mid-‘70s Camaro. That chase scene where Richard Jaeckel’s character — in a mighty fine Camaro — gets the better of Sheriff Buford remains one of my favorite car chases and the highlight of the movie.
The mid-to-late 1970s weren’t kind to muscle cars. Ford abandoned their big new-for-1971 Mustang design after ’73 to ride the small-car wave. But at Chevy, they stayed with there 1970 redesign of the Camaro (and Firebird). Sure, power and compression ratios dropped significantly, and those new safety bumpers marred their sleek looks until car designers started to replace the chrome railroad-tie bumpers with plastic covers — something Pontiac figured out in the late-‘60s.
Yet as the years pass, I’ve grown to appreciated the Camaro from those unpopular middle years of 1974 to 1977. Their small, pointy-cornered taillights replaced the popular Corvette-inspired round ones. Today, those ’74-’77 lens appear simple and elegant. And the ’78 to ’81 Camaros seemed to gain a bit of length and width, making them slightly bulky and not nearly as lithe as the earlier variants.
In high school, I knew a guy we called Mad Dog Doyle. He once owned a blue ’75 Camaro with staggered-width, deep-dish Cragar mags. His lacked the duck-tail rear spoiler and had only a 305 V8 under the hood. Still, for the early-1980s, any V8 was something to be proud of as you cruised the main drag. (Much like this guy in Sweden).
Of course the 1970-’73 models remain my favorite, especially the ones with the split front bumper like the one pictured above. It sits with no wheels partially hidden beneath a death shroud in the corner of some guy’s front yard. Check out a previous post for pictures of a similar junkyard Camaro.
Not far away, I make my routine check of a body shop’s boneyard. There’s a frequent turnover at this great Carspotting site, and a few of the 442s mentioned in a previous article still remain here. Today, I’m after a closer look at an F-bodied Camaro and Firebird.
This 1974-77 Camaro boasts rally stripes across its faded topside. It rests next to a younger sibling, circa 1990 or so judging from the bigger front spoiler and RS badges. (My first brand new car was a 1992 RS, so I always check for the fake intakes on the rocker panel. This one lacked them, so it’s pre-1991).
Across the lot rests a black Formula Firebird with its plastic beak nearly degrading beyond repair from heat and UV rays. With its gold decals on a black paint job, this baby once sported a menacing profile. Even now, covered in junkyard mud and baked-off paint, it casts a muscular stance. If only I could drag it home, drop in a crate motor, add some new paint… If only….
— Michael Gouge
New Wave daydreams from a Mercedes 450 SLC
You can almost hear “Crockett’s Theme” by Jan Hammer as you approach the sad, little Mercedes 450 SLC nosed into the briars. Cancer-riddled and immobile, the blue-green sport coupe holds hints of a glamorous past in an era of white slacks and Wayfarer sunglasses.
These fixed-roof versions of the iconic 107 chassis roadsters ended their 10-year production run in 1981, suggesting a subsequent owner probably added the spoiler and deep-dish BBS-style mesh rims so popular in the mid-‘80s with villains on TV’s Miami Vice.
I suspect this SLC, shoved aside behind a small repair shop, might be a grey market import judging from the small European bumpers and composite headlights – both illegal in the United States during the late ‘70s and early ’80s.
Those foreign touches don’t escape my notice. As the 1970s ended, English car magazines offered me glimpses of cars with tiny bumpers, not the railroad ties mandated by Uncle Sam, and big sculpted composite headlights, not the one-size-fits-all sealed beams our government required.
Last year, I spotted an unmolested SLC next to a Bricklin amid the weeds behind a shop in South Carolina. Impressed more by finding the gull-winged Canadian car, I didn’t give much attention to the charcoal grey little coupe. A shame really, for these cars were built like tanks and handled great. Yet they live forever in the shadow of their sexier SL convertible sibling.
The SLC looked like something a doctor’s wife would buy, but it proved to be a potent rally racer, notching several wins for the V8-powered coupe. Mercedes built a limited edition 450 SLC called the 5.0 clad in factory spoilers to meet homologation requirements, but those weren’t imported to the U.S. market.
As I leave this 450 SLC to be consumed by the undergrowth, I imagine the little coupe during its early-‘80s glory — a symbol of excellence, success and even Yuppie excess given some of the race-inspired wheels and spoiler.
The Bandit would love this treasure trove of Trans Ams
I can still remember the bitter frustration when my mother refused to allow me to see “Smokey and the Bandit” when it opened the summer of 1977. We were on vacation visiting my mother’s hometown in rural Alabama when the teenage children of our host invited me to tag along.
I’d just turned 10 years old, and since the language was a bit strong, especially for my 6-year-old little brother who couldn’t be excluded, mom vetoed those plans. Oh the humanity! I never really minded missing Star Wars, but this movie featured that Starlight Black vision — a 1977 Pontiac Trans Am SE. Oh Mom, PLEASE, please, PLEAAAASE!
In the 35 years since, I’ve certainly made up for missing that initial showing. In fact, it was just on TV this week, which always requires me to watch even though I own two different DVD versions.
Last Sunday morning as I took a backroad to kill time heading to my weekend round of golf, I spotted a ducktail rear spoiler than could only be a GM F-body. I doubled back to discover my childhood dream machine. There behind a fence sat a fleet of second-generation Trans Ams and a couple of Camaros.
Whoever owns the small shop has great tastes in cars. Of the six T/As, one was the prized Y82 “Bandit edition” made famous by every true Southerner’s favorite movie. All of them were T-top cars, including a 1981 NASCAR Edition Turbo Trans Am and a 1979 10th Anniversary T/A. Also sharing this chain-link stable were two early ’70s Camaros, one being a real SS, and two Mustangs – a ‘65/’66 and a Fox body.
From the tidy surroundings, it looks like these cars may serve to keep some of their brethren alive, and given the rare editions, one or more of these cars could perhaps see a resurrection.
For those of us who grew up in the South during the 1970s, Burt Reynolds and “Smokey and the Bandit” became more than just pop culture. That scofflaw Trans Am became a symbol of our rebellious, freedom-loving nature. In the decades since, the safety Nazis and, as Jeremy Clarkson calls them, the “environ-mentals” won the war against automotive civil disobedience and America’s love of the automobile.
While “Smokey and the Bandit” was a comedy, it bears more than passing resemblance to the iconic, classic independent film from 1971, Richard Sarafian’s “Vanishing Point.” For those unfamiliar with this classic car movie, a lone driver known only as Kowalski accepts a bet to drive from Denver to San Francisco in record time in a 1970 Dodge Challenger R/T.
According to Brock Yates, the famed automotive journalist and creator of the Cannonball Baker Sea-to-Shining-Sea Memorial Race (the real Cannonball Run), “Vanishing Point” helped inspire his infamous cross-country race as a form of social protest against increasing federal regulation of cars and state highways.
“Smokey and the Bandit” follows in that rebellious tradition, although with the light-heartedness that was emblematic of the disco era. It draws upon the popularity of the trucker films of the mid-‘70s and their social realism themes celebrating the common man’s opposition to increasing federal regulation and corporate special interests.
The Bandit became an icon of Southern pride in the post-Watergate, post-Vietnam, post-OPEC crisis era. And for a 10-year-old boy, nothing was cooler than a black Trans Am with Burt Reynolds at the wheel. Now that I think about it 35 years later, there still isn’t. Put the petal to the metal, good buddy.
— Michael Gouge
The Mazda RX-7: What a worthy adversary
In this South Carolina salvage yard lie two rivals, frozen by rust and neglect. As I look upon them — seemingly still locked in some forgotten competition — I’m drawn back to my college days, and one particular high-speed semester.
While commuting to campus one morning in 1987, I spotted a first-generation RX-7 with a campus parking sticker in front of me. We both merged from the two-lane road onto the six-lane expressway heading across town to our university. It seemed the little rotary-engined sports car didn’t like being overtaken by my triple-Weber equipped, small-bumpered 260-Z, and an impromptu sports car pas de deux ensued — just another day as a road warrior, I thought. But the next week, at the same time and location, there it was again: my new nemesis, that little RX-7. Like Peter Griffin and that chicken, it was war anytime we spotted each other.
Since the statute of limitations passed two-and-a-half decades ago, I can proudly state the Datsun never lost this weekly challenge — partly due to that tall torque curve of the inline six and partly to the steely nerves (or insanity?) of a 20-year-old version of myself who once passed an unsuspecting commuter in a small paved area of the median at a buck twenty to escape being boxed in by my challenger.
But I must also confess, it took a Mad Max move like that to shake the little Mazda and its free-revving motor, which allowed for some stratospheric RPMs. Each Tuesday and Thursday for an entire semester, the same dance ensued. Above 90 mph I owned him, but below that I couldn’t peel him off my over-and-under exhaust tips.
I never met the driver of that RX-7. Apparently our classes were on opposite ends of campus because on arrival, we each headed to opposite ends. I, for one, was looking to hide my burgundy Z from any pursuing blue lights that might be trailing in our wake.
As a boy, I first experienced these lovely little two-seaters when an older cousin bought a brand new RX-7 in the late ’70s. During our Thanksgiving family reunions, I’d try to find any excuse for us to go to the store so I could enjoy another spirited ride in that bronze-colored machine.
Later, my stepmother bought a silver first-generation RX-7. When she handed it down to my little brother, I got to drive it from North Carolina to Massachusetts, a non-stop drive in a wonderful sports car. Sadly, upon arrival the electrical system completely shorted out when a replacement battery arced against the low, sloping hood. It never ran again.
Mazda made the RX-7 bigger with more impressive performance as the years passed. The final third-generation remains a favorite of the Fast and the Furious set. But I’ve always preferred the purity of the original — such simple, yet elegant lines. Like my beloved Datsun Z cars, the RX-7 offered great style, handling and performance. It truly was a worthy adversary.
As fate would have it, I now work at the university from which I graduated decades ago. In the faculty parking lot across campus from my office, I often see a first-generation RX-7 lovingly preserved and parked strategically to avoid door dings. Hmm, I wonder if two aging professors have enough nerve to wind it out on a morning commute…
— Michael Gouge
The Cutlass: Named after a weapon, not an appliance
Once upon a time, my disbelieving youths, Americans preferred cars with two doors, rear wheel drive, sporty styling and a touch of luxury. The best selling car in the country — and a symbol of suburban success — was a sleek Oldsmobile Cutlass. Not a pick-up truck or an economical Asian sedan.
During my formative years I grew fascinated with the fourth-generation Colonnade body style of the Oldsmobile Cutlass. Muscle car fans prefer the big-block Cuttys and 442s of the late ’60s, but in the mid-‘70s, this personal luxury coupe seemed perfect for a nation of individualists seeking personal fulfillment.
I remember admiring those cool fathers when they pulled up in a Cutlass Supreme, the elegant fender script spelling out the model above a band of international flags. Children were to be transported in mom’s car, not dad’s Cutlass. A personal luxury coupe was strictly for the man of the house. I figured that would be what middle-age life would be like.
Today, I see my peers driving SUVs, minivans and crossovers all for the benefit of their children’s comfort. The car is now a household appliance, built for a purpose, not for an individual’s satisfaction. Whatever happened to cars being a statement of individuality and success? The kids can tough it out in a cramped back seat. That never caused my parents a single moment of guilt.
Today’s drivers prefer to buy a Ford F-150 and Toyota Camry as their new vehicle, both very practical choices. But something about this news distresses me greatly. Our love for the automobile as an extension of our individual liberty fades with each passing model year. Gas prices, safety regulations, corporate restructuring drag us further away from those romantic post-war years when automotive design looked to jets and rocketships. Car names evoked emotional connections, not alpha-numeric mixtures or made-up vowel-consonant creations designed to appeal to the widest assortment of foreign-language-speaking buyers.
A cutlass is a sword, damn it! Pirates and swashbucklers use Cutlasses, not soccer dads.
For me, the 1976-’77 models — when production totals reached their peak — perfected the Colonnade era. It straightened the swoopy ’60s vestiges, added quad headlines and sharpened the pointed twin-waterfall grill. In 1978, a redesign shrank the Cutty, and its lines don’t seem as pleasing or as shark-like. The shovel-nose ’81 update helped, but it just wasn’t the same.
Rare is the sight of an unmolested Cutty today. I still see them, but usually with oversized chrome rims and subwoofers shaking the car. A shame, for these cars deserve more respect and proper restorations. Some of us still love them and the era long past that made the Cutlass the most popular car in America.
— Michael Gouge
The Capri: Even in ruin, it stands out from a crowd
Funny how schoolboy daydreams stay with you after nearly four decades. Whenever I could get away with it, I would stare out of the classroom window, usually fascinated by the parking lot or midday traffic.
One such day in the late ’70s, I caught sight of a sleek little hatchback parked in the teachers’ lot. Amid the usual assortment of Ford Pintos, Chevy Vegas, Dodge Aspens and the mix of bland wagons and sedans sat a medium blue Mercury Capri II.
Its European lines, complete with bulging hood and body-colored bumpers, stood in stark contrast to the chrome railroad ties on its parking slot neighbors. I knew from my studies of Car and Driver and Road & Track this little import — built by Ford at plants in England and Germany — often sported a respectable V6 with impressive road manners. A 2.8 badge on the fender confirmed this was not a mere four-banger.
The previous summer, I spent a lot of time at the swimming pool where a teenage lifeguard drove a Mk I Capri from the early 1970s — British Racing Green with an exhaust system nearly falling off. For a 12-year-old, that lifeguard looked as cool as Steve McQueen when he ran it through the gears after his shift ended. Seeing a similar Capri pictured above brought back all those memories, those old daydreams of how great life would be if I were only 16 years old and had a driver’s license.
Back at school, I’d glance out of my classroom window nearly every day to make sure that Capri II had arrived. It was a bit of a rarity even then since Ford only imported them to the U.S. for the 1976 and ’77 model years after making the Mk I Capri from 1970 to ’74. Some say Ford proved to be the car’s biggest enemy since the Lincoln-Mercury dealers tapped to sell them didn’t quite know how to market the youthful car to its aging demographic.
Spotting the Capri II pictured above during a recent junkyard visit gave me a bit of a rush as I filmed Firebirds, Camaros and Mustangs. At the end of a row of Fords rest nearly a half-dozen Capris in various states of decay. There those sleek lines and graceful C-pillar seem so out of place next to its cousin, the boxy Ford Granada. Nearly four decades later and cast aside as junk, a Capri still stands out from the crowd of its contemporaries. Its European style, even covered in rust and weeds, still stirs a daydream. This time, it’s for a lost past — not a dreamed-of future.
By 1979, the Capri name adorned a domestic Fox-bodied Mustang clone, but the second-generation cars continued to be produced by Ford in Europe until 1986. In the 1980s, I’d see those beautiful Capris pictured along with other not-for-U.S.-export cars whenever I purchased one of those pricey English car magazines where they always misspelled the word “tires.”
The daydreaming boy became a middle-age man, but still he gazes out a window and imagines a black Capri II S and an carefree open road…
— Michael Gouge
Mustang II stash proves almost as rare as the car’s fans
In the overgrown section of Vick’s Classic Auto Parts’ salvage yard, just past the row of Camaros and Firebirds, I stumbled upon more Mustang IIs in one place than I’d ever seen in my lifetime of carspotting. Thankfully, someone saved these relics of the 1970s from the crusher. Someone, perhaps a rare Mustang II fan like myself, spared them from becoming part of your new washing machine.
We are a small and outcast group of aficionados; fans of a car even Mustang fans dismiss. One of my first blog entries covered the unloved Mustang II, so I apologize for repeating myself, but I won’t apologize for my affection for a very under-appreciated car.
People forget the Mustang II received glowing reviews from the automotive press during its production run. Motor Trend named it Car of the Year in 1974, a feat not even the original Mustang obtained and an honor held only by one other Mustang model, the 1994 Fox body replacement codenamed the SN-95. The Mustang II outsold the previous body style by a significant margin and saved the Mustang from extinction during the malaise era.
Here in this savage yard in Chesnee, S.C., rest a dozen or so Mustang IIs, including a couple of Mach Is. My favorite remains the sleek 2+2 hatchback model, a lingering nostalgia for the white 1978 Rallye edition I drove my senior year of high school. But this yard also holds several hardtop IIs, which contain a wealth of rare trim pieces not available as new reproduction parts.
In my youth, these cars were everywhere. Even two-third of “Charlie’s Angels” drove Mustang IIs. Today, I find many people use the car as a punch line. They laugh at the shared DNA with its Pinto stablemate. But if you’ve read this far, you’re probably among the few that see the Mustang II in a different light. You see these rusted relics pictured here and think fondly upon them.
Despite its strong sales numbers, seeing a Mustang II – even at a Mustang car show – doesn’t happen too often. Yet about once or twice a week during my commute home from work I catch a glimpse of a survivor Cobra II heading in the opposite direction on the interstate.
It’s in rough shape with three different shades of black and the gold Cobra II decals faded too much to read. But flowing along next to the SUVs and jelly-bean-shaped Asian sedans, it looks lovely in my eyes.
— Michael Gouge
Twin Gran Torino Sport fastbacks spur flashbacks
I can still remember those distant summer days of childhood spent on the front porch with the living-room console stereo blaring tunes from my hometown’s only rock ‘n’ roll station — found on the AM dial of course.
Then I’d hear it: A rumble of a V8 through glass-packed mufflers. A few moments later, that sleek baby blue fastback crested the hill in my track-home subdivision. It was a 1972 Gran Torino Sport owned by an older teenager too cool to acknowledge the 11-year-old rising from a lawn chair to see watch this big Ford roll past.
The hood scoop seemed menacing; the jacked-up rear end seemed poised to pounce on unsuspecting econoboxes. The only distraction from the SportsRoof’s muscular lines was that oval grill that made it look like it was sucking on a lemon. Back then, I preferred the more boxy styling of the mid-‘70s Torinos made famous by Starsky & Hutch, but time has made me feel more nostalgic for the one-year-only front grill. After all, we had the entire decade of the 1980s for boxy shapes.
Not many of the suburban cars in my neighborhood netted my respect, but this brute of a machine certainly did. One day, the blue beast was gone, replaced by a red Gran Torino Sport. I never found out why the owner switched to another Torino of the same vintage, but the rumors were a crash totaled the blue car.
Last week, I followed a tip from a CARSPOTTING fan on Facebook and headed south to Chesnee, S.C. There I found a trove of rusting beauties, many of which you may read about in the weeks to come. Before me sat not one, but TWO, baby blue ’72 Gran Torino Sport fastbacks like the one I so admired as a child. They even had the cool laser stripe down the side. An aisle or two over was a plain-Jane fastback in yellow, still a noble sight with its flowing rear window line.
While Starsky’s striped tomato made the Gran Torino a TV icon, the earlier ’72s still hold a place in cinema history. The clip above is from B-movie called “Fear is the Key,” starring Barry Newman of “Vanishing Point” fame. The plot … well, who cares about plot. It’s the action scenes with a red’ 72 that merit your attention.
The Torino is another one of those automotive names long-since retired. Why Ford prefers names like Focus and Edge over Fairlane and Torino remains a mystery to me. They made a Torino for every lifestyle, from economy cars to station wagons to big-block performance sports coupes. You could build your own dream car. I’ll take mine with a 429 backed by a 4-speed tranny, bucket seats and Magnum 500 wheels, mister salesman. If only it was so easy to check those option boxes today…
— Michael Gouge
Porsche 928: Dreams of a future past
It seemed like a car from another world when it arrived on our malaise-era shores in 1978. Those odd headlights pointed straight up until the flip of a switch stirred them to raise a pair of strange pods looking like something out of a ‘50s sci-fi movie. The back of the car swept smoothly around the corners into a most exotic shape when compared to the average American car of the time, which still sported huge chrome girders for bumpers.
At the first sight of a Porsche 928 at age 11, its strange beauty captivated me. For years, I clipped advertisements, including the one below, to pin on my bedroom wall. For most car enthusiasts, Porsche meant one model — the 911. But the boys in Stuttgart now intended to head in a new direction with this new flagship sports-touring car. Sadly, the radical vision of those daring engineers would prove disappointing. And today, finding an abandoned and neglected 928s is much more common than uncovering the bones of their air-cooled predecessor. People forget the 928 was top of the line, shoving the 911 down the model lineup as Porsche considered killing its aging classic.
In the fading sun of a winter’s day, I caught the glimpse of some sleek profiles behind a small Porsche repair shop in my sleepy, mountain town. A boneyard of dead Porsches held a trove of faded exotics awaiting cannibalization for their parts. Resting silently beside the railroad tracks sit three 944s, two 928s and the burned-out husk of an early ’90s 964 chassis 911 Carrera 2.
Sadly, seeing abandoned 944s today isn’t a rare sight. Like their bigger cousin, the 928, these water-cooled Porsches required frequent, and rather expensive, maintenance — which often went unperformed. Still, seeing such icons of the 1980s cast aside like an old Member’s Only jacket takes my mind back to those days when they symbolized Yuppie success and helped melt the heart of Molly Ringwald.
Porsche-philes will beat me with a horizontally opposed piston for saying this, but the 928 always fascinated me more than the 911. My first memory of seeing one was in the 1978 two-part episode of “The Hardy Boys” where Joe (Shaun Cassidy) goes undercover as a rich playboy driving a white 928 in order to catch the killer of his finacee.
The fire-ravaged 911 makes me shake my head at the waste of a beautiful machine. But I know the pair of 928s — and the plethora of 944s — nearby ended up here because no one loved them enough to pay the mounting repair costs. They remain unloved by most of the Porsche faithful. Rarely do you see 911s abandoned without suffering accident damage of some sort. People keep them alive if possible.
It seems history doesn’t favor my funny-looking 928s, a car once seen by many to be the future for Porsche. Their legendary electrical and mechanical faults frequently doom them to scrapyards as 911s of the same vintage get ground-up restorations. Their paint fades, but not their beauty.
A showcase for the lost, abandoned and neglected classic cars found along the highway of life. Featured on this site are barn finds and rusty yard cars. Also, a bit of automotive history and a touch of nostalgic memories of a different era.
ABOUT ME
Michael E. Gouge is a college lecturer, former newspaperman and certifiable car nut. His tastes in automobiles run from classic American muscle, to British sports cars, to Asian tuners, to German touring cars. He's owned about all of them. He lives in beautiful western North Carolina.
(Forgive the casual American spelling of "archeology," I realize "archaeology" is considered by many to be the proper form, but then this isn't real archaelogy anyway. Apologies to the wordsmiths).
