A refrigerator with wheels, or a beautiful lawn ornament: the car nerd dilemma.

Greg, Masters, Ben and I were walking the Greenwood car show and we came across a 1956 Chevy Bel Air coupe that had clearly received more focus and money than has my college education. It was flawless, from its perfectly detailed under carriage to exterior paint so smooth you could read the fine print on a speeding ticket in its reflection. No part had been untouched in the Chevy's rebuild, and it showed. What also showed was that this car was driven exclusively in sunny weather and passengers were allowed only after the owner verified that there were no rivets in their jeans, less the perfect leather interior should be marked, or even more terrifyingly, ripped! Gasp!

Just one car away sat a 1969-1971 Charger in purple with black vinyl roof and bright red drum brakes at all four corners. This car was the same body as the one used in Dukes of Hazaard, and I'd be surprised to learn that the purple one in front of us had never experienced a little Dukes style jumping action of its own. The paint was chipped and faded, the interior cracked and worn, and best of all there was actual grease on the engine. It was beautiful.

Of the four of us, no one could definitively decide which of the two cars was better. Neither could we defend one against the other. Where the Chevy was shiny, the Charger was drivable without a full detail kit nearby to polish the chrome lower suspension control arms once parked. The Chevy was prettier, faster, and likelier more comfortable in theory, but the Charger had clearly achieved actual speed.

The problem is similar when choosing between econoboxes (any car that values efficiency over speed and excitement) and lawn ornaments (beautiful classics that are likely broken more than not). Is the theoretical better than the proven?

I asked my coworkers today if they'd rather have a $2500 econobox (Civic, Accord, Escort, etc.) or a $2500 classic (1967 Mustang Coupe, 1972 Buick Skylark, 1956 Chevy 210 Sedan, etc.). Sure, the econobox would likely smell better and get better fuel economy, but the classic would be infinitely more fun. We were split by the equal desires for comfort, fuel economy and coolness.

I know how I stand, being the proud owner of the least useful car ever made, but what about yourself? Do you swallow your pride and dive into the sea of beige in which econoboxes slowly drown your dreams and ambitions? Do you hitch hike to work every now and then when your beautiful, interesting 1963 Pontiac Tempest convertible invariably overheats or locks the brakes up while midway to a destination? Comment below, let's get this conundrum solved.

2011 Greenwood Auto Show [Photos]

Pusher Truck is more than cars. It is a way of life.

Deep in the woods of Duvall, WA, past the city limits and well off the nearest paved street, Greg, Ben, Masters and I found a steaming pile of white-trash and rolled around in it. Greg shot himself a rabbit, Masters rode a zip line, and Ben cleaned and gutted the aforementioned bunny before Greg grilled it on a barbecue. In short, we lived the life for a brief afternoon. Just look at these photos and tell me you aren't jealous.

Definition

Q: What in the name of all that is holy is a Pusher Truck?

Well that question is as loaded as a dirt chicken’s scattergun! A Pusher Truck is so much more than just a machine loaded up with more chrome than a fleet of Harleys and more lights than a white trash Christmas.….It’s a way of life. It is the vehicular summation of a Pusher Truck driver’s entire being. It represents not only his manhood but his every hope and dream since he was a boy watching his daddy drive his Pusher Truck at the racetrack on Saturday nights. We know that if one is a Pusher Driver that his daddy must have been too as only one from the bloodline can carry on the torch into his generation. It is something of a NASCARian priesthood, only those born of Pusher blood may build or drive a Pusher Truck. If any mere mortal were to attempt to drive one, it would be seen as blasphemy; he would be immediately tortured and bled like a gut-shot panther. Should an outsider even attempt to touch a Pusher Truck without permission he would surely meet his maker after an introduction to the business end of a Kentucky Toothpick.

Greenwood Thoughts: The Morning After

Greenwood car show is a monster. The depth and breadth of models, makes, years and styles was astounding. I think this first car we saw at the show sums up just what can be expected:

That's right, you're looking at a stretched Geo Metro Limo. With one gull wing door, this curious creation confounded me thoroughly. But we moved on, because there was so much more to see.

This is a T-Bucket. Ben pointed out, very accurately, that it is very little car with a ton of motor. I couldn't have said it better myself. Check it out:

The next car of note was a red mid-'90s roadster with pop up head lights and an LS1 motor. The valve covers proudly proclaim Corvette, but it is definitely a LS1 powered Miata. Ever see Wile E. Coyote light the fuse on an Acme rocket?

This van is too cool for words.

Tasteless murals with inappropriate levels of semi nudity and patriotism alike? Check.

Custom sheet metal touches such as sideways tail lights from what appears to be a mid-'60s Ford Galaxie and twin frenched antennae? Check.

Blue velour and shag pile carpet covering every inch of the interior, including the built in bed but excluding the crystal chandelier and black granite wet bar? Check.

Class to the tenth degree? Check.

This last pic I snapped is of a survivor Ferrari. It has a plaque mounted on the dash from a rally in Las Vegas back in 1961. The car was rusty, the dash was peeling apart, and it was the coolest little Ferrari I've ever seen.

Greenwood overwhelmed me. Greg will pop some pics up that are both higher quality and greater in number, but these were the ones that garnered my attention. Now, I need to catch my breath.

Greenwood Car Show 2011: Overstimulation Perfected

I just got back from the Greenwood car show, and let me say this: my eyes are bleeding. Greg, Andrew and I joined with my family in the annual slog covering over 10 city blocks. We'll definitely have some detailed photos and lengthy conversation emanating from our experience, but for right now I need to plant a seed of thought that may take root with some of you.

Is it better to drive a dream car and accept the compromise of comfort, fuel economy, reliability and the other problems associated with such vehicles, or compromise the dream and drive an economical, comfortable, and efficient box?

We'll be struggling with this question, as well as others, and should have some conversations posted tomorrow that reflect our lunacy.

And we shot some .22 rifles today in the woods. We'll cover that as well tomorrow.

How I lost my lung on a 'Please do Your Part to Control Litter' sign, and why I'd risk it again.

I was 19 when I got my first street bike. It was a 1979 Honda CX500 in black with split five spoke wheels and chrome that gleamed with a devilish glint that I've yet to find elsewhere. My Dad gifted it to me, and I couldn't have been prouder of that little monster.

Being as young as I was, stubborn arrogance drove most of my decisions, including the neglect of parts that needed serious attention, like tires, brake pads, oil changes, and anything that didn't directly affect how shiny my bike appeared.

I remember clearly the day I learned the error of my choices. It was a sunny Tuesday afternoon, and I'd just bought a sandwich at a small deli at Third Place Books. I had no clear plans for the rest of my day, and I planned on buzzing around the greater North Seattle area until something struck my fancy.

With my goofy full-faced helmet on, I fired the bike up and scooted north on Ballinger, west on 178^th, then bore right at the fork towards 180^th and Perkins. I remember the long left-hand sweeper just past 33^rd that was clearly marked a 25mph zone. I downshifted to 2^nd and leaned into the corner, rolling a smooth 35mph. What happened from there is a series of snapshots.

The front tire slid out from under me.

The bike fell towards the pavement, my torso still upright with my hands still on the handle bars.

My ribs crashed into the sign post with the motorcycle crushing me into it further.

The bike, still running, vibrated on top of me in the ditch.

I picked the bike up and stood.

Walking into the middle of the street, where I noticed the left side of my rib cage was crushed in what looked like a perfect half circle the size of a basketball.

Collapsing to the pavement.

I laid on my back on the yellow center line, staring at the clear blue sky, listening to birds. The earth seemed peaceful and serene. And I knew I was going to die. The pain in my chest was on the other side of the shock that overtook my senses, just waiting to break through and shut down reasoned thought. On the other side of my consciousness were people who jumped out of their cars while trying to ask me if I was okay, if I'd been hit by a car, if anyone had called an ambulance. I just laid still and silent and watched a lone cloud disappear behind the canopy of evergreen trees above me.

An ambulance arrived, the world sped up into fast forward as the worst pain I ever experienced set in, and in rapid succession the largest human I'd ever met, with a push-broom mustache and hands the size of shovels tried to calm my now panicky breathing by enveloping my right hand in his huge mitts and gently patted the top of my hand while cooing softly. The absurdity of the moment calmed me immediately, and I was placed in the back of the ambulance.

In the hospital, I saw family and friends over the railing of my bed. The blue sky was replaced with low-quality flourescent lighting, the birds' songs with those of an emergency room; beeping, medical jargon, and the sound distinct to humans in panic.

11 years later, I've grown familiar with the pain of 6 ribs that will forever be at least slightly broken. My lower left lung, removed due to the damage caused by the tearing and ripping of 6 shattered ribs, is sorely missed when I'm engaged in most physical activity. But what I miss most is that 1979 Honda CX500. Sure, the bike survived the accident with a twisted triple-tree and two bent front forks, but even after I fixed the tires, forks, and all the previously ignored wear items, the bike never rode the same again.

I've owned a couple of street bikes since that accident. I've ridden some long miles and had some unique adventures. But I've never known the serenity of that moment either just before or just after I bounced off a sign post in Lake Forest Park. And for that, I gladly thank that little black Honda.

Everything is better topless

When I was younger, the appeal of a low cost vehicle was too enticing for reason. That's how I bought my first $150 car; a 1977 Volkswagen Scirocco.

With a 1.6 liter, mechanical fuel injected, and SOHC inline 4 cylinder mated to a four speed manual transmission, this little German coupe, which I named Gretchen, was waiting for me on the side of the road in Everett when I drove past. The price in the window reflected the damage to the nose of the car, but I didn't care. She came home with me.

On the drive home, I noticed the death-wobble at any speed over 50mph, and that the tire roar was deafening. I tried to drive Gretchen for my daily commute, but even I couldn't handle the compromise.

So, what to do with a fun little car that couldn't be driven at speeds exceeding 50mph, that got killer fuel economy, and was totally superfluous? Naturally, I cut the roof off.

I know many of you are reading this and thinking that it's stupid to even consider owning this thing. I get that. Others of you would point out, accurately, that VW Sciroccos are sub-frame cars and that the roof is an integral part of the chassis, keeping the body from folding in half like a manilla folder. You're right, and that's why engineers spend so much time strengthening the sub-frames of convertibles. My solution to this dilemma was to stop using the doors.

One trip to Harbor Freight later, I'd cut the roof off with a $20 angle grinder and $4 in cutoff wheels. It took 15 minutes to perform the operation, and I immediately loved Gretchen immensely. With a light film of sweat on my brow, I realized that my high speed conundrum had been solved; never again would anyone be tempted to drive this bavarian bomber at speeds exceeding 25mph, let alone 50mph.

I called my buddy Josh, babbled incoherently about my new creation, and raced lethargically to his house. His enthusiasm matched my own once he experienced low speed cruising in a chassis never designed to accommodate the flexibility that Gretchen now exhibited in corners, traversing pot holes, or even changing lanes. She was terrifyingly beautiful.

Several weeks later, I came home from work to find Gretchen missing from the driveway. I'd left her sitting for a few days, and water had started collecting in the apparently water-tight floor pan. Maybe one of my buddies had decided to drill some holes to facilitate drainage. After calling each person in my contact list, I was further befuddled. Had someone stolen a roofless 1977 VW Scirocco with major sheet metal damage? I never found the answer to that question. It's possible that one of the neighbors got tired of the eyesore and had my German beauty towed off. It could be that a friend decided to save me from myself and took Gretchen out of my life. I just don't know.

The one thing I'm certain of, though, is that at no point in my life have I so distinctly improved a vehicle with so little effort. And that's how I'm justified in claiming that everything's better topless.

Killing a Porsche 911 [Video]

Who are the worst, most annoying, disrespectful, and pathetic drives on the road? Well it's Prius drivers obviously, but second place has to go to Porsche drivers.

Sometimes it's a good thing I don't have a loaded gun with me while getting cut off by the douche bag in the Porsche.

Probably the only way to make a Porsche cool in my mind is to add guns to it. 

That is kinda what happened when the owner of this 911 did after his engine died.

Instead of paying the $20,000 repair bill to repair it, it was donated to charity (Comm2a). A charity trying to restrict gun laws in Massachusetts. 

So what better to do than shoot the hell out of it.

In total about 10,000 rounds were spent ripping through what used to be elegance.

According to Northeast Shooters who participated in the event there where about 140 shooters present popping off rounds for the event.

This is something I have always wanted to do to a Porsche, I just wish the driver was still inside.

Here is more video of the 911 being shot if you didn't get enough.

Photo Galleries of the destruction can be found by Donna Major and John Beauchemin.

Jalopnik's Story

2004 BMW 330CI SMG

I am not a BMW snob.

I've never owned one.

I've never popped the collar on my polo shirt.

I don't own Ray Bans, ironically or otherwise.

I hope you could say that I'm just an average car nerd who appreciates fine automobiles. Which brings me to the 2004 BMW 330CI SMG.

The one I drove was blue with tan interior. I've driven a couple European cars, so there were no surprises from the seats to the switchgear to the HVAC and radio. I did notice the absence of a clutch pedal, though, so I begrudgingly shifted the car into 'R' and prepared my left leg for a long, boring, and ultimately unfulfilling drive. Once out of the parking space, I selected what should have been drive and hustled off with an air of immediacy that I hadn't planned.

Then I noticed that the car was revving out to 6,000 rpm.

Some of you are unaware of this, but the average vehicle doesn't like to rev that high when cool. Further, not many automatics willingly hold first gear with such stubborn determination. In a blind panic, I checked the shifter and noticed the absence of a 'D' (common indicator of Drive). Running out of options, and now rapidly decelerating but holding the same gear, I grabbed one of the silver flappy paddles hiding behind the steering wheel. Second gear engaged, the engine stopped its painful yowl, and I caught my breath.

Never, in my 17 years of legal driving (well, most of it was legal), had I met so confounded an automatic. I double checked, but no clutch pedal was apparent, but neither was there an automatic function. Someone had chosen to build a car that was the worst of both worlds, neither automatic nor manual. I felt like I had just started eating a veggie burger with bacon. And what, exactly, is the benefit there?

As I came to a stop at an intersection, I wrapped my head around the idiocy of the car I was driving and succinctly stalled it. You see, my dear friends, this idiot gearbox was still in second gear. This brought up a whole new frustration.

Some of you have driven cars without clutch pedals. Of those cars, some have the misguided belief that using flappy paddles to shift between the gears is 'sporty' in a way that physically grabbing the shifter in the middle of the car and selecting '2' rather than 'D' just isn't, even though it has the exact same affect. In those cars, the flappy paddle on the right shifts 'plus', while the flappy paddle on the left shifts 'minus'. I am sadly familiar with this system. Surprise; the SMG in BMW's 330CI doesn't use anything even remotely similar.

To my horror, I watched the left paddle produce a blip on the dash that went from '2' to '3' as I clicked it back. I tested the right paddle and increased by a magnitude of 1 once more. Perplexed, I tried pushing rather than pulling the paddle and to my immediate relief, watched the numbers drop.

I restarted the car, selected '1' and drove away to my destination. That's when I found the third and final flaw in the SMG system; no matter how I tried, I couldn't get the car to change gear without bobbling my head like a student driver on his first try out. Seriously, I haven't shifted this sloppy even with a tweaked left knee at night in the woods with a V6 Toyota running on 3 cylinders and the synchro between 1^st and 2^nd being totally fragged. And I've been in that position twice.

In the end, I dropped the car off with no desire to ever drive it again. I don't have any impression of any other aspect of the vehicle. The engine may be lovely, the car possibly well balanced, but I'll never know because I'll take a sharp stick to the upper right arm before I enter that car again. And I've already taken a stick to the arm, but like driving the 2004 BMW 330CI SMG, I'll never make that mistake again.

2011 Jaguar XK Love

Let's get this straight; regardless of what you may read, you should definitely buy a 2011 Jaguar XK. I'm not suggesting this as something that you should consider for a future transaction. No, even if you have to sell your organs, do it. Buy this car. Until you have one parked in a temperature and humidity controlled-environment, your life is incomplete.

Now, let me explain why you'll hate it. Remember, you should still definitely buy one.

I climbed into a black 2011 XK with black interior and 6 speed manual transmission. I had already walked, slowly, past the car, then back around it, then slowly in the other direction. But we'll get to the looks in a moment, for now we focus on the car in terms of its primary function. I am somewhere between six and six and a half feet tall (depending on which convenience store door I'm standing beside), which means that I have to slide the seat rearward on every car I drive even before I enter the vehicle. This particular Jaguar was no exception, but the cockpit was so small that I had to choose between tilting the seat back or sliding the seat bottom rearward; either T-Rex arms or knees above the steering wheel. No bueno. Then I hit the start button. I'll refer you to the first statement on beauty I made regarding this car on what the sound coming from the exhaust did to my senses. Yes, senses. You can almost see the beautiful sound, like Pepe LePew's scent trail while bouncing toward his sadly defenseless date-rape-victim cat.

I put the car in reverse, noting the smooth clutch pedal operation, and eased into the throttle. Small problem there. The throttle pedal feels like it has three feet of travel. Almost like Hugh Grant designed it.

“Oh, um, terribly sorry, but it appears... yes, I see you want to apply some... uh, throttle... and I just, uh... well, of course we can accelerate... but may I, uh, just... uh...”

I did find, though, that the pedal had some affect on the engine with a deep enough shove, and was able to put the car into motion. Here's where the next problem appeared; the steering. If you had the same driver's ed. Instructor as I, then you remember the mantra, “10 and 2,” meaning that your hands should be placed on the steering wheel at those positions as though on a clock face. Now, try to imagine that the steering between those “10 and 2” positions was totally numb until you exceeded those boundaries, and then you're in the next lane. It was unnerving.

The car reminded me very distinctly of my Mother's 1998 Ford Taurus. The steering, throttle, brakes and seating position were clearly stolen by Jaguar. Well done, Jaguar, you've proven that if a car is beautiful enough, it needn't love you in return. But I digress.

I finally did get past the Hugh Grant throttle and meth-addict steering to attain freeway speeds. And was unmoved. I spent the entirety of the rest of the journey trying to see if any other drivers saw me. And now we talk about the looks.

This car is beautiful. I'm not talking sunsets over sailboats on a shimmering lake. I'm talking beauty beyond that. If ever an angel wept, it was surely after being moved beyond words by a Jaguar XK. And for this reason alone, you must buy one.

Now.

Why I bought the worst car of my life.

Her name is Scarlet, and she wants to kill me.

No, I'm not using hyperbole, this vehicle is decidedly devising my demise. Perhaps I should back up a little at this point, you haven't yet met my Jeep.

I was perusing Craigslist with my bff Greg, as was my custom, searching for a vehicle that could deliver me and, ideally, at least one other occupant to deep forest locations where adventure and untold action surely awaited. The parameters of a successful find included four wheel drive, fuel efficiency, low cost, simplicity, and a removable roof. Candidates ranged from Scouts to CJ7s, and the choices were each enticing. Greg and I found a Scout that had most of what we were looking for (minus fuel economy, thanks to the 392 big block) and met the owner for a test drive. It was horrendous. Then I found the posting that would ruin my life.

Mind you, I already owned a 4Runner that had four wheel drive, seated 4 comfortably, got 19 MPG consistently, and was paid for, but I wanted to pull the roof off for the 3 sunny days Seattle gets each year. And four wheeling meant at least a 2 hour drive to Walker Valley, or a 3 hour drive to Naches. And I had no other vehicle.

The post was clear enough; 1946 Willys with a V8 (goodbye fuel economy), four wheel drive (check), an attainable price tag (check), and no roof at all (sort of a check, right?). I called and set up a test drive. Greg reminded me that I had neither money nor a second vehicle. To me, it was already too late, I was dreaming lovely things involving a decidedly compromised vehicle.

We arrived at the seller's house, and Greg gave me a look that said it all; this was the one. We babbled with the owner, my heart enduring an unending array of ache as the owner himmed and hawed over whether the little Jeep ran, could be driven, or was even for sale. He finally handed me the keys, offering a low speed test drive, given that the carb wouldn't idle and the tires were weather-checked.

I still remember that drive. If you haven't been in love yet, you'll likely misunderstand the feelings I knew at that moment. For those of you that have encountered such a thing, may God have mercy on us all. The little Jeep, with too little leg room, too little fuel economy, no roof or license plate, was perfect. No, it didn't idle smoothly. Yes, it did have four shifters. These things may have been blemishes to someone else, but to me they were beauty.

I left the seller's house with a promise to return, cash in hand. I feverishly sold the 4Runner, borrowed money, and almost started selling Plasma to collect the funds. Each step was a blur with visions of my lovely Willys the only point of clarity.

Finally, with the entire asking price in my sweaty hands, I met with the seller. Remember, I no longer had another car. I held the entirety of my worldly possessions in cash form and was about to trade it for a vehicle that was 65 years old. The seller crushed my now tender heart once more, asking where the trailer was. I couldn't speak, I was cold. He pointed out that the Jeep idled poorly and was going to be difficult to drive. Air reentered my lungs as my body snapped back to life. I told him that I'd feather the throttle. He finally accepted this and traded my cash for a title. Then she was mine.

That first drive, that first real drive, was 45 minutes before sunset on a twisty road in a valley filled with breath taking beauty. I discovered that my little Jeep had the most lusty roar when I tapped the throttle, second only to the full-bodied howl developed when jabbed to the floor. The wind in my hair, the acoustic delights of very little exhaust between my ear and a built 1965 Mustang 289 V8, and the knowledge that she was mine.

I later discovered that this Jeep would rip through each gear quicker than I could shift between them, that she was faster than anything I'd ever owned, that she got 8-10 MPG, and that a car show magically appeared wherever the Willys was parked. People offered me money, which I gladly turned down. Other drivers on the road would catch up to us just to wave, honk, or give a thumbs up. That's when Scarlet earned her name. She was quite a catch.

When it rains, as is often the state of Seattle's somewhat unimaginative clime, water becomes needles in the eye while driving Scarlet. All known remedies shy of ponying $500 for a roof have fallen short of the ideal when it comes to sorting this error out.

The fuel economy is so poor, driving to and from work, a 10 mile round trip, mind you, would cost me $200 per month. And that's if I drive nicely, which is hard to do with that kind of unlimited power at my right foot. Greg and I drove to Walker Valley for an evening of rowdy wheeling, and $70 disappeared in less than 150 miles. Scarlet may be many things, but a cheap date she is not.

Why then, as many of you would ask, wouldn't I sell this Jeep? I'd happily reply that you are all crazy. Whatever Scarlet demands of me, it is far too little a price for the sheer joy she brings to my life. Sure, I can't really drive her. And no, I don't really fit behind the wheel. And yes, I need a personal loan before contemplating a trip to anywhere further than I can immediately physically see when setting off. But she's so perfect, it hurts me. This is the vehicle I will die with. Actually, I'll likely die in her. Ah, what a way to go.