British Cars Archives - CARS // MOTORBIKES

Ariel Atom

In a way, the Ariel Atom was as close as a roadster gets to an F1 car. The lack of headlamps was a dead giveaway! There was not enough frontal area for such fripperies. Anyway, the Atom would be wasted at night. Far better to spend the running costs blitzing daylit open roads. Not that those costs would be too exorbitant. For sure, the Atom could have been filed under ‘pared-down’. It was first glimpsed at Birmingham’s British International Motor Show – in October, ’96. Production began in 2000. Eight more iterations of the Atom would follow. Enthusiasts are hoping for more!

Simplicity was key to the Atom. Read atomic particle simple. Ariel went back to basics – and bare-bone ones, at that. Its weight said it all. Even by stripped-down supercar standards, 1,005lb was light. And it was not just the dearth of standard headlights. The Atom’s ‘cabin’ was minimal, to say the least. Composite bucket seats were about it! Strapped into 4-point race harnesses, though, the two occupants were not going anywhere – except through high-speed bends. With single-seater-style suspension – tuned by Lotus – corners were a gimme.

There are, of course, limits to the Atom/F1 car comparison. It is true to say that a top speed of 150mph might be less than competitive down today’s straights. That was, though, from a 4-cylinder 2-litre engine – the i-VTEC – borrowed from the Japanese market Honda Civic Type R. Likewise, the original 220bhp may be considered down on power for a contemporary Formula One grid. That would, however, be increased to 245bhp with the Atom 2. And 350bhp was available from the supercharged Atom 3.5R. So, with adroit use of the 6-speed ‘box – also sourced from the Civic Type R – scaled-down GP driving was clearly on the cards. To be fair, Ariel Motor Company – based in Crewkerne, Somerset – comprised just seven staffers. The proverbial whip was cracked by boss Simon Saunders. In the past, he had worked at Aston-Martin and GM. Styling was by Niki Smart. At the time, he was studying transport design at Coventry University. British Steel and TWR were among the sponsors of the student-led project. Asking price for the Ariel Atom was £26,000. Not half bad – especially for owners with vivid imaginations. For, it would not be too far-fetched – on a sunny day, at a twisty track – to feel yourself capable of similar feats to drivers of, say, your average F1 car. Up and Atom, as it were!

TVR Sagaris

If you bought a TVR Sagaris new, you got a fiver change from £50K. It did not, though, come with any airs and graces attached. Built in Blackpool – on England’s NW coast – the Sagaris delivered no-frills performance – and plenty of it. No-frills, yes – but not no-thrills. A top speed of 175mph made sure of that.

A swift glance at the Sagaris spoke volumes. The transparent rear wing could not have been clearer … in terms of the car’s intent, that is. If you were still in doubt, an array of bonnet vents gave the game away. Does a road car really need to breathe so deeply, some might ask? Nikolai Smolenski – TVR’s new owner – obviously thought so. He was a young Russian oligarch – and not one for leaving things to chance. In the past, TVR had caught flak over build quality. To be fair, as a small manufacturer of exotic machinery, it was always a risk. Smolenski, then, opted to up the ante, reliability-wise. How much he succeeded is a moot point. Anyway, a sturdy roll-cage was duly installed – which took care of over-zealous pedal-prodders, at least!

Certainly, the Sagaris’ straight-six engine called for care. The all-aluminium unit was deceptively pretty. On top of a 406bhp output, it turned over 349lb/ft of torque. As a result, the Sagaris rocketed from 0-60 in 3.7s. 0-100 took just 8.1s. Figures like that mean precision engineering. With a bit of Northern grit thrown in, of course. After all, sports car development is no bowl of cherries! But, while the TVR Sagaris did not stand on ceremony, it was bespoke – not basic!

Riley 2.5 Walter Köng Saloon

Walter Köng’s Riley 2.5 Saloon was unique. That made sense – since it was a solo effort. Well, apart from the engine. All other aspects of the car were overseen by Köng. No wonder, then, that it took him 5,000 man-hours – or two years – to complete.

Köng was Swiss. In ’45 – with the war only just over – not a huge amount was happening in his native land. Switzerland’s key industries – textiles and clock-making – were having a tough time of it. Köng was well-versed in all things automotive. He had worked at Sala, in Italy – as well as French firm Gallee. Oh, not forgetting Chrysler and Packard. With the fighting now finished, Köng was hankering to get back to work. With Swiss manufacturing still in the doldrums, he decided to take things into his own hands. Köng would build his own car!

Köng’s inspiration came in the form of aircraft. Specifically, fighter planes. That was hardly surprising – since he had, after all, seen a few in recent times. The design brief was radical – especially for someone putting it into practice himself. Bodywork would be aluminium. The roof would be a two-panel, removable affair. In truth, Pontiac and Ford had already pioneered that set-up. What they had not pioneered were mahogany bumpers. They came courtesy of Köng – and his fertile imagination. Eventually, the time came when all the car needed was an engine. A Riley 2.5 was duly sourced and installed. Sadly – after so much effort – Köng’s project was not to be a lucrative one. While his work appeared at ’49’s Geneva Motor Show – and generated a good deal of interest – no sales materialised. But, all was not lost. The annals of motoring history were another matter entirely. Walter Köng slotted into them with aplomb. To motoring’s cognoscenti, he was now a kingpin of bespoke car-builders. The Riley 2.5 Saloon was proof positive of that!

Costin Amigo

Frank Costin – creator of the Amigo – was an automotive pioneer. That said, he learned a lot of what he knew from the aircraft industry. He had been a top aeronautical engineer in his time. In the Fifties, Costin shifted his skill-set to motor racing. Lotus and Vanwall benefitted directly. Indirectly, the ripples of his expertise spread far wider. When Frank Costin met Jem Marsh, they founded sports car maker MarCos. The marque had a unique take on English eccentricity. That was fully in keeping with Costin’s character. An out and out maverick, he did things his way. That certainly extended to his cars’ construction. Costin liked wood. The chassis in Marcos’ first sports cars were made from laminated marine plywood.

In time, Marcos moved to more orthodox chassis. That was probably partly as a result of Marsh’s input. Costin, though, was still a believer. He sought backing to build a car of his own. Enter the Costin Amigo! Its monocoque frame was forged from, yes, plywood – albeit with strengthening pine strips bonded on. The chassis’ light weight was echoed by a glassfibre body. The latter was sublimely smooth – both of shape and finish. Visually and aerodynamically, it cut straight to the chase.

The Amigo’s engine, drive-train and suspension were sourced from the Vauxhall VX4/90. Indeed, the Amigo was built close by Vauxhall’s Luton HQ. Fittingly – given Costin’s former employment – it was at an airfield. And the Amigo’s performance was jet-plane impressive. Top speed was 137mph. Handling was high-calibre. Design-wise, only the spartan interior let the side down a tad. It certainly contributed to the Amigo’s woefully low sales. A scant eight units were shifted. To be fair to the Amigo, had Frank Costin been more of a marketing man, it might have helped. To be fair to Frank Costin – engineering was all he knew. Anyway – the Costin Amigo story was richer than that of many cars that sold a thousand times more. Not that the bank manager would have seen it that way!

Ford Escort RS

For many motorists, the Ford Escort RS was a must-have. Especially when sporting ‘go faster’ stripes, it ticked all the right boy racer boxes. RWD – plus light bodywork – were just the ticket … sometimes literally! Starring in Seventies TV show The Professionals bolstered the Escort’s hard-hitting image. As well as doing its sales figures no harm at all!

The RS, though, was more than a rocketship roadster. It doubled up as a top-flight rally car. The Mexico model marked Ford’s win in the London to Mexico Rally. The smaller RS1800 version was still ultra-competitive. With its twin-cam motor – and all round disc brakes – many an owner took to the stages. On the road, too, it did not disappoint. An X-Pack of optional extras saw to that. Between its nose and the tarmac, the RS2000 sported a ‘droopsnoot’ – a polyurethane spoiler/air dam. It cut drag, according to Ford.

Technologically, then, the Escort impressed. Certainly, its suspension was on solid ground. A set of MacPherson struts sorted the front. A live axle – on leaf springs – looked after the rear. The Escort’s monocoque steel shell could be strengthened. Its in-line four engine produced 86bhp. Top speed was 103mph. Later versions upped both stats. The gearbox was 4-speed manual. As ’70s interiors went, the Escort’s was slick. An array of dials, bucket seats and a sports steering-wheel all helped with harum-scarum high-speed shenanigans. Which – if you had bought a Ford Escort RS – was what you wanted!

Daimler SP250 Dart

When first seen – at the ’59 NY Motor Show – the Daimler Dart was derided as an ugly duckling. The consensus was that the fins looked dated, the headlamps bug-eyed – and the grille a bit … well, fishy! Over time, though, qualms over the SP250’s styling subsided. Daimler was on a downswing in the late Fifties. New management sought to remedy that – by emulating Jaguar, Triumph and MG. Daimler, too, would produce a sports car for the American market. The potential problem was that Daimler lacked experience with sports cars. Indeed, the Dart was the only one the marque made. To get the ball rolling, it used the chassis and suspension set-up from the Triumph TR3. After that, Daimler turned to the bodywork. Which is when things started to go awry. The glassfibre shell Daimler designed seemed fine. Until the going got a bit rough – at which point the doors were liable to fly open! The writing was on the wall for the Dart as early as 1960. Jaguar then took over the SP250 project. Sir William Lyons was the new CEO. As well as being a top-flight manager, he was a stylist of high repute. Sadly, Lyons and the Dart did not see eye to eye. Its unwieldy form upset his creative sensibilities. One of them had to go. It would not be Lyons!

Prior to the Jaguar takeover, Edward Turner was managing director at Daimler. Before that, he had worked at Triumph – in its motorcycle division. His engine design work there had achieved widespread acclaim. Indeed, in the bike world, he was legendary. Some of that had rubbed off on the Dart. Indeed – courtesy of Turner – its motor was pretty much flawless. Torquey but smooth, it catapulted the lightweight Dart to a top speed of 125mph. 0-60 took 9.5s. The engine’s hemispherical combustion chambers – and twin SU carburettors – were key to its performance. Plus, the SP250 returned a respectable 25mpg. Best of both worlds, basically. Brakes-wise, a full set of Dunlop discs were fitted.

In a bid to drive up US sales, attempts were made to upgrade the Dart. It was given a stiffer chassis and bumpers – as well as a few more creature comforts than it had previously provided. From a marketing perspective, the SP250 was pitched between the cheaper Triumph TR and MGs – and the more expensive Jaguar XK150. 2,644 SP250s were built. Production ceased in ’64. The ugly duckling never did morph into a graceful swan. But, beauty is in the eye of the beholder – and Daimler Dart fans loved it all the same!

Austin-Healey 3000 MkIII

The Austin-Healey 3000 MkIII was a seriously iconic British sports car. One of the legendary ‘big Healeys’, it was made in the Midlands, England. Bodies were built by Jensen – in West Bromwich. Final assembly took place in MG’s Abingdon factory. First of the breed was the Healey 100. It recycled the 4-cylinder engine from the Austin Atlantic. But it was when a 6-pot motor was lowered into the 3000 model, that the Healey range really sprang into life.

The 3000 MkI arrived in ’59. In design terms, it was not too different from what had gone before. It was a sizeable, stylish 2-seater. The game-changer was beneath the bonnet. The six-cylinder engine kicked out 124bhp. Top speed was 114mph. To cope with the extra horsepower, robust front disc brakes had been fitted. Come the 3000 MkII version, and output had been upped to 132bhp. That was largely courtesy of triple SU carburettors. ’64’s MkIII racheted up power still further – to 148bhp. The speed-needle now flickered at over 120mph. At that point, the motorsport world sat up and took notice. Before long, the Healey roadster had morphed into a works rally car … and a highly competitive one, at that.

Visually, the 3000 was notably low-slung. Whilst that certainly looked cool, it did not help the car’s rallying cause. On the stages, ground clearance could be suspect. As automotive design, though, the MkIII was a triumph … as it were! Its dramatic grille – and subtly sloping lines – were a joy to behold. Its wire wheels were web-like works of art. The curved windscreen – and neatly-folding hood – were stylish embellishments. The 3000’s rear-end was as shapely as it gets. Distinctly British though it was, the MkIII was built primarily for the American market. Ironically, it was strict Stateside safety regulations that brought about its demise. Production stopped in ’67. By then, though, the Austin-Healey 3000 MkIII was woven into the fabric of moody, muscular sports cars. Wonder if Marlon Brando ever drove one!

Vauxhall Cresta PA

The Vauxhall Cresta PA appeared in ’57. At the time, Vauxhall – a mainstay of British car manufacturing – was under the aegis of GM, in Detroit. Unsurprisingly, then, the new Cresta PA picked up several US styling motifs. The rear fins, for example, were pure Americana … though suitably reined in for British tastes! Likewise, the PA’s wraparound windscreen clearly originated on the other side of the ‘pond’. Stateside-style two-tone paint – and whitewall tyres – were optional extras. The Cresta was Vauxhall’s answer to the Ford Zodiac. It was there in every larger-than-life line of the British-made car. The PA’s cabin continued the ‘Britmobile’ theme. Bench seats, white steering wheel and column shift all came courtesy of the American Dream.

Mechanically, the Cresta harked back to the E Series. Its pushrod straight-six engine produced 78bhp. That gave it a top speed of 90mph. Capacity was 2,262cc. Power was delivered in relaxed fashion. The gearbox was a 3-speed synchromesh set-up. Soft suspension was via a leaf-spring rear axle, wishbones and coil springs. Many of these components derived from the Vauxhall Velox – the Cresta’s slightly less sophisticated predecessor.

In ’59, the Cresta got a face-lift. Its three-piece rear screen became one-piece. Up front, the ‘egg-crate’ grille was revised. Coachbuilders Friary built an estate car version. The Queen gave it her personal seal of approval … she drove one for years. 1960 brought further Cresta updates. Its motor was taken out to 2.6 litres. That upped output to 96bhp. The PA was given larger wheels and fins. The gearbox was now a two-pedal Hydramatic auto. Or, alternatively, a dual overdrive manual. Front disc brakes were servo-assisted. British motorists gave the improvements a thumbs up. The PA sold soundly, right up to ’62. By then, though, its fins – whilst the ‘in thing’ in the Fifties – were starting to show their age. Its production run now over, the Vauxhall Cresta PA was put out to well-earned pasture. British cars would seldom seem so American again!

Daimler Majestic Major

At a glance, the Daimler Majestic Major may not seem much by way of a performance car. But – by the standards of its day, at least – it certainly was. Notwithstanding the Major’s large dimensions – as well as a separate chassis – it could outpace the best of them. And, it had manoeuvrability to match! Top whack was 122mph. Enough for it to glide with ease past many a sports car. Come the corners – and things were no different. Power steering saw to that. Key to the speed was a 4.7-litre hemi-head V8. 0-60 turned up in less than 10s – 9.7, to be precise. Impressive acceleration for a car of its bulk. Transmission was via a 3-speed auto ‘box.

Few saloons cruised Britain’s highways and byways like the Major. Of course – being a Daimler – elegance came as standard. The cabin was all one would expect from a car of its class. Leather pews – and a wooden dash – made it home from stately home. Seating arrangements were suitably spacious. The boot – about the size of your average black hole – could accomodate every golf club known to man. A limousine version – the DR45 – was tailor-made for the carriage trade. Funeral parlours doted on it. And yet – for all of its high-end charm – the Majestic Major had a trace of the common touch. It was drawn by the same designer as the FX4 taxi-cab!

1,180 saloon version Majors were built. Plus, 864 limousines. In the course of the car’s run, Daimler was taken over by Jaguar. indeed, a Daimler engine was ear-marked for a new MkX – Jaguar’s flagship model, at the time. Sadly, a prototype of the V8 motor was as far as it got. It blew all the Jaguar engines into the weeds. That did not endear it to Jaguar’s top brass. After all, shareholders might legitimately have asked what they had been doing for the last few years! So, the Daimler Majestic Major combined edge-of-your-seat speed with rarefied styling. In short, it was a souped-up saloon car for the wannabe aristocrat in all of us. Well, most of us, anyway!

Rover P5

The Rover P5 was private transport of the highest order. For years, it ferried the great and the good about their well-heeled business. Government ministers – and top civil servants – put down their attaché cases and relaxed on its sumptuous seats. Security picked up the purr of its engine, as one – whether at Downing Street, Parliament or Buckingham Palace. So, on state occasions, the four-wheeled presence of Rover P5s was a given.

The P5 was impeccably styled by David Bache. It was so-named because it was ‘post-war design number 5’. Its exterior was the pinnacle of saloon car sophistication. Sober lines – and toned-down hues – exuded due gravitas. The interior, too, was quality incarnate. The materials used said it all. The dash was fashioned from African cherry wood. The carpet was Wilton. Seats were, of course, luxury leather. To all intents and purposes, the P5 was a banqueting-room on wheels. The pliancy of its ride echoed the subtlety of its styling. The P4’s separate chassis was now history.

On the surface, the P5 was the quintessence of Englishness. From ’67 on, however, the US lay beneath – in the form of a 3.5-litre Buick engine. It brought some much-needed speed to the P5 package. No more running late for those executive meetings. Previously, the P5 had been powered by a 3-litre motor. Buick’s V8 made 185bhp. The P5’s top speed climbed to 110mph. The powerplant was sourced from parent company GM. Rover got it at a discount – since it had become surplus to requirements. The gearbox was 3-speed auto. Thoughtfully, Rover provided a toolkit – albeit, somewhat basic. It was discreetly tucked away in the dashboard. Not that the P5’s passengers would have had much of a clue what to do with it! Many of the key decisions of our times were made with the help of the P5. Many a soirée could not have happened without it. In motoring terms, society’s crème de la crème had never had it so good. We must be forever grateful, then, to the Rover P5 … I think!