1974 Trans Am Aaca National Juniors Award Winner on 2040-cars

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Junkyard Gem: 2002 Pontiac Aztek

The General's Pontiac Division sold the Aztek for the 2001 through 2005 model years, and — despite enjoying something of a cultural rebirth in recent years — it is generally considered to be one of the worst cars of all time. The idea of using a minivan platform as the basis for a rough-and-tough-looking crossover with plenty of outdoor-lifestyle amenities wasn't the problem, since many vehicle manufacturers have printed bales of money using that formula. What doomed the Aztek was its hideous appearance and sticker price too lofty for its underemployed-at-the-time Generation X target demographic. Still, the Aztek proved to be perfectly suited for the outdoor activities that Coloradans love: hiking, camping, fishing, skiing, hauling mud-caked golden retrievers around, etc., and so you'll still find lots of Azteks on the roads of the Centennial State. Here's an Aztek Yellow Aztek (yes, that's really the paint color's official title) residing just a few rows from a '76 Checker Taxicab in a Denver self-service yard. Sure, it does look like a vehicle built to the specifications of a six-year-old who decreed a mashup between a Datsun F-10 and a Fisher-Price Little People Travel Together Airplane, but so what? There's a built-in air compressor to blow up your inflatable rafts and volleyballs, a tent attachment that turns the rear of the van into a camper, 12-volt power plugs all over the vehicle (years before this became commonplace on ordinary minivans and SUVs), and running-gear commonality with a jillion Ventures, Silhouettes, Montanas and Trans Sports. Buick managed to de-uglify the Aztek (somewhat) and sold it as the Rendezvous through 2007, but the Aztek never could win over many people with this face. I see plenty of Azteks and Rendezvouses in Denver-area wrecking yards, and I've documented a handful over the years. This one came fully loaded from the factory, with the Corvette-style heads-up display in full effect. The center console was a removable cooler, which was a great idea Â… except for the fact that this cooler holds five standard 12-ounce cans. Michigan residents tell me that this must have been intentional on the part of the Detroit-based Aztek designers, because Michiganders are expected to chug one beer out of a sixer as they walk from the liquor store to the car in the parking lot Â… which makes me extra cautious whenever I'm driving in the Wolverine State.

Porsche Syberia RS rally car is what you make when you need a Hummer that's fast

Some history: The Porsche 911's first-ever race was the 1965 Monte Carlo rally, entered because Porsche's PR man at the time wanted to show how much the future icon could do. A year later, Porsche began selling an optional rally kit for the 911 that included Recaro seats, a roll bar, and adjustable Koni dampers. Porsche produced factory rally racers until the early 1970s, winning Monte Carlo three times in a row before letting privateers carry the torch so the factory could focus on campaigning in the East Africa Safari. After years of painful lessons, when Porsche took its brand-new 1978 911 SC to the safari, the 3.0-liter flat-six coupe was hours away from winning the race before damaging the suspension, demoting the car to second place. Porsche fans wanted their own replicas, and finding the new 911 to be an affordable option, the SC — built from 1978 to 1983 — went from denoting "Super Carrera" to "Safari Car."   Porsche took a big step up in with the 953 rally car. Built to win the 1984 Paris-Dakar, which it did, the 953 introduced the four-wheel-drive system Porsche would evolve for the 959 in 1985 and the 964-series 911 in 1989, as well as the now-unforgettable 911-based Rothmans livery. All of this is what's fueling today's 911 Safari Car revival around the world. Almost all of today's builds start with the so-called G Model 911s, produced from 1973 to 1989, usually focusing on the SC and the Carrera that ran from 1984 until 1989.  Fast forward to 2007 when a mysterious crew organized the TransSyberia Rally, a "sports-touring" event that stretched 4,500 miles from Moscow to the capital of Mongolia, Ulaanbaatar. Of the 34 vehicles that entered, 25 were Porsche's purpose-built Cayenne S Transsyberia Edition.  Put this all in a pot and you have the beginnings of the car that brings us here, the Syberia RS. It's said that a German fellow by the name of Kai Burkhard wanted to buy a Humvee, but the low top speed, around 50 miles per hour, put him off. So instead, he imported a 1986 911 "in collector condition" from Japan with the idea of rebuilding it to provide almost all the off-road fun he could have had in the H1. Burkhard tapped the Tailor Made department at German suspension designer H&R, and the two set to work creating a build like the 953 Dakar winner.  This content is hosted by a third party. To view it, please update your privacy preferences. Manage Settings. The owner's been mum on most of the details including engine revisions.

This junkyard '91 Grand Am is as hooptie as it gets

I spend a lot of time in junkyards. A lot of time. With all this experience, I have learned to recognize a perfect hooptie when I see one, a car whose final owner got every last bit of use out of it when its value was hovering right about at scrap value. This 1991 Pontiac Grand Am that I spotted in a San Francisco Bay Area self-service wrecking yard a few days ago, from the final model year for the third-generation Grand Am, checks all the hooptie boxes just right. First of all, it's a low-option coupe with the wretched and unloved GM Iron Duke engine, a rattly, gnashy, thrashy 2.5-liter four-cylinder kludged together using off-the-shelf parts from the Pontiac 301-cubic-inch V8 during the darkest years of the Malaise Era and used in cars whose buyers just didn't care. Most of the paint has been burned off by 25 years of harsh California sun, but the car spent sufficient time in a damp, shady spot for lichens to build up here and there. There are skeletons-with-sombreros stencils sprayed here and there, plus a big moonshine-guzzling skeleton mural painted on the hood. Goodbye, property values! Still, someone felt some affection for this car, giving it the name "Good Ol' Snakey" and painting that name on the decklid. We can assume that the Iron Duke was a bit loose by this time, probably leaving a serpentine trail of blue smoke behind the car at all times. So, the combination of cheapness, ugliness, menace, and who-gives-a-damn functionality make this Grand Am an excellent example of a pure hooptie. Within a couple of months, it will be crushed, shredded, shipped out of the Port of Oakland, and reborn in China as refrigerators and Geely Emgrands. Somewhere in Northern California, though, a few of Ol' Smokey's friends will remember this car fondly.