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Has the Mercury Marauder gotten better with age?

In the early 2000s Mercury desperately wanted to develop some edge for its brand – seemingly stuck between a quasi-premium, quasi-performance space in the Ford Universe. The Marauder is perhaps the most famous of the vehicles that resulted from those efforts, and is rapidly approaching Modern Classic status, today. Effectively a murdered out Grand Marquis with some updated trim pieces – what are company parts bins for, if not raiding? – the Marauder looked convincingly like a bad guy car. The 4.6-liter V8 under its hood that had been breathed on by engineers for a little more power, kicking out 302 horsepower and 318 pound-feet of torque from the factory. Not exactly Ferrari-baiting numbers, but it'd give your local cop's car a run for its money. Being a wild child of the last decade, of course our friends at MotorWeek had it on the program. What better way to test your mean-mugging muscle sedan than with John Davis' tanned and steady hands?

Junkyard Gem: 1979 Mercury Marquis 2-Door Sedan

As the creator of the now-much-overused term "Malaise Era" (which I say started in 1973 and ended in 1983, full stop), I have a certain affection for the big two-door Detroit cars of the late 1970s. When such a car is built on the very first model year of Ford's long-lived Panther platform and I find one in a junkyard, I must document it. The 1979 Mercury Marquis is such a car, and this one was found in a San Francisco Bay Area self-service yard last month. Since Ford built the Grand Marquis all the way through the demise of the Panther platform— and Mercury itself— in 2011, it's easy for us to forget that the model name started out as just the plain old Marquis, back in the 1967 model year, with the Grand appellation used for the car's top trim level. While today's Junkyard Gem has some of the features of the Grand Marquis and Marquis Brougham trim levels for 1979 (notably the padded vinyl landau roof and power windows), it lacks the huge chrome lower-body moldings of those cars. Instead, it's a regular Marquis 2-door sedan with a big load of expensive options. That landau roof has suffered greatly from its decades beneath the vinyl-disintegrating California sun. The Panther platform was a big technological upgrade from the late-1950s-vintage chassis technology of full-sized Fords of the 1960s and 1970s, and it stayed in front-line service in much the same form through 2011. Though its ride and handling were much improved, the 1979 Marquis was quite a bit smaller than its predecessors, and that caused some grumbling among Mercury shoppers. Some ham-handed junkyard shoppers really tore up the interior of this car while extracting a few bits and pieces, but we can still admire the Pine Green pleather of the glorious Twin Comfort Lounge front seats. You had two engine choices when buying a new '79 Marquis: the base 302-cubic-inch (5.0-liter) Windsor V8 making 129 horsepower or the optional 351-cubic-inch (5.8-liter) Windsor V8 rated at 138 horsepower. This one appears to be the 351, the same engine as had been swapped into the pizza-delivery Mercury I drove in the middle 1980s. New cars sold in California around this time had these giant emissions-numbers stickers on the side glass. Later, they went on the underside of the hood.

Car Stories: Owning the SHO station wagon that could've been

A little over a year ago, I bought what could be the most interesting car I will ever own. It was a 1987 Mercury Sable LS station wagon. Don't worry – there's much more to this story. I've always had a soft spot for wagons, and I still remember just how revolutionary the Ford Taurus and Mercury Sable were back in the mid-1980s. As a teenager, I fell especially hard for the 220-horsepower 1989 Ford Taurus SHO – so much so that I'd go on to own a dozen over the next 20 years. And like many other quirky enthusiasts, I always wondered what a SHO station wagon would be like. That changed last year when I bought the aforementioned Sable LS wagon, festooned with the high-revving DOHC 3.0-liter V6 engine and five-speed manual transmission from a 1989 Taurus SHO. In addition, the wagon had SHO front seats, a SHO center console, and the 140-mph instrument cluster with mileage that matched the engine. When I bought it, that number was just under 60,000 – barely broken in for the overachieving Yamaha-sourced mill. The engine and transmission weren't the only upgrades. It wore dual-piston PBR brakes with the choice Eibach/Tokico suspension combo in front. The rear featured SHO disc brakes with MOOG cargo coils and Tokico shocks, resulting in a wagon that handled ridiculously well while still retaining a decent level of comfort and five-door functionality. I could attack the local switchbacks while rowing gears to a 7,000-rpm soundtrack just as easily as loading up on lumber at the hardware store. Over time I added a front tower brace to stiffen things a bit as well as a bigger, 73-mm mass airflow sensor for better breathing, and I sourced some inexpensive 2004 Taurus 16-inch five-spoke wheels, refinished in gunmetal to match the two-tone white/gunmetal finish on the car. That, along with some minor paint and body work, had me winning trophies at every car show in town. And yet, what I loved most about the car wasn't its looks or performance, but rather its history. And here's where things also get a little philosophical, because I absolutely, positively love old used cars. Don't get me wrong – new cars are great. Designers can sculpt a timeless automotive shape, and engineers can construct systems and subsystems to create an exquisite chassis with superb handling and plenty of horsepower. But it's the age and mileage that turn machines into something more than the sum of their parts.