Belt up and enjoy this 365-day ride as you cruise past the most momentous motoring events in history. Packed with fascinating facts about races, motorists and the history of the mighty engine, this is a must-visit web site for any car enthusiast.
A chronological day-by-day history of Smart.
Henry Ford’s first Model T, affectionately known as the ‘Tin Lizzie’, rolled off the assembly line in Detroit, Michigan. The Model T revolutionised the motor industry by providing an affordable, reliable car for the average American. Ford was able to keep the price down by retaining control of all raw materials, as well as through his use of new mass-production methods. When first introduced, the car cost only $850 and seated two people. Although the price fluctuated, dipping as low as $290 in 1924, few other changes were ever made to it. Electric lights were introduced in 1915, and an electric starter was introduced as an option in 1919, but eventually the Model T’s design stagnancy cost it its competitive edge and Ford stopped manufacturing it in 1927. From the New Yorker, May 16, 1936: Farewell, My Lovely By: EB White “I see by the new Sears Roebuck catalogue that it is still possible to buy an axle for a 1909 Model T Ford, but I am not deceived. The great days have faded, and the end is in sight. Only one page in the current catalogue is devoted to parts and accessories for the Model T; yet everyone remembers springtimes when the Ford gadget section was larger than men’s clothing, almost as large as household furnishings. The last Model T was built in 1927, and the car is fading from what scholars call the American scene – which is an understatement, because to a few million people who grew up with it, the old Ford practically was the American scene. It was the miracle that God had wrought. And it was patently the sort of thing that could only happen once. Mechanically uncanny, it was like nothing that had ever come to the world before. Flourishing industries rose and fell with it. As a vehicle, it was hard working, commonplace, heroic; and it often seemed to transmit those qualities to the person who rode in it. My own generation identifies it with Youth, with its gaudy, irretrievable excitements; before it fades into the mist, I would like to pay it the tribute of the sigh that is not a sob, and set down random entries in a shape somewhat less cumbersome than a Sears Roebuck catalogue. The Model T was distinguished from all other makes of cars by the fact that its transmission was of a type known as planetary – which was half metaphysics, half sheer fiction. Engineers accepted the word ‘planetary’ in its epicyclic sense, but I was always conscious that it also meant ‘wandering’, ‘erratic’. Because of the peculiar nature of this planetary element, there was always, in Model T, a certain dull rapport between engine and wheels, and even when the car was in a state known as neutral, it trembled with a deep imperative and tended to inch forward. There was never a moment when the bands were not faintly egging the machine on. In this respect it was like a horse, rolling the bit on its tongue, and country people brought to it the same technique they used with draft animals. Its most remarkable quality was its rate of acceleration. In its palmy days the Model T could take off faster than anything on the road. The reason was simple. To get under way, you simply hooked the third finger of the right hand around a lever on the steering column, pulled down hard, and shoved your left foot forcibly against the low-speed pedal. These were simple, positive motions the car responded by lunging forward with a roar. After a few seconds of this turmoil, you took your toe off the pedal, eased up a mite on the throttle, and the car, possessed of only two forward speeds, catapulted directly into high with a series of ugly jerks and was off on its glorious errand. The abruptness of this departure was never equaled in other cars of the period. The human leg was (and still is) incapable of letting in the clutch with anything like the forthright abandon that used to send Model T on its way. Letting in a clutch is a negative, hesitant motion, depending on delicate nervous control; pushing down the Ford pedal was a simple, country motion – an expansive act, which came as natural as kicking an old door to make it budge. The driver of the old Model T was a man enthroned. The car, with top up, stood seven feet high. The driver sat on top of the gas tank, brooding it with his own body. When he wanted gasoline, he alighted, together with everything else in the front seat; the seat was pulled off, the metal cap unscrewed, and a wooden stick thrust down to sound the liquid in the well. There was always a couple of these sounding sticks kicking around in the ratty sub-cushion regions of a flivver. Refueling was more of a social function then, because the driver had to unbend, whether he wanted to or not. Directly in front of the driver was the windshield – high, uncompromisingly erect. Nobody talked about air resistance, and the four cylinders pushed the car through the atmosphere with a simple disregard of physical law. There was this about a Model T; the purchaser never regarded his purchase as a complete, finished product. When you bought a Ford, you figured you had a start – a vibrant, spirited framework to which could be screwed an almost limitless assortment of decorative and functional hardware. Driving away from the agency, hugging the new wheel between your knees, you were already full of creative worry. A Ford was born naked as a baby, and a flourishing industry grew up out of correcting its rare deficiencies and combating its fascinating diseases. Those were the great days of lily-painting. I have been looking at some old Sears Roebuck catalogues, and they bring everything back so clear. First you bought a Ruby Safety Reflector for the rear, so that your posterior would glow in another car’s brilliance. Then you invested thirty-nine cents in some radiator Moto Wings, a popular ornament which gave the Pegasus touch to the machine and did something godlike to the owner. For nine cents you bought a fan-belt guide to keep the belt from slipping off the pulley. You bought a radiator compound to stop leaks. This was as much a part of everybody’s equipment as aspirin tablets are of a medicine cabinet. You bought special oil to stop chattering, a clamp-on dash light, a patching outfit, a tool box which you bolted on the running board, a sun visor, a steering-column brace to keep the column rigid, and a set of emergency containers for gas, oil and water – three thin, disc-like cans which reposed in a case on the running board during long, important journeys – red for gas, gray for water, green for oil. It was only a beginning. After the car was about a year old, steps were taken to check the alarming disintegration. (Model T was full of tumors, but they were benign.) A set of anti-rattlers (ninety-eight cents) was a popular panacea. You hooked them on to the gas and spark rods, to the brake pull rod, and to the steering-rod connections. Hood silencers, of black rubber, were applied to the fluttering hood. Shock absorbers and snubbers gave ‘complete relaxation’. Some people bought rubber pedal pads, to fit over the standard metal pedals. (I didn’t like these, I remember.) Persons of a suspicious or pugnacious turn of mind bought a rear-view mirror; but most Model T owners weren’t worried by what was coming from behind because they would soon enough see it out in front. They rode in a state of cheerful catalepsy. Quite a large mutinous clique among Ford owners went over to a foot accelerator (you could buy one and screw it to the floor board), but there was a certain madness in these people, because the Model T, just as she stood, had a choice of three foot pedals to push, and there were plenty of moments when both feet were occupied in the routine performance of duty and when the only way to speed up the engine was with the hand throttle. Gadget bred gadget. Owners not only bought ready-made gadgets, they invented gadgets to meet special needs. I myself drove my car directly from the agency to the blacksmith’s, and had the smith affix two enormous iron brackets to the port running board to support an army trunk. People who owned closed models builded along different lines: they bought ball grip handles for opening doors, window anti-rattlers, and de-luxe flower vases of the cut-glass anti-splash type. People with delicate sensibilities garnished their car with a device called the Donna Lee Automobile Disseminator – a porous vase guaranteed, according to Sears, to fill the car with la faint clean odor of lavender’. The gap between open cars and closed cars was not as great then as it is now: for $11.95, Sears Roebuck converted your touring car into a sedan and you went forth renewed. One agreeable quality of the old Fords was that they had no bumpers, and their fenders softened and wilted with the years and permitted the driver to squeeze in and out of tight places. Tires were 30 x 3 1/2, cost about twelve dollars, and punctured readily. Everybody carried a ]iffy patching set, with a nutmeg grater to roughen the tube before the goo was spread on. Everybody was capable of putting on a patch, expected to have to, and did have to. During my association with Model T’s, self-starters were not a prevalent accessory. They were expensive and under suspicion. Your car came equipped with a serviceable crank, and the first thing you learned was how to Get Results. It was a special trick, and until you learned it (usually from another Ford owner, but sometimes by a period of appalling experimentation) you might as well have been winding up an awning. The trick was to leave the ignition switch off, proceed to the animal’s head, pull the choke (which was a little wire protruding through the radiator) and give the crank two or three nonchalant upward lifts. Then, whistling as though thinking about something else, you would saunter back to the driver’s cabin, turn the ignition on, return to the crank, and this time, catching it on the downstroke, give it a quick spin with plenty of That. If this procedure was followed, the engine almost always responded – first with a few scattered explosions, then with a tumultuous gunfire, which you checked by racing around to the driver’s seat and retarding the throttle. Often, if the emergency brake hadn’t been pulled all the way back, the car advanced on you the instant the first explosion occurred and you would hold it back by leaning your weight against it. I can still feel my old Ford nuzzling me at the curb, as though looking for an apple in my pocket. In zero weather, ordinary cranking became an impossibility, except for giants. The oil thickened, and it became necessary to lack up the rear wheels, which for some planetary reason, eased the throw. The lore and legend that governed the Ford were boundless. Owners had their own theories about everything; they discussed mutual problems in that wise, infinitely resourceful way old women discuss rheumatism. Exact knowledge was pretty scarce, and often proved less effective than superstition. Dropping a camphor ball into the gas tank was a popular expedient; it seemed to have a tonic effect both on man and machine. There wasn’t much to base exact knowledge on. The Ford driver flew blind. He didn’t know the temperature of his engine, the speed of his car, the amount of his fuel, or the pressure of his oil (the old Ford lubricated itself by what was amiably described as the ‘splash system’). A speedometer cost money and was an extra, like a windshield-wiper. The dashboard of the early models was bare save for an ignition key; later models, grown effete, boasted an ammeter which pulsated alarmingly with the throbbing of the car. Under the dash was a box of coils, with vibrators which you adjusted, or thought you adjusted. Whatever the driver learned of his motor, he learned not through instruments but through sudden developments. I remember that the timer was one of the vital organs about which there was ample doctrine. When everything else had been checked, you had a look at the timer. It was an extravagantly odd little device, simple in construction, mysterious in function. It contained a roller, held by a spring, and there were four contact points on the inside of the case against which, many people believed, the roller rolled. I have had a timer apart on a sick Ford many times. But I never really knew what I was up to, I was just showing off before God. There were almost as many schools of thought as there were timers. Some people, when things went wrong, just clenched their teeth and gave the timer a smart crack with a wrench. Other people opened it up and blew on it. There was a school that held that the timer needed large amounts of oil; they fixed it by frequent baptism. And there was a school that was positive it was meant to run dry as a bone; these people were continually taking it off and wiping it. I remember once spitting into a timer; not in anger, but in a spirit of research. You see, the Model T driver moved in the realm of metaphysics. He believed his car could be hexed. One reason the Ford anatomy was never reduced to an exact science was that, having ‘fixed’ it, the owner couldn’t honestly claim that the treatment had brought about the cure. There were too many authenticated cases of Fords fixing themselves – restored naturally to health after a short rest. Farmers soon discovered this, and it fitted nicely with their draft-horse philosophy: ‘Let ‘er cool off and she’ll snap into it again.’ A Ford owner had Number One Bearing constantly in mind. This bearing, being at the front end of the motor, was the one that always burned out, because the oil didn’t reach it when the car was climbing hills. (That’s what I was always told, anyway.) The oil used to recede and leave Number One dry as a clam flat; you had to watch that bearing like a hawk. It was like a weak heart – you could hear it start knocking, and that was when you stopped to let her cool off. Try as you would to keep the oil supply right, in the end Number One always went out. ‘Number One Bearing burned out on me and I had to have her replaced,’ you would say, wisely; and your companions always had a lot to tell about how to protect and pamper Number One to keep her alive. Sprinkled not too liberally among the millions of amateur witch doctors who drove Fords and applied their own abominable cures were the heaven sent mechanics who could really make the car talk. These professionals turned up in undreamed-of spots. One time, on the banks of the Columbia River in Washington, I heard the rear end go out of my Model T when I was trying to whip it up a steep incline onto the deck of a ferry. Something snapped; the car slid backwards into the mud. It seemed to me like the end of the trail. But the captain of the ferry, observing the withered remnant, spoke up. ‘What’s got her?’ he asked. ‘I guess it’s the rear end,’ I replied listlessly. The captain leaned over the rail and stared. Then I saw that there was a hunger in his eyes that set him off from other men. ‘Tell you what,’ he said casually, trying to cover up his eagerness, ‘let’s pull the son of a bitch up onto the boat, and I’ll help you fix her while we’re going back and forth on the river.’ We did just this. All that day I plied between the towns of Pasco and Kenniwick, while the skipper (who had once worked in a Ford garage) directed the amazing work of resetting the bones of my car. Springtime in the heyday of the Model T was a delirious season. Owning a car was still a major excitement, roads were still wonderful and bad. The Fords were obviously conceived in madness: any car which was capable of going from forward into reverse without any perceptible mechanical hiatus was bound to be a mighty challenging thing to the human imagination. Boys used to veer them off the highway into a level pasture and run wild with them, as though they were cutting up with a girl. Most everybody used the reverse pedal quite as much as the regular foot brake – it distributed the wear over the bands and wore them all down evenly. That was the big trick, to wear all the bands down evenly, so that the final chattering would be total and the whole unit scream for renewal. The days were golden, the nights were dim and strange. I still recall with trembling those loud, nocturnal crises when you drew up to a signpost and raced the engine so the lights would be bright enough to read destinations by. I have never been really planetary since. I suppose it’s time to say goodbye. Farewell, my lovely!”
Henry Ford - Model TShow Article
The last Henry J was produced. The Henry J was an American automobile built by the Kaiser-Frazer Corporation and named after its chairman, Henry J. Kaiser. Kaiser wanted to expand his car line with an inexpensive car for the average man, hoping to recreate the success of the Model T Ford. The car was marketed from 1951 to 1954. For awhile, the Henry J was quite popular, and nearly 82,000 were sold for the 1951 model year. But that evidently satisfied demand, for sales went down sharply in1952. One reason was price. At $1363, even the four-cylinder model was only $200 cheaper than a full-size six-cylinder Chevrolet -- and far more basic. The Henry J Six offered "DeLuxe" trim starting at $1499, but it was only slightly less stark. A mild facelift gave 1952-54 models a smart new full-width grille, taillights moved from the body to the fins, and nicer interiors. An interim '52 measure designed to use up leftover stock was the Vagabond -- a '51 wearing "continental" outside spare tire, identifying script, and a hood ornament of black plastic and chrome. After this, Henry Js were called Corsair or Corsair DeLuxe, priced around $1400 for the four, $1560 with the six. But nothing seemed to work, so the Henry J departed in 1954. An estimated 1100 were sold that year, all of which were reserialed '53 leftovers. Some 30,000 were built altogether. Left still-born were plans for a hardtop, wagon, four-door sedan, and even a convertible. Many felt the original approach was wrong. Lacking glove- boxes, trunklids, and other expected features, the '51s were simply too plain for most buyers. As Joe Frazer later commented: "I would have brought it out dressed up." And indeed, that's what Sears did with its short-lived Allstate derivative. Then, too, the market wasn't quite ready for compacts (though it soon would be), and K-F was looking increasingly terminal, which surely kept some buyers away. In all, this was a classic case of too little, too soon. Like Hudson's equally ill-starred Jet, the Henry J was the wrong car at the wrong time.
1951 Henry JShow Article
The Triumph GT6 MkII was launched. The Triumph GT6 was originally designed as a four-cylinder GT counterpart to the Spitfire. But when the first prototypes started running, and Triumph engineers realised that the coupe was somewhat slower than the roadster, they came up with the obvious solution of fitting the straight-six engine as used in the 2000 and Vitesse. What Triumph ended up creating was an effective rival to the recently-launched MGB GT - very smart indeed considering it was based on the lower-market Spitfire. But it was an achingly stylish car, with the added appeal of an E-type-style bonnet bulge, and it looked worth every penny. The GT6 soon earned a reputation for being great in a straight line, but not so good in corners. The Mk1’s swing-axle rear suspension ensured that lift-off oversteer was a very real problem as the wheels tucked under - and even today, it's only partially cured by the fitment of modern tyres. Improved rear suspension made the 1969 Mk2 a much better car.The Mk3 GT6 was launched in 1970, and received the same visual changes as the Spitfire Mk4. They managed to turn a stylish car into a desirable one - not easy when you consider it was based on an eight-year old car. That all-important bonnet bulge remained, but the cleaner profile and more aggressive Kamm tail were really masterful styling tweaks.There was no significant change to the 2.0-litre straight-six, but like with the Spitfire, it appeared the power had dropped because of the change to DIN quoted power. The rear axle was changed to the cheaper Spitfire system for 1973 – a sure sign that the cost accountants were now running Triumph.
Paul Smart and Bruno Spaggiari finish 1-2 on Ducatis at Monza, Italy, to win the first F750 motorcycle race in Europe.Show Article
The foundation stone laid in Smartville, a purpose-built factory complex in Hambach, France, established as a joint venture of Daimler-Benz and the Swiss watch manufacturer Swatch to produce the Smart car. Today it is fully owned by Daimler AG.
Smartville, Hambach, FranceShow Article
World premiere of the Smart city-coupé and the European launch of the Land Rover Freelander at the IAA in Frankfurt, Germany.
Smart City-coupéShow Article
Production of the rear-engined two-door, two-seat mono-box city car, the 2.5 metre long Smart city-coupé, began. It was renamed Smart Fortwo the following year. In contrast to other mini cars, the Smart had rear wheel drive which provided improved control and enhanced stability. Moreover, the Smart City Coupe came with an impressive line-up of safety features, starting with ESP, ABS, front and side airbags and ending with the ASR technology developed by Mercedes.
Smart city-coupé - 1998Show Article
The Paris Motor Show celebrated its 100th anniversary. It was the first motor show in the world, started in 1898 by industry pioneer Albert de Dion. The Show saw the launch of Ford Focus, the all-new Maserati 3200 GT and the Smart City Coupe.Show Article
Douglas Hele (81), leading British motorcycle designer died. He was involved in the design and development of many famous British motorcycles for companies such as Norton and Triumph. Towards the end of his career he worked as a development engineer on the Norton rotary engined bikes. He was one of the few world-class engineers the postwar British motorcycle industry produced, and probably the greatest motorcycle development engineer of all time. After King's Norton secondary school in Birmingham, where he was viewed as an outstanding scholar, his son felt fortunate to get into the same firm's rigorous, five-year apprenticeship scheme, and soon came to management's notice as the most brilliant student of his intake. During the second world war, he was kept at Austin working on the design and manufacture of forging dies. But his heart was in motorcycles and, after 1945, he moved to Douglas - only to undergo an experience all too common in British engineering. The Douglas flat twin bikes had good engines, but dire handling. Doug, full of hope and enthusiasm, approached the chief designer, George Halliday, with a series of innovative ideas to cure the problems. The result would have been an outstanding all-round motorcycle, but, as Doug remembered: "Instead of encouraging me, [Halliday] made it very, very clear that my career at Douglas was over and that it was not a good idea to stay." In 1949, Doug was recruited by Bert Hopwood, chief designer of BSA, then the world's biggest motorcycle manufacturer, to redesign the BSA MC1 road racer. The bike was to be BSA's blue riband project, and had been drawn by Hopwood. But, in its original concept, the engine could not have run because the valves would not have opened. As Doug noted: "This is not a minor mistake." Doug was given two years to design a masterpiece of practical race engineering - and he was proud of it - but political bickering within the factory killed off the bike when it was on the verge of success. But no one became a design engineer, he observed, if he was the kind of person devastated by management decisions. In 1955, he joined Norton, based in Bracebridge Street, Birmingham. Here, in the midst of Victorian squalor and archaic working practices, he worked alongside Polish designer Leo Kusmicki refining the ageing Manx Norton race engines. Norton's world-championship winning era had been ended by the domination of multi-cylinder Italian machines; new designs should have replaced the Manx Nortons, but had not done so. There was an alternative, developing the Dominator 88 tourer into a briefly successful production racer, the Domiracer, but, starved of investment, it was abandoned. In 1963, Doug rejoined the BSA group. There, he produced the three-cylinder bike - known as the BSA Rocket 3 and the Triumph Trident - which kept the two marques in business five years after they should have collapsed in the face of the more technologically-advanced Japanese and continental industries. Doug's triple machine was a stroke of genius, providing a cash-starved factory with a modern, multi-cylinder design for the minimum of investment and development. He designed the bike at home, and, once again, factory politics delayed its introduction; it could have been available years before its main rival, the 750cc four-cylinder Honda, had Doug received the recognition he deserved. Again, with almost no funding compared with the Japanese race teams' mammoth budgets, he then developed the three-cylinder road bike into one of the great race machines of its era, dominating both American and European racing. Working with volatile and strong-willed racers and engineers, he won affection bordering on near-worship from everyone with whom he came into contact. American Grand National motorcycle champion Gary Nixon recalled Doug as "a hell of a smart guy". "He was liked by all the Triumph people in America -and that was hard because they often didn't even like each other." One of Doug's development mechanics, Norman Hyde, described the atmosphere at Triumph. "Doug was incredibly focused and absolutely meticulous. He was also genuinely interested in the mechanics' opinions. He used to say: 'There are no bosses in a technical discussion.' All he ever wanted was to get things right." Until a few months before his death, Doug worked with me on a series of articles for Classic Bike magazine, full of revelations about his career
Douglas HeleShow Article
The final Smart Roadster, a two-door microcar first introduced in 2003 by Smart GmbH rolled off the production line. Unfortunately, sales figures for the Roadster and Roadster Coupé were far below expectations. Production of both models was halted at the end of 2005.
Smart RoadsterShow Article
After a flurry of rumours, DaimlerChrysler chairman Dieter Zetsche announced that the company's urban-focused Smart brand--already popular in Europe—would come to the United States in early 2008. Smart--an acronym for Swatch Mercedes ART--began as a joint venture between Swatch, the company known for its colorful and trendy plastic watches, and the German automaker Mercedes-Benz. The result of this collaboration was the Smart ForTwo, which measured just over eight feet from bumper to bumper and was marketed as a safe, fuel-efficient car that could be manoeuvred easily through narrow, crowded city streets.
It was confirmed that Project Kimber had sealed a deal to use the AC name on its new sports car based on the Smart Roadster.Show Article
It was confirmed that Project Kimber had sealed a deal to use the AC name on its new sports car based on the Smart Roadster.Show Article
Los Angeles, California, was the first stop on a cross-country road show launched by Smart USA to promote the attractions of its “ForTwo” micro-car, which was scheduled for release in the United States in 2008. In the early 1990s, Nicholas Hayek of Swatch, the company famous for its wide range of colourful and trendy plastic watches, went to German automaker Mercedes-Benz with his idea for an “ultra-urban” car. The result of their joint venture was the diminutive Smart (an acronym for Swatch Mercedes ART) ForTwo, which debuted at the Frankfurt Motor Show in 1997 and went on sale in nine European countries over the next year. Measuring just over eight feet from bumper to bumper, the original ForTwo was marketed as a safe, fuel-efficient car that could be manoeuvred easily through narrow, crowded city streets. Despite its popularity among urban Europeans, Smart posted significant losses, and Swatch soon pulled out of the joint venture.
Smart “ForTwo” micro-carShow Article
It was reported that the United Auto Group (UAG) would change its name to Penske Automotive Group. The company planned to become the sole US distributor of DaimlerChrysler AG’s Smart car in 2008.Show Article
The first Smart ED, a Fortwo modified for operation by Zytek Electric Vehicles as a battery electric vehicle, was delivered to Coventry City Council in the West Midlands. Short in length, powered by a rear-mounted engine, the two-passenger urban vehicle ran on 13.2 kWh of sodium-nickel chloride Zebra batteries. The Smart EV was capable of 0–30 mph in just 6.5 seconds and could travel 70 miles between charges.
Smart EV - 2008Show Article
It was reported that the French built Smart ForTwo by Daimler would be introduced in the US, the 37th country to sell the small car, for a starting price of $12,235, nearly 10 years after its European launch.
Smart ForTwoShow Article
The world's first glow-in-the-dark bike path opened. Artist Daan Roosegaarde recreated "The Starry Night" in the form of the Van Gogh-Roosegaarde Bicycle Path between Eindhoven and Neunen in the Netherlands, marked with bright stones that glowed in the night and arranged in the same pattern as the stars from the 19th Century painting. The stones had smart coatings that charged throughout the daytime and lit the trail at night for up to eight hours. A solar panel was also used to charge the trail on days when there was little sunlight.
World's first glow-in-the-dark bike path, The NetherlandsShow Article