I wrote these for Automobile Magazine. The original publication date appears in each profile's title.

1976 Cadillac Eldorado Convertible (October, 1990)
When Cadillac advertised its 1976 Eldorado convertible as "The Last of a Magnificent Breed" the speculators fairly cackled with glee. They bought every one they could get their hands on, sold a bunch to one another at wildly inflated prices, and waited to make their fortunes. Fourteen years later, they're either still waiting, or have long since taken the lumps dealt by an uncharacteristically sensible marketplace. But unless we miss our bet (and we haven't missed many), the big Eldo's time is about to come.

The Eldorado convertible was an anachronism from the start. Every aspect of Cadillac's two-and-a-half-ton monument to wretched excess epitomized profligate waste: despite its twenty foot length, four adults were a snug fit; despite its shockingly thirsty 500 cubic-inch engine, acceleration was leisurely; and despite its whopping price tag, build quality was — to be charitable — indifferent. And yet, we love this car.

We love the little details: the top's scissor mechanism that folds into itself; the blinking "fuel economy" indicator that mockingly suggests such a thing is possible. More than the details, however, we love the whole concept of this car. We love to set the cruise control, watch the hood blend with the horizon in the distance, and ponder life's mysteries. (You can't do this in a car that makes sense, like a Mercedes-Benz. It's only possible in a car which, like life itself, defies all reason.)

Despite the efforts of the speculators, the Eldorado convertible has spent the last decade-and-a-half as a used car. This means that there are plenty of ratty ones to be had for three or four grand. Forget them. The nightmarish aspects of restoring a car of this type suggest that the prudent course is to spend as much as you can afford on the best one you can find. Fortunately, this is still not a tremendous amount of money — certainly, the price of a new Miata should be sufficient to put you in a nearly-mint Eldorado. And while the Eldo won't corner quite as well, neither will it make you wonder why the perfect British sports car is Japanese.

1963 Buick Riviera (April, 1989)
London, the late fifties. Night has fallen; the fog has settled in. The styling chief of a BIG AMERICAN CAR COMPANY, in town on business, steps out of his hotel and catches a glimpse of a custom-bodied Rolls gliding majestically into the mist. He's struck by a vision — an inspiration: to combine the elegance of a Rolls with the panache of a Ferrari! Cut to Detroit. Our styling chief's staff has burned the midnight oil on Project XP715, and the resulting model is a true stunner. Fire and ice. THE BIG AMERICAN CAR COMPANY's board of directors loves the XP715, but can't decide which of its divisions should build it. A contest is held. Each division prepares a formal presentation intended to prove that it is best qualified to do justice to the XP715. The directors hear the arguments, and make their decision. The XP715 joins the winning division's lineup as a new model and is immediately recognized as a modern classic. One man's vision has become a reality. And that's the true story of the genesis of GM VP Bill Mitchell's 1963 Buick Riviera.

The Riviera was GM's answer to the Ford Thunderbird, and like its rival was a four-place "personal luxury" car. It shared most of its major mechanical components with other Buicks, but had a unique chassis tuned to provide a combination of ride and handling far superior to the average two-ton land yacht of its day. The standard engine's 325 horsepower yielded a 0-60 time of well under eight seconds, and allowed the car to cruise in near-total silence for hours on end.

25 years later, the 1963 (and near-identical 64 and 65) Riviera is still a head-turner, and still a highly capable over-the-road touring car. Indeed, a well-equipped example gives away very little when compared with today's luxury coupes. Above-average samples are changing hands in the $4000-$6000 range. This is up about 20% from a couple of years ago, and reflects a rate of appreciation that should remain constant for the next five years. The bottom line: for less than the price of an average used econo-box, you can drive an investment that's also a work of art.

1955-56 Chrysler 300 (January, 1990)
Chrysler's mighty C-300, the most powerful car on the American road, was the first salvo fired in the infamous horsepower wars of the 1950s. Derived from — and differing little in appearance from — the New Yorker coupe, the C-300 was the original Q-Ship (and the spiritual progenitor of Ford's current SHO Taurus). Named for the horsepower rating of its twin four-barrel 331 c.i. hemi engine, the primary purpose of the C-300 was to win races. This it did with unprecedented success. The C-300, despite its performance orientation, had the trappings of a luxury car, and at around $4,100 it was costlier than a Cadillac. Truly, it was Mike Tyson in a tux!

For 1956 the 340 hp 300B established a "letter car" tradition that continued through 1965. Additional luxury options, like air conditioning and an underdash record player, were added, and an optional large-diameter exhaust system raised the 354 c.i. engine's power to 355 hp, beating the 1957 Corvette's "first with one-horsepower-per-cubic-inch" boast by a year. Styling, too, was improved, with a more integrated overall appearance.

Only 1725 C-300s and 1102 300Bs were built, so many 300-only parts are becoming hard to find. The potential cost of finishing a "project" car makes complete examples, even those needing some work, all the more valuable. A rough-but-complete `55 might fetch under $5,000; near-perfect examples are approaching the $20,000 mark. Given the 300's historical significance, and the sheer pleasure of driving one, these prices can only go up.

1965 Corvair Monza/Corsa (June, 1990)
Back in the days when it was peopled with guys who got excited about cars, General Motors could be counted on for some pretty slick technology. In the fifties the company experimented with fuel injection and air suspension; the sixties saw flexible drive shafts, rear-mounted transmissions, aluminum alloy blocks, insanely powerful front wheel drive V8s, overhead cams, and turbochargers. Of course, many of these early efforts weren't as fully refined as one might have liked, but they bespoke a spirit of adventure that the General is only now allowing to resurface.

One of GM's boldest experiments was the much maligned — and long-since exonerated — Chevrolet Corvair. A true exotic in its day, the original Corvair made its debut in the fall of 1959 as GM's entry in the Big Three's compact car wars. Its sassy (and much-copied) styling, air-cooled rear-mounted engine, and swing-axle rear set it apart from Ford's Falcon and Plymouth's Valiant, and mainstream America responded with the rejection it often heaps upon the distinctive.

The second-generation Corvair made its debut as a 1965 model. A new fully-independent rear suspension cured the earlier version's handling quirks, while its sleek new styling must be counted among Bill Mitchell's most inspired designs. The sports-oriented Corsa model could be ordered with a 180hp turbocharged engine — a $161 upgrade! — which, along with a four-speed gearbox, yielded sporting performance.

While much of the new Corvair's thunder was stolen by the early-introduction Mustang, some 235,000 were built in 1965, 35,000 of which were convertibles. But looming Federal regulations, creeping Naderism, and drooping sales (15,400 in 1968) won out, and the Corvair was allowed to trickle out of existence midway into the 1969 model year.

Today's enthusiasts are both chagrined and delighted that the Corvair hasn't fallen prey to the speculator. A well-optioned convertible in near-show shape can still be found for under $5,000, and parts are plentiful. Not bad for an everyday exotic.

1963 Studebaker Avanti (October, 1989)
A fine old marque finds itself in dire straits. Faced with a disheartening loss of market share and the steady attrition of its customer base, and hawking a line of cars having no firm identity, it tries a last-ditch attempt to ward off disaster. A famous designer is given the task of creating a dramatic new grand touring car; one that will, in a single stroke, reforge the company's image and catapult it back into the ranks of the serious automakers. The new car is given a catchy Italian name, and Corporate fingers are crossed. Will the new car turn the tide? Well, in the case of Cadillac's Allante it's too early to tell; our story unfolded a quarter-century earlier, at the Studebaker works in South Bend, Indiana.

Studebaker's last gasp was a wonderfully odd four-place, fiberglass-bodied grand touring car, the 1963 Avanti. Brought from initial sketches to display at the 1962 International Automobile Show in just over a year, the Avanti offered far more than striking looks. The standard V8 could be augmented by a Paxton supercharger, the caliper disk brakes were the first to be fitted to an American production car, and the cockpit-like interior featured overhead switches, red instrument lighting, and an integral roll bar. Of course, the chassis was early-sixties Detroit, so handling on all but the smoothest roads was, shall we say, "interesting" but no more so than its contemporaries.

Well, we all know that the Avanti didn't save Studebaker; we also know that Avantis are still being produced independently. But it is the original Studebaker incarnation — preferably the "R2" supercharged version — that holds the interest of the true enthusiast. The Studebaker Avanti was a radical-looking but practical high performance tourer in 1963, and time has diminished neither its appeal nor its capabilities. And unlike many collectibles, the Avanti is a fine daily driver: there's nothing terribly mysterious about its mechanical bits (except, perhaps, for the supercharger), the body will never rust, and the cabin is roomy and comfortable.

Avanti prices, while climbing, are still reasonable. We've seen clean, good running examples offered for well under $10,000; the low-to-mid-teens will buy an exceptionally fine, heavily-optioned supercharged car. (Watch this space in 2013 for a report on the collectible Allante.)

1968-72 Mercedes-Benz 300SEL 6.3 (January, 1989)
What do you get when you stuff a whopper of a V8 engine into a body a size or two smaller than it was intended to power? If you're Daimler-Benz, and it's 1968, you get the greatest Q-ship ever let loose on an unsuspecting autobahn. Called the 300SEL 6.3, it was created by shoehorning the "Grosser" 600 limousine's 6.3 liter 300-horsepower V8 into the stately S-class sedan. Not a new concept, certainly — look at the Shelby Cobra, the Pontiac GTO, even the Allard J2X. But those cars, like most such packages, were uniformly crude, sacrificing almost all other attributes in the interest of brute force. The 6.3, by contrast, was a superbly balanced package. Complementing the engine were advanced mechanicals like a self-leveling air suspension system, ventilated disc brakes all around, independent (after a fashion) rear end, and a limited slip differential. Unwary passengers, cosseted by the huge leather seats, soothed by the stereo sound system, and comforted by the standard air conditioner, had no idea that this was anything other than an ordinary sedan — until the driver nailed it. Then it was every man for himself as the tires lit up and two tons of sedan catapulted forward in a most unstately fashion. Six-and-a-half seconds later, sixty was just a memory; a mere signpost on the way to a top speed in the neighborhood of 140MPH.

Only 6526 6.3s were built, 1839 of which were originally sold (for $14,000-$16,000) in the U.S. Today you can buy a good one for less than $10,000, while a show-stopper will run around twice that. And even after twenty years, there's nothing on the road that offers its unique combination of speed, space, and quality.

1949 Buick Roadmaster Riviera (November, 1991)
After an inexplicable absence of more than three decades, the most evocative model name ever to grace an American car is back. For the benefit of those readers for whom the name Roadmaster isn't even a dim memory, it's worth taking a look at one of the best cars ever to bear that hallowed designation, which was also the first to carry the Riviera nameplate. The 1949 Buick Roadmaster Riviera was, along with its Cadillac Coupe de Ville and Oldsmobile Holiday 98 siblings, the first series production "hardtop convertible." Combining the security of a fixed steel roof with the sporty styling of a ragtop, the "Riv" helped set a postwar fashion whose popularity endured for nearly a quarter of a century. It also introduced Buick's famous Ventiports to an unsuspecting world, and established a pecking order by sporting four per side, compared with the lesser models' three.

As befits a top-of-the-line Buick, the Roadmaster Riviera was very well equipped. Standard equipment included leather trim and hydraulically-operated windows and seat, along with the Dynaflow automatic transmission that was introduced as an option during the previous year. More adventuresome customers could opt for two-tone paint and the illustrated upswept chrome side spear.

Although its $3203 price was a scant $294 lower than that of the Coupe de Ville, and despite the latter's all-new OHV V8 engine and tail fins, the straight eight-equipped Riviera outsold the Caddy by two-to-one, with 4343 units produced. The current "shakeup" in the collectible car market is reflected in the current price of a 49 Riv: you should be able to find a fine example for $15-20,000. If you spend less for a fixer-upper, be sure that the relatively rare special trim pieces are intact. Beyond that, parts shouldn't be a problem, and once it's restored you'll have a stylish weekend driver that's lives up to the Roadmaster name.

1966 & 1967 Oldsmobile Toronado (April, 1992)
It doesn't happen often, but once in a while the "Car of the Year" guys get it right. In 1966 they — and everyone else — gave the nod to Oldsmobile's nascent Toronado. Another Bill Mitchell stunner that could have made it on looks alone, the Toronado's big news lay beneath its spectacular skin. It was the first front wheel drive American car since the 1937 Cord, and the first ever with an automatic transmission.

The Toronado was a six-passenger luxury sport coupe in the American idiom. Weighing more than 4600 pounds, and with a 385 horsepower 7-liter engine, it shattered long-held European notions about front wheel drive size and weight limits. (It also makes one question all the fuss over the SHO Taurus' 220 hp.)

The key bit that made the Toronado possible was the drive chain that transferred power between engine and transmission and allowed the torque converter and gearbox — normally in line behind the engine — to be mounted separately, facilitating a very compact power package.

The Toronado was an immediate critical success. It was fast, handled beautifully and, of course, provided unsurpassed bad weather traction. On the down side, the car's drum brakes were barely adequate, despite the cooling effect of specially-designed vented wheels. Still, the Toronado offered a unique combination of luxury, performance, and cutting-edge technology, and Oldsmobile sold nearly 41,000 of them in 1966. Curiously, only half as many of the nearly-identical 1967 model were sold. This led to some unfortunate styling excesses for the three years remaining in the body's lifespan, making the earlier models more desirable both aesthetically and as a potential investment.

Despite its innovative technology, the original Toronado was relatively trouble-free, and it shouldn't be too hard to find a good one and keep it running on a daily basis. Expect to pay between $5-8000 for an above-average example.

1964-66 Imperial (July, 1992)
Before the Imperial crest was a tacked on to a stretched Reliant it was affixed to a pimped-out Cordoba. Still earlier — from 1967 to 1975 — it indicated little more than a New Yorker with better upholstery. But go back a few more years and you'll encounter an Imperial truly worthy of the nameplate's regal connotation: Chrysler Corporation's last body-on-frame leviathan, and the last Imperial to be truly separate from lesser Chryslers.

Designed by Elwood Engel, and offered as a coupe, convertible, and four-door hardtop, the slab-sided Imperial borrowed many of its styling cues from the same designer's revolutionary ‘61 Lincoln. However, standing on a 129-inch wheelbase and sized in proportion, it looked much more massive than its FoMoCo forebear.

Intended to compete with Lincoln and Cadillac, the Imperial — especially the top-of-the-line LeBaron — was exceptionally well-finished inside and out. The incredibly spacious interior's look of fine wood and leather was achieved by the use of fine wood and leather, and the generous complement of standard power assists was often augmented with such optional niceties as cruise control and separate front and rear air conditioning systems.

Motivating two-and-a-half tons of car called for some serious horsepower, so for 1964 and 65 the Imperial was propelled by Chrysler's 413 c.i., 340 horsepower V8. In 1966 the new 350 horsepower 440 V8 was fitted. The company's Torqueflite 3-speed automatic transmission — under the control of dash-mounted push buttons in 1964 — was standard equipment.

Imperials have, in general, aged well. Most outer body panels are protected by a second inner body, and much of the exterior brightwork is stainless steel. Be aware, though, that while many mechanical parts are interchangeable with lesser Chryslers (and hence readily available), others — like power window motors — were exclusive and are now in relatively short supply. That being the case it pays to spend a little extra to buy the very best Imperial you can find. Fortunately, even fine examples are astonishingly inexpensive. A near-mint coupe or sedan shouldn't run more than $4-5000; double that figure for a decent convertible.

1961-63 Ford Thunderbird Convertible (September, 1992) Certain enthusiasts bemoan the day Ford abandoned the two-place Thunderbird in favor of what — to them — was a merely a bloated caricature. We take a kinder view, for while it can't be denied that the "square birds" use an awful lot of resources to transport four people, seldom has it been done with as much panache. This is especially true in the case of the second series, for while the original model's styling clearly betrays its ‘fifties origins, the sleek lines of the 1961-63 Thunderbird wouldn't look out of place on a contemporary design.

The interior of the T-Bird was divided into four distinct seating areas, and the dashboard swept downward into a full-length center console. As befit a luxury model, the Thunderbird was available with a wide range of options, and it's not unusual to find them equipped with air conditioning and power seats, locks, and windows. Also available was a steering wheel that moved 10½ inches to the right when the transmission was placed into Park.

While any 61-63 Thunderbird is desirable, we're particularly enamored of the convertible, whose mechanism's astonishing dance completely conceals the top in a manner adumbrating the Mercedes-Benz 500SL's, but without the benefit of microprocessor controls. Of course, with the top folded into the trunk, storage space is minimal, but with a 300 (or, optionally, 340) horsepower 390 c.i. V8 sucking high-test at the rate of 12 miles per gallon the T-Bird isn't at its best on trips that might require lots of luggage. Rather, it's wonderful for the occasional cruise, loping along at speeds that allow the proper acknowledgment of admiring waves.

The Thunderbird was built alongside the Continental, at Ford's Wixom plant, which yielded an unusually high level of quality for the time. This means that an unusually high percentage of the 25,341 convertibles (including 1,882 tonneau-and wire-wheel-equipped Sports Roadsters) built during the three-year run are still in decent shape. The existence of several companies specializing in parts — including hard and soft trim — for the T-Bird, bodes well for long-term maintenance, but as always it's best to look for a good example at the outset. Depending on condition, expect to pay between $9-18,000, and double that for a Sports Roadster.