Shelby began his professional life as a chicken farmer, selling cars on the side.  Like many of us, he had dream for a little-car big-engine combination that would blow the doors off the supercars of Italy.

Those dreams started to materialize when Shelby found the failing British sports car company “AC”- which was willing to unload their “Ace” roadster, as long as somebody could find a suitable engine to pair with the body.

Enter Ford, a big-budget automaker with a surplus of V8s kicking around.

Hands were shaken, papers were signed and in 1962 the AC Ace was impregnated with a massive V8 engine; effectively giving birth to the now-iconic Shelby Cobra.

Original Cobras from this era now carry stratospheric values, with one example known to have sold for $5.5M a few years ago.  But fans of the concept needn’t lament, because there are a few companies building reproductions for much, much less money.  Replicas might not have the same historic value, wouldn’t you feel just a little guilty ripping donuts in a seven-figure investment?

[1965 Shelby Cobra Roadster (CSX2557)]

Only six renditions of the original Daytona coupe were ever produced, five in Italy and one in California.  There’s quite a dramatic tale on Wikipedia about that sixth car involving a horrific suicide and the band “The Monkeess”, but I’ll let you follow the link and decide the truth of that one for yourself.

[1965 Shelby Daytona Cobra Coupe (CSX2601)]

In 1984 Dodge teamed up with him to create the “GLH” version of their supermini, the quintessentially-80′s Omni.  Two years later, the further-improved GLH-S was released representing America’s real contender in the supermini segment at the time.  The nomenclature allegedly stood for “Goes Like Hell”, which would make sense because the dorky little hatchback was boosted to 175 horsepower and sitting on Koni adjustable shocks.

Novel, if not competitive.  It was quicker than the Volkswagen GTI of the day; basically the only competitor.  Though it was a few years ahead of its time it’s just a little too ugly for anyone to pay what it’s worth, so you’ll be hard pressed to see one in the wild these days.

[1986 Dodge Omni GLH-S [L-Body])

Share your favorite Shelby car with us on Tumblr and help immortalize a legend.

There’s only so much inspiration you can gather in front of a computer, after all.

I sniped mum’s DSLR on the way out and got a few good images of my father’s FIAT Spider 2000 dueling with my good friend Ben’s E30 convertible around Cape Ann.

If you didn’t get a chance to hit the tarmac this weekend, we hope these frames will inspire you to get that winter project wrapped up and get on the road!

Even an E30 looks big parked next to Pininfarina’s tiny Italian.

Once you set “supercars”, “suicide girls”, “military vehicles” and “bell & ross” as the tags you want to track you’ve got yourself a steady stream of sweet stuff to scroll through… forever.  The picture supply of our ever-expanding internet is quite literally endless, and Tumblr has effectively established itself as the go-to procrastination station for those who don’t want to be bothered with status updates or promotional Tweets.

Now that I’ve dialed in my account to pretty well reflect whatever’s cruising through my mind at any given moment, I’ve been shamelessly enjoying all the visual distractions the site has to offer every time I’m waiting for a Workaholics episode to buffer.

All the pictures of awesome watches and drifting E30′s are great, but I never realized the endless scroll of sexiness Tumblr delivers could also be educational.

Just the other day I was mindlessly pawing through the site when I had my first digital encounter with the GTA Spano.

Wedged between a wide-angle of two Ferraris street racing in Dubai and a black-and-white of Kate Upton was a high-res snapshot at this year’s Monaco Grand Prix of a spectacular modern sports car that I had never seen.

And what a sports car.  The face is big; less-angular than a Murciélago but tougher than an MP4-12C.  Tracing the body back reveals sweeping, but subtle lines- like a more tasteful rendition of a Saleen S7.  Think Daisy Duke in a dinner gown instead of jean cutoffs.  (How many comparative metaphors are you trying to stack here? -Ed.)

On top of all that the Spano features a panoramic sunroof that blends the windshield with the roof to complete the beautiful-simplicity vibe that the car commands.  Hell, even the GTA Motor badge is tight.

Why had I never heard of this car?  I thought I was on top of the scene, and yet here was unbelievable machine that I didn’t even recognize.

So how many great new microbrew automakers are out there that you haven’t heard of?

There’s a massive treasure-trove of sports cars, SUVs, and luxury vehicles built in super-limited quantities that most of us will never see and some we’ll never even here of.  And that just ain’t right.  These cars need to be experienced by the masses, if not in person then at least online.  Like full speed on an SS1000R or Sasha Grey.

In an effort to educate the masses on the exceptional machines of obscurity, I’m taking it upon myself to seek out the cars and motorcycles that even us auto enthusiasts might not have heard of- then and bring them to you with stats and a healthy dose of high res photos.

I’m not talking about the Paganis or Koenigseggs you can drive in Need For Speed.  I’ll be shining light on cars from companies like the Zenvo, Oullim, and Rimac that are unbelievably cool and you will probably never, ever see in real life in our new “Secret Supercars” series.

You’re welcome.

For now, back to the first vehicle in the series- the Spano.

Spanish F1 R&D lab GTA Motor has decided to bless the world with 99 examples of the supercar I started to describe in the top of this story.  You can see how sexy it is easily enough, but how well does it go?

Oh, don’t worry.  It goes.

Powered by a house-made 8.3 liter supercharged monster of a V10, the Spano belches out 820 horsepower that propels the 1350 kilogram car to 100 KPH (62 MPH) in less than three seconds and on top a top speed of over 217 MPH.

Those numbers will leave the pilots of Ferraris, Porsches and even plenty of motorcycles in the Spano’s rearview, scratching their helmets and wondering “since when the hell does Spain make supercars?”

Actually, that’s a pretty good question.

The Spano project began three years ago, when GTA Motor team manager Domingo Ochoa had a dream of his F1 team putting their design and development skills to work on a road car.  I mean, yeah.  Obviously that’s an awesome idea.

Apparently I’m not the only one who agreed, because the car’s launch in 2009 was a cosmopolitan affair in the city of Valencia attended by the region’s Minister of Industry, Trade and Innovation (how’s that for a title?) along with a some local motorsport celebs.

“I think we are before an automobile that will mark a ‘before and an after’ in the Spanish automobile history” said Ochoa, in a statement that I’m sure sounded sexier en Español.

Though not everyone left of the Atlantic knows this Spain actually does make quite a few cars, mostly sporty compacts that are popular in Europe but they have cooked up their share of sweet sports cars as well.  But that of course, is a story for another time.

GTA Motor has been in the racing game for about fifteen years, and pondering a road car for five.  With the finished product finally fired up and rolling out it’s pretty clear that they’ve taken the time to build something that will do their nation proud, and sure poses well for photos.

]]> http://roadroving.com/2012/05/18/secret-supercar-gta-spano/feed/ 0 steeringcolumn GTA Spano yellow GTA Motor Spano In Action GTA Spano drift turn GTA Spano Skyline GTA Spano Studio Front GTA Spano Studio Side GTA Spano Heads For The Hairpins GTA Spano with Dolphin Helicopter GTA Spano Interior GTA Spano Engine Bay GTA Spano Detail: Exhaust/Diffuser GTA Spano Detail: Wing Mirror GTA Spano Detail: Engine Start http://roadroving.com/2012/05/14/scrape-no-mo/ http://roadroving.com/2012/05/14/scrape-no-mo/#comments Mon, 14 May 2012 15:18:21 +0000 RoadRoving.com http://roadroving.com/?p=3509 ]]> With the “Fast & Furious” bodykit craze pretty well receded into the depths of dead automotive style trends, The “Stance” scene has moved in to take its place.

For the uninitiated, “stanced” cars are fitted with wheels so gigantic that the camber has to be adjusted, usually to quite a dramatic degree, making the bottom of the wheels appear to poke out.

The result is vehicles that ride so low to the ground you’d be hard pressed to slide a credit card under them, let alone a jack.  Good luck changing the oil.

That splayed-out camber setup first made an appearance in drifting, because it forces weird traction properties on the drive wheels.  For that reason you’ll primarily see Japanese imports used as stanced cars, though older BMWs and Volkswagens seem popular candidates as well.

The setup is not ideal for handling, acceleration or fuel economy but it sure does look funky.

Now, American roads aren’t all perfect strips of glass-smooth concrete so this low clearance setup errs on the side of impractical.

Until now(?).  Enter “SlammedNavigator.com” …a by-enthusiasts for-enthusiasts website designed to allow people with insanely low cars to get around without scraping their undercarriage components and custom front bumpers.

The concept will be hilarious to some, unbelievably useful to others.

Either way the site has a ton of sponsors, so the scene is obviously gaining traction (ha, get it?).  Makes me wish mum still had her four-door Odyssey minivan… I could see that thing toddling around from one drive-thru to another with the help of Slammed Navigator.

In case the Urban Dictionary definition wasn’t clear, this chick seems to have the right idea-

I took the wheel with my knees as I wolfed a breakfast sandwich from one hand and sipped lava-hot coffee from the other after a Dunkin’ Donuts stop I demanded.  I delegated horn-honking and finger-giving to Birdie who was reading me the GPS’s instructions from the passenger seat.

We stopped on the Massachusetts South Shore to catch up with my friend Matt and see his new racecar; a MINI Cooper S. 

Try as I might to convince him the drive wheels were in the wrong place he seemed happy with it.  I asked him how awesome a light bar would look on Birdie’s ML and he shrugged as she rolled her eyes.  Maybe they’ll be convinced when I get that Jurassic Park paintscheme on there…

The last stop before our final destination was Mike’s Pastry- an exceptional canoli purveyor and Boston institution.  Bringing home a take from Mike’s for my family would win me some points right off the bat.

Just over an hour later we were pulling into my parent’s lawn.  I had been dreaming of ripping a big, ignorant donut to announce my arrival but I aborted when I realized dad had just put down grass seed.  I’d need to stay in his good graces a little longer if I expected him to let me use his tools.

A couple days of showing Jess around the North Shore and she was on a plane back to LA.  I was left with a very tired SUV that was clamoring for a detailing and an oil change.

Thus concluded the longest and somehow most incident-free land expedition I’d accomplished yet.  I don’t care if it was build in ‘Bama or Bremen, those boys at Benz know what they’re doing.  Forget selling this rig, I’m adding it to the fleet!

The End • ML Across America

My friend Molly works at an animal ER in town, and met up with us around midnight to show us a few bars.  I didn’t expect much on a Sunday night, but the local law enforcement certainly did.  As we made our way back to the cars after last call we must have passed twenty Interceptors holding down Capitol Street containing what could only have been an invisible riot.

Molly was kind enough to put us up on an air mattress (a substantial improvement over the previous night’s accommodation) and we powered on to NYC the next day.

Talk about a sea change- it doesn’t get much more American than waking up in West Virginia and wrapping up in a Jersey City highrise overlooking New York’s skyline.

Birdie’s friend Brad brought us over the river (actually under it, on a subterranean commuter train) and to a kickass place in the East Village simply called “Frank Restaurant.”

The $4 ATM charge was well worth the experience of great food, stylish atmosphere and a surprisingly impressive wine list.

Actually, I shouldn’t have been surprised because rich hipsters love places like this.

Back at Brad’s apartment the nighttime view from the living room was downright inspiring.  In the garage the car once again got to rub shoulders (er, fenders) with M3’s and AMG Merc’s… all of which were undoubtedly jealous of our humble ML’s epic expedition.

Even though we still had a couple hundred miles ahead of us, seeing the Atlantic meant we pretty well had this trip in the bag.  And despite a few trying moments on those empty highways, we had had smooth sailing from one ocean to another.

We enjoyed some grits and pancakes while we left our Benz to regale other cars in the Lowes garage with tales of its adventure so far.

Mother’s certainly had the motif and waiting time you’d expect from a famous establishment, but Jess and I had to agree that it might have poured the worst.  Coffee.  Ever.

Including that time Austin Powers drank poop thinking it was coffee.

Imagine brewing a gallon of coffee, letting it sit for a day, microwaving it, letting it sit for another week, draining the waste oil out of a New York Taxi into it, microwaving it again, and serving it a week later.  Unfortunately for Jess, the milk had gone off as well so she was in for an even more trying experience.

Needless to say, we hit Starbucks as soon as we crossed the Alabama state line.

Not long after that we passed a sign for “Mercedes Drive.”

“That’d be a cool photo op,” I thought to myself, but I quickly became distracted as my phone reminded me it was someone’s birthday.

Before I could finish the obligatory wall post a giant Mercedes-Benz emblem rose out of the horizon, foreshadowing the enormous facility it was mounted atop of.

I almost suggested we stop, but Birdie was at the helm and therefore we were WOT in the left lane.

I shifted from Facebook to Google and discovered that not only was there a Mercedes factory here in Tuscaloosa, Alabama- it was where the M-Class was built!

We had inadvertently driven right past the very birthplace of the car we were riding in.  Awesome.

At this point I had no idea the car was built in America, although I had my suspicions as multiple door panels had already fallen off.

We took advantage of the last Bo’Jangles restaurant we would see on a trip (heartbreaking) and proceeded to arrive at the Nashville Econolodge around 10:00PM.

“It’s $42 for a double bed or $47 for a king,” said the surprisingly cheerful dude behind the counter.

“Meeeeeehhhhhhhhhh we’ll take the double.”

Boom, that’s a beer right there.

Like New Orleans, Nashville had three standout qualities that happened to be alliterative.  Those being- bands, buskers, and babes.

The last time I passed through Nashville I left with a favorable impression.  And that was on mid-week night right after a catastrophic flood.

Tonight was a Saturday, in the throes of college basketball finals, and the scene was unbelievable.

Live music poured out of every door, and when we weren’t in earshot of a bar the street musicians were out in force.  And not just your typical gutter punk with an upside-down bucket and two spoons, these were full-fledge rock bands occupying the sidewalk.

I don’t know if there was a convention in town or if the local population is just well-presented, but the women of Nashville are flatout jaw-droppers.  What is it about a dress and cowboy boots?

Google’s autonomus vehicle program has been in the news for awhile, but until now was confined to closed airports and other test locations removed from the public.  But after today they’ll be at large in traffic, possibly including the Vegas Strip.

So far Nevada is the only state authorizing Google (and reportedly, “a number” of other companies looking to follow suit) to interject these autonomous-autos into the wild.

From PCWorld-

“To be approved for road travel, autonomous cars must have a combined minimum driving time of 10,000 miles. Nevada also requires autonomous car operators to submit a complete description of their self-driving technology, a detailed safety plan, and a plan for hiring and training test drivers. The state requires a $100 licensing fee plus $13 for each set of license plates, but companies must also purchase a surety bond of $1 million to put up to 5 vehicles on the road. Nevada says a number of other unnamed companies are looking to follow Google and test self-driving cars on the state’s public roads.”

Even in its fledgling state, such technology is pretty fascinating.

The Pros?  Well, a serious reduction of drunk driving incidents that’s for sure.  And honestly, I’d bet my safety on a robot driving over most of the motorists with licenses in this country.

But in twenty years, will this mean I’ll have to race through autonomic traffic to uncover a secret robot conspiracy as the only one left on a motorcycle?

Awesome.

The beads, the booze, the boobs; all tossed in your face like pennies into a fountain.

Unfortunately we were doused in rain as much as debauchery, but a little weather never hurt- uh, nevermind.

We started our experience by ticking off the boxes we knew we had to- streetcar ride (I resisted the urge to try Brando’s bawl), coffee and beignets (say “ben-yay”) at Café Du Monde and a self-guided tour of the French Quarter.

We met up with Cliff again and he showed us his lab in what was, as our cab driver warned en route, “not a good neighborhood to be going to.”

The facility took me back to senior year of college… red dust on everything, tiny fragments in plastic bags, dudes in black t-shirts scribbling notes.  Good times.

On our way to out to lunch I stepped onto the sidewalk and nearly cleaned up by a bloke on a bicycle- spinning a pink umbrella and singing at the top of his lungs.

“You get used to stuff like that living around here,” said Cliff, in his perpetually unfazed Louisiana drawl.

Lunch was, of course, fried shrimp on a sub- which they call a “Po’ Boy” for reasons I never learned.  What I didn’t expect was that it was served at a Chinese restaurant.  That also sold cereal.  “The Chinese setup shop here, and figured out what people wanted to eat,” explained our host.  “I guess they stuck with the dragon décor just ‘cuz.”

He also introduced us to a new genre of city dwellers referred to by contributing members of society as “gutter punks.”  The gutter punks are part hipster, part flower-child, rolled in under a motif of homeless.  They invariably have lots of tattoos, a dog, and rancid hair.  Curiously they seem to disappear in bad weather suggesting a “homeless by choice” scenario, which earns them scorn from both sides of the poverty line.

After sharing that cultural gem with us Cliff had to get back to work, so Jess and I were on our own again for sight seeing.

Bourbon Street was the clear choice, where we quickly fell victim to the siren song of the fishbowl stand.

Instead of aquatic creatures, these bowls contained vodka, light rum, 151, amaretto, triple sec, gin, a dash of grenadine and few sneezes of juice.

Despite the fact that this unique container included a necklace-string, by the vendor’s own admission it was not up to the task of supporting the beverage’s weight.

“Hold the bowl from the bottom, don’t wear it around your neck.  Because then you’ll be wearing it all over your shirt.”

Based on the jet-exhaust smell the elixir was emitting, I had a feeling it wasn’t going to matter.

Drinking from a fishbowl full of liquor while strolling down Bourbon is perfectly acceptable, almost expected if you’re from out of town.  But the practice felt decidedly more embarrassing when we crossed the line out of tourist town and into the abutting residential areas.

Just walkin’.  Sucking down a gallon of liquor.  Don’t worry about it.

We circled back and landed at another weird restaurant for dinner.  I couldn’t resist a menu item called the “Dead Cajun”- a fried burger (yep) injected with cheese and jalapeños, toped with fried onions, fried fries and what I’m pretty sure was just fried lard.  Jess Instragramed a picture of it while I called my mum to tell her I loved her before committing to what would surely lead to a heart attack.

To my left a few fellows were cheering on a March Madness NCAA game.  Out the window to my right, a woman in sequined sweatpants was beckoning pedestrians to enter a building with the text “LIVE SEX SHOW” over the door in, you guess it, flickering neon.  Instead of windows the building had TV monitors looping content that I gathered was taking place inside.

You’d think I would have lost my appetite, but I was starting to get used to the spectacle that is New Orleans.

In case you’re wondering, yes there is an Uptown where locals go.  It’s chock full of its own great nightlife and reminds you that NOLA does in fact have residents.  But if you’re in town for one night, that’s not where you’re going to end up.

For some reason I remembered Waffle House being awesome… was this the first time I’d been in one sober?

Decidedly undercaffeinated we pressed east toward the state commonly known as Little Weeziana and the legend that is New Orleans.

As soon as we crossed the border the lush flatlands of Texas gave way to swamp.  The first giant puddle we saw was literally stagnating below the “Welcome To Louisiana” sign.  By the time we had driven fifty miles in I was convinced we were going to get passed on the right by a fanboat.

Birdie scanned the terrain for something to Instagram and commented; “I’m not sure this place is inhabitable.”

I was inclined to agree, as we had yet to locate a Starbucks within reasonable distance from the highway.

Determined to have an authentic Louisiana experience by lunchtime, I scanned Google for the deep south’s favorite chicken and biscuits- Popeye’s.

Actually I was hoping for a Bo’Jangles, which is a superior purveyor of basically the same thing, but we wouldn’t be in their territory for another few days.  It’s like being stuck with Krispy Kreme when all you want is Dunkin’ Donuts.

So we ventured into the bayou, wedged our Cali-registered Mercedes between a Silverado on 33’s and a Taurus that looked like it spent all twenty five years of its existence under water.

Territory remained unfamiliar as we tried to order.  The chick behind the counter was speaking some dialect of English I was sure couldn’t exist outside of parody skits about this region, and yet…

Anyway we got the chicken and got the hell out of there, charging into a torrential rainstorm on the way to our final destination.

Birdie’s mum had been exceptionally kind and sent us a first world care package in the form of a couple nights at the Loews Downtown.  Our rig would be getting valet parked for the first time since W163 was the current M-Class chassis code.

The place was spectacular- and downright majestic in comparison to the Dallas Motel 6 we had inhabited the night before, where I had tried to microwave Ramen noodles in the ice bucket in an effort to conceal the dead-body odor emanating from under the beds.

We hit the hotel bar before we met up with a bro of mine for just long enough to spot no less than four Tommy Bahama shirts.  I was surprised we didn’t see more, considering that there were five dudes in the place.

With that scene exhausted we caught a cab uptown to a place I can’t remember the name of and linked up with Cliff, an old friend from my archaeological field school.  He’s a NOLA native who works in cultural resource management in town.

Giving us an expedited rundown of the city he told us that while Bourbon Street and the French Quarter were worth seeing, the city’s life spread far beyond what I’d seen on Girls Gone Wild.  From what I could see he was right… but I wasn’t that concerned with seeing how the locals lived.  Bring on the beads.