Motor - December 1986
TYPECAST
by David Vivian
There are
D-types and there are D-types. Those
made by Jaguar won Le Mans three times in a row and are worth up to half a
million. Those made by Lynx cars
look, perform and sound the same for a more modest investment . . . . . .
It
is doubtful if there are words to accurately describe the way a 4.2-litre Lynx
D-type sounds on the overrun. If they exist, I don't know what they are. A
stricken Flying Fortress in a spiralling, tumbling dive into oblivion is one
aural image that springs to mind. A sperm whale dying of terminal flatulence is
another, though such things strike me as being no easier to put into words than
the exhaust note. So I won't try.
Of
the sound's effect on those who hear it, however, I can tell you two things.
First, it makes you go ever so slightly deaf. Second, if you allow the exhaust
to let rip under a bridge or sandwiched between two brick walls, you can almost
feel the pressure waves drum-rolling off your skull.
There
are two ways of dealing with this. Either you stuff cotton wool into your ears
and look embarrassed at being the focal point of so much unseemly noise, or you
stuff your head into an embarrassing hat-a leather flying cap and goggles is
traditional-and revel in time spent with Lynx's stunningly faithful replica of
what many regard to be the greatest of all post-war sports cars: the D-type
Jaguar.
These are the choices. Like
the real thing, the Lynx offers no compromises, none of the creature comforts
even the driver of a Lotus Seven would take for granted. There, is no heater, no
roof. If it rains you get wet, if it's cold you freeze. The blaring, guttural
exhaust noise is a constant and garrulous companion. Should you ever feel like
reaching for the "volume" knob to turn it down you know the Lynx is
not for you. It's driving undiluted. Every journey stings the senses like
smelling salts; cuts through mental fug with the measured menace of a machete,
makes your eyes water.
To own a Lynx with conviction is to believe
that being cold is invigorating, wearing clothes heavy with rainwater is
refreshing, and announcing your presence with a perfectly tuned raspberry is a
social grace. According to the Lynx order book, at least three people every year
become solemn adherents to this philosophy. What's more, they pay the best part
of £50,000 for the privilege and have to wait six months for delivery. You've
probably twigged. The Lynx D-type isn't very much of a hardship. What people
queuing for a bus feel as you rumble by, blue-nosed and grinning isn't sympathy
but envy. What they can't see is just as evocative: a fighter-like cockpit-all
bare aluminium and pop rivets, precision toggle
switches and exposed black relay boxes. You almost feel you should tap the
glass-faced dials into flickering life like a WWII Spitfire ace preparing to do
battle. They're big and plainly marked, never more than the flick of an eye away
from your low line of sight. The important ones you can see through the gentle
arc of the large laminated wood-rim steering wheel which -like every other part
of the D-type save for the engine, the transmission and the suspension-is made
in-house by a highly skilled and motivated workforce.
Each wheel takes a week to make, which seems excessive only to someone
who hasn't spent 150 hours fashioning the nose section from flat sheets of
aluminium. Today's D-type
The D-type. What is there to say
that hasn't already been said? It won Le Mans three times in a row after nearly tasting victory
first time out in 1954. It was, and is, one of the most dramatically beautiful
sports cars ever made. And, of course, it spawned the E-type which distilled the
essential elements of its design into the greatest road-going sports car of its
day. In the Lynx, the E-type repays its debt to an illustrious forebear. An
immensely strong aluminium monocoque centre section-virtually identical to that
shared by D and E-carries E-type subframes fore and aft and on to this structure
is bolted the E-type's all-independent suspension, dohc straight-six XK engine
(3.8 or 4.2 litres) and 4-speed transmission, an alloy header tank, a special
wide base lower wishbone at the rear, a shortened propshaft and a foam-filled
alloy petrol tank. The Lynx is considerably lighter than the E-type, and the
suspension is modified accordingly. Lynx remove one of the pair of coil springs
on each side, and fit Koni dampers all round. The original D-type, of course,
used a live axle. Braking is also improved, with discs- supplanting the rear
drums-a twin servo and a split circuit.
The crowning glory, however,
is the hand-made alloy bodywork fashioned by Lynx, using traditional equipment
which allows them to undertake double-curvature sheet metal work. This is
famously time- consuming, but the Hastings-based company has recently doubled
its working space to increase throughput and this will reduce delivery for the
D-type from 18 months to six months. Making the monocoque in batches and
equipping each working bay with its own, dedicated parts store should further
streamline the operation. Even so, the time and effort expended on the
manufacture of the monocoque and the body represents more than half the total
cost of production. In all, 63 D-types were made by Jaguar, not all of which
survive. Some that do live in California, where they can swap hands for up to £500,000
or as much as an original Ferrari GTO. There are more valuable cars, but most of
them are static exhibits in museums. Even ex- Weslake engineer Guy Black-a
confessed D-type fanatic - couldn't have foreseen the price explosion when he
formed Lynx Cars in 1969. Back then, Lynx were the acknowledged experts in the
restoration and refurbishment of Cs and Ds. It wasn't until 1973, that the company decided actually to revive the classic
old-timer. In the ensuing decade about 30 have been made, both long and short
nose, and some from kits in the early days (no longer offered). Demand for the
ready-built item, however, is stronger than ever, and with good reason. If you
bought a Lynx D-type for £15,000 in 1977 it would fetch about£38,000 today.
Like the real thing, the Lynx more than holds its value.
"57 SAL", a
slightly wrinkled but utterly beautiful metallic turquoise long-nose, was bought
by Lynx from a heartbroken owner who couldn't really afford it. We can
sympathise. It totes a 4.2-litre XK unit with an easy-breathing big-valve head
and an alleged 300 bhp. Believe it; SAL is a brutally fast car. Prod the
accelerator hard in first and the car displaces itself fifty yards in space.
It thumps a hole in the air and fills it with the bark of its fast
disappearing exhaust. With little more than a ton to propel through the air, it
gets to 60mph in 5.3 sec and l00 mph in 13.1 sec. The Porsche 911 Turbo driver
who takes on this Jaguar is sadly misguided. But for the meagre traction
afforded by the large yet slim Dunlops covering its 15in alloy wheels -
original-size 16 inchers are now the order of the day at Lynx - SAL would be
quicker still; maybe even capable of cracking the 5 second barrier to 60mph.
Certainly, away from the artificial sadism of Millbrook's mile straight, It
feels every bit as rapid as a Testarossa or an Aston Zagato. Its ability to
cover each of the 20 mph increments between 30 and 90 mph in top in little more
than four seconds apiece probably explains why.
On the road, the Lynx hauls
in the horizon as if it was attached to a high-speed winch. Given half a chance,
its bulbous snout devours short straights with an almost savage disdain. Once
moving, you can barely trust your senses: the solid shove in the back should
warn you, but until you've matched your rhythm to the car's, bends arrive too
fast, brakes are worked too hard. They don't seem to mind, remaining firm,
powerful and seemingly unfadeable.
For lovers of the twin-cam
straight-six, the Lynx is a kind of Valhalla. It grumbles, it spits, it howls,
and it grunts. But above everything is a mechanical purity you won't find
anywhere else, a euphony that contrasts starkly with the sharp, metallic edge of
an Italian VI2. There's an alluring gentility, too. Snick. the stubby machined
aluminium gear knob forward into first, ease out the meaty but progressive
clutch and the Lynx trickles off at idle into the lethargy of the rush hour.
Into second, then third; the shift is easy and fluid, the engine smooth and
strong without the sense of frenzy that often accompanies latent fury. Capable
of pushing the D-type through the air at over 160mph? Almost certainly, though
SAL's particular gearing suggested a rev-limited top-end of around 150mph. It's
enough. The D-types at Le Mans could brush 200 mph, but SAL was suffering from a
worn limited slip differential when we drove it which invariably precipitated a
worrying weave to the left when the throttle was eased. That said, grip was
never found wanting and the steering made up in feel for what it lacked in
precision-and that wasn't much. The Lynx was beautifully neutral in fast sweeps
and, in tighter bends-that legendary D-type "driftability" had been
preserved, too. All this and a decent ride.
The Lynx D-type is one of
those rare cars that shakes up your emotions and rides roughshod over
rationality. It leaves you aching with desire and spouting nonsense. After a brief ride in the passenger seat, Mr Art Editor Parkin
was seen sitting in a quiet corner of the office muttering "I must have
one, I must have one". Poor deluded soul.
Now, who’ll lend me fifty
grand until lunch time?
