It's 7:39 am on a February morning as I sit in traffic on the north side of Chicago. It's fucking freezing.
This car is old, about as old as me, and the heater is a tease. But before I go into the trip and how I got myself volunteered into this predicament, a little background...
My mother and her boyfriend split their time between the great Garden State and Chicago, and he has a penchant for the Mercedes SL. He has had a 190 (I know what you're thinking), a 280 (totaled by his son's friend, somehow neither of them were murdered), and this 560.
He's declined to get into the R129 chassis and newer, and I guess I can't blame him, they don't make them like they used to. Because although this car is slower, corners worse, and has less creature comforts, that is not the point of the 560SL.
When this car came out, we were in a pinnacle of excess. This was the GT car for those with discerning, less gauche tastes. It's a brute, Germany's idea of a muscle car but definitely more at home on a country estate or the valet lot at the club than lining up for a drag race. The last of the R107 chassis with a 5.6 liter V8 and clocking in around 3500 lbs - probably more with a stomach full of expensive junk food. It's imposing but understated. My guess is there were a lot more posters of the Countach or F40 on pre-pubescent bedroom walls. The hood ends on a different block. It's built so solid. You get the sense this Mercedes was chiseled from a block of slate. This was also the top of the line, end of an era flagship GT for the R107. Their party piece. Despite the oversized V8, the car is very refined. The engine isn't loud, and the driving dynamics don't snap your neck in any direction, you just sort of move about swiftly with a sense of stature as a titan of industry or neurosurgeon on the way to the golf course. There is no pantomime, just the air of old-money confidence.
The first time I laid eyes on this car, truthfully, my impression was that he ordered the wrong color. It was very brown and looks to have been designed on an etch-a-sketch. He apparently also has a thing for that paint job (Rolls is the same hue - more on that in a future article). But taking it for the day along Sheridan Road to Lake Shore Drive and the Magnificent Mile, top down, mid-July, gave me a Ferris Bueller's Day Off kind of moment, swapping the bright red howling Italian for a grumbling V8 German brute. I had the say, the color choice was less of an issue.
We were having dinner one night and the idea of them having the car back East in Spring/Summer came up. With fuzzy memories of a warm Chicago afternoon, sun in my face, luxury German touring car seats, and an oversized V8 at my beck and call, of course I volunteered. I hadn't driven it with the hard top anyway.
So, my brother in law and I caught an early morning flight to Chicago, spent the day doing touristy things in the cold, had some steaks at Gibson's, and some knockout vintage wines before our early-morning road trip.
Fast forward to bumper to bumper traffic on I-90 getting out of town, and this stately touring car is showing its age. The roof (hard top fitted), very creaky. Heater? Sorry mate. Tires are out of balance - of course, easy fix back home. Transmission? Was this flushed? No matter. Hopefully the traffic lets up soon.
And it did. Getting onto I-80 through Indiana and Ohio, what is normally a mind numbing, boring drive, is...actually still just that. Even in the SL. The trump card here is that it's so comfortable. The seats (brown of course) keep you nicely coddled while the suspension and generous sidewall irons out any bumps. You barely notice as you approach the century mark on the speedo. 5.6 liters of 80's German engineering eat up the miles. So much so that it isn't until Pittsburgh that we notice the car has a shimmy under hard braking.
It's around this time we get a call back home, asking if we'll be around for dinner. Can we make it? No problem. Hammer down.
Stretching the 560's legs through the highways winding through the Appalachian mountains is the Merc's element. Long, sweeping bends, accelerating out of the apex to the next curve and you're in this car's sweet spot. Thankfully, keeping the car above 75, the unbalanced wheel chatter smooths out, and it's happy to oblige your right foot. The car behaves more like a Russian oligarch's yacht than finely tuned sports car. As we attack more pavement and the sun dips below the horizon, this stretch of highway that splits the mountains is majestic and the car is nothing short of magic. Unfortunately, as night falls, we discover another technological advancement we're missing. Xenon.
Things are getting dark. The influx of semi-trucks slow our speed back to the realm of wheel chatter and we're still in middle of nowhere PA. Both on the beginning stages of hunger, we decide to pit stop before things get ugly. Enter Wawa's slightly more country-bred PA cousin, Sheetz. Taking a moment to fill up the car and our snacks, we get a chance to have a look at the Merc. It is filthy, but oh my, the aesthetics have grown on me. Having a virtually unchanged profile since the early 70's, it really is timeless (like a Jeffrey Scott suit “wink”) and the textbook definition of style versus fashion. It just looks right, and you're not in danger of being harassed by drooling high schoolers with a learners permit or having to worry about someone keying your door. Roadside junk food and caffeine apparently has a profound effect on my attitude.
We head back out for the final stretch as a light drizzle starts to come down. The windshield wipers are also useless and we neglected to buy more washer fluid so the game of conservation begins. The rain lets up and we're moving briskly toward the NJ border. This car is very keen. As we near the restaurant, I have a moment to reflect on the past 800 miles or so we covered.
Beyond the vintage good looks, even in this shade of tan, I've fallen in love with the 560's personality. There's a lot of requisite TLC of course, but despite those minor gripes, the car has so much character. Every button on the dash feels precise. The steering wheel is perfectly uncluttered and the dials are so familiar. I'm also surprisingly relaxed considering 10 hours of travel time without cruise control. Outside of routine maintenance, the car is remarkably stable and does not feel anywhere near the 70k miles it has on the clock. It does feel 30 years old, but in a good way, it feels like its too strong and simple to ever die. Unlike more modern cars, which increasingly tend to hide behind technology, the distinctly analog feel is a welcome dose of nostalgia. Forget Bluetooth, this needs a hardwired brick of a cell phone. I love how the interior has aged, and oozes a downplayed luxury, the Jekyll and Hyde duality of the V8, and how innocuous it looks compared to its more contemporary siblings. This is the automotive equivalent of your favorite cashmere sweater, absurdly comfortable and luxurious without being ostentatious. Also, an incredible bargain as they seem to be at the bottom of the depreciation curve.
When we pull up to the restaurant and shut the doors of the SL, you hear the heavy clunk of German solidity, and I grin again. We have dinner and a few drinks. On the way out, a friend asks who's car we're getting into - mine for now. To quote Mr. Ferris Bueller: "It is so choice. If you have the means, I highly suggest picking one up."
B. C. Short
JS Lifestyle Editor
