This story is continued from Part 1 here.

The Alpine White BMW 1 Series I’m currently racing might be gaining distance on me, but I’m sweating and swearing more – and thus having a hell of a lot more fun. Up and down the mountain, the confident and agile line the newer bimmer cuts is followed by my little silver bullet screeching and sliding through lanes behind them. This is what my car was built to do. I hope it’s happy, because I sure am. Though our mini BMW race felt like it lasted an hour, I’m sure it was actually 20 minutes or less. Just as the 1 finally lost me around a set of stacked corners we both rocketed up to an ancient Rav4 and were stuck patiently waiting (read: chomping at the bit) to continue our pointless competition.

Thankfully the Toyota pulled off and we enjoyed another mile or so of me just trying to keep up when we again hurtled up behind two aging bikers on their massive be-chromed Harleys. They quickly pulled over to let us by but now I was loosing my taste for this. The 1 series rocketed through the most technical hairpin on the mountain while I chose to more deliberately make my way through. Let the young machine take this victory, I’m sure the owner needs to justify their chariot a lot more than I do.

By now they were lengths ahead of me and on to a section of straights and wide bends before the canyon ends by joining with a congested highway. I gave one more full-bore blast up to 5th gear to catch them up in a wide sweeper. Again we danced our dance with my heart only half in it (sounds like my prom) and I stayed with them without having to try too hard. As my adrenalin wore off a vicious smell hit me all at once. The brakes. My cardboard brakes were roasted and crying for relief. I applied some pressure on the next bend and they had indeed given up the ghost. The final intersection then came into view and I stood on the brake pedal and downshifted like mad from what seemed miles away just to stop in time. The intersection came, the 1 series went left, I went right, and not so much as a wave was exchanged between us. Parting is such sweet sorrow.

This is the first full stop I’ve come to all afternoon and I quickly realize how much effort this drive has taken. I am exhausted, the 2002 is exhausted, and I quickly realize I haven’t eaten all day. Thus is the appeal of this car. Driving it means merging with it to a point that your wants and needs become secondary to the team you have joined. I wouldn’t have it any other way. Forget the hunger and forget the brakes, I’m only halfway and I’ve got another canyon to conquer on the way down.

On to the highway, through a small town of old strip malls and new gas stations, then turn right into another mountain road. This half of the course isn’t nearly as technical, or free from traffic, so I get my thrills where I can when a passing lane appears. All these yuppies are shocked when a machine from the Pleistocene era rockets past them with a momentum they couldn’t hope to match. This is the more beautiful canyon, affording views of mountain’s and Justin Bieber’s 3rd home, but my eyes are still glued through the upright windshield and over the short hood of my time machine.

Dusk is here and I’m not relishing the thought of being in a canyon at night with 1970 headlights. I pile on some more speed for the final climb, then it’s all downhill and brake management. They’re still not very pleased with me, and the slow-moving traffic we’re stuck behind isn’t helping matters. Civilization slowly begins to pop back up as I reflect on how great this vehicle is. In a world of launch control, ABS, airbags and brakes that actually work, I wouldn’t have anything else. I love this 2002 and want it badly. Sadly, it must be returned to its lucky owner tomorrow.

As night falls I leave the canyon to the modern cars whose headlights and other safety equipment work normally. As I re-enter the civilized world there stands a lonely stoplight amongst the dried grasses and dive bars. This is the gateway back to real life, and with its suddenly yellow light I’m once more hard on the loud pedal. One last time for the frightening jolt of speed, then on in the darkness to the PCH and on to home.

- Adam Kaslikowski

UPDATE: This car is now for sale and a full description is available here.

Seat belt. Choke. Clutch. Key. An age-old ritual that marks the beginning of a vintage automotive journey. And in old cars it is often this ritual, and the journey itself, that is the goal. Clutch. Key. Rumble. Gas. RUMBLE. The starting sequence filled with the fumes of old leather and new oil. In vintage cars driving is a full sensory experience. When you are lucky enough to have access to that kind of machine, whether for an hour or everyday, you must take it seriously. These cars demand your full attention, your full participation in the driving. This is the kind of machine that inevitably leads you to driving nirvana. A BMW 2002 is just such a machine.

This very cherry 1970 example with a racing motor was recently mine for a weekend, and I intended to wring the hell out of it in pursuit of automotive ecstasy. Did I find it, or was I left on the side of the road with a broken heap? Keep reading to find out…

The BMW 2002′s soundtrack: The Rolling Stones -  Sympathy for the Devil

This 2002 is everything I want in a car and nothing I don’t. Aggressive stance, side-draft Weber carbs, 5 speed manual transmission, and a racing engine with an vicious cam. Traction control and airbags are for rookies, or at least people with a better grasp on self-preservation. To further prove this point, I’m going to take this machine that’s older than I am on a spirited canyon drive to get to know it. No warm up, no getting to know you session, I’ll have none of it. This car and I are going to bond through a trial by fire. That is my plan anyway.

I merge on to the Pacific Coast Highway and I’m onward to my destination. While parts of the PCH are supposed to be great drives, this section isn’t one of them. Constantly gridlocked from Santa Monica north to Malibu, it at least affords me plenty of time to take in the scenery. On my right side is a scraggly cliff abutting what can only be a beginner’s attempt at a sidewalk. Mad cyclist forgo that failed strip of concrete and ride amongst and through the aggro soccer-mom tanks. To my left are dilapidated brightly painted 2 story condos with Bentley Continentals, Ferrari Scagliettis, and a plethora of Passats, and beyond is the restless Pacific Ocean. Despite being in stop and go traffic in the middle of summer, the bimmers temperature gauge is vibrating just below the mid-point. Even 1970′s German engineering was rock solid. Several miles of this traffic and great ocean vistas, and past some very promising looking canyons, I leave the PCH and roar up Topanga Canyon.

With the ocean rapidly disappearing behind me I’m in 2nd gear and approaching the redline within moments. So far this car loves to go. It’s happy above 3000 rpm and ecstatic above 5000. Acceleration is a sudden jolt backed up by a surging torrent of thrust until you’re on to the next gear to repeat the cycle. Best to vent my frustrations now while the shoulders are still wide and the rising canyon walls prevent me from getting into too much trouble. The route I’m taking is a loop formed by two canyon roads (see our description and review of the route), with plenty of mixed curved and straights along its 15 mile length.

The first time I drive the loop is a sighting lap and a chance to get the pictures your eyeballs are hopefully enjoying It’s an easy-going lap to familiarize myself with the raspy engine. I take it slow through the last vestiges of a neighborhood and work the 2002′s inset accelerator and its definately-from-the-past brakes. The owner told me that the brakes are new, but factory. He must have meant a cardboard factory because the only thing these brakes are stopping is my heart. the first 3-4 inches of travel do nothing to the velocity of the car, then the pedal moves into what feels like wet concrete and SOME speed is shed off my forward momentum. Fine, no brakes. I can drive with no brakes…

The sighting lap is done and the requisite pretty pictures have been taken. I’ve gone up one canyon and down another to the intersection where they first collided. Once more unto the breach, and this time at 10/10ths. Slowly at first, past the pair of posing cougars in their bright yellow Ferrari 360 Spider, past the cocktail party with its own private valet, until I’m finally past the old creaky mountain homes and am alone with this sonic masterpiece and it’s engine which I can only assume contains nothing but angry bees. God these roads are narrow, but then so is the 2002. The speed of my silver rocket builds up and I begin to lose all confidence that I will see another day. The curves have begun coming at me faster now, more tightly packed together; I press on.

I’m finding this car’s rhythm, although I’m not even close to being able to stay with it. As we get to know each other, it’s all full throttle to full brake and no finesse. That would be my fault, however, not the cars. For being from the Nixon administration, the little 2002 is remarkably capable within its limits. But those limits are not for the faint of heart to find. This car drives on a knife’s edge, and if you are lacking in either skill or luck you are going to wind up in trouble if you overextend yourself.

Throwing the BMW into corners and standing on the accelerator while the tires search fruitlessly for grip, I catch up to a modern BMW 1 series ambling peacefully up this now-violated mountain. I think it, and moments later I can tell they think it too – these cars are related, kindred spirits if you will. The other driver has seen the way I’ve rocketed up behind them, felt me egging them on by alternately riding their bumper or dropping back so I can feel that unstoppable acceleration once more. They see I want some action, and by god they give it to me. He or she confidently pulls away from me and I know (I hope) it’s on. I drop into 2nd, punish the accelerator and give chase. Through four corners and the straights connecting them I’m right with them. It is indeed on. Of course they are losing me. Of course they are. They have modern brakes, power steering, and the confidence that nothing integral will fall off at this precise moment. I have ancient bucket seats and side draft carbs. But damn the torpedoes, because I’m not letting that 1 series get away. I won’t ride their bumper now, or even allow myself in too close – I don’t know my machine well enough yet for that – but that doesn’t mean I’m letting this white 135 out of my sights.

Cliffhanger? You know it! Look for part 2 of this review coming soon!

- Adam Kaslikowski

UPDATE: This car is now for sale and a full description is available here.

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