1964 Ford Fairlane 500 4.7l on 2040-cars

Auto blog

This Or That: Fiat 500 Abarth vs. Ford Fiesta ST [w/poll]

They're pretty darn similar. And yet our views are oh so different.
If you guys could read the transcripts of our editors' chat room, you'd know that we're a pretty argumentative bunch. It's always good-spirited stuff (well, usually), but when we're not obsessively covering this or that, we're usually fighting about one car being better than another. We're all enthusiasts here, and our automotive tastes run the gamut from the weird and unusual to the decidedly mainstream - we all feel strongly about specific cars in a given segment. While it usually makes for good conversation, if we're passionate enough, it can turn into a tomato-throwing showdown.

BMW V8-powered Ford Model A is the definition of Hot Rod

Today, hotrodding has a pretty staid definition. Take one classic American car, add one classic American V8, sprinkle with tire smoke and you pretty much have every hot rod to roll out of a shop in the last 40 years. Mike Borroughs knows it wasn't always this way. Once upon a time, getting your bucket to go faster meant grabbing whatever parts were lazing about the yard, bolting them together with a bit of ingenuity and laughing your way down the quarter mile. It's in that spirit that Burroughs built his 1928 Ford Model A.
Rather than turn to the tired flathead or the common Chevrolet small block, Burroughs plucked a 4.0-liter V8 from a 1995 BMW 7 Series. With 300 horsepower and 300 pound-feet of torque, the engine has no trouble shuffling the old A around town. He had to build a custom chassis to get everything to cooperate, but the result is a 1,500-pound heathen that looks built to harass dry lake beds. You can check it out in the video below. Be warned, the soundtrack by Hanni el Khatib may not be safe for work - awesomeness of this caliber rarely is.

Project Ugly Horse: Part VII

Devils, Details and Weight Reduction
There are many things I could call this exercise. A party is not one of them.
I've spent three days crammed in the axle well of this 1989 Mustang with nothing to keep me company beyond a trouble light, a DeWalt drill on the very last of its legs and billion razor sharp, red hot slivers of metal with an affinity for my most sensitive of regions. My joints are raw from crawling around on the concrete. I'm half deaf from the shriek of the spot weld cutter and the boom of the cold chisel and hammer.