12 bargain classic sports cars

Chic and cheerful

Unless you’ve been living on a desert island, you’ll have no doubt noticed that we’re living in one of the great inflationary eras of recent times.

Petrol is at record prices across the globe, while values of new cars have soared.

We’ve seen similar rises in the classic car market, too, which will have left many feeling priced out of some summer sports car fun this year.

However, there’s always a relative bargain to be had, so we’ve assembled some classic sports cars that can be had for less than the cost of a new Renault Clio.

From ’50s nostalgia to modern-classic heroes

Avoid the obvious choices and the real collectors’ items, put aside such vain concerns as exclusivity and there are some fantastic classic sports cars to be found. What’s more, you don’t have to limit yourself to a particular era.

Setting ourselves a nominal budget of £18,000, we set out to discover the finest affordable sports cars from each decade, from the genre’s heyday in the 1950s all the way up to some relatively recent additions to the classic firmament from the 2000s.

Our favourite two from each generation then met at Curborough Sprint Course for a final showdown, making for an appetising selection – whether you’re seeking olde-worlde charm or a modern-classic great.

1950s: MG TD vs Morgan Plus 4

It would be untrue to say that 2023 is threatening the same levels of austerity experienced by our immediate post-war ancestors, but everything is relative and there’s no denying all enthusiasts will be feeling the pinch this year.

So when it comes to extracting the maximum bang-for-buck from a ’50s sports car, buyers are still looking for all the attributes that were important 70-odd years ago: stylish looks, ample performance, fun handling and, above all, affordability.

Our self-imposed £18,000 limit would put you in the ballpark for our two protagonists, MG TD (above left) and Morgan Plus 4, though in the latter’s case it would definitely require you to roll up your sleeves and show willing on the maintenance front to square with our budget.

If you’d rather have a ’50s Morgan without that caveat, the more sedate 4/4 might be a better option.

1950s: MG TD vs Morgan Plus 4 (cont.)

But neither car here would be a basket case for this money – far from it, in the case of the MG.

And, with both being generally robust and simple to work on, they not only fit the bill, but offer bags of brand cachet and driving thrills, too.

Both MG and Morgan had a weather eye on the demanding North American market after the war – indeed, each of our test cars was first registered in the USA.

MG just beat Morgan to market with the TD, previewed in 1949 with sales starting in 1950.

MG’s team, led by general manager John Thornley, had taken the then-current TC, analysed its appeal – primarily its powertrain and familiar design – and looked at how it could evolve without breaking the bank.

1950s: MG TD vs Morgan Plus 4 (cont.)

Access to its parent Nuffield Organisation’s parts bin helped and, with a requirement for better handling, the TD benefited from rack-and-pinion steering, and front suspension by coils and wishbones.

Criticisms of brake fade were answered by fitting ventilated steel rims (our test car wears aftermarket wires – a common period upgrade), and chassis stiffness was improved with the addition of a steel hoop under the dashboard to reduce scuttle shake.

Instead of using the TC’s chassis, the far more rigid Y-type’s frame was adopted, revised to run above the rear axle (the Y’s ran below) to allow greater wheel travel and addressing the need, especially from American drivers, for a more comfortable ride.

Mechanically, the TC’s 54bhp 1250cc XPAG ‘four’ was carried over, but in 1951 comprehensively revised with a new block and sump.

1950s: MG TD vs Morgan Plus 4 (cont.)

There were other, more subtle revisions during the TD’s short life (production swapped to the TF in 1953, in effect a restyled TD with a tweaked engine), but MG offered a raft of go-faster options for owners who wanted to exploit its untapped potential.

Unlike MG, Morgan didn’t have the luxury of a vast parent firm from which it could pick and choose components to develop new models.

So when, in 1950, engine supplier Standard dropped the 1267cc ‘four’, which had previously powered the 4/4, Morgan was forced to adopt its larger 2088cc Vanguard unit.

That it installed it into a new, lighter two-seater model, and not the 4/4 (which ceased production until 1955), was a masterstroke.

The Plus 4 was a hot rod compared with anything Morgan had produced before, capable of 0-60mph in 17.9 secs and a top speed of 85mph-plus.

1950s: MG TD vs Morgan Plus 4 (cont.)

Yet the Morgan’s pre-war recipe of a steel body on an ash frame, underpinned by a steel chassis, remained.

Its independently suspended front end retained sliding pillars – a Morgan staple since 1910 – combined with coils and telescopic dampers. Leaf springs looked after the live rear end.

Given Morgan’s famed reluctance for change, there were two significant revisions in the initial five years of Plus 4 production. The first, in 1954, was influenced by Standard, when it developed a modified Vanguard engine for the Triumph TR2.

Displacing 1991cc, and therefore eligible for sub-2-litre classes in motorsport, the new all-iron, overhead-valve unit, with twin semi-downdraught SUs, produced 90bhp and slashed the 0-60mph time to 10 secs, with top speed increasing to 100mph.

1950s: MG TD vs Morgan Plus 4 (cont.)

Later the same year, the ‘flat-rad’ front end was replaced by the now familiar cowled nose, which remained until production of this iteration of the Plus 4 ended in 1969.

The model continued to pick up on engine changes in the TR range (in the ’50s, that meant an upgrade to TR3 power late in the decade) and, thanks to its 1848lb kerbweight, it could embarrass the Canley car in a drag race.

Naturally, with 1991cc playing 1250cc, that’s very much the case if you set Morgan loose against MG.

But this is more than just simple power-play: the Plus 4 and TD each take very different routes to the panacea of driving pleasure.

‘Our’ Plus 4 is a flat-rad model from 1953. It’s very much ‘on the button’, reflected by its £25,000 asking price.

1950s: MG TD vs Morgan Plus 4 (cont.)

According to marque specialist Richard Thorne, who is selling the car on behalf of a client, this was one of the first cars to have had the option of a TR2 engine in preference to the Vanguard unit.

As you can see, today it has TR3 power and, as we’ll discover, that proves an interesting combination on a damp test track.

My 5ft 7in frame is a snug fit in the Plus 4’s left-hand, non-adjustable driving seat.

You face a varnished-wood dash with a central binnacle housing two large dials for speed and ancillaries, as well as assorted controls, and a separate tachometer directly before you.

The floor-mounted brake and clutch pedals offer little feel, and the bulkhead-mounted throttle has a similarly mushy response. But what the Plus 4 lacks in finesse is made up for in the intensity of the driving experience.

1950s: MG TD vs Morgan Plus 4 (cont.)

The exhaust produces a loud bark from the off, and as you work through the positive, narrow-gate four-speed ’box the Morgan has a remarkable turn of speed for a 70-year-old.

Its cam-and-sector steering is relatively heavy, even at speed, and not imbued with as much feedback as you’d like.

But its overall body control is excellent, with minimal roll, pitch and dive, albeit with a correspondingly firm ride.

Grip levels on our smooth track are low, and with 100bhp-plus through its rear wheels it at least proves how much easily controlled, utterly predictable sideways fun you can have. A real hoot.

1950s: MG TD vs Morgan Plus 4 (cont.)

Some contemporary testers criticised the MG for moulding the TD too much for US tastes, but for today’s larger humans it’s a far more habitable car.

You still sit up close to the large, three-spoke wheel, peering over a high scuttle, but the column is adjustable for both reach and rake, and the seats move back and forth. Trevor Smith’s smart, restored 1952 car even benefits from MG’s optional heater.

The TD won’t see which way the Plus 4 went on our test track, which is no surprise, and when you do start to exercise the car through the twisties there’s plenty of roll to contend with.

Yet the little MG has plenty of upsides. The smaller engine feels and sounds peppy – short gearing helps and hinders in equal measure here – and you row it along through a sweet-shifting, short-throw ’box.

Compared with the Morgan, all the main controls feel lighter and more progressive (the pedals in particular), and the TD’s steering rack delivers a degree of sensitivity lacking in the Plus 4.

Throw in a more compliant ride and, for drivers less intent on setting lap times, the little MG could quite easily win you over. It did me.

Thanks to: Richard Thorne Classic Cars

1960s: MGC vs Triumph TR4A

The Triumph TR4 (above, left) and MGC represent success and failure at either end of the 1960s in a mid-range sports-car market Britain still had largely to itself.

Having established a winning, if somewhat complacent, formula of pretty bodywork wrapped around rather unexciting drivetrain technology (which, by necessity, was closely wedded to the prevailing saloon-car components), MG and Triumph kept prices in the sub-£1200 bracket.

With nearly 69,000 sold between 1961 and ’67, the TR4 and TR4A could not be considered anything other than a success – particularly when 63,000 of them went for export, mostly to North America. 

The 110mph TR4 was really a TR3A cleverly reimagined in the Italianate idiom by Giovanni Michelotti, its £100 price premium over the MGB mainly justified by the extra urge from its 2138cc wet-liner ‘four’ and, from 1965 as the TR4A, its independent rear suspension.

1960s: MGC vs Triumph TR4A (cont.)

In the hierarchy of British sports cars, the TR4/4A slotted neatly between the machismo of the Austin-Healey 3000 and the slightly more effete charms of the even more successful – and equally handsome – MGB that, for around £850, could just top 100mph on 1798cc.

Had the upcoming safety regulations not conspired against the survival of the Big Healey in North America, Abingdon might well have been content to maintain this status quo.

In the end, it fell to MG to produce a 3-litre successor that would also take the fight to the six-pot TR that its master, BMC, knew was in the pipeline.

Within a few months of their 1967 launches, the TR5 and MGC would be stepsiblings in the unholy BLMC alliance. But already their fates were sealed.

Current for just two years, the MGC was damned by the motoring press for its understeer and its lazily unresponsive (yet not particularly torquey) engine, but perhaps most of all for the fact that it looked too much like an MGB, the only giveaways being the bonnet bulge and the larger-diameter wheels.

1960s: MGC vs Triumph TR4A (cont.)

In some ways you have to wonder what the critics were expecting.

For a fairly modest £154 premium over the B, MGC buyers got a 120mph car that amounted to much more than a simple engine swap: the torsion-bar front suspension was unique to the MGC, while the engine was a revised seven-bearing – but also less free-revving – version of the Austin Westminster/Healey unit, making five fewer brake horses.

At 567lb it was lighter than the old C-series, but still 90lb heavier than a small-block Ford V8.

Building on the popularity of the TR4/4A, the lean and throaty six-pot Triumphs provided a natural home for those Healey customers who didn’t warm to the MG; only 8999 Cs were sold to 1969 (split fairly evenly between roadsters and GTs), in stark contrast to a total of 106,000 TR5s, TR250s and TR6s between 1967 and ’76.

Today, our £18,000 budget will still buy you a usable MGC, but won’t get you anywhere near its natural stablemate and rival, the 1967-’69 TR5.

1960s: MGC vs Triumph TR4A (cont.)

With only 2947 built, these fuel-injected right-hand-drive cars (as opposed to the carb-fed US-market TR250s) start at £50k, whereas the TR4s and 4As can still be captured for £15,000 (although you can, of course, pay much more).

Closely matched as they are in price, these cars, which both survive in healthy numbers, have quite different personalities that relate directly to the disparity in their construction and number of cylinders.

The separate-chassis Triumph, with its plush veneered dash, seems cosier inside than the traditionally austere C with its leather trim and crackle-black fascia.

The finish is good in both, in the way ’60s cars tended to be before cost-cutting – or safety concerns – made life behind the wheel uglier in the ’70s.

1960s: MGC vs Triumph TR4A (cont.)

The C never suffered the indignity of the MGB’s deckchair seat trim or rubber bumpers, and for that we should be grateful.

In theory, there is space for kids on a tiny rear bench in the skinny TR, and its Surrey top is easier to manipulate than the MG’s framed hood.

Why couldn’t they have produced a one-handed, neatly stowing arrangement such as that of the Alfa Spider and Fiat 124?

BMC’s failure to match the lazier character of the C with more louche appointments, which would have given it a more luxurious ‘grand touring’ identity in the mould of a poor man’s Merc SL, probably sealed its fate as surely as its dynamic shortcomings. Even a heater was a £15 extra.

Unlike period testers, I love the big, sprung steering wheel in the MG, which you actually need to get the leverage for low-speed manoeuvres.

1960s: MGC vs Triumph TR4A (cont.)

On the road, you guide the C with large, coarse movements that are very saloon-like in feel, whereas the neutral-steering Triumph is more naturally responsive – albeit with lots of kickback – allowing a wide variety of exuberant, easily controlled cornering angles to be adopted at will.

Without a live-axle TR4 for comparison, it is hard to say what the semi-trailing-arm rear end does for the 4A.

What I can say is that there is a slightly masochistic sense of fun about the Triumph that is missing in the MG.

It makes its rattly body and scuttle shake easier to ignore, or even embrace as part of the character of the thing.

The ride in the Triumph is flat and hard. It never quite jars the spine, but likely has less wheel movement to spare than the MG – whose unitary body is much stiffer – so you instinctively steer around big potholes.

1960s: MGC vs Triumph TR4A (cont.)

I’m not averse to the silky feel of the MG’s engine, as shown above. It has more than enough urge to boost the tail round when the heavy nose starts to wash out on tight corners, but you need to be quick with the steering, which has 3.5 turns from lock to lock.

Yes, it runs out of breath at 5000rpm, but you only need 3500 revs to make convincingly brisk progress. Albeit not exactly responsive, the ‘six’ stays sweetly flexible down to low speeds in the high gears.

If the MGC’s submissiveness tends to make its performance seem less eager than it is (0-60mph in 10 secs was pretty quick in 1967), the raucous feel of the Triumph’s boomy, long-stroke ‘four’ always has your attention.

The high-lift cam in this one swaps ultimate low-speed pulling power for a little more top-end urge and, with overdrive on second, third and top, you have seven speeds to play with and a ratio for every occasion.

1960s: MGC vs Triumph TR4A (cont.)

Not so this non-overdrive MG, although its intermediate gears are quite long. Both cars have stubby, handily placed gearlevers, strong synchromesh and robust, precise shift actions.

Visually, for me, it’s a draw; perhaps there’s something more emotional about the bug-eyed TR but, for all its vanilla familiarity, it’s hard to fault the MG’s clean lines, whatever your views on the bonnet bulge and the big wheels (above).

On the basis that six cylinders always trump four, I’d favour the C’s more relaxed, civilised feel and the what-might-have-been factor that attracts anyone who loves an underdog.

At a time when the Italian and German competition was far more expensive, the MGC was a tragic missed opportunity, its various easily rectified flaws leaving the field wide open for the Datsun 240Z, a carefully considered product that might have used the C as a template for how not to do it.

Thanks to: Simon Nuttall and Ken Britton

1970s: Lancia Beta Monte-Carlo vs Porsche 914

By the early 1970s, mid-engined sports-car concepts were rapidly moving from the realms of the race track or show-car fantasy into vehicles that you could actually imagine parked on your driveway.

With the British sports-car opposition by then well past its sell-by date, it looked like an opportunity for the Germans and Italians to get into the volume two-seater market with fresh, exciting sports-racing-car-inspired designs that played to the Walter Mitty in anyone who had ever seen a GT40 or a 917 crossing the finish line at Le Mans.

Production of the Lancia Beta Monte-Carlo (above, left) and the Volkswagen-Porsche 914 only crossed over for about a year – the Lancia was just getting into its stride when the 914 was dropped, in favour of the 924, in 1976 – yet it is hard not to think of them as contemporary arch-rivals in the world of mainstream junior exotica.

1970s: Lancia Beta Monte-Carlo vs Porsche 914 (cont.)

Both were four-cylinder mid-engined two-seaters that were brisk rather than truly quick, and used as many parts-bin components as possible to offset the expense of their specially designed and built mass-production bodywork supplied by third parties.

That meant Karmann in the case of the targa-topped 914 and Pininfarina for the Monte-Carlo, which came as both a fixed-roof coupé or a Spyder – really just a roll-back soft panel that amounted to nothing more than a big sunroof.

Both cars had the potential for suffering an identity crisis.

Engineered as well as styled by Pininfarina, the Monte-Carlo started life as a Fiat-badged 124 Coupé replacement and big brother to the X1/9, only gaining its Lancia Beta identity a matter of months before production began.

Apart from its 2-litre Aurelio Lampredi twin-cam engine, the Monte shared little with the rest of the Beta range.

1970s: Lancia Beta Monte-Carlo vs Porsche 914 (cont.)

It was renamed Scorpion for America, but the usual unedifying combination of lower power, higher weight and ugly bumpers meant it found few takers and it was withdrawn after just one year.

The 914 was embarked upon as a joint project between Volkswagen and Porsche, with the Stuttgart firm contracted to design and develop the engineering.

VW would get a replacement for its Beetle-based Karmann Ghia, Porsche an entry-level product – with a detuned version of its 2-litre flat-six – that would make the 912 redundant and perhaps form the basis of a 911 successor.

But when new Wolfsburg boss Kurt Lotz failed to recognise the casual arrangement between VW and Porsche, it almost marked the end of a beautiful relationship.

1970s: Lancia Beta Monte-Carlo vs Porsche 914 (cont.)

Squabbles broke out over the rights to the design, the result being that, rather than sharing the car, Porsche paid VW top Deutschmark for every 914 shell delivered to Stuttgart – with predictable effect on the sticker price of the end product, which was not far below that of a basic 911.

These troubles delayed the introduction of the 914, which in four-cylinder form – powered by a fuel-injected Type 4 Volkswagen engine, as shown above – was sold as the VW-Porsche in Europe but only as a Porsche in North America.

The short-lived, stiffly priced 914/6 proved more exclusive than originally intended: just 3351 were built, compared to a healthy 118,000 914/4s.

If the 914 was – and is – an enigma in the UK, where factory right-hand drive was never offered but six were converted by Crayford, the Monte-Carlo looks more familiar to British eyes, probably because of the high-profile successes of Group B rally and Group 5 works Corsa variants.

1970s: Lancia Beta Monte-Carlo vs Porsche 914 (cont.)

Yet the Lancia is a far rarer car than the Porsche worldwide: just 7798 were built through to 1981, 2160 of that total being mildly updated S2 versions, production having ceased for a year to give Turin engineers the chance to sort out the infamous (and pretty serious) front brake lock-up problems that could make the cars lethal in wet weather.

Squat and compact in the metal, with well-defined extremities, the Lancia is the prettier of the two protagonists but not so well packaged as the slightly anonymous-looking, rather geeky Porsche, which has luggage space at both ends and a wide, flat cabin floor.

Most UK-bound Monte-Carlos had glazed buttresses, but the example seen above is the first production right-hand-drive car, bought directly from the Lancia stand at Earls Court, hence its solid sail panels.

Under its side-hinged cover, the long-stroke twin-cam ‘four’ sits at a 20º angle to get the full benefit of the mid-engined positioning, whereas the 914’s flat-four is buried under a narrow flap with its five-speed transaxle ’box extending beneath the luggage area.

1970s: Lancia Beta Monte-Carlo vs Porsche 914 (cont.)

The 914’s cabin, as shown here, is as austere as its Pushme-Pullyu styling, although the 911-sourced steering wheel – and a general air of solid quality – lifts expectations slightly.

The boxy architecture of the Lancia is more cheerful, with a hint of Ferrari Berlinetta Boxer about its detailing (as long as you ignore the Fiat 128-sourced column stalks) and luxuries that extend to electric windows.

The pedals are close together in the Monte-Carlo and neither car has an abundance of cabin stowage.

Both have well-designed seats that acknowledge the cornering forces likely to be experienced, but neither car will strain your neck muscles in a straight line.

With a 33bhp premium over the Porsche (this 914 is a 1971 1.7-litre, rare to find in standard form), the Lancia should be the quicker of the two, and it is.

Extended through the gears the acceleration is sprightly if noisy, the single Weber carb roaring inches from your left earhole.

1970s: Lancia Beta Monte-Carlo vs Porsche 914 (cont.)

You can surge past 60mph in second, the clunky action of the gearchange only retrospectively impressive after you have sampled the ponderous 914 shift, where finding the intended ratio can be pot luck until you feel your way into its sloppy movements.

The 914’s engine feels smooth and doesn’t sound overly Beetle-like. Tucked well down in its hidey-hole it is well subdued. It also has useful torque, so it doesn’t feel as slow as you might imagine on just 85bhp, although it runs out of revs quite quickly and sounds laboured getting there.

In fact, there is not a lot of point in revving either car extremely hard. Grip, agility and light, precise steering are minimum requirements from two machines that make so many concessions to their mid-engined architecture.

Neither disappoints.

While understeer is the ultimate safety factor on a closed track, in general terms – on the road – the rear wheels track faithfully at all times and sudden lift-off makes the noses of both cars tuck in rather than their tails flick out.

1970s: Lancia Beta Monte-Carlo vs Porsche 914 (cont.)

While the Porsche, with slightly heavier steering, seems to yearn for more power, you get the vague impression that a pokier version of the nimble, athletic Monte-Carlo might be a handful; but that could be unfair.

It was the promise of US sales rather than European ones that caused both the Porsche and Lancia to be created.

In Europe, a second car generally had to be practical; in America there was a large constituency of wealthy buyers who could afford to purchase a small, sporty Continental machine as a runabout or a pulling tool for their college-bound teenage offspring.

Had The Graduate been filmed in the 1970s, the hero could just as easily have been driving a 914 or a Monte-Carlo.

Thanks to: David Wilcock and Mark Siemons

1980s: Mercedes-Benz 500SL vs Chevrolet Corvette C4

The 1980s was a decade of change for the sports car. The British roadsters that had defined the breed in the ’60s, and lingered largely unchanged into the ’70s, were now gone.

The number of drop-tops on sale decreased, while coupés that blurred the line between GT and sports car, along with hot hatchbacks, became much more popular.

Sports cars had to adjust to the decade of excess, and two of the most storied examples of all, the Mercedes-Benz SL and Chevrolet Corvette (closest), did just that.

The second-generation SL, the R107, first appeared in 1971, but the model was updated and the engine line-up refreshed in 1980, borrowing much from the new W126 S-Class revealed in 1979.

1980s: Mercedes-Benz 500SL vs Chevrolet Corvette C4 (cont.)

A new range-topping model was added, the 500SL, which took the 5-litre V8 from the homologation-special 450SLC 5.0 and added it to the regular range – including, for the first time, in the shorter-bodied roadster.

The spec sheet was more luxurious, too: alloy wheels, electric windows, central locking, metallic paint and an aluminium bonnet were all standard on the new 500SL.

Mercedes-Benz felt confident in continuing with such a long-in-the-tooth model for the ’80s not just because of the timeless bodywork, but also because the R107 had the benefit of the W114’s suspension technology, which had finally got rid of the swing-axle rear end of previous SLs, introducing a new trailing-arm set-up.

On the road this gives the 500SL a modern, settled feeling.

1980s: Mercedes-Benz 500SL vs Chevrolet Corvette C4 (cont.)

The suspension is soft, verging on the positively un-sporty, but the 500SL driver can still press on in the bends with confidence that the suspension isn’t going to do anything odd.

Bumps will be shrugged off with disdain, even if hefty body roll prevents it from being properly chuckable.

The steering is of a similar character: precise and unerringly stable, but lacking in feedback and slow, both thanks to the low gearing of the rack and a large steering wheel.

The opposite can be said of the Corvette. This 1989 car has the Z51 handling package, which means stiffer springs, a faster steering rack and thicker anti-roll bars.

All of this, along with the Corvette’s lower stance, makes for a much firmer and sportier experience.

1980s: Mercedes-Benz 500SL vs Chevrolet Corvette C4 (cont.)

It can’t escape a sense of weightiness, being hardly a light car, but the low centre of gravity helps it corner much flatter than the Mercedes-Benz.

It’s a far less composed car, though – on a damp and bumpy back-road, the 500SL would be your choice, where the Corvette would feel like a handful, especially a car equipped with a manual gearbox, or an automatic held in gear.

It almost goes without saying that the monocoque Merc is the less rattly, more solid-feeling car, too, despite the fact that it was with the C4 Corvette that America’s sports car finally moved away from a body-on-frame build.

The fourth-generation ’Vette, launched in 1983, was the biggest update the model had ever received, making use of what GM called a ‘uniframe’, wherein the cabin cell now formed the centre of the car’s structure, with a perimeter frame attached.

1980s: Mercedes-Benz 500SL vs Chevrolet Corvette C4 (cont.)

The result was reduced vibration, helping the Chevy get closer to – albeit never matching – the refinement of European rivals.

But while the Corvette can’t better the Mercedes for quietness or quality, its interior still had plenty with which to wow the emerging yuppies of the decade.

Powered seats, air-con and electric windows were impressive considering the price-tag, but what would have really impressed in 1983 was the digital dashboard.

As such, if you’re looking for a 1980s sports car, rather than just a sports car from the 1980s, the Corvette and its lurid LCD instruments, as well as the pushbutton climate system, surely wins out over the conservative SL.

The Chevrolet is proudly of its time; the Benz has a class that transcends the eras.

1980s: Mercedes-Benz 500SL vs Chevrolet Corvette C4 (cont.)

The Corvette’s engine, as shown above, was the main thing carried over from the previous-generation C3 in an otherwise all-new car, but fortunately ‘our’ 1989 C4 has the benefit of the L98 V8 that was introduced in 1985, which upped power to 250bhp in standard form, and proved more reliable and efficient than the previous ‘malaise-era’ lump.

In the best tradition of American V8s, it is the torque that’s most impressive.

The L98 pulls strongly in pretty much any gear, and provides hair-raising fun when locked into second.

In comparison, the 500SL’s V8 fits the German stereotype, being smooth and serene at low engine speeds, and the happier spinning to high revs.

While this can be chalked up to a cruising bias in the Merc rather than the white-knuckle experience of the Chevy, there’s no real excuse for the SL’s tardy right pedal.

1980s: Mercedes-Benz 500SL vs Chevrolet Corvette C4 (cont.)

The performance gap between the cars isn’t huge on paper, but the Chevrolet feels much the quicker of the two thanks to its vastly superior throttle response. Both cars can boast delightful V8 warbles, however.

The Merc saves its snarl for higher revs, keeping quiet during town driving. The Corvette is always loud, and has a delicious metallic rasp to its engine note when pressed.

There’s no doubt that, on a track, the Corvette wipes the floor with the SL, but it’s once in everyday use that the Benz starts to make much more sense, with the Chevy making too many sacrifices for its sporting prowess.

Its glassfibre bodywork, featherweight interior plastics and general rattliness help it undercut the Merc by 120kg, but the SL is the nicer place to sit, with every switch and lever feeling honed rather than tacked on.

1980s: Mercedes-Benz 500SL vs Chevrolet Corvette C4 (cont.)

The Corvette’s cabin feels so fragile you fear snapping a piece off in your enthusiasm.

The Merc’s driving seat offers a more comfortable, saloon-like position, too, compared with the low-slung ’Vette, which combines with the Chevrolet’s high door sills to make the SL far easier to get into and out of.

Giving the Merc the nod for usability could be construed as damning with faint praise in a sports-car battle, but the Corvette is at times so awkward and so much less comfortable over bumps that you could see yourself picking the Mercedes over it for the majority of journeys.

When you’re just taking the car out for a quick drive to the shops or a run to the station on a nice day, you’d jump into the Benz – and there’s a lot to be said for a sports car that allows you to enjoy it as regularly as possible, rather than having to build yourself up or plan for it.

1980s: Mercedes-Benz 500SL vs Chevrolet Corvette C4 (cont.)

Therein lies the most subjective part of this match-up: it really depends on how much inconvenience the driver is willing to tolerate.

Both our ’80s choices took sports cars to a new level of comfort, long-distance performance and equipment, but the SL is better at the ‘car’ bit, the Corvette fitting the ‘sports’ brief.

That Chevrolet does all of this at such a low cost, both when new and today, is the coup de grâce.

You’ll be scouring the classifieds for a decent 500SL within our £18k budget, and you’ll likely have to accept a few remedial jobs.

With the ’Vette, meanwhile, you’ll get the smartest, most polished dealer car for the same money – and it should cost less to run, to boot.

Thanks to: The SL Shop; Richard Porter

1990s: TVR Chimaera 450 vs Porsche Boxster S

A deep V8 tenor bellows through the TVR Chimaera (above, left) on its way to a sensational, howling rush for revs and, rather worryingly around Curborough’s tight course, Tarmac.

But revelling in this glorious soundtrack of the sports-car gods can last only a couple of gears before you have to dive on the brakes with the heart-thumping guilt that, this time, you might have gone a bit too far.

Behind the wheel of the Porsche Boxster S, meanwhile, the wind continues to rush overhead and there’s plenty of time to revel in its trademark, velvety flat-six howl before hitting the ABS-supported, aluminium monobloc calipers on its vast disc brakes.

In the damp, the Boxster reels in the Chimaera with calm purpose, neatly tucking its nose in wherever bidden, while the TVR squirms with the excited efforts of its driver.

With 285bhp and 300lb ft of torque to shift just 1060kg, this Chimaera 450 offers far more unchecked potency than a ‘mid-range’ model should.

1990s: TVR Chimaera 450 vs Porsche Boxster S (cont.)

Above the already brawny 240bhp 400, the 450 took over the role of the 4.3 and later 4.0HC in bridging the gap to the faintly terrifying 340bhp 500.

It can certainly make for hard work, but the tools are good.

A long-travel throttle makes metering out the savagery of TVR’s hot-cam, high-compression, gas-flowed Rover V8, as seen above, relatively easy, and from a low, straight-set driving position there’s a natural feeling of connection.

Whether over a kerb, on the brakes, grasping an apex or planting the throttle, the structure feels strong and the controls tied tightly to the car’s responses.

It feels as if you can push the car harder and harder, but tease the frayed edges of its limits too far and you can find yourself all too quickly responsible for wheels that have locked up, spun a little too far out, or run out of travel on their unequal-length double wishbones.

1990s: TVR Chimaera 450 vs Porsche Boxster S (cont.)

It’s at this moment, when the TVR is looking uncertain and its driver is beginning to work a bit too frantically at the wheel, that the Boxster races on into its best.

It starts off quieter and there’s a thin layer of isolation in the controls compared with the more visceral Chimaera, even if there’s always a purposeful rustling of the flat-six and undeniable precision at the helm from the off.

But stab the throttle, pitch it into a corner and the Porsche responds with sensational enthusiasm.

The revs fly with near-zero inertia, the nose spears across with hardly a hint of roll, and you can slice through a corner sharper, keener, faster than the TVR could hope to.

The Boxster clings to the road and seems to find more grip with each extra millimetre of throttle travel. Hard down, in the damp, the rear axle will only give a slight wiggle then fire itself down the straight with authority.

1990s: TVR Chimaera 450 vs Porsche Boxster S (cont.)

Use every last rev, drive to the edge of every tread block and it really comes to life, not only outpacing the TVR but giving delicate feedback to make it look easy.

Once you’ve experienced the Porsche, everything else feels incomplete, and it would even be difficult to step down to a 2.5- or 2.7-litre Boxster, knowing how hungrily the S devours a challenging section of road.

Both are exhilarating and properly quick: 0-60mph in sub-6 secs and well over 150mph. But perhaps what was most significant about the ’90s was the civility brought to the genre.

In 1992, the Chimaera dispelled stories of sore backs, steamy windows and meekly whirring starter motors, while the ’97 Boxster breathed affordable life into the once-prohibitive dreams contained in glossy brochures.

TVR and Porsche ownership had never been so easy.

1990s: TVR Chimaera 450 vs Porsche Boxster S (cont.)

Based on the superb – but still hard-edged and close-quartered – Griffith, the Chimaera was designed to be easier-going, with the sort of broad appeal that could release it from TVR’s traditional carb-tuning, pub-going customer base.

Retaining the same tubular steel chassis, engines, suspension and even wheelbase as the Griff, crucially it was longer, adding useful boot space, and softer-riding, with less aggressive Bilstein dampers replacing Konis.

Its calmer attitude was reflected in the styling, too, and its swoopy glassfibre body with cutouts slashed into it for various intakes blends TVR-branded aggression into comforting echoes of classic roadsters past.

All that was appealing about TVR – the raw, direct thrills and individual character – now had a much softer landing, and the potential to keep newcomers interested for long enough to order one.

1990s: TVR Chimaera 450 vs Porsche Boxster S (cont.)

The Chimaera was a shining light for a hopeful TVR future, and nearly 6000 sales across Europe meant that it outnumbered all previous models put together.

The Boxster S was a similar exercise in principle, if not in practice.

It’s easy to think of this mid-engined tour de force of multi-valved, electronically controlled aluminium-and-steel sculpture as typically Teutonic and efficient, but at the time this was one last roll of the development dice that Porsche desperately needed to land on double sixes.

The Boxster was the key that unlocked the new 911: by sharing much of the engine architecture as well as the front suspension, it spread the costs necessary for Stuttgart’s sports-car maker to maintain its lofty reputation as well as its survival into the 21st century.

It also meant a whole new market could buy into the latest Porsche experience, and they did – to the tune of 164,874 Boxsters.

1990s: TVR Chimaera 450 vs Porsche Boxster S (cont.)

It lost some of the purity of the 1993 concept car’s evocation of the 550 Spyder, but most buyers cared more about the extra boot space, and its lines still flow with lean delicacy.

Inside, Porsche’s new dashboard for the 1990s is dating a little awkwardly, but even the worst of its plastic excesses are far from disappointing in the context of the GTI generation.

Those after impactful style will have to seek out the brighter colours, because most were trimmed in subdued tones – such as with this car’s rare Sport Design option.

If the Boxster gravitates towards the slick 2000s cars of our group, with its flush-fitting trim and crisp panel creases, the TVR’s vague impression of an Austin-Healey 3000 lets it fit in a few decades back.

But it’s lower, leaner and more aggressive than any 1960s bruiser, and the detailing whimsy of Peter Wheeler-era TVR earns the Chimaera a sense of exotic curiosity as soon as you thumb the button under the mirror to open the door and settle yourself in among the waves of leather that wrap around the dashboard.

1990s: TVR Chimaera 450 vs Porsche Boxster S (cont.)

The drama multiplies with some of the vibrant colour options available, including two-tone trim, although this car’s relatively conservative tan and walnut sits more comfortably in today’s company.

Spend time examining the cabin and you’ll find disappointing whiffs of British Leyland, particularly the oddly placed rectangular air vents, but the quality of the detailing succeeds in making this feel like a rich place to be.

It’s the one that you imagine getting into on a dewy summer’s morning and stirring into rumbling life.

That it offers the comfort and practicality to make those days more frequent, still with an astonishing turn of speed, hugely expands the remit of this British sports car.

The Boxster promises to perform consistently day and night, delivering Porsche thrills for half the price of a 911 (and a Chimaera). It’s probably the better car, but the TVR is more exciting.

Thanks to: Tom Allen and Andy Lockyer

2000s: Honda S2000 vs Vauxhall VX220 Turbo

There was definitely something in the water as the 20th century came to a close.

Perhaps it was that millennium bug everyone was so scared about, but, whatever it was, it was having a transformational effect on two of the most conservative mainstream brands.

To be fair to Honda, its Type R arm was already in full swing by the time the S2000 (above right) took a bow in 1999 – a year late, having been intended as a 50th-birthday present to the firm in 1998.

But the firm’s first sports car since the S800 was still quite a contrast to the Civics so beloved of the blue-rinse brigade.

If the S2000 ruffled a few feathers, the reveal of the Opel Speedster concept at the Geneva Salon the same year had jaws dropping.

2000s: Honda S2000 vs Vauxhall VX220 Turbo (cont.)

That within a year the Martin Smith-styled mini-supercar was to be found alongside Vectras and Zafiras in Vauxhall dealerships across the UK, as the VX220, was even more remarkable.

There was plenty of Griffin DNA to be found beneath that dramatic glassfibre skin, not least under the bonnet: initially the Astra’s all-alloy 2.2-litre ‘four’ then, from 2003, its iron-block 2.0 turbo.

When that was mounted not in a hefty hatch or MPV but a 68kg aluminium spaceframe, the result was Ferrari-baiting pace for a little over £25k.

If the shape – and indeed that chassis – was familiar, it was no real surprise because it was an open secret that the new GM roadster was a re-engineered version of the Lotus Elise, even being built on the same Hethel production line as its exalted twin.

2000s: Honda S2000 vs Vauxhall VX220 Turbo (cont.)

In approach, the S2000 couldn’t be more different. In place of a flyweight middie there was a fairly hefty steel monocoque following a very traditional formula with its 2-litre, four-cylinder engine beneath the long nose, and a short tail housing the driven axle.

But look a bit closer at the spec sheet and you’ll see there are race-derived double wishbones all round, and that four-pot motor is a front-mid-mounted, all-alloy engineering marvel with double overhead cams, variable valve timing, 118bhp per litre and a heady 9000rpm redline.

Pricier than an MX-5 but without the cachet of a BMW Z4 or a Porsche Boxster, the Honda also came without their brand baggage and soon developed a cult following among those seeking something a little different.

2000s: Honda S2000 vs Vauxhall VX220 Turbo (cont.)

Although never quite a runaway success, the Honda’s appeal endured despite minimal changes across 10 years and to the tune of nearly 114,000 cars.

In stark contrast, fewer than 2000 VX220 Turbos were assembled in just two years, plus a little over 5000 normally aspirated cars.

And there must surely be few better than Ian Hall’s standard 28,000-miler, an ex-press car acquired by the former Vauxhall dealer at a closed sale in 2004.

“It had various issues so Vauxhall took it back to Luton and rebuilt it,” says Ian. “I sold it in 2012 then bought it back in 2018 – the only time I’ve ever done that. I missed it – there really is nothing like this out there, and I knew this was a good one. It’s a lovely bit of kit.”

2000s: Honda S2000 vs Vauxhall VX220 Turbo (cont.)

It doesn’t take long on our test track to see what he means. With the roof stowed it’s easy to step in and drop down into the narrow but surprisingly comfortable cabin.

Though hardly plush by ‘normal’ car standards, next to an early Elise this is luxury – not least because this former press car had every box ticked: Touring pack, hardtop (at home in the garage), four-speaker stereo, leather, cross-drilled discs and ‘Turbo’ sill plates.

There are sops to usability, but it’s no surprise you no longer see these used as dailies – a car this impractical makes much more sense for weekend fun.

The quasi-engineering detailing hints at the aluminium extrusions that make up the modified Lotus chassis beneath, but you only have to thumb the central starter button and ease out on to the circuit for it to feel a very different beast to its Norfolk inspiration.

2000s: Honda S2000 vs Vauxhall VX220 Turbo (cont.)

That engine reveals its hatchback roots with a fairly ordinary noise, but press on and it’s overlaid by an entertaining duet of whooshes and coughs from the turbocharger.

It’s redlined at 6500rpm but you rarely need to trouble that level thanks to the combination of a mere 930kg kerbweight and turbo torque – unlike in the sweet-revving Lotus, with 210lb ft of twist you don’t feel as if you need to skip lunch to set a better lap time.

The chunky gearlever isn’t very nice to hold, but the mechanical shift action is much nicer than the Elise’s and the performance is outrageous even today – think 0-60mph in sub-5 secs and 150mph-plus.

But it’s the lithe agility that stays with you, the Vauxhall dancing around the track on those remarkably skinny tyres – 175/55 R17 fronts and 225/35 rears – with the little Momo wheel writhing and chattering in your hands.

2000s: Honda S2000 vs Vauxhall VX220 Turbo (cont.)

The surface is damp today so the front end pushes wide fairly easily, and you’re a touch nervous of deploying the torque to neutralise that for fear of the pendulum behind.

On a greasy track you’re always conscious of the laws of physics working against you – though past experience tells me it’s a very different story in the dry.

In isolation, the Honda is a pretty hardcore sports car, but after the VX it feels a bit of a boat for the first few laps.

Yet spend a bit more time with it and you realise it’s a powerboat, and a delightfully adjustable, controllable one.

Early S2000s were criticised for their wrist-snapping handling at the limit, but over various iterations it was progressively tamed, such that this run-out Edition 100 feels playful and safe – albeit never quite the drift machine portrayed in The Fast and the Furious.

2000s: Honda S2000 vs Vauxhall VX220 Turbo (cont.)

Where the Vauxhall was all about the chassis, here everything melts into the background when you give that sensational engine its head.

Work the Elan-like six-speed ’box, its tactile alloy ball nestling in your palm as the lever flashes around the short, narrow gate with delicious precision, and there’s an extra surge as the V-TEC engages at 6000rpm, just as many rivals are starting to run out of breath.

Keep your foot in and the choral scream of induction, valvegear and exhaust as you change up at 8500rpm-plus is an addictive thrill.

Time and again the digital ribbon will fly into the red on the futuristic rev counter, like a Buck Rogers interpretation of a BL strip speedo, as you appreciate the intimacy of the beautifully built, driver-focused cabin.

2000s: Honda S2000 vs Vauxhall VX220 Turbo (cont.)

The dash is all focused on you, the controls never more than a finger-span away from the little fat wheel, and there’s real luxury in here, too – the red leather in this car providing a welcome splash of colour to contrast its Japanese racing white paint.

So where would my £18k go?

On a dry track the VX220 is undeniably the fastest car in this duo, and probably in our entire set.

Objectively, then, it’s the one to have, but there’s something about the Honda’s blend of old-school roadster thrills and engineering sophistication that makes it utterly beguiling.

Thanks to: Courtenay Sport; Ian Hall; Honda UK