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Performance car enthusiasts tend to be a somewhat humorless bunch, whether you're talking about Ferraristes, old-school muscle car fans, or import tuners. If they have one thing in common, it's that they're none too keen at being laughed at. That's why it's remarkable that one of the premier icons of the muscle car era is one of the most irreverent of them all: a budget Supercar named after a cartoon bird -- the Plymouth Road Runner.
THE SUPERCAR BOOM
The Road Runner story will only really make sense if you understand something about the way American cars used to be sold. Before the 1970s, most domestic manufacturers offered their cars on a strictly a la carte basis. Even on high-end cars, you often paid extra for many accessories we would now consider de rigueur, like heaters, windshield wipers, outside mirrors, and turn signals. Certain options might be unavailable on certain models or trim levels, and required on others (resulting in that curiously American concept, the "mandatory option"), but each was, as the toy commercials like to say, sold separately. The motivation for this curious financial prestidigitation was twofold: the a la carte approach allowed manufacturers to advertise lower starting prices, and it enabled dealers to mark up options individually, which was good for profit margins.
Up until the early 1960s, this approach worked to the advantage of racers, both professional and amateur, who could simply order the cheapest, lightest, barest-equipped model in the catalog with the biggest engine the dealer would sell them. If you were really going racing, you would strip off all the non-essentials anyway, so why buy them in the first place?
For several years, manufacturers were happy enough to abet such transactions. A stripped-out, big-engine business coupe was not a profit-maker, but only a handful were sold that way, and any racing victories they achieved were good publicity, whether on the track, the strip, or the street.
Then came the fall of 1963 and the birth of the Pontiac GTO. As has oft been recounted, general manager Pete Estes and chief engineer John DeLorean figured out a way to turn the big-engine, mid-size-car concept into a package they could promote. The GTO package was an option for the new A-body Pontiac Tempest. Priced at a bit under $300, it included the division's big 389 (6.4 L) V8, dual exhaust, slightly stiffer suspension, and jazzy trim and badges. ("GTO" was an acronym borrowed from Formula 1 racing, meaning gran turismo omologato, "Grand Touring, Homologated," in Italian.) Pontiac couldn't exactly promote or advertise "stripped-out business coupe with a big engine," but they could (and did) promote the hell out of the GTO. Even though the GTO was technically a violation of several articles of General Motors corporate policy, it was a hit, helping to establish Pontiac as the most performance-oriented -- and youth-oriented -- carmaker in America. The GTO soon inspired a host of imitators, both inside and outside GM. By 1968, every domestic automaker except Cadillac offered at least one.
The success of the GTO and its ilk presented a dilemma for the hardcore street racers who had inspired them in the first place. To get all the performance-oriented options you needed (many of which were still extra-cost options, even on a GTO or Olds 4-4-2), you now usually had to order the performance model or package. Not only were those models highly conspicuous (an important consideration, given the dim view most municipalities take of street racing), they usually had hundreds of dollars of tinsel that the serious runner neither needed nor wanted. Since many of the diehard racers were under 25, an age at which most people are not exactly rolling in cash, this put many of the serious, factory-built street sweepers out of reach.
Other than the bulged hood and Road Runner decals, there was little to distinguish a Road Runner from a fleet-model Belvedere or other B-body Chrysler intermediate. At the time, the squared-off lines were considered somewhat dated compared to the curvaceous GM A-bodies, although the Chrysler B-bodies have arguably aged better. The 1969 models are very similar to the '68s, except for grille texture, side marker lights, and other details.
Plymouth had recently launched its own GTO rival, the GTX, which was new for the 1967 model year. Like the GTO, it was a fancier, big-engine version of a mid-size car, Plymouth's intermediate Satellite. Plymouth went Pontiac a few better by making Chrysler's big 440 (7.2 L) V8 standard on the GTX, along with the excellent TorqueFlite automatic. A 440-powered GTX would beat the stuffing out of most showroom-stock GTOs (except for the handful of cars worked over by Michigan's Royal Pontiac or other performance-minded dealers), but the big engine, standard automatic, and plush trim pushed the GTX's price well above the standard GTO. As if that weren't bad enough, the Dodge Division soon insisted on offering its own Coronet R/T, which was functionally identical to the GTX, at a similar price. Unsurprisingly, '67 GTX sales made for somewhat depressing reading.
THE BROCK YATES INITIATIVE
This sad state of affairs was noted by, among others, Car and Driver editor Brock Yates. Yates drafted a memo to Chrysler-Plymouth general manager Bob Anderson, outlining the problem and suggesting a solution. Yates' memo, described in the January 1968 issue of Car and Driver, proposed a new variation on the Supercar theme: the econo-racer. It would be a stripped-down intermediate with a big engine, four-speed manual, and a full set of Stewart-Warner gauges, all as standard equipment. All nonessential (i.e., non-performance) options were to be deleted in the interests of cost reduction. Yates also recommended that it be available only in certain specific colors, with a minimum of gimmicks and an aura of understated menace.
Bob Anderson was highly enthusiastic about Yates's idea, and forwarded the memo to Plymouth product planning with his own endorsement. Yates himself was given a noncommittal answer, so he had little idea what Plymouth would do with his idea until it actually debuted.
While Yates had advocated a low-key, restrained approach to styling and marketing the econo-racer, the notion of subtlety is not one that product planners readily embrace. Plymouth was not about to build such a product without trying to make it into an icon, as Pontiac had the GTO. The division's product planning analysts, Gordon Cherry and Jack Smith started brainstorming ways to jazz up Yates's concept. The idea on which they eventually seized was a tie-in with a popular Saturday morning cartoon character: Warner Brothers' Road Runner. The cartoon bird's maddening ability to elude Wiley Coyote's pursuit was exactly the kind of image Plymouth was after.
Cross-brand promotion was still a novelty in the late 1960s, and terms like "brand synergy" had yet to enter the popular lexicon. Chrysler management had to have its arm twisted to sign a deal with Warner Brothers animation for the use of the Road Runner name and image. The actual Road Runner graphics differed from year to year; this is a 1969 model, distinguished in part by its running bird decal.
Senior Chrysler management was not enthusiastic about the Road Runner idea, both because it seemed too frivolous, and because it would involve paying licensing fees. Dealers, however, loved the concept, and their response, combined with the support of Plymouth's ad agency, Young & Rubicam, finally persuaded management that the Road Runner concept's frivolity and irreverence were exactly the point. A $50,000 deal was struck with Warner Brothers for the rights, and Plymouth stylist set to work on appropriate Road Runner decals to adorn the new model. Engineering, meanwhile, modified the Belvedere's horn to produce an approximation of the Road Runner's flippant "Beep-Beep."
(As an aside, we have noticed that some historians of limited imagination foolishly assert that Warner Brothers cartoon viewers root for the bird in his frequent duels with Wiley Coyote. Your author believes that any child who does not root for the Coyote probably has serious psychological problems, and should seek professional help. You were supposed to empathize with the poor bastard, and that was exactly why Plymouth's pitch -- that you could be the Road Runner, rather than the Coyote -- was appealing.)
In size and proportions, the Chrysler B-body of this vintage looks a great deal like a GM A-body intermediate of about two years earlier. At 202.7 inches (5,149 mm) long on a 116-inch (2,946 mm) wheelbase, it's quite large by modern standards, weighing about 3,650 pounds with a 383 (the Hemi adds nearly 200 pounds (90 kg)). Note that this is a two-door sedan, not a hardtop -- the pillared sedan cost $138 less than the hardtop, weighed 15 pounds (7 kg) less, and was notably stiffer.
THE PUT-ON
The Road Runner was introduced as part of Plymouth's revamped intermediate lineup for the 1968 model year. It was essentially a Belvedere two-door sedan, fitted with the heavy-duty suspension normally found on cars earmarked for police or taxi duty. The standard engine was Chrysler's familiar 383 (6.3 L) V8, wearing "Coyote Duster" decals on its air cleaner and rated at 335 gross horsepower (250 kW) with a single 4V carburetor, the same as a base GTO. A four-speed manual transmission was standard equipment, and the only really essential straight-line performance item not included was a limited-slip differential, which was available as part of the Performance Axle Group for an extra $87.
For "Coyote Duster" duty, Chrysler's 383 (6.3 L) V8 had a single four-barrel carburetor and the freer-breathing heads and windage tray from the 440. It was rated at 335 gross horsepower (250 kW), about 10 hp (8 kW) more than the normal 383-4V. The 383 was a stout, torquey engine, even in stock form. With a little shade-tree tuning, it was not difficult to create a streetable Road Runner capable of running the standing quarter mile at nearly 100 mph (402 meters at 161 kph, for our metric readers). If that wasn't enough, in 1969 you could order the 440 with three two-barrel carburetors, rated a whopping 390 gross horsepower (291 kW), or the 426 Hemi, with 425 hp (317 kW).
The base price of the Road Runner was $2,870, which undercut the GTO by $231. If you counted the extra cost of adding a four-speed and heavy-duty suspension to the GTO, the price differential became closer to $500 -- not small change in 1968. The Road Runner was also $559 cheaper than an equivalent GTX, a difference of more than 15%.
Naturally, that budget price entailed certain compromises. Choosing a Road Runner over a GTX condemned you to dog-dish hubcaps, flat bench seats, taxicab-grade upholstery, and rubber mats instead of carpeting. There was of course a host of dress-up and luxury options, ranging from power steering and front disc brakes (unimportant to drag racers, but of more than passing interest for street driving) to a padded vinyl roof and a big swash of flat black paint on the hood. You had to be cautious with the options list, because while you could easily add more than $1,000 to the price tag, none of those options rectified the basic low-rent ambiance. As a stripped-down econo-racer, the Road Runner was a bargain, but fully loaded, it didn't make much sense.
The flat-black hood paint was optional, but many Road Runners sported it, a sure way to attract the attention of passing policemen. The fake scoops have engine-size call-outs; this car has the 383. A functional cold-air hood became optional in 1969, improving power by allowing the engine to draw cooler outside air, rather than breathing the hot air under the hood. Like other contemporary Chryslers, the Road Runner used unitary construction, which made it a good deal stiffer than GM's body-on-frame A-bodies.
That was Car and Driver's conclusion in January 1968. Their heavily optioned four-speed test car performed well, going from 0-60 mph (0-97 kph) in 7.1 seconds and running the standing quarter (402 meters) in 15.0 seconds at 96 mph (155 kph), but it was priced well beyond the budget realm, which they thought defeated the whole purpose. The magazine's editors, particularly Yates, were also dismayed by the Road Runner's array of cartoon decals and gimmicks, although they admitted it would probably sell like mad.
Chrysler-Plymouth was not so sanguine, grimly predicting initial sales of only 2,500. Gordon Cherry told writer Linda Clark in 1983 that Chrysler's straight-laced senior executives were never really comfortable with the Road Runner's whimsical nature; they just didn't get it.
A convertible version of a budget Supercar was a curious idea -- not only did it cost $338 more than a two-door sedan, it was 150 pounds (68 kg) heavier, and a lot less rigid. Unsurprisingly, it was not a strong seller: 2,128 were sold in 1969, of which this is one, and only 824 in 1970, its final year. They are inevitably quite collectible today. This one has the basic 383 engine.
Nonetheless, the Road Runner was perfectly attuned to the cultural zeitgeist of its time. In an era of Rowan & Martin's Laugh-In, the Smothers Brothers, and TV's campy Batman, buyers could appreciate a performance car that didn't take itself too seriously. The fact that it was legitimately fast and quite rugged didn't hurt.
Some 44,599 Road Runners went out the door for the 1968 model year. Initially, all were pillared two-door sedans, but a pillarless hardtop became available later in the year. Most had the stock engine, but a few were ordered with the 426 Hemi, a $714 option that instantly expunged the 'econo' portion of the Road Runner's econo-racer credentials in exchange for 425 gross horsepower (317 kW).
Plymouth expanded the line for 1969, adding a convertible model and a host of new options. An "Air Grabber" pop-up hood scoop was newly optional, as was the 440, which was nearly as strong as the Hemi for about a third its price. Motor Trend named the Road Runner its 1969 Car of the Year. Sales rose to 82,109. Since Plymouth still also offered the GTX, Plymouth's sporty-intermediate sales now outpaced Pontiac's.
The GTX, still offered concurrently with the Road Runner, shared the same body shell, but it had a far plusher interior, with woodgrain interior trim and bucket seats. This is a 1970, with a new dashboard with a round, 150-mph speedometer and full instrumentation. Note the optional console with the Hurst pistol-grip shifter.
THE SINCEREST FORM OF FLATTERY
Like the GTO, the Road Runner was soon besieged by wannabes. Dodge, naturally, demanded its own version, the Super Bee, complete with its own cartoon mascot. Ford offered the Torino Cobra (so named to preserve Ford's rights to the Cobra name, since Carroll Shelby had recently discontinued the Shelby Cobra). Although Chevrolet didn't really publicize the fact, you could also create a comparable Chevy-powered econo-racer by careful use of the Chevelle/Malibu order form.
The Coronet Super Bee was Dodge's version of the Road Runner, with a unique cartoon mascot (designed in-house, rather than licensed). It never had as distinct an image or identity as its Plymouth sibling, and sold in smaller numbers.
The Road Runner returned for one more go-around in its original body shell in 1970. It also lent its name and decals to the 1970 Road Runner Superbird, Plymouth's version of the streamlined Dodge Charger Daytona, offered as a NASCAR homologation special. A total of 1,920 of these were sold, and they are prized collectibles today.
The Road Runner and other Chrysler intermediates got a swoopy, "fuselage-style" redesign for 1971, and its graphics grew even gaudier than before. Although the new Road Runners were attractive (albeit gaudy), their sales took a nosedive, along with most other performance cars, thanks to punitive insurance rates. Plymouth responded by making the 340 cu. in. (5.6 L) V8 standard, rather than the 383, but even that could be prohibitive for younger buyers to insure. For 1973, it gave way to the 318 (5.2 L) V8 as standard power.
Dramatic new styling was shared with the entire Dodge/Plymouth intermediate line, but the Road Runner was the most conspicuous, with obnoxious "High Impact" paint colors like this car's Key Lime. The hood call-outs purport that this car has the 440 Six Pack engine; it also has a four-speed manual transmission with the gimmicky pistol-grip shifter. Wraparound bumper is somewhat reminiscent of 1969's big Chevy line.
LAST GASPS
Like most of its Supercar brethren, the Road Runner's muscles atrophied as the 1970s wore on, thanks to lowered compression ratios and ever-increasing emissions standards. Surprisingly, it remained popular enough to survive the decade. In 1975, when the intermediates were redesigned and renamed Fury, the Road Runner continued, now looking a little ill at ease in its new, formally styled surroundings. The following year, it became a trim and graphics package on the compact Plymouth Volare. The last Volare Road Runners were sold in the 1980 model year.
By then, the a la carte approach to optional equipment was on the way out. Emissions standards put an end to the plethora of engine and axle ratio options that had existed in the sixties -- each engine/transmission/axle ratio combination had to be certified separately with the EPA, which was simply too expensive. At the same time, Japanese automakers had whetted the appetites of American buyers for much more comprehensive levels of standard equipment, frequently in strict trim-level groupings. By the late 1970s, domestic automakers were beginning to realize that the Japanese approach offered more than customer value. Limiting factory options simplified production, lowered costs, and (at least in theory) permitted higher levels of quality control. Of course, the Japanese approach has its own drawbacks, forcing customers to buy options they don't want or need to get the equipment they want. For better or worse, though, true cafeteria-style new car optioning appears to be a thing of the past.
Looking at this 1971 Road Runner, it's not hard to see why Supercar insurance rates became so outrageous in the early 1970s. Every part of this car seems calculated to make a policeman frown, from the GTO Judge-type decklid spoiler to the Op Art tape stripes to the various engine call-outs and cartoon decals. A highly visible car is not exactly desirable for street racers, whose trade was and is illegal in many places.
What of econo-racers? The idea pops up every now and then, often for racing homologation purposes, like Chrysler's Neon ACR or Mazda's rare RX-7 GTUs. In general, though, modern manufacturers are loathe to pass up the profit margins of fully loaded cars with fully loaded price tags. Many of the lightweight, stripped-down factory specials you could buy, like BMW's M3 CSL or Honda's Integra Type R, have actually cost more than their heavier, more luxurious siblings. Still, as long as there are cars of any kind, there will be people who will be enticed by the idea of a stripped-down body with the biggest engine that they can buy.
What's been missing since the demise of the Road Runner is that touch of whimsy. Commercial tie-ins of the kind the Road Runner pioneered are now commonplace -- even the Warner Bros. cartoon characters popped up again on a special edition of Chevrolet's thoroughly undistinguished Venture minivan a few years ago -- but they have a calculated, if not cynical aura that makes them far less amusing. Perhaps the closest modern equivalent to the Road Runner's tongue-in-cheek spirit is BMW's reborn MINI (particularly in its brilliant Canadian ad campaigns), but the MINI is a subcompact, not a muscle car. There's nothing like the Road Runner today, which is exactly what makes the deliberate, self-conscious silliness of the original so much fun.
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NOTES ON SOURCES
Our sources for this article were Linda Clark, "1968 Plymouth Road Runner: A MoPar to Ruffle the Competition's Feathers," Special Interest Autos #75, May-June 1983, reprinted in Terry Ehrich and Richard A. Lentinello, eds., The Hemmings Motor News Book of Chrysler: Performance Cars (The Hemmings Motor News) (Bennington, VT: Hemmings Motor News, 2000); Eric Dahlquist, "Beep Beep!" Hot Rod, November 1967; "Car and Driver Road Test: Plymouth Road Runner," Car and Driver, January 1968; "Road Runner: Explosion in Budget Supercars, Car Life, January 1969; Eric Dahlquist, "'Beep-Beep-Beep!'" Motor Trend, February 1969; and James Lee Ramsey, "The Bare Necessities," Automobile, February 2000, all of which are reprinted in R.M. Clarke, ed., Plymouth 1964-1971: Muscle Portfolio (Cobham, Surrey: Brooklands Books Ltd., 2003). Some additional details on the later Road Runners came from Allpar's "History of the Plymouth Road Runner and Dodge Super Bee" (no date, Allpar.com, http://www.allpar.com/model/roadrunner.html, accessed 25 October 2008).
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The thing I do not have that this article represents is the 'context of time' and how much impact such a seemingly simple little diversion could have. And you're absolutely correct...deliberate silliness and whimsy have been absent too long!