Driving a Vintage Datsun 240Z Is All About Process

Process can feel like it envelops our lives. The hurdles that stand between you and your gratification are an increasing annoyance in the modern world. Everything should be at our fingertips, right? Yet, when it comes to older cars, process can be a huge part of the appeal.

Firing up this pristine 1973 Datsun 240Z, part of Nissan's Heritage collection in Nashville, Tennessee, required the sort of process regular users would come to relish. After slinking into the leveled-out, black leather seat, I was instructed to pull the center-console-mounted choke back about halfway, using my index and middle fingers to roll the tensioned plastic paddle into place. A precautionary clutch depression and neutral check came next—there was no electrical interlock to stop me starting the car in gear—and then I turned the key. The 2.4-liter inline-six started on the first crank, with the 240Z's expert custodian telling me to let it idle high until the dash-mounted temperature gauge hit the "t" in "temp."

IMG_2882.JPG

Getting moving in a 1973 Datsun 240Z is easy, so long as you follow these simple steps. First, wipe your brain of the rev-hanging, ultralight-feeling manual-transmission cars that have been built more recently. The tall, narrowly gated shift pattern on the 240Z engages gears that require a decent amount of effort on the wooden knob. The shift action isn't rewarding in terms of slickness or snickiness, but nailing the timing between the long throw, the falling engine revolutions, and the lengthy clutch travel feels hugely rewarding when it results in a smooth shift.

Parts of the experience feel old and obviously different, but much felt delightfully fresh: This lovingly preserved Datsun wears its 52 years lightly.

Driving past the business parks and millionaire ranches outside Franklin, Tennessee, brought an immediate reminder of the manual labor required to drive cars of this era. Maneuvering the 240Z isn't difficult, despite the absence of power assistance for the steering and braking systems. A few mph make all the difference in steering weight, and contemporary highway speeds create a steering response that feels downright twitchy, every surface imperfection faithfully reported by the dainty wooden steering wheel.

IMG_2889.JPG

Brake-pedal response felt more eager than most modern powered systems. The weight of the pedal took a little getting used to—a much firmer push is necessary to get the calipers clamping—but once the brakes wake up, they bite strongly enough. But because stopping distances are often defined by the vehicles around you, and almost all of the cars around me as I drove the Z had ABS and modern tires, I kept a cautious distance.

The Datsun's heart is the key to its timeless merit. Making 151 hp and 146 lb-ft of torque from 2.4 liters of displacement was deeply impressive for the time when so many rivals used big, dumb powerplants, and the inline-six is still sonorous and smooth. It sounds great too, with an intake rasp in the cabin that adds character without becoming too loud. There is muscle at both ends of the rev range, with ample torque down low and when pushed toward the 7000-rpm redline. Working against a curb weight of just 2350 pounds, performance is brisk: The 240Z is definitely fast enough to require extra planning on modern roads.

IMG_2886.JPG

Wheeling the 240Z through the stunning scenery, I was thinking about every move well ahead of the need to make it—and not because I was driving particularly fast. The Z's skinny tires and a slightly damp surface promote an excess of caution in what is a literal museum piece, as does the fact that only a lap belt is keeping me in place. While controls are light, it is hard to maintain confidence and drive the Datsun quickly. There is an underlying unpredictability to its responses.

And yet, I fell in love. Meeting heroes can be daunting, the risk of expectation meeting indifference. But the Datsun 240Z didn't have to try to impress me, being kind and friendly from the jump and allowing me to learn how it liked to be driven in real time. Save for some initial human guidance on getting it started, I took my adventure in the Z alone, stopping only to admire it (and take pictures) in its adopted Southern habitat.

I'll admit that I initially hesitated to shut off the engine every time I paused, fearing its start-up procedure would be crotchety and temperamental as older cars often are. But I shouldn't have doubted the Datsun: It came right back to life each time.