What If the Dodge Viper Had Been Born in 1967?

Retro Venom - The late 1960s were a time when cars embodied rebellion, freedom, and raw energy. Streets pulsed with the sound of V8 engines, and design studios buzzed with creativity that would define an era. Now imagine if, amid that cultural explosion, the Dodge Viper—a car born decades later—had roared into existence in 1967. It’s a question that Brazilian designer Rafael Reston asked himself, and the answer became his stunning creation: the Dodge Viper 1967 Concept. 

The 1967 Dodge Viper by Rafael Reston. (Picture from: MotorAuthority)

Reston didn’t simply restyle an icon for fun; he reimagined an alternate history. His idea was to explore how Dodge might have launched a rival to the Corvette of that era, using only the tools, materials, and aesthetics available at the time. He immersed himself in the design trends of the 1960s, an age of sculpted curves, chrome details, and unapologetic flair. The goal was authenticity—to make the car feel as if it truly could have rolled out of a Chrysler design studio in the summer of ’67. 

The 1967 Dodge Viper by Rafael Reston. (Picture from: MotorAuthority)

The result was a vision that merged two worlds: the retro sensuality of 1960s styling with the aggressive identity of the modern Viper. Its sweeping body lines, circular headlamps, and chromed trims reflected mid-century elegance, while the massive hood, side air vents, and rear-biased stance echoed the fierce personality of the real Viper. It was both vintage and venomous—a time-bending fusion that felt oddly believable. 

The 1967 Dodge Viper by Rafael Reston. (Picture from: MotorAuthority)

Under the hood, Reston imagined not the iconic V10, but a 440ci Magnum V8, the same powerhouse that once fueled the Dodge Challenger R/T. He reasoned that in 1967, a ten-cylinder engine would have been far too impractical for production. The Magnum, however, captured the era’s spirit—brutal, simple, and loud enough to make its presence known from blocks away. It was the perfect match for his reimagined beast. 

The 1967 Dodge Viper by Rafael Reston. (Picture from: MotorAuthority)

Inside, the Viper 1967 stayed true to the craftsmanship of its imagined time. Chrome accents, leather upholstery, and a mahogany steering wheel replaced the minimalist interiors of modern sports cars. Reston described it not as a luxury machine but an emotional one—a car meant to thrill the senses, not to coddle the driver. Every material choice reinforced that balance between sophistication and sheer adrenaline.

The 1967 Dodge Viper by Rafael Reston. (Picture from: MotorAuthority)

By the time he revealed the concept, Rafael Reston, then 29, was already a rising name in automotive design. A graduate of FAAP in São Paulo and based in Milan, he had contributed to projects for Renault Design America Latina and other studios while writing his own book, Do Sketch ao Concept: o básico do design automotivo. His Viper project reflected his philosophy: that design isn’t just about aesthetics—it’s about storytelling through form and era.

The 1967 Dodge Viper by Rafael Reston. (Picture from: MotorAuthority)

What makes Reston’s idea so captivating is how it bridges nostalgia with forward-thinking imagination. It challenges the notion that innovation must always look futuristic; sometimes, it can be found by looking backward with new eyes. His Dodge Viper 1967 isn’t just a design exercise—it’s a commentary on how timeless ideas can transcend decades when filtered through creativity and respect for history. | PLtJ8irtHzM |

Had the Viper truly been born in the summer of 1967, it might have joined the pantheon of American legends alongside the Shelby Cobra and the Corvette Sting Ray. But even as a digital concept, Reston’s vision still bites—it sparks curiosity, admiration, and a sense of “what if” that lingers long after the engine falls silent. And if perhaps some devoted car enthusiast today dares to bring this machine to life, here lies the inspiration waiting to be transformed into reality. *** [EKA | FROM VARIOUS SOURCES | THEAMAZOOEFFECT | MOTORAUTHORITY | CARBODYDESIGN | STREETMUSCLEMAG ]

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The 1951 Lancer Roadster: A Forgotten Pioneer Behind the Corvette’s Creation

Vintage Ingenuity - Long before today’s electric silhouettes and wind-tunnel-sculpted supercars took over our roads, the idea of personalizing a vehicle was often born not in corporate design studios, but in small workshops and home garages. The early postwar years were a playground for experimentation, a moment when imagination mattered more than budgets and when new materials—especially fiberglass—felt like keys to an uncharted automotive future. Out of this restless creative energy emerged a machine that didn’t just turn heads in its time, but quietly nudged one of America’s most iconic sports cars into existence: the Lancer Roadster. 

The 1951 Lancer Roadster created in 1951 by Eric Irwin of Costa Mesa, California, and stood as one of the earliest fully custom fiberglass automobiles ever built. (Picture from: QuirkyRides in X)

Created in 1951 by Eric Irwin of Costa Mesa, California, the Lancer Roadster stood as one of the earliest fully custom fiberglass automobiles ever built. Irwin was not simply dabbling in new materials; he became one of the first to articulate the entire process in print, writing a guidebook that used his own car as the cover model. He understood the potential of fiberglass at a moment when most people were still skeptical. Its promise was irresistible: light weight, affordability, structural strength, immunity to rust, and a shapelessness that waited only for a designer’s imagination to give it a form. For builders who were already accustomed to rummaging through junkyards for frames and drivetrains, fiberglass seemed to hand them the freedom to craft cars unconstrained by traditional steel stamping. 

The original Lancer Roadster driven by its designer and builder, Eric Irwin. (Picture from: JalopyJournal)

The Lancer’s underlying structure reflected exactly that spirit of resourcefulness. Irwin built his prototype on a 1932 Graham chassis and powered it with a Studebaker Champion flat-six engine—an unusual pairing even for the era. Yet the result carried a sporty charm, with flowing proportions and a youthful, adventurous personality that fit perfectly into the early 1950s custom-car landscape. Its one aesthetic misfire, the quirky bumper arrangement that looked haphazardly attached, only added to its reputation as a bold experiment rather than a polished production model. What mattered most was its presence: fresh, futuristic, and unmistakably different. 

The 1951 Lancer Roadster by Eric Irwin built based on a 1932 Graham chassis and powered it with a Studebaker Champion flat-six engine. (Picture from: JalopyJournal)

When the Lancer debuted at Petersen’s Motorama in November 1951, it arrived alongside four other fiberglass sports cars, all of them capturing a moment when American automotive culture was on the verge of reinvention. The reception was immediate and enthusiastic. Crowds were drawn to the Lancer’s sleek profile and the novelty of its construction, and Irwin quickly found himself recognized as a pioneer of the new material. His involvement didn’t end with that first car. Through the mid-1950s, he continued refining the Lancer for customers, showing that fiberglass customs weren’t a fleeting hobby but a growing movement. 

The 1951 Lancer Roadster by Eric Irwin features a chassis modified with the X-member removed, fitted with adjustable Fiat-Balila bucket seats and a 1940 Cadillac instrument panel. (Picture from: JalopyJournal)

The most intriguing chapter of the Lancer’s legacy, however, sits quietly between its lines of history. Irwin consulted with Harley Earl—General Motors’ legendary design chief—at a time when GM was exploring ideas that would eventually crystallize into the Chevrolet Corvette. The Corvette, unveiled in 1953, would go on to define the American sports car identity for generations. 

The 1951 Lancer Roadster by Eric Irwin's aesthetic misfire, the quirky bumper arrangement that looked haphazardly attached, only added to its reputation as a bold experiment rather than a polished production model. (Picture from: JalopyJournal)

While the Lancer never reached mass production or mainstream fame, its influence threaded directly into the thinking of the industry’s most powerful design office. It demonstrated that fiberglass wasn’t merely viable—it was the future. Seen from today’s vantage point, the Lancer Roadster becomes more than just a custom car from a restless era. It represents the moment experimentation met opportunity, when independent creators shaped ideas that major manufacturers would soon adopt and refine.  | hHPhz6QxR8s | TNWANgg2KJA |

Its lines may feel rooted in the optimism of the early fifties, but its impact continues to echo in every modern composite body and every unconventional build that dares to break with tradition. The Lancer stands as a reminder that innovation often begins in the hands of individuals who see possibility where others see limitations, and that some of the greatest automotive icons trace their origins to workshops where imagination was the only blueprint. *** [EKA | FROM VARIOUS SOURCES | JALOPYJOURNAL | UNDISCOVEREDCLASSICS | QUIRKYRIDES IN X | DAVE DEUEL IN FACEBOOK | THINGIES IN FACEBOOK ]

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The 1974 Corvette C3 “Glasser” Sportwagon: A Bold WWII-Inspired Custom Build

Reimagined Relic - There’s a special kind of energy in machines that refuse to disappear quietly, especially when their second lives come from pure creativity rather than factory-correct restoration. The 1974 Chevrolet Corvette C3 Sportwagon known as the “Glasser” belongs in that rare category. It didn’t emerge from a high-budget shop or a carefully curated museum plan—it began as a wreck on the verge of being scrapped, only to be reborn through imagination, wartime aviation influence, and the unmistakable spirit of gasser drag cars. In today’s world of digital precision, the Glasser feels like a reminder that bold ideas still matter.

The 1974 Corvette C3 “Glasser” Sportwagon crafted by Paul and Keith Ray, finished in olive green paint and accented with hand-crafted nose art and jagged front teeth, pays direct tribute to WWII fighter planes. (Picture from: LSXMag)

Its story stretches back to the 1980s, when the car belonged to Augie Giovanni. After wrecking it and getting only as far as primer during repairs, he eventually sold it to finance other builds. Decades later, in September 2016, Paul Ray stumbled across photos of the battered Corvette through a friend. What he saw was a true basket case—far too gone to restore in any traditional sense. Instead of letting it head to the crusher, he bought it, and with his son Keith, committed to building something entirely different. Beginning March 4th, 2017, and working continuously through August 8th of the same year, the father-son duo transformed the disassembled Vette in just six months, an astonishing pace considering its condition.

The 1974 Corvette C3 “Glasser” Sportwagon crafted by Paul and Keith Ray uses torpedo-style side pipes to intensify its WWII fighter-plane theme, giving the car a sense of motion even at rest. (Picture from: FrontANdRearEndSwap in Facebook)

What emerged was a sportwagon conversion that instantly signaled its intentions through its exterior. The olive green paint, the hand-crafted “nose art,” and the jagged teeth along the front pay direct tribute to WWII fighter planes. Even the roof was reimagined as a pseudo-canopy, with blacked-out panels and painted window lines that mimic aircraft glazing. Torpedo-style side pipes amplify that theme, adding a sense of motion even when the car sits still. While the design can appear ungainly or even shocking at first glance, it leans fully into its fighter-plane personality rather than trying to blend in.

The olive green color of the 1974 Corvette C3 “Glasser” Sportwagon, accented with hand-crafted nose art and jagged front teeth, draws direct inspiration from WWII fighter planes. (Picture from: LSXMag)

The rear carries the same bold approach. Instead of stock Corvette lights, the Rays installed 1961 Ford Galaxie taillights—an unconventional choice that gives the back end a jet-engine vibe, even though the wartime planes inspiring the build used propellers rather than turbines. These taillights, along with the wagon conversion, set the Glasser apart visually while anchoring it firmly in its chosen stylistic universe. Protruding side exhausts and large tires push the car toward hot-rod territory, bridging the gap between military aesthetics and mid-century American performance culture.

The 1974 Corvette C3 “Glasser” Sportwagon roof was reimagined as a pseudo-canopy, with blacked-out panels and painted window lines that mimic aircraft glazing. (Picture from: LSXMag)

Underneath, the Rays reinforced that connection by replacing the Corvette’s independent front suspension with a primitive beam axle, giving the car the raised stance typical of gasser drag cars. Moon disc caps on the rear wheels complete the period-correct look. The name “Glasser” itself plays on this crossover—part “gasser,” part nod to the Corvette’s fiberglass body. The deeper influence comes from the history of nose art: unofficial, expressive, emotional, and often created with whatever materials were available. It allowed WWII crews to assert individuality in uniformed environments, and its folk-art qualities mirror the personal, handmade nature of the Rays’ build. | Ub0D61MfNcY |

In the end, the Glasser stands as a labor of passion rather than polish. It may look awkward in everyday life, but it embodies the belief that even the most hopeless cars can become something meaningful if given vision and effort. Paul and Keith Ray didn’t resurrect the Vette by restoring it—they revived it by reimagining it. Their six-month build turned a wrecked Corvette with a fragmented past into a roadworthy expression of creativity, history, and father-son collaboration. In that way, the Glasser is more than a strange custom; it’s proof that forgotten machines can still find new purpose when someone sees potential where others see scrap. *** [EKA | FROM VARIOUS SOURCES | LSXMAG | BLACKTOP OUTLAW IN FACEBOOK | FRONT AND REAR END SWAP IN FACEBOOK |  QUIRKYRIDES IN X ]

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The Alfa Romeo P33 Roadster: A Lost Icon of Italian Automotive Design

Design Reverberation - In the shifting landscape of late-1960s automotive design—an era caught between fading curves and the rising fascination with sharp geometric forms—there emerged a concept car whose brief existence still sparks curiosity today: the Alfa Romeo P33 Roadster. It was a moment when designers were rethinking the very language of form, moving from sensual, rounded silhouettes toward crisp wedges and angular minimalism. Into this creative pivot stepped Paolo Martin of Pininfarina, tasked with imagining a new kind of roadster at a time when ideas were evolving almost faster than they could be sketched. 

The 1968 Alfa Romeo Pininfarina P33 Roadster was debuted at the 1968 Turin Motor Show. (Picture from: AllCarIndex)

The P33 Roadster was developed immediately after the Ferrari Dino Berlinetta Competizione, a dramatically curvy machine that stood in stark contrast to the straight-edged attitude Martin was about to adopt. Unveiled at the 1968 Turin Motor Show, the P33 delivered an unexpected fusion of sharp lines and selective softness, acting almost as a stylistic bridge between two automotive generations. 

The 1968 Alfa Romeo Pininfarina P33 Roadster was debuted at the 1968 Turin Motor Show. (Picture from: Speedholics)

Its very foundation came from one of the 18 Alfa Romeo 33 Stradale chassis, originally part of a plan to build 50 examples before Alfa redirected its resources toward the Montreal project. The five unused chassis—each paired with a potent 2.0-liter, 230-horsepower V8—were sent to Italy’s top coachbuilders so they could craft dream cars destined for prestigious motor shows.

The 1968 Alfa Romeo Pininfarina P33 Roadster was debuted at the 1968 Turin Motor Show. (Picture from: Speedholics)

This initiative produced a remarkable sequence of experimental showpieces. Bertone’s 33 Carabo appeared first in Paris in October 1968, followed a month later by Martin’s P33 Roadster for Pininfarina at the Turin show. Soon after came Leonardo Fioravanti’s P33 Coupé Prototipo Stradale in Geneva in 1969, Giugiaro’s Iguana at the Turin show later that year, and ultimately the P33 Spider “Cuneo” in Brussels in 1971—a design that would directly replace the Roadster. The lineage closed in 1976 with Gandini’s futuristic 33 Navajo. Within this sequence, the P33 Roadster held a unique place as the concept that marked the dramatic stylistic shift from flowing forms to assertive angularity. 

The 1968 Alfa Romeo Pininfarina P33 Roadster was debuted at the 1968 Turin Motor Show. (Picture from: Carstyling.ru)

Martin created the P33 Roadster under tight deadlines, working from dimensional drawings rather than a complete physical chassis. This constraint encouraged a simplified yet innovative approach: a wedge profile beginning at an unusual black rubber front bumper—an aesthetic and aerodynamic experiment for its time—and tapering to a K-tail at the rear. Adjustable side appendices, added at the suggestion of Renzo Carli, contributed to the visual intrigue, while Fioravanti’s preference for a single retracting headlight unit led to a distinctive lighting solution. Tiny upward-opening doors compensated for the high chassis spars that made conventional entry nearly impossible, and a low wrap-around windscreen served both style and aerodynamic purpose. 

The 1968 Alfa Romeo Pininfarina P33 Roadster was debuted at the 1968 Turin Motor Show. (Picture from: Carstyling.ru)

The car’s sides were kept clean and disciplined after Martin abandoned the idea of NACA ducts, while the rear featured eight intake trumpets emerging from a rectangular opening above a vertical tail section fitted with four slim, longitudinal taillights. Beneath them sat a heat-dissipating aluminum frame surrounding the exhaust. The interior was as radical as the exterior: two anatomical seats and a transverse structural frame that doubled as both dashboard support and part of the ventilation system, paired with a futuristic steering wheel that echoed the design language of the entire project. 

The 1968 Alfa Romeo Pininfarina P33 Roadster was debuted at the 1968 Turin Motor Show. (Picture from: Carstyling.ru)

One of the Roadster’s most daring innovations was its hydraulically adjustable cast-aluminum fin integrated into the roll bar. This element served as an aerodynamic stabilizer, a heat exchanger for the oil circuit, and theoretical rollover protection—an ambitious combination that ultimately proved impractical, as any malfunction risked dumping hot oil onto the occupants. Nonetheless, it showcased the kind of experimental thinking that defined concept cars of the era. Combined with the racing-derived mechanics of the 33 Stradale, the P33 Roadster was reportedly as exhilarating to drive as it was to look at. As no proper video of the prototype has surfaced, this video of its base model—the legendary Alfa Romeo 33 Stradale—serves as the closest reference. | xluAEuBDhRA |

Despite its promise, the Roadster survived less than three years. It was ultimately dismantled so its chassis could be reused for the 1971 P33 Spider “Cuneo,” a decision typical of coachbuilding practices at the time but one that Paolo Martin never fully accepted. Today, the car exists only in archived photographs, original sketches, and Martin’s own recollections. Its disappearance has only amplified its mystique, leaving behind the impression of a concept that captured a pivotal stylistic transition: the fading elegance of postwar curves giving way to the sharp-edged futurism that would define the next decade. *** [EKA | FROM VARIOUS SOURCES | STELLANTISHERITAGE | SPEEDHOLICS | ALLCARINDEX | CARSTYLING.RU ]

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The Forgotten 1988 Porsche 965: The Prototype That Almost Redefined the 911

Stalled Ambition - Every era in automotive history has its nearly forgotten experiments—machines envisioned to redefine performance yet overshadowed by forces beyond engineering. The Porsche 965 belongs to that elusive category, a car conceived during a period of bold imagination and economic uncertainty. While modern performance cars wear their innovation openly, the 965 exists more like an echo of what might have been, created at a time when Porsche was trying to bridge its storied past with an increasingly complex future. 

The 1988 Porsche 965 Prototype exists more like an echo of what might have been, created at a time when Porsche was trying to bridge its storied past with an increasingly complex future. (Picture from: WhichCar.au)

The project began in the early 1980s, when Porsche sought a successor to the 911 Turbo that could sit confidently above the upcoming 964 Carrera. The idea was to take everything learned from the technologically advanced 959—its twin-turbo philosophy, water-cooled four-valve heads, adaptive suspension, and even the possibility of a dual-clutch transmission—and reinterpret those ideas into something more attainable. The planned design resembled a more modern, streamlined evolution of the 959, carrying hints of its silhouette but shaped with a clear priority on cost efficiency rather than extravagance. 

The 1988 Porsche 965 Prototype was designed to share its chassis and floorpan with the concurrently developed 964 to keep development grounded and costs under control. (Picture from: StittCars)

Under the skin, engineers aimed for a 3.5-liter twin-turbo flat-six producing around 365 horsepower, making the car both powerful and practical. To keep development grounded, it would share its chassis and floorpan with the 964, which was being developed in parallel. For a brief moment, everything appeared to move smoothly. Porsche had found a sweet spot between performance ambition and production feasibility, crafting a car that promised cutting-edge capability without stepping into 959 territory.

The 1988 Porsche 965 Prototype powered by a water-cooled Audi V8 mounted in the rear. (Picture from: VintageEuropean in Facebook)

Then reality arrived in the form of engineering roadblocks. The original 3.5-liter engine couldn’t deliver the expected power, and unlike the 959, the 965 wasn’t allowed access to expensive race-derived components. This forced the team to explore alternatives, including a turbocharged V6 derived from Hans Mezger’s Indy racing V8 and even an all-new V8 intended to be shared with the ill-fated 989 saloon project. The most viable solution turned out to be a water-cooled Audi V8 mounted in the rear—a pragmatic choice that aligned with budget constraints while providing the necessary output. 

The 1988 Porsche 965 Prototype was envisioned with a more modern, streamlined evolution of the 959’s design, echoing its silhouette while prioritizing cost efficiency over extravagance. (Picture from: WhichCar.au)

Just as the technical challenges piled up, the global financial crash of 1987 hit Porsche hard. The market for a pricier, more experimental 911 evaporated almost instantly. The company tightened spending, shelved speculative programs, and reluctantly scaled back the 965’s ambitions. Engineers had to abandon the fully water-cooled flat-six concept in favor of repurposing the existing Turbo motor, a compromise that undermined the very innovation the project had been built upon. By 1988, the 965 was no longer viable, and the program was canceled. 

The 1988 Porsche 965 Prototype survives today in the Porsche Museum, powered by an Audi V8 and standing as the sole physical reminder of what the project might have become. (Picture from: VintageEuropean in Facebook)

Sixteen prototypes had been completed during development, but fifteen were destroyed after the project’s termination. The lone survivor—powered by the Audi V8—now rests in the Porsche Museum as the only physical reminder of what the 965 could have been. Its legacy, however, continued in less visible ways. The lessons learned during its development influenced Porsche’s gradual shift toward water-cooled engines and informed technological decisions in the evolution of later 911 models. Even the creation of the 964 Turbo—rushed into production after the 965’s cancellation—was shaped directly by this abandoned project. | SHBEEiXTL0U |

Today, the 965 occupies a curious but meaningful corner of Porsche lore. It’s often misunderstood, with some enthusiasts mistakenly associating its designation with the 3.6-liter 1994 911 Turbo, which actually belongs to the 964 series. The real 965, though never sold, represents a moment when Porsche dared to imagine a technologically advanced future under tight constraints. Its story still resonates because it reflects the tension between innovation and practicality—proof that even the prototypes that never make it to the road can leave a lasting imprint on a brand’s identity. *** [EKA | FROM VARIOUS SOURCES | STUTTCARS | WHICHCAR.AU | VINTAGE EUROPEAN IN FACEBOOK ]

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The Little-Known Japanese Race Series Hiding One of the Coolest Cars Ever Built

Hidden Thrillcraft - Racing culture is full of unexpected corners where fascinating machines quietly exist beyond mainstream attention, and Japan has always excelled at nurturing these niche worlds. Among them is a series that surfaced in the early 2010s with an unusually bold approach: instead of relying on familiar production cars, it introduced a purpose-built machine crafted solely for competition. That choice set the Inter Proto Race Series apart from the moment it arrived, even if most enthusiasts outside Japan never realized it existed. 

The Inter Proto Kuruma. (Picture from: RoadAndTrack)

Established in 2013, the series invited both seasoned professionals and gentleman drivers to challenge each other on legendary Japanese circuits under truly equal conditions. Achieving that competitive balance required more than choosing a common platform—it required creating one. The organizers commissioned their own dedicated race car, ultimately known as the Inter Proto Kuruma, built not from any road-going template but entirely from scratch to deliver a pure and consistent driving experience. 

The Inter Proto Kuruma. (Picture from: RoadAndTrack)

The engineering behind the Kuruma reflects a commitment to straightforward performance. It features a carbon-fiber monocoque for rigidity and lightness, a naturally aspirated V6 producing 335 horsepower, and a sequential transmission designed for quick, purposeful shifts. Every element of the car exists for the track, from its tightly focused mechanical setup to the way its structure prioritizes responsiveness over comfort. Yet despite its racing intentions, the car visually reads as far more approachable than most dedicated competition machines. 

The Inter Proto Kuruma. (Picture from: RoadAndTrack)

Unlike many modern race cars covered in wings, vents, and aggressively sculpted aerodynamics, the Kuruma carries a subtle exterior that almost echoes the proportions of a street car. Its smooth bodywork and minimal aero details make it look like something that might slip into traffic unnoticed—at least until the engine fires and the illusion is broken. A road-legal version was never produced, leaving fans to imagine what it might have been like to drive such a balanced, lightweight machine beyond track boundaries. | s_dIGTW_qWI  |

When it debuted in 2012, Japan’s iconic automotive program Best Motoring offered a rare deep look at the Kuruma, walking through its design and capturing onboard footage that revealed just how lively and communicative it could be in motion. Today, the car stands as a snapshot of a time when the idea of building a bespoke one-make racer still felt daring and personal. Even as modern motorsport trends toward electrification and aerodynamic complexity, the Inter Proto Kuruma remains a reminder of how compelling a simple, focused machine can be—an obscure but captivating piece of Japan’s racing landscape. *** [EKA | FROM VARIOUS SOURCES | ROADANDTRACK ]

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The Troll 700 Sportscoupe: Norway’s Ambitious Answer to the Porsche

Nordic Daring - Long before today’s carmakers began experimenting boldly with lightweight materials and alternative engineering ideas, a small group tucked away in the forests of Telemark tried to rewrite what a Scandinavian sports car could be. It was a time when Europe was rebuilding its confidence as much as its infrastructure, and when every new invention seemed to carry the hope of something larger. Against this shifting backdrop, an unconventional white coupé rolled out of a modest Norwegian workshop, carrying ambitions far greater than its small footprint suggested. This was the Troll 700 Sportscoupe—often described, half in admiration and half in curiosity, as “the Norwegian Porsche”—a machine that embodied both the daring and the fragility of innovation in the late 1950s. 

The 1957 Troll 700 Sportscoupé—long viewed with equal parts admiration and curiosity as “the Norwegian Porsche”—captured the bold ambition and delicate uncertainty that defined automotive innovation in the late 1950s. (Picture from: ViaRetro)

The idea sprang from the mind of Per Kohl-Larsen, a man who had made his fortune not in engineering but in the coffee trade in Africa. Prosperity gave him freedom, and freedom, in his case, fueled a desire to transform Norway from a country that imported cars into one that created them. The company he founded, bearing the literal and slightly eccentric name “Plastik & Bilindustri,” reflected both his practicality and his sense of experimentation. Working alongside two engineers—Germany’s Bruno Falck and Norway’s own Erling Fjugstad—he set out to build a coupé that would stand apart not through brute force or extravagance, but through modern materials, smart engineering, and the optimism of an industry entering a new era. 

The Troll 700 Sportscoupé emerged from Plastik & Bilindustri’s brief 1957–1958 venture, developed in close collaboration with German engineer Bruno Falck and Norwegian engineer Erling Fjugstad. (Picture from: Automovelantigo in Facebook)

Fiberglass became the signature of their approach. At a time when steel still dominated production lines but manufacturers worldwide were eyeing new composites, the Troll’s lightweight body was both forward-thinking and economically strategic. Keeping the car under 700 kilograms wasn’t just an engineering brag—it meant agility, lower production costs, and the possibility of scaling manufacturing even as the continent was still recovering from wartime scarcity. Chevrolet’s Corvette had already showcased fiberglass overseas, but in Europe the trend was far from mainstream. Most fiberglass-bodied attempts were hobbyist kits built atop aging mechanical foundations. Kohl-Larsen intended the exact opposite: a modern, mass-producible vehicle that demonstrated Norway’s ability to think—and build—fresh. 

The Troll 700 Sportscoupé ultimately existed in only five examples—tangible reminders of what the project could have become—while leaving Kohl-Larsen and his family facing severe financial ruin. (Picture from: ViaRetro)

The mechanical heart of the Troll came from a perhaps unlikely source: the remains of a bankrupt German manufacturer. Gutbrod-Werke, despite closing its doors, left behind a remarkable piece of engineering—a 700cc two-stroke, two-cylinder engine equipped with Bosch fuel injection. For the period, this setup was surprisingly advanced, even a little futuristic, and perfectly in tune with the Troll team’s belief in new technology. Yet for all its sophistication, it eked out only 26 horsepower, and its injection system soon proved temperamental. The team briefly considered replacing it with SAAB’s three-cylinder two-stroke powerplant, a solution just across the border, but the plan never evolved beyond internal discussions. 

The 1957 Troll 700 Sportscoupé showcased a fiberglass-first approach at a moment when steel still dominated, giving its lightweight body a modern and cost-efficient edge. (Picture from: En.TerjeBjornStad)

Still, the Troll’s creators worked resourcefully with what they had. They purchased Gutbrod’s Superior chassis to pair with the fiberglass body, even when the dimensions didn’t match. Instead of redesigning the entire structure, they simply extended the body by fifteen centimeters—an adjustment that unexpectedly added a small rear seat. It was a practical compromise wrapped in quiet ingenuity, a hallmark of the entire project. By the time they presented the first fully realized car to the press in October 1956, the Troll 700 Sportscoupe had taken on a personality of its own: compact yet expressive, simple yet strangely elegant, shaped by curved fiberglass panels that gave it a lightness familiar to sports cars but uncommon among those from the north. 

The 1957 Troll 700 Sportscoupé relied on an unexpectedly sourced mechanical heart—a 700cc two-stroke, two-cylinder engine with Bosch fuel injection salvaged from the bankrupt German manufacturer Gutbrod-Werke. (Picture from: En.TerjeBjornStad)

On May 1, 1957, the first customer took delivery of a Troll, and for a moment, it looked as though the dream of a Norwegian car industry might actually ignite. But dreams, especially industrial ones, collide not just with engineering challenges but with politics. To begin mass production, “Plastik & Bilindustri” needed formal approval from the Norwegian government—approval that never came. Behind the scenes, the issue had little to do with the car’s technical merits and everything to do with international trade. Norway was exporting enormous quantities of fish meal and fish products to the Eastern Bloc, and in exchange, importing cars from those same nations. Allowing domestic automobile production to expand risked upsetting that delicate balance. In a twist almost too bureaucratic to seem real, the Troll’s success threatened to jeopardize national economics tied to fish. And so the government hesitated, stalled, and ultimately withheld the essential authorization. 

The Troll 700 Sportscoupé reveals its smooth, sculpted lines and compact stance, capturing the car’s uniquely Norwegian blend of minimalist design and unconventional charm. (Picture from: ViaRetro)

The delay proved fatal. Without the green light to scale production, the company had no income, no investors willing to take on prolonged uncertainty, and no safety net. By 1958, the workshop fell silent. Only five Troll Sportscoupes had been built—five physical proofs of what might have been—and the financial fallout was devastating for Kohl-Larsen and his family. What remained was not a thriving industry but a story: a small, determined attempt to carve space for Norwegian creativity in the global automotive landscape, overshadowed by geopolitics and the unforgiving realities of manufacturing. 

The Troll 700 Sportscoupé displays its distinctive teardrop-shaped rear and expansive wraparound window, highlighting the quirky aerodynamic vision behind Norway’s rare fiberglass experiment. (Picture from: En.TerjeBjornStad)

Today, the Troll 700 Sportscoupe lives on mostly in quiet admiration among enthusiasts and historians who appreciate the boldness behind its existence. It represents a moment when a handful of innovators believed Norway could produce more than raw materials and seafood exports, when fiberglass bodies and unconventional engines felt like the keys to a new path forward. More than its horsepower or production numbers, the car symbolizes the thrill and vulnerability of trying something new in a world not yet ready to support it. And it invites the lingering, almost playful question: if the political winds had blown differently, would Scandinavia’s most iconic sports car today be wearing a very different badge? *** [EKA | FROM VARIOUS SOURCES | VIARETRO | EN.TERJEBJORNSTAD | AUTOMOVELANTIGO IN FACEBOOK ]

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