Studebaker Dictator Custom 2A Sedan 1935, Estados Unidos

 

Studebaker Dictator Custom 2A Sedan 1935, Estados Unidos
Fotografia


Modern cars are fast, smooth, silent, efficient, and well-connected to the information superhighway—but they’re boring. Why would you choose one when there is literally the entirety of automotive history from which to select an alternative? It’s no wonder the average driver can’t wait to become a passenger in his own $40k self-driving bubble. A 1935 Studebaker Dictator is none of that.
Fast? It will do all legal speeds, though its 88-hp, 205-cu.in. flathead six-cylinder and three-speed manual transmission mean it doesn’t squirt up to 60 mph in 8.3 seconds like your crossover—and it’s happier cruising the 55-mph two lanes than gobbling up miles of 70-mph interstate. I guarantee you’ll have more fun getting up to speed, however, since you’re actually a part of the process, working the floor-mounted pedals and gear selector, listening to the engine rpm change and the whine of the unsynchronized first gear (so much for “silent”) as you gather speed from a stop. It’s 17 seconds of enjoyment, instead of 8.3 of silent nothingness.
The engine in our subject car is a rugged sort. When owner Wallace “Keck” Crouthamel of Spencerport, New York, bought it, he was told, “It runs fine, it runs beautiful.” Although that is seemingly two different levels of condition in one, it wasn’t too far from the truth. “It would run with a prime,” Keck recalls.
“I’d had it a couple years,” Keck told us, when we photographed his car at the Studebaker Drivers Club Northeastern Zone Meet in Rutland, Vermont, “but it was not regularly running until this year, because there was stuff I had to do.”
That “stuff” was what Keck characterizes as “Old Cars 101”: Fuel, air, and spark. The biggest problem initially was the fuel system, which wasn’t reliable until the line from the tank had been unplugged using braided-and-coated aircraft wire, the fuel pump rebuilt, and the tank itself de-sludged from years of sitting—perhaps the most trying part of the process, because the tank came out in a mere 30 minutes, but took three days of careful positioning to reinstall.
“A lot of people tell me I’m crazy, but I actually didn’t need a lot of parts. The difficulty is figuring stuff out as you go. I didn’t want to just take things apart.” Luckily, Keck’s not alone in facing the Stude, both because he’s a part of the SDC and because, as he says, “I have friends who are good old-car mechanics.” There’s your information superhighway— though the car itself is better for escaping our always-connected society than staying in touch with it while underway.
Smooth? Well, it’s got leaf springs, a solid rear axle, and an early independent front suspension that incorporates a transverse leaf spring doing double-duty as the upper control arms. That system was called Planar and cost $35 more than the standard front axle; it raised the cost of a Dictator Custom four-door sedan like this from $770 to $805, a price more on par with Hudson’s Big Six than a Ford, Chevrolet, or Dodge. The Planar IFS was designed by Studebaker’s well-known engineer Barney Roos, and was good enough to last through 1949. It’s smooth, yes, but not numb. You use both hands on the wheel (one occasionally doing other duties, like shifting), both feet on the pedals, and you keep your eyes on the road since there’s no computer to keep you from drifting out of your lane or tailgating.
As for handling, we didn’t shove it into any corners at twice their posted speed or anything, but Keck also looked completely relaxed during his normal driving duties. Possibly helpful is that he’s been through the first-year (1934 used cable-operated mechanical brakes) hydraulic-drum braking system twice already.
“First, I rebuilt the wheel cylinders,” he recalls, “but during a sudden stop the brakes went soft. Then I had to redo the master cylinder.” Dialing in the adjustment was a bit of a trick, however, as instead of the familiar star-shaped adjuster, a special tool is required to fine tune the shoe-to-drum clearances. Thankfully, a friend with a De Soto had the same system. “Now it has brakes and they’re pretty good, but they might need further bleeding.”
There’s nothing strenuous about driving the car and where I was, ensconced on the lovely, soft original mohair of the spacious back seat, the ride was positively relaxing—notwithstanding the excitement of the surroundings. Heating and ventilation are handled by completely mechanical means. It was too warm for the heater, but the rolled-down side windows and tip-out windshield provided more than adequate breezes to keep us cool while underway. In fact, at one point Keck had to adjust the windshield closed slightly, as we were a bit too well ventilated at highway speeds.
The body of the Studebaker, if not the unquestioned style leader of 1935, is at the very least an excellent example of automobile design in the era where the industry’s initial streamlined designs started embracing the pontoon fender. Parked outside the Century of Progress exhibit in 1933-’34, it would have been a very up-to-the-minute car. It would have still looked good in the parking lots of the San Francisco and New York World’s Fairs in 1939-’40. As to how it compares with the greige crossover, it certainly goes without saying that nothing since the advent of the 5-mph bumper has really been styled as well as anything from the 1930s—inside or out.
Decorative streamlining (dare we call it “speedlining” like the railroads used to?) aside, the Studebaker isn’t particularly efficient in the modern sense of the term. The experience of the Chrysler and De Soto Airflow had taught ’30s auto stylists that consumers weren’t ready for scientific streamlining, they just wanted their cars not to look like bricks in the wind. Of course, any streamlining is really only effective at relatively high speeds. Around town, the simpler, lighter Stude probably does better on gas than the 3,500-pound crossover. Even if this one had the optional overdrive (co-developed by Chrysler and Studebaker engineers along with Borg-Warner, which would manufacture the units for the next 40 years), at 70 it wouldn’t be very much fun. You could cross the country in a car like this, easily enough, but do it on the two-lane blacktop as intended. There’s nothing to see on the super slab anyway.
On his way to the zone meet, Keck himself kept off the high-speed New York Thruway, selecting to make the 329-mile trip on Route 29 instead.
“I kept it under 50,” he says, “because that’s what it likes. I didn’t want people held up because of me and I still have to go back home again.”
Who is Keck and why does he own this patinated example of a provocatively named Studebaker from 15 or so years before he was born?
“I’m a fan of what they call orphan cars: Hudsons, Packards, et cetera, always caught my eye. If I ever win the lotto, the next car I’d get would be a Nash. If I’m driving through the country and I see a car of this age, I stop and take a look.” He found this one near Gregsville, New York.
“I stopped to look at this one and although it was unrestored, it was all there and intact: doors, upholstery, and wiring. It was much further ahead than the basket cases I’d seen people restore and I figured that if I bought it, it would be a driver instead of a project.”
It would seem he was correct, and some of the credit goes to what a solid car the Studebaker Dictator actually was.The folks in South Bend evidently had only the dimmest idea of what was going on in Italy in 1927. It’s the only way to explain how they settled on renaming the former Standard Six as Dictator—not really a compliment even then, though perhaps some dim admiration for making the trains come on time appealed to the efficient organization men at Studebaker.
Supposedly, the idea behind the name was to convey how Studebaker’s then-cheapest model dictated the standard by which its competitors would be judged. The Dictator, then, was not The Standard of the World, but at least meant to be the unquestioned leader of the low-price, six-cylinder field (later the mid-price, six-cylinder field as low-priced cars moved away from four-cylinder engines).
A decade later, a couple years after Mussolini thumbed his nose at the League of Nations in Ethiopia, and shortly after Hitler tore up the treaty of Versailles, Studebaker quietly resurrected the Commander name and substituted it for Dictator.
Controversial naming aside, the Dictator was a good car in 1935 and it’s still a good car today. Studebaker may be gone, but its passionate fans remain, making those cars excellent to own even now. Keck’s going to take advantage of those resources further for this car, with a windshield-wiper motor rebuild and a second taillamp planned for the near future.