What driving a 40-year-old Datsun race car taught me about greatness

Why do car enthusiasts always reminisce about the glory years? Why, if we were presented with a choice between driving an Aston Martin DB9 or DB5, would we unanimously choose the DB5? Up until last summer, my time spent driving vintage cars was all but non-existent. Clearly I was missing something, so when the opportunity arose to drive one of the most famous vintage racecars in American history — John Morton’s Trans-Am winning Datsun BRE 510 — naturally I jumped at the opportunity to spar with a legend.

Datsun’s 510 remains a fascinating machine. Once called a “poor man’s BMW,” it exists at all thanks the decisive leadership shown by Mr. K (aka. Yutaka Katayama, the first president of Nissan USA) back in the late 1960s who defied board members by producing a machine that held sportiness and performance at its core. Giving Datsun widespread U.S. acceptance was crucial, but many within the company disagreed with his approach.

Regardless, Mr. K coveted excitement over economy and pushed forth, adopting fully-independent suspension as standard and a sizable 1.6-liter engine to please America’s greed for horsepower. While these technologies were far from groundbreaking, what made the 510 an instant success was it remained priced like a Datsun, being sold for under $2,000, comfortably undercutting its competition, while possessing the same sporting qualities.

When I arrived at Memphis International Raceway, I knew of the 510’s history. I’d also heard about its racing pedigree under the Brock Racing Enterprises (BRE) banner, and how successful they were as an underdog against the mighty German and Italian manufacturers. I was also astutely aware of John Morton’s talent as a racer. How the car would perform from behind the wheel, however, remained a mystery.

By 1971, with the production 510 selling extremely well as an affordable sports sedan with unassuming looks yet exceptional handling, the focus turned to the racetrack and the SCCA Trans-Am 2.5 championship. Facing the mighty BMWs and all-conquering Alfa Romeos, Mr. K instructed BRE to whip the little sedan into race-winning shape. This meant switching the standard 4-speed manual transmission with that of Datsun’s performance car, the 240Z, making it a 5-speed manual instead. It also adopted the 240Z’s diff, as well as boosting power substantially to around 190 hp – almost double its original output – while lightening the machine to a scant 1,700 lbs.

When I first set eyes upon the car, the word “unassuming” stood out. Externally it’s boxy, plain and, when comparing to modern race cars, decidedly un-aerodynamic. But, of course, aerodynamics were an evolving science back then; cars were designed by eye rather than computer. Does that add more character, more soul, and more passion? At that moment, I was feeling strangely besotted.

The Datsun BRE 510 arrived late to the 1971 season, due to the immense amount of work needed to go from showroom to racetrack in under a year. When it did hit the track, it dominated, taking the fight immediately to Horst Kweck and his Alfa. Amassing victory after victory, John Morton and his #46 machine clawed their way back into title contention. In the final race, after laps of bumping and barging, Morton pitted for fuel. Kweck, in the Alfa, did not, allowing him to win the race and clinch the championship. After careful inspection, Alfa had installed an illegal fuel tank, cheating their way across the line to eventual disqualification, handing the championship to Morton and his Datsun BRE 510. This, as one can imagine, wasn’t supposed to happen. It’s like Kia entering sports cars and defeating the mighty Porsche.

Morton and his #46 BRE 510 crushed the opposition in 1972 as well, and as I strapped myself into the car that shocked the racing world, the sense of history rung though my head as vividly as a dream you swear was true. Dreaming of this moment was, in fact, something I’d been doing for weeks, ever since learning I'd get to drive this storied machine.

Behind the wheel, the padded seat cushion proved surprisingly comfortable, but the 510’s inners were especially bare. In the name of lightness, the windows were plastic, the door panels felt like rotten cardboard and even the cigarette lighter was removed. The steering wheel didn’t align correctly and the dash was illegible. Every switch looked identical and none were marked. Even Nissan’s historian had no idea what they did.

Flicking the switches from right to left readied the car for action, leaving just a worn starter-box on the floor next to the gear lever, concealing a button that brought the car back to life. Immediately, the noise was intense.