Take a Nostalgic Trip Through the Coolest Cars of the 1980s

The 1980s were marked by corny television, the beginning of the end for the Soviet bloc, "Morning in America," and the arrival of the Japanese car as a mainstream choice instead of a quirky alternative. The decade saw the beginning of a muscle revival, thanks to Buick’s turbocharged V-6s and Ford’s V-8–powered Fox-body Mustangs. And then there were the white-painted hatchbacks and fully realized performance cars spilling out of Europe like the Lamborghini Countach, Ferrari Testarossa, and Volkswagen GTI.

If the automobiles of the decade weren't universally great, they were at least often interesting, as the industry discovered how to make emissions-friendly power, experimented heavily with turbocharging, and began serious work on the all-wheel-drive systems we take for granted today. If the sad-sack 1970s marked the end of the postwar performance boom, the '80s signaled a fresh wave of original thinking. So, cue up some New Wave, crack open a Bartles & Jaymes, and scroll through this gathering of 1980s metal, compiled by the Car and Driver editorial staff and hashed out via cage matches held in our office garage.

The first-generation Integra isn't the most celebrated to wear the badge—that would be the 1994–2001 cars, which include the only Type R to be sold in the States—but that doesn't diminish its coolness. Landing on our 10Best Cars lists for 1987 and 1988, the original 'Teg offered tons of fun in affordable three- and five-door packages, with the MSRPs of the earliest cars sliding in under $10,000. (The 1987 base price of $9859 converts to less than $21K today.) The standard 16-valve 1.6-liter four-cylinder—a rarity for its time—was a pure joy, offering plenty of performance despite spinning out a maximum of 118 horsepower. A curb weight below 2500 pounds certainly helped.

And then there's the clean, righteously '80s styling, which evokes memories of Trapper Keepers, The Search for Animal Chin, and pegged pants—and still looks great today. That's no easy feat. Another reason the Integra was so cool is that it was among the first cars to establish Honda as a legitimate purveyor of performance, coming online when Big H was starting to kick out tasty jams like the Prelude Si, Civic Si, and CRX Si. Moreover, the Integra was in the first wave of front-wheel-drive sporty coupes that would become the go-to machines for an entire generation of enthusiasts. —Erik Johnson

If you're a fan of today's Subaru Outback, be careful handing it credit for the legion of cladded, all-wheel-drive station wagons flooding the market, from Buick's Regal TourX to Audi's Allroad and more. That's because those cars supposedly inspired by the Subaru are all—Outback included—derived, in format, at least, from the AMC Eagle. Initially introduced as a wagon, the Eagle 4x4 later spawned sedan and coupe variants, all of which sat on lifted suspensions and could be had with wood-grain siding. These odd, ugly things were built in Kenosha, Wisconsin, and looked it.—Alexander Stoklosa

In the '80s, Aufrecht Melcher Großaspach had not yet taken its place as Daimler's version of BMW's M division. Instead, AMG was an independent tuning and accessories shop that had established a reputation in the 1970s with its race-prepped 300SEL 6.3. The 6.3 itself, as envisioned by Mercedes, was a riff on John DeLorean's brief for the Pontiac GTO: Take a large-car engine (in this case, the overhead-cam monster built to motivate the massive 600 series beloved by dictators and other potentates) and drop it into a smaller automobile.

AMG repeated the formula with the Hammer, taking the 300E, a mild-mannered luxury sedan on the Mercedes W124 E-class platform, yanked out the fine straight-six, and plonked in a 5.5-liter V-8 engine from the S-class. But AMG didn't stop there, swapping the SOHC heads for a pair of twin-cam units they'd cobbled together themselves and gaining 60 horsepower in the process, for a total of 355. As we pointed out in 1986, "That's 125 more than America's hoo-boy Corvette." We then proceeded to hit 178 mph in it.

Deciding that wasn't enough, AMG punched out the engine to 6.0 liters, with AMG claiming 365 horsepower in smog-choked U.S. trim. The firm also said that a Euro-spec car could hit 187 mph. If you were 11 years old in 1987, a monochrome Benz sedan that went almost 190 was about as mind-bending as receiving a classroom valentine from Kathy Ireland. Sure, your Charger Hellcat has Mercedes underpinnings and does 200 mph—and it still costs half of what a Hammer would run you in 1986, as the as-tested price of the car we drove was $137,000. While the Hellcat is surely the stuff of today's teenage dreams, for those of us hovering around 40, well, it's not a damn Hammer. —Davey G. Johnson

A blocky, blister-fendered hatchback in its most basic iteration—and a winged, widened 591-hp rally sled in its most extreme S1 form—the Audi Quattro proved that world-beating performance needn't be packaged in something flat enough to drive under a semi. Nor, for that matter, did it require eight- or 12-cylinder power. Just five turbocharged cylinders mated to an all-wheel-drive system that gave the car its name proved good enough to make it a dominant force on the early 1980s World Rally scene in the deft hands of greats such as Michèle Mouton, Stig Blomqvist, Hannu Mikkola, and Walter Röhrl.

The Quattro is a rare beast, though one that was sold in the U.S. only from 1983 until 1985 and in very low numbers (less than 700 total). Sadly, we didn't get the wild variants sold in other countries for the purposes of racing homologation; with just 160 horsepower and cushy leather seats, most U.S. cars were positively neutered compared to their Euro counterparts. But the fact remains that the technologically advanced, contrarian-thinking Quattro gave Audi its swagger in the 1980s, and as such, this is the godfather of the cars that give Audi its swagger today. —Steve Siler

Like many great, rare, and collectible cars, the first BMW M3 exists because of racing. In the 1980s, the FIA required Group A race cars to have a street-legal counterpart. According to the rules, BMW had to build 5000 M3s in a 12-month period to qualify for racing. The M3 debuted at the Frankfurt auto show in 1985, BMW built the cars, and the M3 became a European Touring Car champion.

Radically different from the regular E30 3-series of the day, the M3 came with its own flared fenders, body kit, and large rear spoiler. The windshield and rear window were flush mounted, and the rear window was installed at a more rakish angle. The drag coefficient fell from a claimed 0.37 to 0.33.

To power the M3, BMW's Motorsport group selected a naturally aspirated version of BMW's turbocharged Grand Prix engine. Dubbed the S14, the four was a technically advanced engine in 1988. The 2.3-liter sported four valves per cylinder, dual overhead cams, and a throttle for each cylinder. The U.S. version made 192 horsepower at 6750 rpm and 170 lb-ft of torque at 4750. That same year, the 2.5-liter inline-six in the 325i made 168 horsepower. In 1988, no other naturally aspirated piston engine for sale in the U.S. made more horsepower per liter.

The M3's acceleration isn't quick by today's standards. In our November 1988 test, the M3 took 6.9 seconds to hit 60 mph with the quarter-mile passing in 15.2 seconds at 92 mph. Here's food for thought: BMW's electric i3 is quicker to 60 (6.5 seconds) and hits the quarter in 15.3 seconds at 86 mph.

Concentrating on the drag strip ignores the greatness of the M3 experience, though. New springs dropped the suspension an inch and beefed up anti-roll bars kept body motions in check. BMW chose Pirelli P600 tires for the M3, but we're not sure why the automaker went with that tire when Pirelli had the much grippier P700 available in 1988. So blame the tires for the lackluster 0.81 g of skidpad grip and the 179-foot stops from 70 mph. But that once again proves that this isn't a numbers car—it's the M3's playfulness and willingness at the limit, as well as its visceral control feel, that make it so desirable to this day. While not considered light in 1988, the 2857-pound curb weight seems positively svelte today for a four-seat coupe.

Here we are 27 years later, and the first M3's steering is still a revelation. This car is a total experience. More powerful and radical versions were eventually built, but the U.S. wouldn't get them. From 1988 until 1991, America received 5115 2.3-liter-powered M3s. In 1988, the M3 cost $34,810, the equivalent of $70,220, or about what a new M3 costs today. —Tony Quiroga

Question: What do you call a neon-hued, poodle-haired, pabulum-spewing, horsepower-indifferent monster in your closet? The answer: 1987. OK, that's a little harsh. Wrestling pants aside, there were some bright spots that year: The Simpsons first poked their faces into the nation's living rooms as a series of shorts on The Tracey Ullman Show, Taco Bell began its $0.49 "Taco Sunday" promotion, and Buick dropped the GNX on an otherwise unsuspecting public.

Buick's Grand National was a surprise hit when it debuted in 1982, and after taking 1983 off, it returned the following year packing fuel injection and an intercooler, continuing its reign of V-6–powered terror. But with the clock ticking on the entire rear-wheel-drive Regal lineup, Buick figured an even higher-performance version of the GN would be a fitting tribute for its 1987-model-year swan song. Enter the Buick Regal Grand National GNX. With production initially capped at 500 units (547 examples ultimately were built), the formula for creating the GNX was reportedly hatched at the 1985 Indianapolis 500 during a bull session between Buick and McLaren.

While in the able hands of McLaren Performance Technologies (founded by Bruce McLaren but since completely severed from the British concern), which was then owned by Michigan-based American Sunroof Corporation, the heads for the Buick 3.8-liter V-6 were ported, the engine mapping reworked, a different Garrett AiResearch turbo fitted, and the automatic transmission beefed up for GNX duty. Available only in black, GNXs sported fender flares and 16-inch wheels; the interiors received a numbered dash plaque and a full complement of Stewart-Warner gauges. Already potent in Grand National trim—by 1980s standards anyway—the GNX was officially rated at 276 horsepower and 360 lb-ft of torque, although most independent sources quoted output closer to 300 horsepower.

At the track, C/D extracted a 4.7-second zero-to-60-mph time from the GNX, proving that while the Grand National was menacing, the GNX was absolutely sinister. The privilege of wielding that power didn't come cheap, however, the GNX commanding an $11,000 premium over the base price of a Grand National. Price, performance, and evil aesthetics aside, the GNX ultimately stood for something that was in seriously short supply in 1987: a domestic car brand kicking ass simply because it could. —Andrew Wendler

The third-generation Chevrolet Camaro is a wheeled embodiment of the 1980s, the angular styling the perfect complement to that red-leather Michael Jackson jacket in the closet, the removable T-tops ideal for blow-drying that 'do on the go. But while lesser Camaros of the period fail to inspire the same sentimentality as do Fox-body Mustangs, the IROC-Z carved out a rabid following that carries forward to today.

The high-output Camaro came with the Corvette's 5.7-liter V-8 (slightly detuned to 220 horsepower) and was introduced with the goal of knocking Ford's pony car off its pedestal. While that didn't exactly happen, with the Camaro IROC-Z losing its first Car and Driver comparison test against the Mustang 5.0, this Chevy still has a permanent place in our '80s-lovin' hearts. —Alexander Stoklosa

Not just any 280ZX could make this list. The 10th Anniversary Edition that was released in 1980 does. Nicknamed "Black Gold" because of its color scheme inside and out, this special edition was completely over the top. Only 3000 were built, and all were so lavishly appointed that there were virtually no options. Of course, the real reason you're reading about the Black Gold ZX here is, well, because of the absolutely spectacular ad that Datsun ran to promote it. It's all bright gold lights and smoke machines, big hair and mustaches, an earworm of a theme song, and sexually suggestive imagery. —Daniel Golson

The DeLorean DMC-12's notoriety doesn't spring from the same well as that of most iconic cars. Instead, it's a kitschy novelty, best known for its improbable role in a lovable but extremely cornball movie series. But there's a brushed-stainless-silver lining to that cloud, because if it weren't for Back to the Future, the wider populace would have certainly forgotten the DeLorean (and its bizarre history) entirely by now.

After all, how many failed upstart sports-car marques can the average grade-schooler name today? The closest comparison, the similarly gullwinged and ill-fated Bricklin SV-1, is about as well known as the name of the Rolling Stones' touring bassist. The BTTF bump came roughly three years too late to help John Z. DeLorean save his pet project—or his image, tarnished by drug-running accusations that were thrown out by a federal court but never forgotten in the court of public opinion. With better financing and a punchier drivetrain, could the DMC-12 have been a sports-car success? Only Doc and Marty are equipped to find out. —Robert Sorokanich

The Dodge Omni was not a cool car. A far cry from Mopar's Hemi-powered behemoths that ruled a decade before its 1978 debut, the Omni (and its Plymouth Horizon twin) was Chrysler's first domestic-built subcompact. It was designed mostly in Europe, its hatchback body and front-wheel-drive layout mimicking those of the Volkswagen Golf, which even supplied powertrains for many early Omnis. Texas, however, supplied the man who spearheaded the transformation of the Omni into the coolest car that Chrysler produced in the 1980s. That man was Carroll Shelby, and to his dying day he adored the Omnis (and the Omni-based two-door Chargers) that marked his famous firm's return to creating factory-backed hot rods.

Shelby-ized Omnis wore the GLH suffix, which gutsily—and accurately—stood for "Goes Like Hell." The hottest, torque-steeringest Omnis came directly from Shelby's facilities in 1986 wearing a GLHS badge ("Goes Like Hell Some-more"). Fitted with a 175-hp 2.2-liter turbocharged four-cylinder, they were ready to smoke hot-hatch versions of the Volkswagen Golf and many other contemporary performance cars. The first new car that I remember in my family's driveway was a 1985 Omni. The carburetor from a naturally aspirated Omni GLH soon found its way onto that car, as did a GLH-spec black grille and Bosch fog lights. Guess what I'm searching for on eBay right now . . . —Rusty Blackwell

Some might argue that the 288GTO should be on this list. After all, the F40 is fundamentally an evoluzione of the 288GTO Evoluzione. But the 288 looked like a 308, and the Evo, well, the Evo was ugly. Conversely, when the F40 dropped as the final project Il Commendatore signed off on before he passed on to the big Alfa racing garage in the sky, it melted faces. It resembled no Ferrari that had come before, and really, no Ferrari that has arrived since. In the interest of lightness, its paint was so thin that you could see the texture of the Kevlar weave beneath. And it had that radical louvered Plexiglas rear window over the engine.

It also was fundamentally the last "conventional" super Ferrari, if a super Ferrari can be conventional. The F50 threw all sorts of Formula 1–derived wackiness at the concept. The Enzo followed a similar line of thinking. The LaFerrari is a hybrid. The F40, on the other hand, was a steel-tube chassis with a lightweight body draped over it. A twin-turbocharged 2.9-liter V-8 cranking out 478 horsepower spun and whooshed behind the driver's head. In our testing, it ran 122 mph through the quarter-mile. The last Z06 we tested went 126 in the same distance. That is a testament to the Corvette's goodness. That it takes a 650-hp Corvette with a 30-year technological advantage to outrun the Ferrari is a testament to how absolutely astounding the F40 was—and still is. —Davey G. Johnson

Long derided in collector-car circles for its “cheese-grater" side strakes and general aura of '80s cheesiness, the Ferrari Testarossa is undeniably as much a product of its era as Ronald Reagan, Donkey Kong, and Michael Jackson's Thriller. But while cheesiness fades—particularly as the popular view of the 1980s inevitably morphs from contempt to nostalgia—the awesomeness of a mid-mounted flat-12 needs no such transformation. With a then-astronomical 380 horsepower on tap, it was good for nearly 180 mph, making the Testarossa the fastest car you could buy in 1986 (its debut year in the U.S.). We enjoyed testing it in '86.

While the 4.9-liter 12-cylinder, connected to the classic chromed gated shifter, gave it suitably supercar performance, the wild styling—particularly compared to the fairly tame 512BB predecessor—reflected the new, freewheeling Greed Decade. Those side strakes accentuated the impossibly wide rear fenders, which combined with the outstretched side mirror and the too-cool center-lock wheels to earn the Testarossa a place on countless teenage boys' bedroom walls, where its image seared into their brains. The Testarossa was the subject of exotic-car lust back then, and it's still a worthy lust object today. —Joe Lorio

They were hard to spot, looking much like all the other Fox-platform Mustangs that Ford had been building since 1978. But then you'd see a giveaway: the red gumball on the roof or the two-tone paint. The roads were full of Mustangs in the late 1980s, but if you came of age in that era, none were more feared than the Ford Mustang Special Service Package. Today, no '80s Mustang is cooler or more rare than this unlikely cop car.

In 1987, the Mustang got its second refresh, a Taurus-inspired aero look that marked the third generation's aesthetic high point. Hatchbacks, "notchback" coupes, and convertibles all were available. Most police vehicles were the coupes, beefed up for cop duty and deployed in highway patrols where their tiny back seats were not likely to be used. The Mustang "5.0" engine—actually a 4.9-liter V-8, the one and same 302-cubic-inch mill that had powered Mustangs since the 1960s—got fuel injection for the first time in 1984, and new cylinder heads in 1987 allowed it to make 225 horsepower and 300 lb-ft of torque.

When we tested a 1987 Mustang GT, it did zero to 60 mph in just 6.3 seconds and ran the quarter in 14.7 seconds. Top speed was a blistering 137 mph. So of course a Mustang was the perfect weapon to run down unlucky motorists stung by a speed trap. And with a 55-mph national limit at the time, scofflaws were abundant. —Jeff Sabatini

Perhaps no other car more fully exemplifies Honda's excellence in building fun, high-quality, and affordable transportation during the 1980s than the CRX. The small, two-seat coupe could, depending on its specification, be the perfect highly efficient commuter car or one of the decade's best affordable sports cars, but every single one included tight build quality, a fun chassis, and a masterstroke of an engine.

Of course, our pick of the litter is the sporty CRX Si, which introduced fuel injection to the CRX lineup in 1985, bringing with it a thrilling (yes, for real) 91 horsepower to propel less than 1900 pounds. —Alexander Stoklosa

Introduced for the 1984 model year, the Cherokee was a revelation: a rugged, solid-axle off-roader that was nonetheless refined enough to serve as a family hauler. Its tidy dimensions, lightweight unibody construction, and handsomely upright styling (credited to Richard Teague) were beloved by buyers who wanted 4x4 capability without the compromises inherent to big, heavy, truck-based brutes. The Cherokee's intended replacement, the Jeep Grand Cherokee, arrived in 1993, but the hot-selling XJ soldiered on until 2001, undergoing only one mild facelift in 1997 that left all the underlying sheetmetal entirely unchanged.

In that time, it became the everycar: a suburban family hauler, a right-size work vehicle, an off-roader's plaything, even a right-hand-drive mail truck for rural post offices. The family-friendly SUV market may have advanced far and fast beyond the original "XJ" Cherokee, but for 17 years it defined the genre, a reign whose length and breadth we'll likely never see again. —Robert Sorokanich

Any car-loving child of the '80s either owned, or had a friend who owned, a Countach poster on the wall. Why? Because the car epitomized cool. Its doors opened like no other vehicle's on the planet. In fact, this Lambo's true scissor door—which swings up on one plane, in contrast to the more common dihedral door that also swings out—was so iconic that only the Bugatti EB110 and Vector W8 dared to imitate it. Power from the V-12 engine, which ranged from a 370-hp 3.9-liter in 1978 to a 445-hp 5.2-liter in the mid-'80s, was always routed through a five-speed manual. It was a beast.

The later 5000QV models (for quattrovalvole, or "four valve") were adorned with flared fenders and all manner of wings, splitters, and vents, setting the extroverted tone for which we know Lamborghini today, but we always find ourselves drawn to the simpler, earlier models. No matter which Countach you covet, though, it's not hard to see why the model is starting to turn into a serious investment-grade collector car. It's just so cool. —K.C. Colwell

Long before Ford's spicy Focus RS or Subaru's iconic WRX came into the picture, Mazda neatly filled the small, rally-bred, all-wheel-drive hatchback niche with its spunky 323 GTX. Wearing its numerical badge for U.S. sale, the GTX was a member of Mazda's long-running Familia line of small cars but was hotted up with a DOHC 16-valve turbo four that made 132 horsepower and fed all four wheels through a lockable center diff. The only real telltales that it was something more than a typical runabout were discreet badges and easily removable stickers affixed to the rear fenders—oh, and the pair of spoilers on the hatch.

A five-speed manual and four-wheel disc brakes were standard, as were a zero-to-60-mph time of 8.7 seconds and a top speed just shy of 120 mph. For maximum '80s-ness, the GTX also offered an optional digital dash with an amazing—and amazingly large—turbocharger speed gauge. —Alexander Stoklosa

In a lot of ways, the second-generation Mazda RX-7 was a Porsche 924 for folks who didn't want to spend Porsche money. That wasn't an accident. The team that designed the 1986–1991 RX-7 looked to the 924 and its big brother 944 for inspiration in both styling and dynamics. When Mazda slapped a turbo on the RX-7 for 1987, it turned a knockoff into a knockout and earned a spot on our 10Best list that year.

Where the spindly, first-generation RX-7 was rudimentary, the Turbo was serious: a complex rear suspension with passive steering, a twin-scroll turbo with an asymmetrical hood scoop feeding an air-to-air intercooler, round yet angular European styling, and 182 horses made the Mazda both a convincing grand tourer and a highly capable sports car. Looking back, we can recognize the second-gen RX-7 as the logical stepping-stone that led to the world-beating twin-turbo monster that Mazda brought out in 1992. But on its own, the high-tech, scintillating, and stylish RX-7 Turbo of the late '80s embodied the best attributes of the era's Japanese sports cars. —Robert Sorokanich

Mercedes didn't officially sell its G-wagen in the United States until 2002, but gray-market importers kinda-sorta-legally started bringing them across the pond two decades prior. In the '80s, the G-wagen wasn't yet the status symbol it is today; based on a late-'70s military truck, the Benz was fairly stripped down, which is what gave the original its appeal. In America, the truck quickly gained a cult following in certain markets, including New England and California. Of course, as soon as Americans fell in love, the G's price shot up. Today, the official models sold by Mercedes are six-figure glamour-mobiles. —Daniel Golson

Of all the European and British Ford models federalized for sale in the U.S. over the years, the Merkur XR4Ti was arguably the most misunderstood. Named to our 10Best list in its inaugural year of 1985, the Merkur XR4Ti's arrival party was a bona fide celebration. By the time production models began to fill showrooms, magazines and enthusiasts were boldly asserting that Ford had finally managed to capture some Euro-bred swagger that would appeal to the emerging yuppie demographic that was defecting en masse from domestic vehicles to sports sedans by BMW and Audi.

Based on the hopped-up XR4i version of the European Ford Sierra hatchback, the XR4Ti seemed to have all the right bits: rear-wheel drive, a fully independent suspension, a 2.3-liter turbocharged four, and a five-speed manual transmission. In addition to its mechanical attributes, it made a polarizing visual statement, wearing its biplane rear spoiler and two-tone finish like the rorty rally cars of Ford's European RS division. C/D came away impressed, declaring that after completing “several thousand miles in a half-dozen Merkurs, including three of the original V-6 German versions . . . we're proud, pleased, and perfectly amazed to be able to point out that the American version is the better car."

Unfortunately, the XR4Ti—the "T" is for turbo and the "i" for injected, exotic stuff in 1985 America—started encountering troubles early on. GMC was marketing trucks under the “Sierra" name, predicating the clunky XR4Ti moniker, and Ford had to fit a reported 850 additional parts to certify it for sale in the U.S., driving up costs. And Ford brass figured an exotic-sounding European brand name was needed to catch the attention of the upwardly mobile types. So they came up with Merkur (pronounced “Mare-koor"), which translates to “Mercury" in German. Clever. Sadly, the public at large never warmed to the XR4Ti, even after Ford reeled in its bravado by clipping its rear wing and offering a monochromatic exterior finish. Unlike the Ford Capri, a spiritual predecessor of sorts that was sold as a Mercury in the U.S. from 1971 to 1977, the XR4Ti never fully assimilated into life in the U.S., and the entire Merkur brand, consisting just of the XR4Ti and its Scorpio sedan big brother, was dissolved at the end of the 1989 model year. —Andrew Wendler

In the 1970s, if anybody considered Mitsubishi at all, they thought of the company as the concern that built the A6M Zero, the lightweight naval fighter that wreaked havoc on our planes during the early part of the war in the Pacific. The company had been building captive imports for Chrysler but wanted to begin plying its own trade in America. Mitsubishi's three-pronged attack consisted of the Tredia, the Cordia, and the Starion. And while the first two have fallen into obscurity, the Starion has found a life as a cult gem.

While other countries received the car with Mitsubishi's legendary 4G63, our version was available only with the 2.6-liter Astron engine, a large-displacement four-banger with a turbo strapped to it. Porsche licensed Mitsubishi's "Silent Shaft" balance-shaft tech for its own big four, used in the 944 and the 968. Upon inspection, the styling seems influenced by the Renault Alpine A310, which was no bad thing. It featured the de rigueur pop-up headlamps of the era, and later ESi-R variants bulked up with some beefy fender flares. The company attempted to homologate the Starion for Group B rallying, and although the FIA approved it for competition, the series went away before the car had its shot at glory.

Chrysler got its pound of flesh, too, selling the Starion as the Conquest under Chrysler, Dodge, and Plymouth banners at various times. Having run for the majority of the 1980s, the mighty Starion was ultimately replaced by the fiendishly complicated 3000GT, a '90s-innovative machine that nevertheless was not quite as endearing as the angular, can-do Starion of the laser age. And the 3000GT wasn't available with beautiful, "TURBO"-emblazoned seatbelts. —Davey G. Johnson

Few cars capture the oddball ingenuity budding in 1980s-era Japanese cars like the 1987 Pulsar NX, a front-wheel-drive compact car with a reconfigurable, um, butt. Sure, the pop-up headlights, slotted taillight covers, and hard-edged styling all scream " '80s!' But wait until you get to the tail, which in standard form sports a notched hatchback. Owners could remove the standard T-top roof panels and, voilà, have a convertible hatchback. Or they could remove the hatch altogether, rendering the Pulsar NX a sort-of pickup truck. Nissan also sold as an accessory a nifty cap for the rear that turned the Pulsar into a mini shooting-brake-type thing.—Alexander Stoklosa

If Porsche's 944 Turbo doesn't have the otherworldly appeal of the German firm's 959 supercar or the nonchalant cool of Hank Moody's 964 Cabriolet, it's still damn special. Porsche fitted all three of its front-engined cars of this era—944, 928, 924—with a transaxle for better weight distribution and handling, a practice adopted a decade later by the Chevrolet Corvette.

For gearheads, that layout was cool enough, but starting in 1985 Porsche offered 944 buyers the option of a turbocharged version of the 2.5-liter inline-four, which was essentially half of a 928's 5.0-liter V-8. It made 217 horsepower in base form, rising to 247 in Turbo S guise in 1988. The latter model's KKK turbo huffed with 11.7 psi of boost, enabling mid-five-second sprints to 60 mph and quarter-mile elapsed times in the 13s. We summed up the car in our June 1988 test thusly: "You'll have a hard time finding a GT machine as easy to drive fast and as easy to live with as a 944 Turbo S." That's all the cool we'll ever need. —K.C. Colwell

The coolest part of the single coolest car of the 1980s, the Porsche 959, was not its sequential turbos or its handful of Kevlar-reinforced body panels or its adjustable ride height or its six-speed manual (six speeds!) or its programmable four-wheel-drive system or its then-stratospheric 444 horsepower or even its ability to perform miracles on demand at the test track. The coolest thing about the 959 was that it proved to a generation of budding car nuts that intelligence could overcome brute force, that clever technology could win in the end. It was the thinking man's supercar. All the spoils needn't go to the suave and those with great hair. Is it any wonder that Bill Gates owned one?

Although none of the 300-ish cars built ever made it officially to the United States when new—some examples were brought here via gray-market import—the shock waves its introduction caused were felt around the automotive world. The 959 was the bellwether for all the computer-controlled techo-wizardry we now take for granted. —Daniel Pund

The first turbocharged Saab 900 appeared in 1978, but it took until 1982 for its engine to receive electronic boost control and 1985 for an intercooler and eight valves instead of four to realize its full potential. The '85 900 Turbo's sweet body kit didn't hurt, either. Thanks to the intercooler, new head, and other tweaks, the Turbo's 2.0-liter four-cylinder produced a healthy 160 horsepower and 188 lb-ft of torque, enough to yank the front-wheel-drive 900 to 60 mph in 8.5 seconds in our testing. —Alexander Stoklosa

One look at the Subaru XT should be all that's necessary to prove it deserves a spot on this list. The futuristic wedge design and chamfered surfaces makes the XT unlike any car that came before or after it, and yet perfectly '80s. The thin taillights, flush door handles, and wraparound rear glass further amp up the Blade Runner look. Subaru ensured the interior was equally wild by way of a two-spoke steering wheel and a gauge cluster pod that moved with it; a digital dash was of course optional. The uplevel engine was a turbocharged flat four that could be mated to an all-wheel-drive system and a manual transmission (standard models used a flat-six), and the XT even could be had with fancy features like adjustable air suspension. —Daniel Golson

The Toyota Celica Supra first appeared for 1979, but it was the A60 model, built between 1981 and 1986, that really staked the Supra's place in automotive history. Indeed, the A60 Supra landed on our first ever 10Best list in 1983 and again in 1984, and while significant changes were made each year that the A60 was built, common to all were flip-up headlights, flared fenders, and a rear window so flat that Toyota offered an external louvered window shade to keep rear occupants' heads from frying in the sun. The A60 also became known for front seats so sweet that it became a hot commodity not only for drivers but for car thieves as well.

Unlike Supras that followed—and certainly any that shall appear in the future—the A60 was not terribly fast. Its 2.8-liter inline-six had roots stretching back to the engine in the Toyota 2000GT, but no A60 mill corralled more than 178 ponies. What made the A60 Supra such a delight was not power but rather finesse and a pure driving pleasure evocative of rear-drive GT cars built decades before. And now that decades have passed since the A60 was built, we find ourselves pining for those very qualities once again. —Steve Siler

The Toyota MR2 went on sale in 1985, a year after the Pontiac Fiero. On paper, the two appear to have a lot in common. They both had a mid-mounted four-cylinder engine, two seats, and an affordable price. But the MR2 was a joy from the outset. Development would improve the Fiero, but the MR2 came out of the box great.

A 10Best winner in 1986 and '87, the first MR2 garnered the same sort of accolades that now come to the Mazda Miata. It was light at 2396 pounds, had unassisted steering that begged to dance, and it sported a flick-flick five-speed manual. Even with all that, much of the MR2's magic derived from the 4A-GE 1.6-liter four-cylinder engine, which was a joy to rev all the way to 7500 rpm. The bottom end was far from exotic and could've come from a regular Corolla; what made the 4A-GE special was the Yamaha-designed 16-valve head. Early versions made 112 horsepower at 6600 rpm, and in our hands the MR2 scooted to 60 in 8.1 seconds, quick for its day. Years later, the engine would power Formula Atlantic cars.

Tiny on the outside but surprisingly spacious inside, the MR2 had spindly A-pillars and a plunging cowl that gave an IMAX-like view of the road, which seemed mere inches away. This heightened the sensation of speed despite the meager power output.

For 1988, though, Toyota added a Roots-type supercharger with an air-to-air intercooler and changed the engine name to 4A-GZE. Pumping 10.7 psi, the 1.6-liter's power rose to 145 horsepower and 140 lb-ft of torque. Weight went up to 2604 pounds thanks to the supercharger hardware and T-tops. Acceleration to 60 improved to 6.5 seconds and top speed rose to 130 mph. Toyota recommended premium fuel, but a fuel-selector switch allowed the driver to manually change to a less aggressive tune when burning regular unleaded. Regular-unleaded mode added a half second to the Supercharged's 15.0-second quarter-mile time. Adding power added some speed to the MR2, but Toyota also made chassis changes that drew ire from the C/D crew. Unlike the case with the Fiero, ongoing development didn't make the MR2 any sweeter or any more fun. —Tony Quiroga

While the rest of the world basked in the original Golf GTI's glow, the U.S. was given a version based on the unloved Rabbit that was built in Westmoreland, Pennsylvania. In spite of the general terribleness emitted by that factory and the mandatory U.S.-market emissions equipment that sapped horsepower relative to the Euro model, the Rabbit GTI was fun to drive and set the table for a long history of GTI models. And is there anything more '80s than a white-painted hatchback?—Alexander Stoklosa

Volvo's formula for the 740 Turbo was simple: To its upper-end, rear-drive sedan and wagon, the Swedish automaker slapped on a turbocharger and some alloy wheels. It sounds dumb now, but the results were legitimate sleepers (particularly the boxy wagon) with 160(!) horsepower. Volvo pushed this idea—hard—in iconic print ads that pitted the Turbo wagon against period performance cars like the Lotus Esprit and the Porsche 944. The most ambitious placed a 740 Turbo wagon next to a Lamborghini Countach that's pulling a trailer and read: "The basic idea behind the Volvo Turbo wagon." We really can't think of anything cooler than a juicebox-shaped, three-row station wagon with a drag-racing itch. —Daniel Golson