The tarmac at Salinas Airport shimmered, reflecting the heat of the Monterey Peninsula sun. Parked private jets, silent witnesses to Car Week’s extravagance, lined the periphery. As I settled into the cockpit, a familiar sensation washed over me, a potent cocktail of nostalgia and anticipation. It wasn’t just the evocative aroma of aged leather, warm oil, and that distinct, almost tactile scent of classic car interiors. Nor was it solely the sight of the Becker cassette player, its silver faceplate a vertical monolith in the center console. And it wasn’t even the feel of the substantial, ribbed steering wheel, its diameter echoing celestial rings.
It was something deeper: the profound sense of stepping outside of time, of inhabiting a fluid present that blurred past and future.
Nearly a decade prior, coinciding with the launch of The Drive, I had the extraordinary privilege – as one of the site’s founding contributors – to experience and write about the V8-powered Mercedes-benz C111 concept car at Pebble Beach. That drive was a seminal moment, a surreal dance with temporal mechanics, piloting a concept conceived in my birth year, a vision of a future that, in reality, never quite materialized. Now, I found myself back in the same rarefied air, behind the wheel of another iteration of that iconic, tawny spaceship, accelerating not just forward, but also backward through my own timeline.
The Mercedes-Benz C111, a project limited to a mere dozen examples, was born as a design exploration, a pioneering embodiment of the “wedge” aesthetic that would dominate concept car design and supercar silhouettes for years to come. Its form, simultaneously sharp and fluid, was sculpted to manipulate airflow, extracting maximum performance and refined handling through cutting-edge aerodynamics.
However, the C111’s significance extended beyond aesthetics. It served as a dynamic laboratory for the Wankel engine, a rotary combustion marvel conceived in the 1930s. This engine, shrouded in an aura of almost mystical power, promised enhanced output, improved efficiency, and reduced weight – a tantalizing proposition as the automotive industry braced for tightening regulations on fuel consumption and emissions. The initial C111 debuted with a potent 275-horsepower three-rotor, direct fuel-injected Wankel engine. The following year, driven by the ambition to breach the 186 mph (300 km/h) barrier, a four-rotor variant, unleashing 350 hp, was unveiled. This was the very machine I was about to pilot.
“This car’s entire design philosophy revolved around the Wankel engine,” a Mercedes-Benz Classic Center technician explained before handing over the keys. “To truly understand the C111 experience, especially the definitive four-rotor version, you need to experience it with this engine.”
It’s remarkable how deeply certain automobiles can embed themselves in one’s consciousness. Throughout my career, I’ve been fortunate to drive cars that, for a car-obsessed child growing up in 1970s Detroit, were the stuff of Hot Wheels fantasies, bedroom posters, dog-eared magazine features, and fleeting reveries. I’ve had the privilege of piloting icons like Gary Cooper’s Duesenberg SSJ, a majestic Mercedes-Benz 540K, a rare Facel Vega, and every generation of Lamborghini’s V12 lineage. Yet, the moment I lowered myself over the C111’s wide, vinyl-clad sill and maneuvered my legs into the snug pedal box, I was instantly transported back to that 2015 drive.
Memories flooded back: the unusual vista over the car’s dramatically arched fenders, the rearview mirror’s perspective framing the similarly sculpted rear haunches. The unique character of the dogleg ZF transmission, its first gear engaged via a push-button on the shifter knob. The weighty steering. The torrent of warm air emanating from the ventilation system.
However, what truly surprised me this time was the exquisite balance of the chassis and handling. The C111 composed itself with an unexpected ease and solidity, a harmonious integration of all its components. And then there was the power: the silken, almost liquid delivery of the Wankel’s 350 horsepower. While the car’s impending appearance on the prestigious Concours lawn precluded a full exploration of the upper rev ranges, the power delivery was nothing short of breathtaking. Its output rivaled that of contemporary Ferraris, yet the C111 boasted a significantly lighter structure, tipping the scales several hundred pounds less.
Nine years earlier, my experience with the V8-powered C111 had been largely confined to second gear, navigating the crowded 17-Mile Drive amidst a dazzling array of priceless classic automobiles. But here, on the expansive runway, I could finally unleash the car, experiencing its eagerness, its smooth power curve, and its insatiable appetite for speed. It also possesses, like all Wankel engines, a considerable thirst for oil and internal component longevity.
“The Wankel engine, unfortunately, couldn’t meet the stringent durability standards that Mercedes-Benz demands,” the technician confided. “Ultimately, this engine project was discontinued.”
Concept cars are, by their very nature, explorations of what might have been. The C111 was conceived as a mobile laboratory, a platform to rigorously test emerging technologies and innovative concepts. Beyond powertrains, it became the crucible for Mercedes-Benz’s early forays into polymer body panels, turbocharging, and anti-lock braking systems. It was never intended for mass production, not even as a niche model. Yet, public clamor was immense. Enthusiasts, captivated by its futuristic allure and performance potential, reportedly offered blank checks, imploring Mercedes-Benz to transform the C111 into an exotic road car. As I pressed the accelerator, the question lingered: what if the Wankel-powered C111, despite its inherent challenges, had defied expectations and become the supercar of its era?
“An engine-out service every 15,000 or 20,000 miles was almost routine for a Ferrari of that period,” I remarked to the technician. “Even by today’s standards, for a car pushing technological boundaries and delivering that level of performance, it wouldn’t have been entirely unexpected, or necessarily a deal-breaker.”
The technician nodded thoughtfully, then offered a slight shrug. “Mercedes-Benz,” he stated simply, “is not Ferrari.”
I have a deep appreciation for vehicles that seem to exist outside the conventional constraints of time, cars so radically different from their contemporaries that they appear almost to have materialized from another dimension. This pantheon includes outliers like the Citroën DS and the visionary Dymaxion car. It even encompasses Mercedes-Benz’s own iconic 300 SL Gullwing. I shared this sentiment with the technician as our drive concluded – the notion that Mercedes-Benz once dared to dream beyond its traditionally pragmatic approach, that it could have abandoned its famed Teutonic rationality to create a Wankel-powered supercar. And perhaps, I mused, it might one day recapture that spirit of audacious innovation. He nodded again, a hint of a smile playing on his lips, and then, with another characteristic shrug, remained silent, leaving the future of Mercedes-Benz dreams an open question.
