Probably doesn't even leak oil.
Have always liked Satch Carlson's writings. His views on what the 240Z did to the sports car world were so, so correct....anyone could own one. The Miata has just taken it another step:
"If the Datsun roadsters were rather unsung and unnoticed, however, the Datsun 240Z made up for their neglect. The 240Z made a huge splash in the sports-car market because it was quite affordable, at just over $4,000 in the early '70s. In addition, its 2.4-liter engine made it the class dodgeball bully. More important, the 240Z kicked open the door to the Men's Club. Until our streets, highways, and race tracks became crowded with ubiquitous Z cars, the sports-car clique was composed almost entirely of men, guys with grease under their fingernails, scars on their knuckles, and the skills of MacGyver. We were the ones--yes, I count myself among this noble band--who never set out in a sports car without an adequate supply of tools and spares, because we knew that no matter how short the journey, there would invariably arise a situation: For one of a dozen reasons, the car would stop, and we would have to work some sort of magic in order to get it home again. Moreover, we were quite proud of these rituals, as they confirmed our elite status as tinkers. These mechanical adventures were not restricted to sports cars, but perhaps they are invariably linked in memory because so many sports cars were British, and all the stereotypes were sadly true. That's what made the 240Z such a game-changer: It didn't leak oil in your driveway. It started when you turned the key. The wiring didn't disintegrate overnight, and the fuses didn't blow themselves for no reason. You just got in the car in the morning, started it up, and it took you wherever you wanted to go, and brought you home again. No wonder the 240Z became known as the secretary's car. The implications of that phrase are not really a sexist sneer--
it takes a real man to drive a sports car--but rather an acknowledgment that now the world of sports cars was open to everybody. Anybody--secretary, school teacher, Indian chief--could now include a sports car as an adjunct to a real life; in previous years, the sports-car owner had to devote a considerable amount of time, money, and effort just to maintain that glamorous lifestyle. (Actually, it was only glamorous in our wistful hopes; there's nothing particularly glamorous in whacking on an SU fuel pump with a roadside rock in hopes of knocking its fried contacts apart. The glamour thing had to do with driving the car, which constituted about ten percent of the relationship.) Perhaps more important, somebody with, you know, a real job could now get to and from work with no drama, arriving on time with clean hands. It always amazed me that the 240Z seemed so absolutely bulletproof, because its principles were exactly the same as other sports cars', yet other sports cars--and not just British sports cars, either--were still known for various temperamental idiosyncrasies. Four-banger Porsches were known for their leaky carburetors, while my Saab Sonett went through points like a fat kid eating caramel corn. In those days, a nail file was a vital instrument in my daily-driving tool kit, along with a book of matches. The nail file was for smoothing burnt, pitted points, and the cardboard matchbook cover was just about the perfect thickness for setting the point gap. If some of us diehards nursed a certain resentment that now the sports-car world was open to anybody, mechanically inclined or not, male or female, rich or poor, we might have at least taken comfort in the notion that the 240Z was not exactly a hard-core, meat-eating pur sang machine, but before the words "secretary's car!" could be shouted aloud, along came Bob Sharp on the East Coast and Peter Brock on the other end of the country to crank out 240Z race cars that pretty much dominated the C Production class on every race track in the country."