Men's Journal

Welcome to an alternate dimension populated by automotive peculiarities and mechanical oddities, where vehicles are powered by turbines and tank engines. This is Jay Leno’s world, and he’ll be your guide.

By Ezra Dyer, Car Photographs by Toshi Oku

Jay Leno peers at the maze of plumbing beneath the 1907 White steam car, produces a lighter and begins putting flame to a jet of gasoline spurting from one of the pipes. “You have to turn the gasoline into a vapor,” he says, as I reflexively back away, visions of a tragic pre-OSHA industrial boiler explosion leaping into my mind. Wondering how he ever perfected the procedure for starting a 1907 White — never mind the idiosyncrasies of all the other old machinery spread out over the property — I ask Leno how often he comes to his garage. “At least a couple of hours every day,” he says. “This is the only place I go.”

For good reason: Any gearhead worth his scraped knuckles would find Leno’s place to be the second coming of Eden. I had long heard tales of what’s stored inside, yet upon arrival I’m still awed by the scale of his obsession. “I have about 105 cars and about 85 motorcycles,” says Leno, his need to guesstimate hinting at the constant flux of the collection. Leno’s Big Dog Garage — and calling this edifice a garage is like calling the Vatican a honky-tonk holy house — is the centerpiece of his compound and is split between two industrial-park buildings that from the outside look like they should contain plumbing supplies. One is devoted to works in progress; the other houses those cars that are fettled and ready to drive.

Leno’s place isn’t just storage; it’s a top-flight restoration shop, a parts fabricator, a custom manufacturer designed to serve the purposes of the Leno One-Man Preservation Society. His garage is better appointed than anything short of the space shuttle’s hangar.

 

1964 Honda S600 SM

A gnat of a sports car akin to old MGs and Triumphs, the Honda was never actually imported to the U.S. — a few were brought over by soldiers, though Leno thinks his came in through Canada because the gauge markings are in English. “It was built with bad Japanese steel, so it tends to rust, but it’s a fantastic piece of engineering. It’s got roll-up windows, a heater and defroster — things that weren’t available on the British cars of the era. Opening the drivetrain is like looking inside a fine watch,” says Leno. “If this said Porsche on it instead of Honda, it’d be worth a million dollars.”

 

 

There’s a paint booth, body shop, CNC mill, water jet cutter, and two dynamometers. To obviate the need for takeout, a granite-laden gourmet kitchen is nestled into a corner.

On one side sits my personal favorite, the Dimension SST 1200es three-dimensional printer. It’s an unassuming cube about the size of a convenience store’s doughnut display case, with a windowed door on the front. Feed it a computer-generated blueprint and it spits out the real thing, rendered in plastic. The Dimension’s very existence makes me feel like one of those feral children you see on TLC, unable to comprehend the demonry involved in making a steering wheel magically appear out of nothing.

I meet Leno, who is clad in his usual denim work shirt and jeans and is surrounded by several mechanics who are busy wrenching on various projects. Were I not here, he would be doing the same.

Lots of wealthy men have impressive car collections, but I doubt either Ralph Lauren or the Sultan of Brunei would personally call a turbine company in Worcester, Massachusetts, and convince it to make a part that’s been out of production for 80 years, just for the sake of fixing a Doble steam car. Therein lies the key to understanding Leno’s automotive infatuation: He’s a car guy first — an engineer, a mechanic. The millions of dollars and celebrity status just make his hobby that much more fun.

He enabled the addiction early, taking a job at Foreign Motors mechanic shop in his hometown of Boston at 19. He showed up one day and acted as if he belonged by doing odd jobs — three days later the shop’s manager realized Leno wasn’t even on the payroll and hired him. Had he never left for California in 1972 seeking stardom, there’s no doubt that he would still be spending his weekends turning wrenches and swimming in 40-weight motor oil, just under less exotic metal. And so what he collects isn’t informed by an effort to show the world that he’s made it.

“I’m not going to pull up to a premiere in a Ferrari,” Leno says. “Unless it’s car people, I’m not interested in impressing anyone with my cars.” He doesn’t necessarily want the newest, or the oldest, the rarest, or even — despite a love of affixing turbochargers to engines — the fastest. His main criteria, I come to realize, is that every car have a story, whether that story involves technical greatness, racing provenance, or just plain oddness, as with a 1959 Fiat Millecento that the original owner kept in his living room for 40 years.

As we wander around the garages, Leno checks on the progress of cars and motorcycles in various states of disassembly.

In one room, a re-creation of his father’s 1966 Ford Galaxie takes shape. “I was 16, and my mom said, ‘Let Jay pick out the engine,’ ” Leno recalls. “I convinced my pop to get the 7.0-liter motor.” The new car will also have a 7.0-liter V-8, modified (of course) to make 750 horsepower. Some people view their childhood through rose-colored glasses; Leno prefers to view his through the ported and polished intake manifold on his pop’s Galaxie.

 

Ariel Atom

The $70,000 Atom proves that a vehicle can out-accelerate a million-dollar Ferrari Enzo with only a four-cylinder supercharged GMengine mounted behind the seats — provided you jettison weighty frills like doors and a windshield. Though intended for the track, it’s technically street legal. “The hardest thing about a supercar is not making it go fast,” Leno says. “It’s making it stiff, making it so it doesn’t squeak. With the Atom, there’s nothing to rattle or break or fall off. You get the power-to-weight ratio of a McLaren F1 at a 10th of the price. Few cars will give you the visceral thrill of an Atom.”

 

 

We walk across the driveway to the second building, and Leno commences a high-speed tour of its contents. Some rows are entirely dedicated to specific marques: Duesenbergs, Bugattis, Bentleys. Others are devoted to particular categories, the lightweight supercars catching my eye immediately. That’s where we find the Ariel Atom, the windshield-less, 300-horsepower love child of a go-kart and a Formula One racer. “Wanna drive it?” he asks. That’s like Carrot Top asking a prop comic if he wants to check out his steamer trunk. But, you know, cooler.

Leno dons goggles and fires up the raspy rear-mounted motor. He drives us away from Burbank, toward the canyons. Bionic wasps swarm in my left ear as the gaping air intake mounted between our heads inhales deeply under hard acceleration. We corner so quickly that my head feels like a tetherball. Leno seems amused. When he offers me the wheel, I’m content with a few full-throttle blasts while he dictates which lane to use. I’d like not to be known as the man who killed Jay Leno.

I get us both back to Big Dog Garage safely and learn that Leno’s generosity with his toys isn’t confined to drooling journalists. “Once, this kid wrote me a letter and said, ‘I told all my friends that you’re my uncle and you drive me around in your Lamborghini Countach. Can you bring me to school?’ So I dropped him off at school one day in front of all his friends, and he opened the scissor door, got out, and said, ‘Thanks, Uncle Jay!’ ”

This is Leno’s way of ensuring the continued existence of the gearhead species. “When I was nine, a guy let me sit in his Jag XK120. It made such an impression on me. To me, that was the one that started me on this journey. It was the first classic car I bought when I got the money,” he says. “When I see kids, if they want to sit in a car, climb on the seats, I say, ‘Go ahead.’ Maybe that ends up being an experience that gets them into this and brings in the next generation.”

 

EcoJet

This finned supercar hides a biofuel-fed 650-horsepower turbine — in other words, a jet engine repurposed for street duty. Leno conceived of this one-off concept car in 2006, and GM helped him build it. Unlike many concept cars, which don’t meet safety or emissions standards, the EcoJet wears a license plate and is street legal. How? Is it registered as a 1967 Volkswagen because there’s a shred of one riveted to the firewall somewhere? Leno shoots me a look that says, “Let’s not get into that.”

 

 

Through my tour of his collection, Leno mixes history lessons with comic banter. He describes driving the cigar-shape Rocket as “like riding around in your own coffin.” Nearby is a 1967 Chrysler Imperial Crown Coupe once owned by a movie producer who loved it so much that he bought spare bodywork just in case he ever had an accident. He recounts the story of the Roebling family, which owned Mercer, the manufacturer of his 1913 Raceabout. “They built the Brooklyn Bridge and celebrated by going on a cruise — on the Titanic.”

Next is a hulking relic of the past, a steam engine originally installed in a dye plant back in 1866. Leno points to two shiny spheres attached to the machine: “See those? That’s the origin of the expression ‘balls out.’ Centrifugal force causes the balls to rise and get pushed outward, and that limited the speed of the engine.” (And here I’d thought that “balls out” had a different etymology involving a case of Bud Light and a redneck named Larry.) This is another defining element of Leno’s mania: He’s so deep into cars that he cares about the machines that led to them — even when they ran a dye factory, which seems like an even more boring use for an engine than the minivan.

 

1963 Chrysler Turbine Car

Chrysler built 50 of these cars and loaned them to the public for a real-world shakedown. The turbine didn’t impress — it wasn’t faster or more fuel-efficient than an internal combustion engine. Still, the car proved that the technology could work and reminded the world of America’s technical supremacy. When the program ended, most of the Turbines were crushed: Chrysler has two, five sit in museums, and a guy in Indiana owns one. Leno, sounding triumphant, says, “This is the other one.”

 

 

Soon we’re back on the road, riding through Burbank in his 1963 Chrysler Turbine concept car. On the street the Chrysler purrs along, sounding like an idling Airbus, its turbine engine glass-smooth and turning at 22,000 rpm. I’m kind of amazed, given the history and rarity of this car, that Leno is driving it. I ask if any of his cars are too precious to drive — trailer queens, in petrolhead parlance. “I drive everything. I take my Model T to work all the time,” he says.

Which is why, of all the things Leno’s doing here, he can’t be accused of running a museum. Nothing here is mothballed, nothing wears a do not touch sign. He collects automotive stories, yes, but he keeps those stories rolling, so they can continue to be told. “After some guys pass away, their families aren’t interested in the car, but they want it to go to a good home,” explains Leno. “Bob Dunlap [co-founder of the American Bugatti Club] bought his Bugatti in 1950 or ’51, and when I got it, I let his family know that it’ll stay in the garage and they can come visit it. It’s like a memorial.” And the ’67 Chrysler Imperial owned by the movie producer? After he turned 93, he called Jay and said, “I want you to have this car.”

 

1966 Oldsmobile Toronado

The Toronado was a styling triumph, but its performance was hindered by front-wheel drive. So Leno converted his to rear-wheel drive, then added a turbocharged big-block producing more than 1,000 horsepower. It still appears stock, save subtle changes like larger wheels to fit upgraded brakes. Where does one buy 17-inch rims that perfectly mimic the Toronado’s 15-inch originals? You don’t. Leno custom-ordered his, each carved from a 400-pound chunk of aluminum.

 

 

In fact, Leno is offered 300 to 400 cars per week. “I get people who want to sell me a Mercedes SSK 540, and they don’t realize they have a replica with a VW engine. But every week there’s something interesting.”

Particularly if that something is vintage and eccentric. “All cars now have a symmetry about them, but old vehicles are so different. In the Lamborghini Miura, there are eight toggle switches with absolutely no labels. If you don’t know what they do? Tough. You have to work at older cars to drive them,” he says. “I tend to buy things you can’t get anywhere else. I enjoy the pursuit of the unusual driving experience.”

Which brings us to the White, a towering roadster on the scale of a Chevy Suburban. I help Leno push it from its parking spot out toward the door, where it soils the floor with water and a grubby river of old-steam-car debris while Leno and his head mechanic, Bernard, get it ready to drive. There’s lots of conferring about pressures, opening of valves, and futzing about underneath to get the pilot light started.

I take this time to use the bathroom, where I find walls covered with thank-you notes from police departments, all essentially saying, “Thanks, Jay Leno, for the generosity.” He probably doesn’t get many speeding tickets, but that’s not to say he gets none. Leno tells me that his 1906 Stanley has the distinction of being the oldest car pulled over by the California Highway Patrol for speeding — 75 miles per hour in a 55.

With the White’s steam temperature rising, we pull out of the garage. The car rides high, like a truck, and the driver and passengers are out in the open. At stoplights our fellow motorists all see Leno in the driver’s seat and want to chat, and he obliges. One guy says, “What was that motorcycle I saw you riding last week? A jet or something?” Leno gives a five-second explanation of his turbine-powered bike, but the light is still red, so we sit in awkward silence while the guy clearly racks his brain for something else to ask.

This ability to publicly enjoy his cars without becoming aggravated by the constant encroachment of fame is an amazing talent. For Leno, getting out and driving his toys represents an unavoidable collision of his public life and his private passion, yet he’s not hiding behind tinted windows in a Mercedes. When NBC asked him to host the U.S. version of the British TV show Top Gear, Leno declined in part because he didn’t want to commingle work and pleasure. In his semiregular “Motormouth” column for the Sunday Times of London, he offered this: “Cars are my hobby. Television is my job. When you make your hobby your job it becomes a whole different thing.”

As we approach the gate to the garage, Leno gestures to the next building down the street. “I bought that one, and we’re gonna connect it.” More space. More cars. “It is a bit of a disease,” he says.

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This article originally appeared in the November 2009 issue of Men’s Journal.