Step into 1968. Frank Gardner's howling around British circuits in a little Ford Escort, absolutely annihilating anything in its way. It looked like a tin box on wheels, but under that humble skin was serious intent. Built by Alan Mann Racing, it had flared arches, Lotus power, and the attitude of a drunk boxer at closing time.
Now, over 50 years later, it's back. Not as some sanitised tribute for Sunday cars and coffee, but as a full-blooded, spit-in-your-eye race weapon. This is not a toy. It's a time machine.
Factory Finish, Not Fantasy
This reborn Escort hasn't been thrown together with whatever was lying around in someone's shed. It's the result of proper engineering. The original car was dismantled, scanned, and measured to the millimetre. Every crease in the body, every weld, even the bonnet pins - all recreated in forensic detail.
Alan Mann Racing, along with Boreham Motorworks, have built 24 of them. That's it. Each one is built with such care and accuracy you'd think it had been cryogenically frozen in 1969 and just thawed out in a hangar next to an old RAF Lightning.
The Loud Bit
Under the bonnet is a 1.8 litre Lotus Twin-Cam, breathing through a pair of Weber carburettors that make the kind of noise normally reserved for Spitfires. It's got 205 brake horsepower, which doesn't sound like much until you realise it only weighs 795 kilograms. That's less than a modern washing machine.
The power delivery is savage. None of this smooth, turbo-fed torque. You put your foot down, the engine screams, and you go. It revs to 8,000 rpm like it's trying to escape its own crankshaft. It shakes, it rattles, and it shoots off.
No Frills, All Thrills
There's no power steering. No anti lock brakes. No clever traction control systems. Just you, the road, and the vague fear that one wrong move could see you pirouetting into the Armco. The gearshift is short and sharp. The pedals are so close together they could double as a footsie table.
On a circuit, it comes alive. Once you're past the awkward low-speed fidgeting, the Escort tightens up. It becomes playful. Agile. Cornering becomes an event. Lift off the throttle mid-bend and the rear steps out like it's answering a call from the 70s. But it's not malicious - it wants to play.
Choices, Choices
You can have it in two flavours. One is the Historic Race spec, with all the gear required for FIA events: full roll cage, extinguisher system, proper race seats. The other is Period Correct, a stripped out but road legal variant. Same engine, same thrills, but just enough civility to stop the neighbours calling the police every Sunday morning.
Both versions are absurdly beautiful. The Alan Mann livery is pure nostalgia. That deep red with gold accents is not subtle, but it doesn't need to be. It says, quite clearly, "Yes, I drive a race car. What of it?"
Where It Sits in Today's World
In a world where every second car is an SUV with mood lighting and heated cup holders, the Alan Mann Escort is a lunatic in a dinner jacket. It doesn't fit in, and that's precisely why it matters.
Modern car culture is split. On one side, you've got electric crossovers that make no noise and do everything for you, like robotic Labradors. On the other, you've got shouty hypercars with silly doors and more horsepower than brain cells. Somewhere in the middle, barely clinging on, is the last bastion of mechanical honesty - and that's where this Escort lives.
It's for the people who miss the raw, unfiltered joy of driving. The ones who understand that having less grip can sometimes mean more fun. That a 13" wheel with a proper tyre wall is better than a 22-inch rim wrapped in rubber the thickness of cling film.
You won't see this parked outside a café doing nothing. It won't appear in Tik Toks with trap music and neon lights. It will be on a trailer at six in the morning, heading to a track where someone in overalls, smelling faintly of Castrol, will warm it up with the reverence of a priest lighting incense.
This car doesn't follow trends. It ignores them entirely. It's a defiant middle finger to modern motoring. And in a sea of soulless machines, it stands out by doing something radical: being real.
The Damage
Now for the moment that makes your wallet cry. Nearly £300,000. Yes, really. For a Ford Escort. That's McLaren territory. But this isn't your average retro remake. It's a hand-built, factory-endorsed, race-ready piece of history.
This car is for people who value engineering over infotainment. For those who understand that real driving is noisy, smelly, twitchy, and full of danger. It's not designed to be easy. It's designed to be right.
Verdict
The Alan Mann Escort is not comfortable. It's not practical. And it certainly isn't sensible. But it is glorious. Every bolt sings with intent. Every drive is an occasion. It doesn't coddle you. It challenges you.
Driving one is like stepping into a boxing ring with a legend. You'll come out bruised, breathless, and completely in love.
This is not just a car. It's a machine built for petrolheads who remember what driving used to be - loud, fast, difficult, and utterly addictive.
While it's highly unlikely we'll ever be able to offer a drive in this particular machine - what with only 24 in existence and most already spoken for by collectors with vaults and racing licences - we do offer some cracking driving experiences in the Ford Mk1 Escort RS and the iconic Escort Mk2. Same spirit, same grin-inducing lunacy, just a bit more accessible and slightly less terrifying for your wallet.
