1998 Volvo C70 Convertible Is Al Fresco Motoring

From the August 1998 issue of Car and Driver.

Volvo’s new C70 convertible pro­vokes different reactions from different generations. A middle­-aged guy who pulled alongside in an Infiniti had already ordered his C70, without even taking a test drive. On the other side of the generation gap, a 22-year-old actress-in-waiting commented that the Volvo looked a lot like a Mus­tang. We could tell she did not mean that as a compliment.

But as the baby boomers are now in their peak earning years, and since the C70 convertible goes on the block at about $44,000, Volvo and the Britain­-based firm of TWR—partners in the C70 enterprise—probably are uncon­cerned about reactions from youthful tire kickers. Clearly, the convertible version of Volvo’s uncharacteristically cur­vaceous C70 coupe is aimed at upscale drivers who want wind-in-what’s-left-­of-their-hair motoring with a healthy dollop of safety thrown in.

To reconcile open-top motoring with security, Volvo surrounds the passenger compartment with plenty of reinforced steel. Rollover protection is provided by a super-strong windshield frame and by twin rollover hoops that pop up when accelerometers determine that a rollover accident is at hand. Front and side airbags, and seatbelts with pretensioners, serve as additional security blankets.

The necessary structural reinforce­ments result in a fairly hefty 3740-pound curb weight, which, when combined with Volvo’s 190-horsepower, 2.4-liter light-pressure-turbo (LPT) five-cylinder engine (the coupe musters 46 more horses), sug­gests less than stellar performance. In fact, our C70 convertible acquitted itself fairly well at the test track, running from 0 to 60 mph in 7.6 seconds and through the quarter-mile in 15.9 seconds at 88 mph.

On the road, the car provides confident passing performance and consistent accel­eration. Not having to back off the throttle during shifts keeps the turbo on the boil and provides a seamless surge of acceler­ation accompanied by an energetic, off­beat warble from Volvo’s in-line five.

The small turbo suffers little if any lag, and the immediate supply of boost is abetted by a quick and responsive four-speed automatic transmission that kicks down instantly at the bidding of your right foot. This rapid response­—without a trace of harshness or dithering—really makes the most of the avail­able power.

The LPT engine certainly has enough steam to generate a little torque­-steer weave from the front end under heavy acceleration, and the 50-series Michelins are also occasionally prone to mild tramlining, producing a slight, unexpected course alteration as a tire reads a groove. But in most circum­stances, the C70 steers accurately and tracks securely.

In fact, on-center feel transmitted by the tightly wrapped leather wheel rim is good, with off-center response that is correspondingly quick and linear. In contrast, the steering-assist mechanism is occasionally fickle. The wheel feels unreasonably heavy at low speeds, and it’s easy to beat the assist in tight turns. More­over, you encounter an obstruction near full lock that feels like a detent in the mechanism. Either the variable-assist unit is wonky or the steering pump is on the small side, because you can feel the levels of assist dwindle as you slow for turns.

Low-speed foibles aside, the C70 con­vertible handles well and does so without penalty to its ride. Apart from some harshness on two-wheel bumps—you can feel the impact reverberate into the car’s structure as a quick, tight shudder—the Volvo has a sup­ple ride and fairly good ride-­motion control. There’s some cowl and steering-column quake on poor surfaces, even on Cali­fornia’s fair-to-middling road textures. Compared with today’s best factory convertibles, the C70’s structure feels quivery.

That said, the C70’s structure works well during high-speed cornering, thanks to accurate tracking in turns and relatively linear steering response. Generous tire sizes afford the Volvo good grip (0.84 g on our skidpad), and the car’s balanced handling makes the most of it. The car pushes into progressive and easily read understeer, but only at cornering speeds a lot higher than most Volvo drivers are likely to take.

It was while exercising the chassis in some Southern California canyons (ren­dered spring green by El Niño) that we dis­covered the limitations of the brakes. At first, the brakes felt fine, with a firm pedal and a predictable increase in braking force as we pressed harder. But repeated use soon heated them up to the point where there wasn’t much bite left. Confirming our suspicions, tech editor Webster reported during performance testing in Michigan that after two hard stops from 70 mph, there wasn’t enough braking left to engage the ABS. Having an automatic transmission only exacerbates the mar­ginal braking performance, so we advise C70-convertible owners to cool it on the fast downhill runs.

But they probably will anyway. This isn’t a car for jaded speedsters; it’s for drivers who enjoy luxury motoring with the top down, even on a chilly day. It’s for drivers who might appreciate the smell of wood smoke as they waft through villages in the cozy comfort afforded by good aerodynamics and a well-protected passenger compartment. With the windows up, the optional draft-­reducing panel in place, and the heater directing warm air to the footwells, very little of the nasty weather outside gets in. We drove the C70 in light showers and moderately low temperatures, and neither the drizzle nor the cool air was felt inside.

Part of this coziness is due to the high beltline, which drops the occupants relatively deeply inside the tub. The rest is good airflow management (it’s a Swedish car, remember).

In keeping with its luxury role, the C70 sounds reasonably quiet for a ragtop, registering 73 dBA while cruising at 70 mph. Fabric is obvi­ously more transparent to noise than steel is, so some of the sound of the wind and surrounding traffic noise comes into the car. Top-down motoring is not much louder than it is with the roof in place.

Top operation is completely automatic, and the ragtop stashes under its metal cover in less than 20 seconds at the touch of a button. It’s slower cranking back up, but it still gets the job done in less than 30 sec­onds, and that’s without having to manhandle a single catch.

When the top’s up, the inner headliner is so taut and even that the only hints of an articulated frame are a couple of loose fabric flaps at the tops of the windows and two small panels at the C-pillars that stay open.

There is a glass backlight with an elec­tric defroster, which is handy, but its small size only aggravates a rear-vision problem created by the large C-­pillar areas. Nonethe­less, it’s nice inside the C70. There are aromatic hides, sup­portive bucket seats, elegant moldings, and glossy burl accents.

Our test car had the optional (roughly $1500) SC-900 three-disc CD changer with a magazine that plunges in and out when changing discs, like a demented jukebox. It works fine, but it appears some­what Rube Goldberg–ish in comparison with the one-slot, five-disc changers we see in Isuzu’s latest Rodeo and Amigo sport-utility vehicles.

Volvo makes much of this stereo instal­lation, which has 14 Dynaudio speakers studding the interior to provide surround­-sound dynamics. The sound is undeniably good, with great center-speaker imaging, but we don’t think it’s that much better than, say, a good Lexus/Pioneer system with seven speakers.

Also, large speaker enclosures colonize the door space, making the door pockets so shallow that objects placed in them are at risk of falling out when you open the door. You could wind up leaving your wallet in a McDonald’s parking lot if you’re not watchful. Perhaps this is nit­picking—there are secure storage spaces in the console and glove box.

More disturbing was the presence of chirps and twitters from the interior of our 2800-mile test car and a passenger door that would not unlock unless the inside door handle was pulled. When we com­bine these niggles with the knowledge that C70 deliveries have been delayed by assembly problems at the factory in Udde­valla, Sweden, we don’t quite feel ready to vouch wholeheartedly for its quality.

We’re also concerned about the ambitious price. With BMW and Saab offering alternative high-end four-place convert­ibles, and various manufacturers fielding cheaper ragtops, that $44,000 sticker becomes a serious obstacle. Hey, for $25,000, you can buy a V-8-powered Mustang, and that—we hear say—is a dead ringer anyway.