BaT Auction Success Story: 306k-Mile Mercedes 190E 2.3-16 vs. Robin’s Run, Part I

Our latest Success Story comes to us from BaT member Escondidoron, who won this 306k-Mile 1986 Mercedes-Benz 190E 2.3-16 from c137 in an August 2025 BaT auction and set out for a grueling shakedown with the sixth running of Robin’s Run, a rally celebrating the life of his late son.

Escondidoron writes:

Humanity tends to ask certain questions at pivotal moments: “Is this love?” “Do these jeans make my butt look big?” And most dangerously, “What could go wrong?” Everything. In fact, that last question is not a question—it’s a lifestyle choice. It’s the phrase you utter right before the universe quietly cracks its knuckles and draws back its fist. I muttered those words the moment my meticulously planned rally car—a 1963 Porsche 356 Super 90 Outlaw—decided, four days before departure, that its custom six-volt starter would rather retire than participate. There was no replacement, no workaround, and no mercy. Yet, I still had to go.

This wasn’t just any road trip. It was Robin’s Run 6.0—an annual rally honoring my late son, Robin. He loved traveling, adventuring, and the idea of pointing oneself at the horizon to see what happened. The rally was put on by my dear friend and race partner, @salty_dog. Through his side hustle, Two Lane Tours, he puts on two or three rallies each year. The rule is simple: cars have to be model year 1999 or older. No exceptions. No excuses. Just commitment, questionable judgment, and mechanical sympathy. Robin would have approved wholeheartedly.

With the Porsche sidelined, I did what any rational person would do and enlisted the 1986 Mercedes-Benz 190E 2.3-16 that I had recently purchased, sight unseen, and showing 305k miles on the clock. Equipped with a Cosworth head, the flared-fendered homologation special was a high-revving relic of a time when German engineers were smug and certain that Mercedes meant “the best or nothing.” It was shipped to California, and upon arrival, it failed to start when it came time to roll it off the transcontinental car carrier. That certainly wasn’t an auspicious beginning. The car had been loaded onto the transporter at night, and the driver failed to turn off the parking lights back in Virginia. Five days later, in SoCal, the battery was stone dead. The muffler also hung loose out back due to perished exhaust hangers, cantilevered and swaying back and forth like a bobblehead doll in the rear window of a clapped-out Cold War-era Yugo.

But we hooked up the jumpers and the Benz roared to life. I promptly parked it at home and continued the prep work on our endurance race car, a ’94 Miata, which got a complete overhaul that summer. We planned to let the Benz sit undriven until after a September race in Washington State and the upcoming rally the following month were done. With the 356’s starter failure, the 190E was immediately promoted to “emergency service.” I hadn’t driven it more than 50 miles since it arrived, but now the Baby Benz was going to war.

The 190E had survived 30 years under the Southern California sun, and it wore faded and chipped paint. The sub-standard ‘80s clearcoat was long gone from all the horizontal surfaces. The side windows were dark-tinted (gangster), which had mercifully preserved the black leather interior. The dash was not cracked or split. A quick check of the fluids showed that the seller treated the Baby Benz to fresh ones prior to shipping. This felt like a win. My confidence surged. I began to believe that pessimism was only for people who didn’t believe in themselves—or in mechanical miracles.

With the rally looming, there was no time for things like nut-and-bolt inspections, preventative maintenance, or rational thought. I generously performed a “visual assessment.” The tires were roundish. The engine made noises; thankfully, not the bad metallic screaming type, and also not a tired wheeze like a smoker climbing a flight of stairs. In preparation, I quickly lifted the car 1.5 inches on its adjustable springs for ground clearance, repaired the damaged muffler, and filled the tank with 91 octane. For safety, I installed a smaller diameter steering wheel that I pulled from the hoard that was my garage. This was critical so that the wheel didn’t pin my thighs against the seat, rendering directional control impossible. I cleaned the windows and applied a coat of Rain-X. Clearly, Baby Benz was ready for its multi-state endurance test.

Day Zero: The Rally to The Rally
Escondido, California, to Fountain Hills, Arizona
402 miles—seven hours

The first day involved getting to the rally itself. Four cars departed Escondido after dawn on Friday, October 10, 2025. Traveling across the Mojave Desert in mid-90-degree heat, the Mercedes’ heater occasionally turned on, despite the controls being firmly set to maximum cold. Apparently, the HVAC system had its own opinions.

We drove on California Highway 78, nearly end to end, from Escondido to its terminus in Blythe. There was a fantastic combination of twisting, climbing, and diving two-lane roads toward the Salton Sea that was nirvana. We started out at about 50 feet above sea level in Escondido and climbed to 4,200 feet near Julian, then back down on Banner Grade into the desert at the Salton Sea, where the elevation was 236 feet below sea level. The early morning drive offered a great introduction to the Baby Benz.

The ambient temperature was in the high 40s when we departed Escondido, and reached 80 degrees Fahrenheit by 8:15 am. The sunroof was a useful feature as we traversed the desert. We made it to Quartzite, Arizona, around 11:00 am.

We met up with more members of our entourage at the Mountain Quail Café in Quartzite, a place that understood both caffeine and the look of people willingly driving old cars into the unknown.

After lunch, it lightly rained on and off between Quartzite and Phoenix—just enough to keep things interesting as we drove east on I-10. The tires, which looked “acceptable” under the Southern California sun, began to feel less “fine” and more like “heat-cycled racing slicks” in the rain. As the weather forecast worsened, I began thinking optimistically and decided to buy new tires in Phoenix.

Multitasking on the freeway, I asked Siri to Google 225/45 R16 tires. Apparently, it was not a common size, with the only options being from Nankang, Pirelli, Toyo, and Yokohama. I crossed my fingers and called the nearest Discount Tire store located in the appropriately named city of Goodyear. No luck, but the nice man searched the stock in the greater Valley of the Sun. After a few minutes, he reported that a set of Toyo R1Rs was in Mesa and a set of R888Rs was in North Phoenix. He transferred me to the North Phoenix store. Aren’t cell phones wonderful? The salesman booked me in over the phone so I was next in line for installation upon my arrival, which was an hour later. I was on my way to the hotel and dinner the hour after that. The gods of tire and rubber were shining down upon me.

Day One: Rainbows and Red Flags
Fountain Hills to Greer, Arizona
274 miles—five hours, nine minutes

Day one officially began with an espresso and a Danish—the traditional breakfast of people who are about to make poor decisions. There were 38 cars and 50-odd participants—some more odd than others—now assembled. The cars ranged widely, and included a multitude of 911s, various BMWs, an E-type Jag, a 240Z, an El Camino, and a freshly restored Maserati Bora. It was the Bora’s maiden voyage, and the El Camino, riding on a Roadster Shop chassis, had been “finished” around 5:00pm on Friday, less than 12 hours prior to the meet-up. The high-mileage Benz was in good company.

After the obligatory driver’s meeting, we headed out at 8:00 am under partly sunny skies and a light drizzle. It was yet another opportunity to marvel at the Baby Benz’s mono wiper. Those Mercedes-Benz engineers designed a mechanism that answered a question no one else had asked: How do you cover more windshield surface area with a single wiper than with two or even three wipers working in tandem? It was mesmerizing to see it in operation.

Our route took us north on the Beeline Highway (AZ-87), a winding four-lane road cutting through the Mazatzal Mountains, climbing from 1,800 up to 2,800 feet at Jakes Corner. We continued southeast on AZ-188, a well-cared-for two-lane highway.

We encountered more showers and the occasional rainbow, but kept looking for the pot of gold at the end. We climbed and descended on our way to Roosevelt Lake.

We paused and regrouped for a photo op at the Roosevelt Lake Bridge.

The rain intensified as we headed toward Greer, passing through the Salt River Canyon. Sunlight, rain, and rainbows looped, like the weather couldn’t decide whether to inspire awe or dread.

Somewhere near Fort Apache, the first warning sign appeared as the dashboard “economy” gauge ceased operation, resting right in the red zone for “gas guzzler.” I was not sure if it was the gauge, the sensor, or a sign of an imminent full electrical system collapse, but I ignored it. I hoped this wouldn’t become a theme.

Climbing to 8,000 feet near Greer, the temperature dropped and the Mercedes’ HVAC system completely lost the plot. The air conditioning generously blew arctic cold, despite the controls being set to Saharan Desert hot. Simultaneously, the other vents delivered warm air, and some delivered a bold new experimental blend of both. A driving glove on my right hand kept it from turning blue, courtesy of the frigid blast from the center vent. Luxury motoring.

We spent the next two nights at a cabin in Greer, which gave the illusion of stability.

Day Two: Wipers Are Optional
Greer to Clifton and Back to Greer
306 miles—seven hours

Day two dawned partly sunny. As we left Greer, the Benz’s magnificent mono wiper worked perfectly. It swept the windshield with Teutonic confidence, but somewhere near Alma, New Mexico, the wiper stopped, jammed hard up against the A-pillar. No noise. No warning. No apology. The forecast showed rain in both directions. Go back to Greer or press on? This was never really a question since there was rain ahead in either direction. As we continued toward Mule Creek, I discovered an important fact: above 45 mph, the windshield stayed mostly clear. Rain-X to the rescue.

I was the last car in the group leaving our lunch spot in Morenci, Arizona. Ahead of me, the sky turned black. Not just stormy or ominous, but biblical. I promised myself that I’d stay with the group and would pull off if the rain got bad.

Then, it got bad. Once-in-a-century bad. So bad that I couldn’t pull off because I couldn’t see the edge of the road. It was the kind of rain that made you wonder what you did to anger a higher power. Visibility dropped to “faith-based.” I locked onto the taillights of another rally car ahead, and played “follow the leader” through a deluge so intense that wildlife began sprinting across the road asking, “where’s the ark?” As I crept along, every turn reminded me that I was no longer just driving a car—I was captain of a vessel in a storm at sea. I briefly considered nautical terminology. Port. Starboard. Abandon ship.

In the biblical storm, a deer heard Noah calling.

As the rain subsided, we were confronted with several flash floods across the highway. In one location, we had to ford water over a foot deep with large rocks as big as six inches in diameter hidden under the surface, covering the road.

We slowly picked our way across. Fortunately, the door seals on the old Benz worked perfectly, and no water made it into the car.

A few miles up the hill, the rain reduced to a light sprinkle. We pulled off at a viewpoint and reviewed the situation. After what felt like an eternity, the rain eased. I drove the next hundred miles back to Greer in a quiet state of gratitude and euphoria. The mountain roads and alpine scenery were glorious, the Benz handled superbly, and together, man and machine had weathered the storm.

That night’s campfire stories were legendary. BaT user @salty_dog revealed that his 911 had developed a timing chain issue, and it was down for the count. He and his brother Joel now rode with me in the Baby Benz, in a sign of either trust or resignation. The 911 was towed to Phoenix, where another rally participant, @Tci, coordinated its return to San Diego.

And there were four days of driving left…

Ooh-wee, Escondidoron, talk about a storm, and you all were just getting started! We’re eager to read Part II!

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