In the verdant, rain-soaked hills of Holywood, County Down, far removed from the frenetic “Motorsport Valley” of the English Midlands where Colin Chapman and Eric Broadley were rewriting the laws of physics, John Crosslé was quietly engineering a masterpiece. The year was 1966, a pivotal moment in sports car racing where the transition from front-engined roadsters to mid-engined precision instruments was effectively complete. The 2.0-litre sports racing class was rapidly becoming the most fiercely contested battleground for privateers, a category dominated by the spectre of the Lotus 23B. While Chevron was preparing the B8 and Porsche was refining the 906, Crosslé Car Company, a small Northern Irish outfit known for building rugged, rapid, and impeccably engineered machines, unveiled the 9S. It was not merely a tool for speed; it was an aesthetic triumph, a car that combined the durability required for Irish road racing with lines that rivalled the finest creations of Maranello. To understand the 9S is to understand the ethos of John Crosslé: a belief that a racing car should be strong enough to finish, fast enough to win, and beautiful enough to be loved.

The technical architecture of the Crosslé 9S was a rejection of the fragility that plagued many of its contemporaries. While Chapman’s Lotuses were famous for adding lightness until components failed, Crosslé built cars to survive the brutal, undulating tarmac of Kirkistown and Bishopscourt. The chassis was a multi-tubular spaceframe, constructed from mild steel and bronze-welded with a level of artistry that turned structural triangulation into jewellery. It was stiffer than the Lotus 23, providing a stable platform that allowed the suspension—double wishbones with coil-over dampers at all four corners—to work with absolute precision. This robustness did not come with a significant weight penalty; the 9S tipped the scales at a featherweight 550kg, a figure that allowed its modest powerplants to deliver supercar-baiting performance.

Visually, the 9S is widely regarded as one of the most beautiful sports racing cars ever penned. The fiberglass bodywork, with its voluptuous wheel arches, low-slung nose, and sweeping Kamm tail, was aerodynamically efficient but also undeniably romantic. It lacked the brutal, wind-tunnel-dictated angularity that would define the 1970s; instead, it possessed a fluid grace, wrapping tightly around the mechanicals like a silk glove.

The genius of the 9S lay in its engine bay, designed to accommodate the two premier four-cylinder engines of the era, creating two distinct personalities within the same chassis. The 1966 Crosslé 9S Lotus-Ford Twin Cam was the “screamer”. Utilizing the legendary 1.6-litre Harry Mundy-designed engine found in the Lotus Elan and Cortina, this variant was a frenzy of high-revving agility. Producing around 140-150bhp, it was the lightweight scalpel, perfectly balanced and suited for tight, technical circuits where momentum was king. It danced through corners, the Twin Cam’s induction roar a familiar and beloved soundtrack to British club racing.

However, for those seeking the ultimate weapon for the 2.0-litre class, there was the 1966 Crosslé 9S BMW M10. This was a more muscular, torque-rich proposition. John Crosslé identified the potential of the BMW “New Class” engine early on. Tilted over to fit under the low rear deck, the 2.0-litre M10 engine, often tuned to produce upwards of 170-190bhp with Weber carburettors or Kugelfischer injection, transformed the 9S. The extra torque allowed the car to pull taller gears and punch out of corners with ferocity, making it a formidable rival to the incoming Chevron B8s. Mated to a Hewland MK9 or FT200 transaxle, the BMW-powered 9S was a reliable endurance racer, the German iron block providing a durability that the more fragile British units sometimes lacked.

The competitive history of the Crosslé 9S is a tale of regional dominance and “what might have been” on the international stage. In the European 2.0-Litre Championship, the car was a rare sight compared to the armadas of Chevrons and Abarths, primarily due to Crosslé’s small production capacity and lack of a massive works budget. However, in the hands of talented privateers like Tommy Reid, the 9S was a titan of the Irish and British scene. It decimated the opposition in the 1966 and 1967 seasons, winning championships and setting lap records that stood for years. It was the ultimate “Clubman” car—capable of being towed to the track on an open trailer, winning the feature race, and being prepped for the next weekend with little more than a spanner check and an oil change.

But the story of the Crosslé 9S has a unique second chapter that arguably eclipses its period history. Unlike almost any other manufacturer, the Crosslé Car Company never closed its doors, and it never threw away the jigs. In the modern era, responding to the booming demand for historic racing, the factory began building the Crosslé 9S Continuation. These are not replicas; they are genuine Crosslé cars, built by the original company, on the original 1960s jigs, often by the same hands that built them in the sixties. Powered usually by the Ford Zetec (for cost-effective one-make series) or the period-correct BMW/Twin Cam units for FIA historic racing, these cars have flooded the grids of Europe. They offer the visceral, analogue driving experience of 1966—the smell of unburnt fuel, the lack of downforce, the beautiful four-wheel drifts—with a build quality that ensures they can be raced hard every weekend.

The legacy of the Crosslé 9S is profound. It stands as the high-water mark of the Northern Irish motor industry, a testament to the idea that a small, dedicated team of artisans could build a car to challenge the world’s best. It bridges the gap between the fragile, lightweights of the early 60s and the slick-shod, high-downforce prototypes of the 70s. Whether equipped with the screaming Lotus Twin Cam or the thundering BMW M10, the 9S remains a definitive example of the mid-engined sports racer: simple, effective, and devastatingly pretty. It occupies a special place in the pantheon, not just as a racing car, but as a piece of industrial art that refuses to die, continuing to thrill new generations of drivers who want to experience the purity of the 1960s without the fear of handling a museum piece.