I’ve always loved the Mercedes-Benz SL. While never as overtly sporty as rivals from Porsche or BMW, it’s hard to argue with it as a stylish and powerful grand tourer, no matter which generation you choose.
Although the SL name began with the 300SL Gullwing race car of the 1950s, the grand touring roadster lineage dates back to the 190 SL, which came out around the same time. Sleek and stylish but ultimately underpowered with only 105 horsepower from a 1.9-liter inline-four, it carved out a niche of people who wanted the appearance of a sports car with the comfort and build quality of a Mercedes sedan.
Successive generations—the lovely Pagoda and iconic R107—defined that niche.
My 1997 Mercedes-Benz SL500 (R129)
Photo by: Will Lee / @ptsrs
The next SL, the R129, brought the formula into the modern era. The stiffest-bodied convertible in the world at the time of its launch in 1989, the R129 also had the world’s first fully automated droptop. It was beautiful, too—legendary Mercedes-Benz designer and engineer Bruno Sacco views it as his magnum opus.
Sold new from 1990 until 2002, the R129 is coming into its own as a modern classic. I’ve always coveted one, but never had the right opportunity—until late last year.
The Hunt
I’d been casually tracking R129s in the usual places: Facebook Marketplace, Cars & Bids, Bring a Trailer. After poring over hundreds of listings and forum posts, and listening to the Carmudgeon Podcast’s R129 podcast a few times through, I decided I wanted a mid-year car: specifically, a 1996 to 1998 SL500.
I landed on this range for a few reasons. First, the earliest cars, sold from 1990 to 1992, came with an outdated Bosch CIS mechanical fuel injection (MFI) system. I’d heard these could be finicky, and having owned a Porsche 944 when I was fresh out of college, MFI just wasn’t a road I wanted to go down again.
Second, the 1993 to 1995 cars feature Mercedes’ infamous biodegradable wiring harness. While it’s a one-and-done repair that’s typically not as bad as it’s made out to be, I’m typically hesitant to mess with cars’ essential wiring if I don’t have to.
I decided I wanted a mid-year car: specifically, a 1996 to 1998 SL500.
Finally, in 1999, the SL went through a heavy facelift which updated the front and rear ends of the exterior, the steering wheel, gauges, and dashboard, and most importantly, the engine. Instead of the dual-overhead-cam, 32-valve M119 V8 in ‘98 and earlier R129s, the ‘99 to ‘02 cars got a single-overhead-cam, 24-valve M113.
Although the engines share a 5.0-liter displacement and similar low-300s power figures, they could not be more different in character. The M119 is a rev-happy screamer, while the M113 is all torque, happy to loaf around at 2,000 RPM.
The 1996 to 1998 SL500 paired the M119 with an electronically controlled five-speed automatic with overdrive, as opposed to the four-speed in 1995 and older models. A 1996 or newer car would also have an OBD2 port, making at-home diagnosis and annual emissions inspections a breeze.
Finally, I didn’t want a black, silver, or white car, which narrowed the pool significantly.
So there I found myself one Fall evening, staring at four grainy pictures of a 1997 SL500 in non-metallic 904 Midnight Blue with a blue interior and blue top on Facebook Marketplace. The listing copy was sparse: “Second owner, 82k miles. Great shape.” I fired off a message.
A few days passed with no response, and I followed up on a Friday evening with my phone number, stating that I was interested in purchasing the car. 30 minutes later, I got a phone call from an unknown number with a Maryland area code. 12 hours after that, I was driving down the New Jersey Turnpike, overcaffeinated, on my way to see a car I hoped was as good as it seemed.
Photo by: Will Lee / @ptsrs
Will I Regret This?
I reached the end of the quarter-mile driveway to see a large barn and modest farmhouse—not exactly what you expect to see on the outskirts of the DC suburbs. The door to the barn was open and the SL had been pulled outside.
The car presented well, if not perfectly. The paint was all original, though dull in places, and the interior was completely intact. We put the car up on a lift—the owner’s garage housed two dragsters and a pro-level workshop; always a good sign—and the undercarriage was completely dry, free of any noticeable leaks or corrosion. It had clearly been cared for and kept inside throughout its life.
Of course, it wasn’t perfect. The SL’s tires were 14 years old and hard as rocks. The underhood pad, which shields the hood’s paint from the engine’s heat, was completely disintegrated. The radio antenna wouldn’t deploy for some unknown reason. More concerningly, the hydraulically-actuated convertible roof didn’t go down on the first try.
The car presented well, if not perfectly… It had clearly been cared for and kept inside throughout its life.
The R129’s soft top is a hot topic, as its dozen hydraulic cylinders stop sealing correctly after a while and can fail to build the pressure needed to raise or lower the roof. In extreme cases, failed cylinders can even spray the driver and passenger in the face—not quite the date experience I had in mind. The solution? A comprehensive rebuild of all 12 cylinders, plus a distributor, to the tune of about $1,200. And that’s before you install them.
After 15 minutes of cycling the pump, the top went down and up several times without issue. That was enough to reassure me that the mechanism hadn’t completely failed, but not quite confidence-inspiring, either.
The seller told me the car’s story: A close friend had purchased it lightly used in 2002 and owned it until his death in 2024. Then, the seller and his wife had purchased it from the estate in hopes that she would enjoy driving it, but she had trouble getting in and out of the low-slung seat and preferred her Ram pickup.
Photo by: Will Lee / @ptsrs
The CarFax that I pulled before driving down on a whim (c’mon, I’m not totally irresponsible) corroborated the long-term owner story, showing about 2,500 miles a year of driving with regular Mercedes dealership visits up until 2020. After that, the miles and dealer visits slowed down dramatically as the owner entered the last years of his life.
I did some quick mental math: The SL would need some work, but here I was, with the chance to buy a car I’d always wanted in original condition and with a known, clean history. At the price it was listed, I knew it wouldn’t last, so I shook hands with the seller and, about $8,000 poorer, started my drive home.
Two weeks later, I found myself on an Amtrak Northeast Regional train headed south to retrieve my prize, accompanied only by an optimistically light duffel bag carrying a change of clothes, a basic set of hand tools, and a Continental Bluetooth radio.
Photo by: Will Lee / @ptsrs
So, What’s Broken?
The car and I made the 200-mile drive home without incident. Its V8 and five-speed auto were glass-smooth and exceedingly torquey on the highway, and I felt like the king of the road gliding over expansion joints with the grace of plush suspension and fat sidewalls.
Once home, I started a punch list. I changed the SL’s oil—although what was in it looked fresh, it was likely several years old—and ordered a replacement for the underhood pad ($200) and a set of Continental DWS06 tires ($900, including a full-size spare). I glued in the pad in my garage and had a shop mount and balance the tires.
Finally, I dropped the hard top and its sagging headliner off at a local upholstery shop for recovering in dark blue Alcantara—an $800 expense that wasn’t technically essential, but significantly improved the look and feel of the interior. I was feeling good about my purchase until a week later when the car wouldn’t start, and the top wouldn’t go up.
I actually noticed the top issue first, the night I dropped the hardtop off at the upholstery shop. I released the SL’s hard top using the hydraulic mechanism, helped one of the shop hands carry it inside, and then pushed the rocker switch again to put the top up.
The tonneau cover opened, the top reached upward like a hand grasping for the sky, and then … stopped. A sound like the air leaving a balloon pierced the night, and the top slowly sank back into the car in its best Titanic impression.
I was feeling good about my purchase until a week later when the car wouldn’t start, and the top wouldn’t go up.
The night’s temperature was about 25 degrees and falling, so I rolled up the windows, cranked the heater, and drove three miles back to my garage. That weekend, I returned to investigate the top issue, and found that my key no longer worked in the ignition. I couldn’t even turn on the electronics.
Suddenly, my bargain convertible was an immobile sculpture with a frozen top—not quite the experience I’d hoped for, but old cars are rarely predictable.
Mercedes over-engineered its key and lock systems in the 1980s and 1990s to prevent theft, which means it’s almost impossible to get at the ignition cylinder without the key turned. After a week of scouring decade-old forum posts and YouTube videos that prophesied worst-case scenarios of having to drill out the steering column and take a Sawzall to the steering lock, I reached out to Ike Kitman, a friend and Benz expert who’s spent time at the Mercedes-Benz Classic Center in California. He coached me through jiggling the ignition cylinder and coaxing the car to life.
The ignition issue was simple once the car was on—there was excess play in the ignition barrel, and tightening a screw fixed it immediately. The top issue was a little bigger.
I sourced a set of rebuilt cylinders from Top Hydraulics. As the process is very involved and involves quite a bit of manual dexterity, of which I have almost none, I opted to have Ike put them in for me. He charged me a very reasonable price, given the scope and difficulty of the project. I also had him change the SL’s transmission fluid and replace the car’s original and tired-looking fuel pump and filter.
A week later, I was back on the road with a fully sorted SL.
Photo by: Will Lee / @ptsrs
Is An R129 Really Worth It?
How much has it cost me? Well, let’s just say the total figure is a bit closer to $13,000 than the $8,000 I initially spent on it. That said, for around what a great NA Miata’s going for these days, I’m wafting around in the pinnacle of ‘90s German luxury with a hot-rod V8 under the hood.
If I were to sell the car today, I think I’d break even, give or take a couple grand. At least, that’s what I’m telling myself. After all, retirement funds are for investing, and cars are for enjoying.
This story has a happy ending: I married my wife in May, and we escaped for a four-day minimoon to the eastern edges of Long Island. With high temperatures in the 70s and beaches not yet overrun, the SL made a fantastic cruising machine and provided us with a week of lovely memories.
Driving past vineyards toward picturesque coastal towns with the sun dropping low, the smell of the ocean in the air, and the person you cherish most by your side—what could be better than that?
