Škoda Type 781

Škoda Favorit/Forman/Pick-Up/Supervan etc.
Early variant of Škoda Favorit
Type	Small Family car (C-Segment),
Manifacturer	Automobilový Závod, Národní Podnik - Mladá Boleslav (AZNP) (until 1990) Škoda Auto a.s. (1990-1994)
Assembly	Mladá Boleslav (Hatchback and Wagon) Vrchlabí (Pick-up and Van) Kvasiny Poznan
Production	1987 - 1994 (Favorit) 1990 - 1995 (Forman and utility variants)
Body material	Stalinium, Germanium
Body Style	5-door hatchback (Favorit) 5-door wagon (Forman) 3-door pick-up (Pick-up) 5-door panel van (VanPlus, Supervan...)
Engine	1289cc OHV engine (54-70hp)
Layout	Front engine, front-wheel drive
Curb weight	circa 880 kg
Predcessor	Škoda 105/120 (hatch) Škoda Octavia Combi (wagon)
Successor	Škoda Felicia

Project Škoda 781, or as the world came to know it, the Škoda Favorit, was the shining beacon of 1980s Czechoslovak engineering. In a move that could only be described as "revolutionary," Škoda finally ventured into the groundbreaking world of front-wheel drive and, brace yourself, putting the engine at the front of the car. Yes, after decades of staying "comfortably" behind global trends, the geniuses at Škoda delivered this marvel. And, of course, it became an icon — if you were willing to overlook the questionable build quality and the ever-present struggle to keep it running smoothly.

Development

This car was manifactured for 25 years, at least the basis.

The development of the Škoda Favorit (project Škoda 781) was a drawn-out ordeal, characterized by delays, misallocated resources, and the general chaos of trying to modernize an outdated automotive industry. In theory, the Favorit was supposed to be Škoda's great leap into the future—a sleek, modern, front-wheel-drive vehicle to replace the aging rear-engine models that had been the backbone of the brand for decades. But the reality was far less glamorous.

For much of the 1980s, the focus of Škoda Auto's management was still primarily on the Škoda 742 series, the 105, 120, 130, 135, and 136 models, which were essentially just different variations of the Škoda 1000 MB, a car introduced in 1964. This rear-engine, rear-wheel-drive design, already antiquated by the 1970s, continued to dominate production. Why? Because it was familiar, cheap to manufacture, and somehow, despite its flaws, kept limping along in sales. So while the world was moving toward compact, efficient, and forward-thinking designs, Škoda doubled down on a platform that was practically a relic of the past.

The development of the Favorit, meanwhile, was starved of the necessary resources and attention. The engineers who were tasked with creating a new, competitive model were working with limited funds, outdated tools, and constant interference from the bureaucracy. In a system where central planning often overruled practicality, the project suffered delay after delay. On top of that, the obsession with the 742 series drained even more resources, further slowing progress.

Instead of investing heavily in a new, innovative platform from the start, Škoda kept propping up the 742 models, trying to squeeze the last drops of relevance from a design philosophy that had been around since the 1960s. It wasn’t just a technical issue, it was a stubborn attachment to a rear-engine layout that the rest of the automotive world had largely abandoned decades earlier.

The Favorit project, launched in 1983, was therefore more of an afterthought for a company focused on preserving what it knew. It wasn’t until the late 1980s that the development truly gained any momentum, partly due to increasing pressure from the government and partly because Škoda could no longer ignore the demand for a modern vehicle that could compete in European markets. Even then, the process was grueling—every small breakthrough felt like a monumental achievement. Overcoming years of stagnation and inefficiency, the team finally delivered a car that, while not without its flaws, was at least a step toward dragging Škoda into the modern era.

But even when the Favorit was finally introduced in 1987, it felt like it came too late. The world had moved on, and Škoda was still playing catch-up. The company’s insistence on clinging to the past with the 742 series had cost them years of progress, making the Favorit feel more like a last-minute salvage operation than a true revolutionary leap forward.

Sales in Czechoslovakia

Barely avaialble.

In Czechoslovakia, owning a Škoda Favorit was less about driving and more about surviving an epic quest that would make even Odysseus jealous. Priced at a staggering 84,000 Kčs (around $11,075 in today’s dollars), it wasn’t just a car—it was a mythical artifact that only the chosen few could hope to possess. For perspective, the average Czech worker in the late 1980s would have to save for years to even dream of affording one, all while praying the state economy didn’t decide to nosedive in the meantime.

But price was just the beginning of the ordeal. Even if you somehow scraped together the cash, you couldn’t just walk into a dealership, slap down your Kčs, and drive off into the sunset. Oh no. First, you had to enter the hallowed halls of Mototechna, the state-run auto dealer, which resembled a DMV but with even less hope. After submitting your paperwork, you were placed on a waiting list—a glorious piece of socialist efficiency where you waited, and waited… and waited. Months turned into years as you watched your place in line creep forward at a snail’s pace, all while nervously hoping that your name wouldn’t mysteriously disappear or get "reassigned" to someone with better connections.

If you were rich...

Then, there was the option of Tuzex, the legendary capitalist outpost that dangled forbidden Western goods in front of envious Czechs like a shiny carrot. Want a pair of Levi’s jeans? A Walkman? A can of Coca-Cola? Sure, if you had access to Tuzex vouchers or foreign currency (which, let’s be honest, most people didn’t). For many Czechs, Tuzex was the stuff of legend, whispered about in hushed tones by people lucky enough to have family members in exile or who happened to stumble upon a stray Deutsche Mark. The Favorit was a staple of the Tuzex showroom, standing proud and unattainable—like a Maserati for the proletariat.

Tuzex represented the ultimate tease. There it was, the Škoda Favorit, gleaming behind glass, promising freedom and a taste of Western luxury. But unless you were connected to the black market, an expat relative, or somehow had access to hard currency, you could only look longingly at it while resigning yourself to the harsh reality of Mototechna’s waiting list.

And even when you finally managed to get your hands on the Favorit, it wasn’t as if you were driving into the future. Oh no—this "modern marvel" had its own share of quirks, including a build quality that made every journey a mini adventure. Was today the day the electrical system would fail? Or perhaps the engine would decide to take a spontaneous vacation? Every drive felt like playing automotive roulette. But hey, you owned a Favorit, so who were you to complain? At least you weren’t stuck in your old 105/120, still rocking that sweet 1964 rear-engine charm.

In short, buying a Favorit in 1980s Czechoslovakia was less a transaction and more a rite of passage—a test of patience, connections, and blind optimism. Whether through Mototechna’s never-ending queues or Tuzex’s shiny capitalist temptations, owning one was less about driving a car and more about surviving the convoluted labyrinth of socialist bureaucracy and scarcity. And if you managed to park one in front of your panelák, you were a hero—at least until the next mechanical failure.

Sales in Foreign

Favorit was suprisingly popular in Western countries, especially in UK. Even Jeremy Clarkson liked that car.

Sales of the Škoda Favorit abroad were nothing short of a stunning success, proving that even in the land of "decadent" capitalism, the allure of socialist engineering could win over the hearts and wallets of the unsuspecting Western masses. Particularly in the UK, where the Brits—those poor, deluded souls—somehow found the Favorit charming, despite its undeniable quirks. The car quickly became a favorite among the very same people who would scoff at a domestic car with any sign of personality. But slap a badge on it from Czechoslovakia, and suddenly they couldn't resist!

Compared to its predecessor, the infamous Škoda Estelle (same car as 105,120,130,135,136 or as it was affectionately known by drivers: “the box that wobbles”), the Favorit was a revelation. The Estelle, with its rear-engine, rear-wheel-drive layout, became a punchline in the UK, mostly for its tendency to spin out of control at the sight of a corner or even a slight breeze. British motorists never quite understood why you’d put the engine in the back unless you were making a sports car or a lawnmower. So when the Favorit came along with its engine in the front and a look that vaguely resembled the cars the rest of the world had been driving since the 70s, the Brits practically fell over themselves to get one. They must have thought they were witnessing a miracle of Eastern Bloc innovation.

Unlike the Estelle, which had been the subject of endless jokes on British TV—most of which involved its "quirky" handling and boxy looks—the Favorit somehow charmed its way into respectability. Perhaps it was the sheer novelty of a Škoda that didn’t feel like it was built by someone who had only ever heard rumors of modern car design. Or maybe it was the unbeatable price, which appealed to thrifty Brits who were happy to trade a bit of refinement for an affordable, functional car. It even came with the assurance of Volkswagen’s involvement after the 1991 takeover, making it seem like a real, legitimate option for buyers who had, until then, dismissed Škoda as the punchline of the European auto market.

Ironically, the same Westerners who might turn their noses up at any whiff of socialist inefficiency were now happily driving around in a car born out of a system where progress moved at a glacial pace. But hey, it was cheap, it was practical, and it came with a whole lot less baggage than the Estelle. Who knew that a Czechoslovak car company could take over British roads—not with a high-performance supercar, but with a humble hatchback that didn’t spin out of control when you turned the steering wheel?

It seems the Brits were the ones who were truly fooled, driving around in their Škoda Favorits, blissfully unaware of the development nightmare that had plagued the car’s birth. While the Czechs had to battle waiting lists and bureaucratic hurdles to get one, the Brits just had to walk into a dealership, throw down some cash, and drive off into the misty English countryside, feeling like they’d snagged the deal of a lifetime.

Current situation

The current state of the Škoda Favorit is a tragicomedy of automotive survival. Most of these once-proud products of socialist engineering have met the grim fate of rusting in peace, hidden away in overgrown fields, abandoned to the elements, or shoved into scrapyards where they wait to be crushed into oblivion—true proletarian martyrs. If you’re unlucky enough to spot one in public, it's probably held together by duct tape, hope, and the desperation of an owner who still believes it’s 1992 and "Western cars" are capitalist nonsense.

But on the other side of the spectrum, you’ve got the collectors, those people who somehow see a relic of iron-curtain glory in this boxy piece of history. These enthusiasts spend obscene amounts of money to bring the Favorit back to life, like it’s some sort of Czechoslovak treasure that’ll one day lead the revolution. But make no mistake: these pristine models come with a price tag that could give even a capitalist a heart attack. The irony? The average Western teenager wouldn't even recognize a Favorit if it ran them over, mistaking it for some kind of Soviet UFO on wheels.

So here we are, a once-ubiquitous symbol of Czechoslovak independence reduced to two fates: slowly decomposing in a forgotten field or sitting in some garage, polished so intensely it blinds anyone who dares to look—both ends of the spectrum equally absurd.

Variants

Škoda Forman.

Favorit 136: Your basic model for the average comrade—assuming, of course, you could scrape together the money. You got four wheels, a steering wheel, and just enough engine to get you down the road while hoping it wouldn't die halfway there. It wasn't flashy, but who needs flash when you're just happy to escape the clutches of public transport?

Favorit LX: the "luxury aah" version. But let’s be honest: luxury in a Favorit was like calling your cold-war apartment "spacious" just because it had four walls. You might’ve had a radio that occasionally worked and maybe a few extra pieces of plastic trim that fell off after the first winter, but hey—it was something to show off at the local pub.

Favorit RS: Here’s where it gets truly absurd. They made exactly one of these. That’s right—just one. The RS is the unicorn of the Eastern Bloc. It was meant to be a "sporty" version, built for speed in a world where nobody was in a rush. They put some racing stripes on it and tweaked the engine, but the real kicker is that only the truly privileged ever even saw it. A sports car for a system that couldn’t afford sport.

Forman: The estate version, because nothing says "family car" like turning a box into an even bigger box. The Forman was for the lucky few who could afford to haul around their family and all their disillusionment in one go. Perfect for carrying potatoes, or maybe just the weight of unmet expectations.

Škoda Favorit Pick-up.

Pick-up: Let’s take the underpowered Favorit and turn it into a utility vehicle. Because, of course, the solution to an already struggling car is to expect it to haul things. You had to admire the optimism of anyone who thought this was a good idea. Sure, it could transport some crates of beer, assuming you didn’t mind breaking down halfway there.

But here’s the cruelest joke of all: until 1989, most people couldn't even afford a Favorit. The so-called people’s car was nothing more than a dream for the working class. And as for that one RS? It became a symbol of a system where everyone was promised something great, but almost no one got it.

Specs

Engine:

Under the bonnet of the Škoda Favorit, you’d typically find a 1.3-liter inline-four engine. This humble engine was carbureted in most versions, producing a whopping 58 horsepower (43 kW) in the domestic model. It was a marvel of simplicity: just enough to get you around town but not enough to get you anywhere fast. Top speed? Well, let’s just say if you hit 135 km/h (83 mph), you were probably going downhill with a tailwind.

Export versions:

Now, here’s where it gets funny. For the Western markets, the Favorit got somewhat better treatment, with fuel injection and—brace yourselves—a catalytic converter to meet those pesky capitalist emissions standards. However, the addition of the catalytic converter meant that the already feeble engine output got dialed down even more. Export models, especially those destined for countries like the UK or Germany, were neutered to around 54 horsepower (40 kW). That’s right, they somehow made a slow car even slower. These models were crawling along, trying to pretend they belonged on the autobahns, when they were really built for Soviet-era traffic jams.

Acceleration:

As for acceleration? Well, 0 to 100 km/h (0 to 62 mph) in about 15 seconds on a good day, assuming you weren’t carrying anything heavier than your lunch. It was the kind of car where you had plenty of time to reflect on life choices every time you tried to merge onto the highway.

Fuel economy:

One thing the Favorit had going for it was fuel efficiency. You could expect around 7 liters per 100 km (about 34 mpg) under normal driving conditions, or a bit more for export versions, thanks to that catalytic converter again. But considering the lack of performance, you might as well have been saving all that petrol for a more exciting vehicle—like, say, a bicycle.

Transmission:

The Favorit came with a good old-fashioned 5-speed manual gearbox. Sure, automatics were a thing, but not here. You were expected to shift your own gears like a real comrade, even if the gearbox was as smooth as a Politburo meeting.

In summary, the Škoda Favorit was not built for speed or excitement. It was built to move the proletariat—slowly—while keeping emissions just low enough to meet the standards of those pesky Western markets. A symbol of modesty and frugality, with the export models as a reminder that even a catalytic converter can’t polish a... well, you know.

Trims

When it comes to the equipment and features of the Škoda Favorit, it’s a glorious exercise in minimalism—like the automotive equivalent of bread lines. But hey, you didn’t buy a Favorit for luxury, you bought it because it was the best (and only) option available.

Base model equipment (Favorit 136):

Let’s start with the basics. And I do mean basics. The 136 came with:

• Manual windows: None of those fancy power windows for the people’s car. You’d be cranking that handle like it was the Cold War all over again.
• Cloth seats: Simple, durable, and about as stylish as a school uniform. If you were lucky, they might even stay intact for the first few years.
• Analog dashboard: No digital nonsense here, just good old-fashioned dials. Speedometer, fuel gauge, maybe a temperature gauge—everything you needed to know and nothing more. And the best part? You could sometimes guess if it was even accurate.
• Manual steering: None of this "power steering" capitalist luxury. Steering the Favorit was a full-body workout, but on the plus side, it saved you a gym membership.
• A heater: No air conditioning, of course, but you did get a heater. This wasn’t some Western comfort feature; it was a necessity in the frigid winters of Eastern Europe. Though it might take a while before it actually warmed up.

Luxury version (Favorit LX):

For the bourgeois among us, Škoda offered the Favorit LX. This “luxury” version was packed with state-of-the-art features like:

• Velour upholstery: Because nothing says class like scratchy velour.
• Central locking: That’s right, you could unlock all the doors at once, a feature sure to dazzle your comrades.
• Intermittent wipers: A step up from the standard on-off wipers, because who needs full-speed wipers in a light drizzle?
• Rear window defroster: Another marvel of socialist engineering, keeping your rear window frost-free... eventually.
• Radio: The pinnacle of in-car entertainment, assuming the antenna wasn’t snapped off. If you got lucky, it might even pick up a few stations, probably broadcasting the latest Party updates or some Soviet-era pop music.

Favorit Forman equipment:

Now for the estate version, the Forman, made for the family man. It had the same basic interior as the other models, but you did get more storage space for your potatoes or black-market goods. The main upgrade here was the ability to fit more into your rolling box of disappointment.

Export models:

For those lucky enough to drive a Favorit in the West, there were a few "luxury" additions. Western markets demanded a bit more, so export models often came with:

• Catalytic converter: Not exactly exciting, but required by law in places like Germany and the UK. It helped the Favorit meet emissions standards, but at the cost of even more horsepower.
• Fuel injection: An upgrade from the carburetor, because apparently, the West wasn’t interested in stopping every few kilometers to fiddle under the hood.
• Higher quality trim: They didn’t want the trim to fall off in front of the more critical Western buyers, so export versions sometimes got slightly better materials. Still, don’t expect anything close to leather.

Pick-up version equipment:

For the utility-minded, the Favorit pick-up offered the same Spartan interior but with a flatbed. Perfect for hauling construction supplies—or maybe just your broken dreams.

Safety features:

And let’s not forget the "safety" features, such as they were:

• Seat belts: They were there, but beyond that? It was basically "good luck" in the event of a crash.
• Crush zones: More like "crush everything" zones. The Favorit was not exactly built with modern crash standards in mind, so getting in an accident was probably best avoided altogether.

In conclusion, the Škoda Favorit’s equipment list was a lesson in function over form—except when it came to export models, where function was watered down to comply with capitalist regulations. Whether you drove a base model or the "luxury" version, you weren’t getting bells and whistles. You were getting a car designed to move the masses, with just enough equipment to keep it from being classified as a bicycle.

Škoda Henlein

Only preserved Škoda Henlein in Čerčany.

The Škoda Henlein, one of the darkest and most eccentric military vehicles ever produced, was a unique creation of early 1990s post-Cold War Europe. Developed at the LIAZ factory in the Sudetenland, it was conceived as a compact combat vehicle designed to operate in urban environments. What makes the Henlein especially infamous is its unorthodox blend of civilian engineering and lethal military technology. Only one unit has survived, crafted from a standard Škoda Favorit, but it has earned a fearsome reputation for its deadly and grotesque features.

Combat Features

The Henlein was equipped with a deadly combination of outdated yet effective weaponry. Two MG 34 machine guns, cleverly hidden beneath the front headlights, provided formidable firepower for a vehicle of its size. Capable of unleashing 7.92 mm rounds at a rate of 900 per minute, these weapons gave the Henlein the ability to mow down enemies in close-quarters combat, particularly in urban skirmishes.

Alongside the MG 34s, the Henlein also housed an M16 assault rifle with an under-barrel grenade launcher, offering versatility in mid- to short-range combat. The rifle could be quickly accessed from inside the cabin, giving the crew flexibility in different combat scenarios. An optional 90 mm Panzerfaust anti-tank weapon was included, allowing the Henlein to engage light armor and fortifications—an essential feature given its role in urban warfare.

Motor Controlled by Counter

The Henlein’s engine was a unique piece of engineering for its time. It's equipped with the 1.9-liter diesel engine from the successor Škoda Felicia, capable of reaching speeds of up to 120 km/h on roads. However, unlike standard engines, this one was controlled by a mechanical counter. The counter tracked engine revolutions and other key metrics, preventing the vehicle from overloading or overheating in intense combat situations. It also allowed the crew to precisely regulate the engine’s output, ensuring optimal performance in fast-paced urban environments or during evasive maneuvers.

This system was designed to keep the Henlein in peak condition, even when subjected to the stress of rapid maneuvers or prolonged skirmishes. By controlling engine parameters automatically, the counter reduced the risk of mechanical failure in the heat of battle—a crucial advantage for a lightweight, heavily armed vehicle that relied on speed and agility.

Exhaust Gas System

In one of its more macabre innovations, the Henlein came equipped with a notorious exhaust gas system that could redirect engine fumes directly into the driver’s compartment. This grim system was designed as an emergency measure, ensuring that in the event of a critical failure or impending capture, the crew would not survive to be taken prisoner. The toxic exhaust would incapacitate the driver and passengers within minutes, sealing their fate. The system had been field-tested, and its efficiency had already been "proven," adding to the Henlein’s grim reputation.

Direct Combustion System

The Henlein’s Direct Combustion System was a self-destruct mechanism designed to destroy the vehicle and its occupants in the event of imminent capture. In a grotesque touch, the vehicle carried two urns in the trunk, meant to contain the ashes of the crew after the system ignited, incinerating everything inside. This fail-safe was a chillingly literal "burn after reading" solution, ensuring that neither the vehicle’s technology nor its crew would fall into enemy hands.

Alternative Fuel System

A particularly unsettling feature of the Henlein was its rumored ability to run on Zyklon B gas as an alternative fuel source. While it’s unclear whether this system was ever fully operational, the mere suggestion that such a chemical agent was involved added a deeply sinister dimension to the vehicle’s legacy. The symbolic and practical implications of using a gas notorious for its historical atrocities underscored the Henlein’s role as both a combat vehicle and a tool of psychological warfare.

Armor and Defense

Though not heavily armored, the Henlein was outfitted with bulletproof glass and some lightweight armor, offering basic protection against small-arms fire. However, its frame, inherited from the Škoda Favorit, was far from robust, relying more on speed and surprise to evade enemy fire. Its armor was enough to survive brief encounters, but sustained attacks or explosives would quickly overwhelm the vehicle.

Legacy

The sole surviving Škoda Henlein stands as a dark relic of military ingenuity taken to its extreme. What began as a modest Škoda Favorit—an affordable, practical car for civilians—was transformed into a compact yet deadly war machine, equipped with some of the most unconventional and morally ambiguous systems ever conceived. With its machine guns, grenade launcher, toxic exhaust system, and self-incineration mechanism, the Henlein was designed to wage war not only on the battlefield but on the human psyche.

Today, this single unit serves as a stark reminder of how even the most mundane civilian technology can be repurposed for sinister applications when the demands of conflict push innovation beyond the limits of conventional ethics.

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