I now own two kit cars, a VW MG TD that was built in 1980 by a guy two counties away, and the VW Porsche Spyder I built myself in a little over three years.
Agree with Gordon that most of the guys who take offense at the word "kit" do so because they did not build the car themselves. And fair enough, I suppose. If one buys something fully assembled, batteries included, it's a complete thing and not a kit. Also, the guys working at VS, Beck and IM are just better at building cars than me—and most of the rest of us. But...
IMHO a home-built Speedster or Spyder can be (and often is) just as good as a "factory turn-key" example. Often they are objectively better, as a careful examination of Gordon's Speedster, Danny P's Spyder or any number of Alan Merklin-built cars demonstrate.
So, I don't understand the use of "kit" as a slur, unless in the context of unalloyed class snobbery. A guy with a legit 1952 MGTD could call mine a "kit car" with some contempt, if he wished—but in a decade's ownership and having met and interacted with many owners of real MGs, it's yet to happen. And I think that's down to the relative value and rarity of our respective cars.
A dude rocking an original 1956 Speedster is likely to find himself in a different tax bracket but, even so, I've yet to hear one of those marque stalwarts sneer "kit" at any of ours. It may have happened out of my earshot. I've heard that some of the 911 guys are snarkier, but have never yet experienced it.
So the main cargo of feelings and concerns about the term "kit car" appears to reside within this, the Clown Car Community. As a charter PCCA member, this saddens me. What are these contraptions, really?
Definitionally speaking, I don't see a credible case for the word "replica." Even if one rejects the strict "tool room copy" definition employed by some rare car enthusiasts, both of my vehicles are far, far from close to correct copies of the vehicles they supposedly "replicate." My "MG" is 4 inches longer than the real item, for example. And that's before we even start to talk about what end of the vehicle the engine's in! The Spyder is also 4 inches longer than a real 550. It's the wrong shape across the cowl and the rear fenders and the butt end and the front end. Wrong wheels, wrong brakes, wrong front suspension. On and on and on. These facts hold in my specific cases despite a ton of work I did making both cars look more like the cars that inspired them than all but a few other kits.
I think those little details are worth the time and effort and money, mostly. But only because I love them. Not because I imagine for one second they'll make Pinocchio into a real boy.
And your cars are the same: Speedsteresque in greater or lesser ways, some with the correct-looking "umbrella handle" parking brake under the dash, some with a flatter, lower tunnel, some with pedals that look less Bugish, some with gauges, or the shifter, or the top frame, or the door cards or the hood hinges or the engine dressed more or less like what a real 356 Speedster might have worn.
What we have here are all loose, or even looser, interpretations of a 65-year-old vehicle. They are all tributes, I think, to the iconic cars of a bygone era.
But—and this is important—not a one of them is ever going to fool even the most naive potential buyer that it's a "Porsche." None of our cars falls into—or ever could fall into—that category of "clone cars" wherein a '68 Lemans is transformed, for the purpose of resale, into a "GTO," or a 1970 SS Nova becomes a "Yenko."
Friends, what we have are "hot rods."
They are hopped-up VW Beetles. Better, stronger, faster.
More stylish.
Cuter.
Meaner.
They are street rods. Hot rods. Assembled (by someone—maybe me, maybe you, maybe Carey Hines) from Volkswagon Bug parts, mild steel, aluminum and plastic resin. Some are kits when they come to us. Others are kits when assembled professionally, then sent to us.
Hot rods. Street rods. Customs.
We are the kandy-kolored tangerine flake streamline, babies.
And we're the dual-plug, bundle-o-snakes rack & pinion road runners.
And the fuel-injected crank-fired Speeduino-weenies.
And we're the coast-cruisin', wave-catching cool runnin' chillaxers.
31 flavors of madness. Or even more than that.