Reposted from Automobiles de Luxe

By Gunnar Heinrich

"A Mustang?"

There was a time (throughout the past three decades) that the Ford Mustang had the build quality of a Yugo and all the panache of a Chevy Cavalier.

It was the poor (redneck) man's sportscar that after 10 years wound up rusting on the front lawns of quarter-acre trailer lots countrywide.

And in the 80s we had three-box 'Stangs that had no go and in the 90s, we had plastic Mustangs that looked like they were glued together with Elmers and still lacked muscle.

And when I settled in behind the wheel during the first part of my 7+ hour journey North by Northwest, I thought nothing had changed.

What crap! I thought, while fiddling with stereo controls that seemed to channel music through only two, tiny door mounted speakers (there were, in fact, four).

And then there were the cloth seats, the mouse-pelt headliner (as Robert Farago would say) the Mattel-Made-In-China plastic automatic gear-shifter, the tacky charcoal leatherette door inserts, the dash that had made its stab at being German but plunged short somewhere over Iceland. Outside over the passenger-side three quarter panel a fixed, plastic antenna wobbled in the wind.

Ford went for flash and got by with parts from Ocean State Job Lot.

Then there's the engine. It was a six, not an eight. At first I didn't think this would be a problem. Four liter V6 that whips 210 horses carrying a 3600 pound chariot? Why wouldn't it move? Around town it proved to be sporty, burbly, hell it even sounded like a V8.

But out on the open road, matters became different.

Driving a black Mustang sends out the same kind of signals as red flags to bulls; all the high performance loons suddenly come out of the bushes and want to show up you and your ride.

One man in a VW Jetta who parked himself @ 60 mph in the fastlane somewhere south of Springfield, Mass. elected to only accelerate alongside cars in adjacent lanes just so I couldn't pass.

The Ford V6 thundered and then shrieked to a tinny, Taurus-like cry as physics made futile my efforts to outmaneuver that jackass in his li'l V-dub.

Bogus.

Later, a couple in a drop-top Vette powered up alongside and then left me in a wake of V8 percussion.

I felt like I was a lonely desperado venturing into the deserted streets of some Wild West town; who by the very nature of looking the business was forced into showdowns with men armed with Smith & Wessons while what I carried in my side holsters posessed all the firepower of a pellet gun.

Such circumstances tend to leave one feeling vulnerable.

A sublime Mercedes-Benz (W126) 300SE pulled alongside and I grumbled under my breath that this piece probably couldn't even outrun that gentle-giant. As I saw the stately S-Class pull away, I concluded that I had picked the wrong car.

I decided that the Mustang V6 (the model's technical name) was like a muscle-bound hulk that could lure the ladies into bed yet when it came time for action, there'd be a lot of grunting and straining but little in the way of performance; causing much unhappiness all around.

The ride only added to my ambivalence toward the rental car. It proved decent for a sporting GT, but the rear-end was sending me mixed signals that it shared more in common with the waterbed ride of a Crown Vic than I'd like. And given that this 'Stang was factory fresh with 1,500 miles or so, I knew things were as they would be when new.

Then came the turn.

It was an off-ramp that simultaneously descended and curled into the Mass Pike. I had entered the corner late and fast and when I dialed in the steering- magic happened.

The Ford's vast bow hunkered down and right while some invisible hook snagged the rear and yanked it in fast and tight to follow where the front wheels were headed.

It was fleet-of-foot, precise action that all those miles of highway cruising had wiped from my memory but now had rejuvenated my senses to this GT.

The action reminded me of the dual-natured character of Jaguar suspensions: floaty when pointed straight but anchored in the corners.

As the road straightened again, I could feel a new appreciation for this beast. Some kind of sweet transformation occurred from one simple twist of the helm and I couldn't have been more grateful.

And while the Canadian border still stood 6/8ths of the journey away over a darkening horizon, mile by mile the Mustang was pulling bolder and bolder moves.

The Ford was growing on me.

Part Three > Welcome To Canada/Bienvenue Au Canada