I'm sitting at a traffic light on a nine-lane road bisecting a blight of car dealers, warehouse eateries and chain stores. My opponent is driving a white Elantra with almost enough body mods to disguise its humble origins, but not quite. I can hear the Hyundai's hamster wheel whining over the top of the Mustang's bellowing V8. Clearly, the Korean whip has about as much chance of outrunning the GT as an octogenarian jogger; yet Elantra Boy is determined to get it on.
Just in case I needed more proof that EB is tanked-up on stupid pills, he assumes that a changing traffic light means it's his turn, and nearly T-bones an F150. The dope backs up, readying himself for another try. Of course, letting EB go first would be the sensible thing to do. But there's no traffic ahead, and, well, if the Mustang GT wasn't built for an illegal drag race in consumer wasteland, what WAS the point?
The light turns yellow for the lane crossers. EB nails it. I wait for green and follow suit. The Mustang squirms slightly as the P Zero Neros fight for purchase on the silky blacktop. When the GT's traction control system kicks in, the car surges forward with genuine conviction. Pulling up next to the Elantra, I ignore the maxed-out engine sound bouncing around the cabin and the harsh vibrations shaking my stick hand. Experience has taught me that the GT only seems to run out of puff at 4000; there's another 2000rpm of shove before the tacho needle kisses the redline.
A moment before changing up, I glance down and see... sweet FA. The speedo is just as illegible as its disco-era inspiration. In contrast, the Mustang's slick shifting five-speed is supremely user-friendly. It's perfectly positioned for major league bang-bang, and snicks home with Honda-like precision. So bang into second, a big squirt of dead dinosaur, and that's all she wrote. I change up into third to seal the deal, but it isn't strictly necessary. EB is history.
And so, of course, is the Ford Mustang. You could no more chronicle America's automotive past without discussing the Ford Mustang than you could list Germany's automotive achievements without mentioning Hitler's Volkswagen. Strangely, thankfully, the new Mustang is no mere evolution of the Pony Car's seemingly endless legacy. No, the GT is a nostalgic Mustang "re-imagining". The new shape combines the best bits of the best versions of the brand's mostly dire design heritage, and throws in a barrel-chested V8 for good measure. In other words, the Mustang GT looks great, sounds like sex and goes like stink.
Maybe that's why the US automotive press is all over the GT like a cheap suit. Or it could be because the Mustang GT costs less than a closet full of Armani slacks. Obviously, it's hard to argue against a sexy-looking car (or any car) that can blast from zero to sixty in a mere 5.4 seconds, do the quarter mile in 13.8 seconds and costs a paltry $27k (not even £14,500 at the time of writing!), all in; hard, but not impossible. For example, Detroit's hottest coupe is not exactly what you'd call a natural born corner carver.
To keep costs low, the Blue Oval's bean counters decreed a continuation of the Mustang's live rear axle; "live" as in "bouncy". In fact, this set-up virtually guarantees a crap ride and significant traction loss during hard cornering. To their credit, Ford's clever boffins have tweaked the Mustang's Luddite suspension to provide a reasonable ride and minimal wheel hop. Even so, the GT still displays a natural aversion to hard charging in anything other than a straight line. Fling yourself into a bumpy corner and the Mustang's rear end threatens to fling you right back out.
The problem is aggravated by a major dose of initial body lean, which is exacerbated by a driving chair that offers less lateral support than a highly polished mahogany bench. Speaking of butt parking, did the Mustang's retro design mandate completely useless rear seats? Or was it a political thing (no legroom left behind)? And is it needlessly PC of me to point out that a Mustang GT at full gallop gulps down a gallon of unleaded every 15 miles? Or is that simply the price you pay to impress friends and humiliate strangers?
Yup, that sounds about right. The Mustang GT is a born-again muscle car that makes baby boomers feel like they're the cool kid in a fictional '50s high school. The fact that the 'Stang guzzles gas like a '70s land yacht and shimmies around corners like it's on springs (it is) is beside the point. As long as the Ford Mustang GT can blow the doors off of the creeps and losers cruising around outside the local hamburger joint, what more could you want?
Read more of Robert Farago's reviews at
www.thetruthaboutcars.com.
