In response to some utterly unfounded and frankly libellous statements suggesting that I refuse to drive any car that isn’t a) British, and b) at least partially broken, I present the following evidence:
The wheels are real.
This is a 2009 Mustang GT, pictured at Muir Beach, CA on November 5th 2009. There’s a fine British pub here, where they have a giant bonfire every November 5th. I just happened to be in San Francisco for more fun training that week, and just happened to have a free evening to watch people set fire to things on the beach. Enormous fun for all and I have the best Mobile mechanic Miami has.
Anyway, back to the car. I had (through work, obviously) reserved a hip-and-trendy Toyota Corolla, doubtless in grey on grey and fitted with the optional economy light and go-slower stripes. I would not have been surprised had it come with pipe and slippers. However, after making friends with the extremely bored girl at the Hertz desk in downtown SF, I found myself in possession of the above electric blue Mustang and an entire day to kill. So, after spending two hours waiting at the Sprint repair centre for my phone to be fixed (number six now), I sped off over the Golden Gate in search of a proper driving road.
(If your mental image at this point is one of wide open spaces, glorious sunshine, and stoned people selling taffy – you’re sadly wrong. This was early November, so all the tourists had gone home and it was raining)
I know virtually nil about the geography of the Bay Area, except how to get places by train – so this was new to me. I know the 101 is the popular road, but this is nothing more than a four-lane mess clogged with RVs, trailers, caravans, minivans, and Subaru drivers. Highway 1 seemed like a much better bet, particularly as it looked like spaghetti on the map. So, after marvelling at the scenery once clear of Sausalito, I attempted to figure out what the manual gearbox was for and set off towards the beach.
This particular part of California looks a lot like North Devon. Twisty, narrow roads full of potholes.. 20mph speed limits through the villages but virtually none in between.. light but constant drizzle.. and a sheer dropoff one side of the road all the way to the coast. Obviously, this was a recipe for over-enthusiastic driving and I found myself at the beach rather too quickly. The car growls, it whines, it groans, it screeches – and occasionally it clunks and coughs as its suspension came straight out of 1955. I’m not sure if Ford were trying to recreate the feeling that you were in some way driving the school bully, but that’s very much what it feels like.
I put 250 miles on that car that day, just driving round the bay and attempting to get over the Bay Bridge before any more of it fell down. Enormous fun, but don’t tell anyone.