Drive

Of course, it’s a Mustang.  We’re out west where they run wild.  2,431 miles into the 4,426 total mile trip, and I’m being passed (it doesn’t happen often on the open road, so I tend to recall them).  Some mistake was made at corporate and a sport package Focus made it into the Avis fleet.  It’s not as sweet as the (manual only) ST package and nowhere near as bonkers as the RS will be, but it’s not a bad cross-country ride.  It understeers, but its willing engine, lowered suspension and better brakes and tires have acquitted themselves well.  A warm, rather than hot hatch; it’s tough to argue with 34.8 mpg at an average trip speed of 74.4 mph (thank you, South Dakota and Wyoming).   

Ford's on a roll these days.  Even the little Fiesta can be turned into legal speeds hootenanny fling thing by checking the ST box on the order sheet.  The halo GT and forthcoming flat plane cranked GT350 are Maranello worriers, while the Raptor continues to be a rolling testosterone advertisement (or supplement).  The Transit is funky.  The Fusion is suave beyond its Aston Martin parts department grill, and will eat miles all day long in comfort.  Both the Taurus and Flex can be had as all-wheel drive, twin-turbo sleepers with over 500 horsepower after just a little warranty-voiding help from the aftermarket.  Want to know the value of a focused CEO?  Click (here) for a start.  Then send current Ford CEO Mark Fields a note telling him you want just two things in life.  A woody option for the Flex and a Lincoln Continental that is Rat Pack worthy.  Not mumbling, open collar pretty boy.  Rat Pack.

Far from Dearborn, Ford efficiency is about to be overtaken by Ford effectiveness.  The Conestoga-axled Mustang in the rear view is not going to be held off by a Focus Sport.  The suitable for framing driving school diplomas are not going to be enough.  The white stang behind me has a serious pilot.  I can tell by the black vinyl peeled off the hood to make his steed a little less noticeable by the five oh.  The remaining Boss 302 grill is a giveaway, as is his closing speed.  He thunders past, side exhausts bellowing against the canyon walls.  If you are going to be passed, there’s no dishonor in watching Shadowfax’s muscular flanks gallop away into the distance.

That was hours ago.  Now, it’s the Focus’ turn to canter. 

With the city manager political lever still firmly locked in the off position, let me offer four words.  I like Ike tonight.  The pros and cons of the Interstate system are both vast.   But you have to hand it to Eisenhower and his Interstate vision.  He won the war.  He noticed the power of the Autobahn.  He connected America.  That’s a full life’s work. 

Tonight is actually early morning.  Past midnight.  All the trucks have been put to bed along I-90, leaving no one on the road.  And what a road through the Bitterroot Mountains in Idaho.  The Nurburgring without the 911s.   Laguna Seca without the sand.  Road America without the omnipresent perfume of bratwurst.  Not to say there’s a shortage of meat.  Every few miles, there’s a four-legged Jackson Pollock on the highway, painted in crimson and reminding you not to overdrive your headlights. 

Turn off the dash lights.  Adjust the seat and steering wheel.  Thumb through the iPod for a suitably paced song to lead off a genius playlist.  “Let It Go” by Def Leppard will do (don’t judge, you weren’t there).  Roll the window down a bit.  Flick on the brights and get to work, keeping the dashed white line somewhere near the middle to give you room for wildlife avoidance.  The fun really begins on the downslope.  The playlist 80s on.  Judas Priest.  UFO.  AC/DC.  Molly Hatchet.  Motley Crue.  Lita Ford (Kiss Me Deadly is a bad song? – I beg to differ). Van Halen.  Cinderella.  Poison.  Ok, now it’s getting embarrassing.

The speedometer is anything but embarrassing.  Downhill.  Downhill.  Downhill right sweeper.  Uphill left hairpin.  Downhill left.  Downhill.  Downhill right.  Downhill straight.  Short uphill right.  Long downhill left.  Short straight.  DEER!  Drift slightly right.  You’re welcome Bambi.  Downhill right.  Straight.  Short uphill right.  Long downhill left.  Downhill.  So it goes, for mile after noir heaven mile.  And to think, I would have otherwise been folded into seat 37B at 32,000 feet.  

Life.  Find a road and get some.