Uncommon Charm

by Hardy Shen

At the start of this week, I came to a traumatizing realization. Every single article on the Ford Mustang GT that I read gave it some sort of positive review. I was infuriated. No matter how hard I clawed at my brain, I just couldn’t see why. Various reviews praised aspects of the car that I knew were complete rubbish. How, I thought, could they get away with such blatant lies? I knew it wasn’t a good car and something had to be done. With hat in hand, I set out to prove them wrong.

My debut with the Mustang was when it first arrived at dealerships and my initial impression of the car was—unhappily—not a very good one. I was immensely disappointed because after all the publicity around the prototype’s unveiling, I expected something astounding. Cool dark photos had revealed the prototype in the most provocative ways, and I wanted adrenaline to course through my veins as I stepped into the car. I wanted it to make me quiver with anticipation as I turned the key. I wanted something to blow my mind as I drove down the road and wish with every fiber in my body that the car was mine. It was Ford’s modern retake on the Mustang that would hold true to its legendary roots, and it did. But unfortunately, it held onto much more than just memorable styling.

The most outrageous aspect of the car is its sheer size. It is absolutely, without a doubt, hugely, tremendously, appallingly, shockingly massive. It’s so big, in fact, playing chicken with freight trucks would be entirely possible. I had seen the prototype in person a year earlier and although it seemed a little large for my taste, I never actually realized its immense bulk until I physically traced it in person. As I walked around the car, which took several days, a feeling of dread came over me. I knew then and there I was going to be let down. It was going to be a classic case of ‘never meet your childhood heroes.’

To start off, I was thoroughly disgusted at its solid rear-axle. Ford sought off-the-line performance, so they had their engineers “develop a three-link, solid-axle rear suspension with outboard-mounted shocks and a Panhard rod to do just that.” I’m sorry, but there is nothing to develop with a live axle set up. The technology was invented right after the Stone Age, and unless you consider ripping an axle off a truck and cutting it down to size development, it just isn’t true. And so, with an iron beam connecting the wheels in the rear, you’d expect the handling to be awful right? Wrong. The handling was worse than awful. It was utterly abysmal.

Usually, to provide a ride that’s both comfortable and sporty, a compromise has to be met so that a car will glide over potholes and kiss the cracks on the road, but be rigid enough to allow the vehicle to make nippy turns without barreling over. Unfortunately, the Mustang achieves neither. Sure the springs are plenty soft, but they only serve to cause the car to sway like a dinghy in rough seas. Honestly, there wasn’t a hint of grace or poise at all. Turning a corner was like a medieval knight sword-fighting but with a trout— awkward and sloppy. Perhaps they sacrificed handling for ride comfort? No! I could still feel every nick and blemish on the road. What then was the point of making the suspension this way? What’s the point of having a classic throwback with all the old drawbacks?

But in spite of its faults, I could never hate the car. After my first test drive, I walked away with confusion. Not only did I find this car abhorrent, I also loved it. For the longest time, I could never figure out the rationale behind my thoughts. It was only on my second test drive that I started to realize why. The interior, for example, is noticeably handsome and laid out rather conveniently as well. The seats feel rather wide, but I realized that if they’re large enough to accommodate a rhinoceros, they’ll be able to fit any American just fine. They weren’t designed with a small Asian in mind, but a large 300 lb male.

As for the handling, even though Ford had stiffened up the chassis, the drive still felt mostly the same. But because I already knew the capabilities of the car, I never focused on the faults at all. As I drove along, the car made more and more sense to me. And something strange happened. Every time I came to a stoplight, I’d have a tremendous urge to leave in a cloud of white smoke, or drag race whoever was beside me; even if it was a minivan full of kids. I would floor the throttle randomly at times just to hear the engine grunt and feel the car lift its nose like an angry stallion. It would hold a slide with ease, for as long as I wanted—heaps of smoke pouring from my rear wheels. I would catch myself at times—grinning from ear to ear—as I dabbed some opposite lock on the steering wheel. I appreciated how easy it was to coax the back end into a drift with the help of the V8 engine and the live axle.

Burnout! by Sarah Wilson

I was slowly uncovering the basis of why I could never hate the Mustang, but it wasn’t until I drove on the highway that the reason was fully revealed. As I turned onto the onramp and cruised along at night, it hit me. It was dark, it was late, and even though I had missed an exit, I didn’t have a worry in the world because at that very moment, I was exactly where I wanted to be. I was in an American legend on a long empty stretch of highway. The yellow markers on the ground. The miles and miles of asphalt. The glow from the passing streetlamps. Looking around at the odd car I’d pass, I knew I was part of something much more special than any Mercedes or BMW driver could ever wish to be. And that was it. The Mustang brought about emotions and conveyed thoughts like an old trusty companion. It gave a sense of nostalgia, of purpose, and of significance.

The long slides, the drag strip, and the roaring engine: they all made sense to me now. No matter what I was doing or where I was headed, I was in my very own classic road movie. I was a part of an American saga that only a car like the Mustang could recreate. The handling may be utterly hopeless, but the pure joy of throwing the car around by the scruff of its neck in a tail happy slide will make anyone chuckle with satisfaction. So in the end, the Mustang proved me wrong. I too stepped out of the car with a smile on my face—I, like so many before me, had been captivated by an experience that was indescribably enchanting.

Note: The car pictured is a Shelby Mustang GT-H–the car reviewed was a Mustang GT)

Hardy Shen is a senior Mechanical Engineering student at Duke University. In his spare time, he builds race cars for the Duke Formula SAE team and travels across the world. You can read more of his auto reviews on his site, Fried Stinky Tofu.