Bad Romance

♪You know that I want you
And you know that I need you
I want it bad
Your bad romance ♬

-Lady Gaga

For better or worse (usually worse), I’ve always been fascinated with speed. My obsession began on Christmas Day 1978 when I received a brand new 1979 Tahitian Red Honda Z50R Mini Trail Bike. At the time, we lived in Moss Point at the end of a small residential street, so I never had much room to go fast. And up until that point I was solely accustomed to skateboards and bicycles that could only go as fast as my legs would carry me. So, it’s easy to imagine the addictive sensation of speed when I opened up that 49cc four-stroke engine. I was hooked from that moment on, and it only got worse when I received my driver’s license.    

Unfortunately, my love of cars is deeply interwoven with my obsession for speed, so all my life I’ve been constantly chasing that elusive top speed target. And I don’t discriminate: that burning desire compelled me to attempt the top speed of nearly every vehicle I’ve ever owned, no matter if it was my current Red Line or something as pedestrian as a 1992 Saturn SL1. Like a junkie hunting a fix, it’s always on my mind.

Regrettably, it gets harder with each passing year to flagrantly violate the posted speed limits. There’s more traffic and more police on the roads than ever before. Now, this activity isn’t something I do out of malice, or with the intent to harm anyone. Rather, it’s simply a personal desire to push the performance envelope of any given vehicle and see how it responds. I feel a lot of the people reading this have been in similar situations and can relate. I’m also of the belief that if I buy something, I should be entitled to use it however I see fit, as long as it doesn’t endanger others. Sadly, the law doesn’t recognize this and I could be arrested for driving 100 mph down a solitary road the same as I could for driving 100 mph through a school zone. Clearly, there’s a significant difference here, but I’ve yet to meet a law enforcement officer that wasn’t brainwashed into thinking all speeders should be punished the same as drug-dealers, murders and rapists.

Speed limits, it’s worth noting, are oftentimes set arbitrarily and artificially low for the sole purpose of revenue generation (i.e. speeding tickets) and simply don’t reflect the strides in automotive engineering and safety that we’ve incurred since the 55 mph speed limit was mandated in 1973. With multiple airbags, traction control, stability control and crush zones, cars are inherently safer than ever before. Yet portions of a Texas toll road (subsidized by more taxpayer dollars) are currently the fastest in the nation with a maximum speed limit of 85 mph. Unbelievably, Idaho is the next highest with sections of its highway governed to 80 mph. Even so, a relaxed drive on any local interstate is usually met with other motorists who feel comfortable driving much faster than the posted limit. Recently, I was on a trip to New Orleans and traffic was flowing between 80-85 mph, quite a bit faster than the posted limits of 65-70. Of course, you always have that one left-lane speed demon who deems 100 mph a “reasonable and prudent” speed. Personally, I feel driving that fast in heavy traffic is much more dangerous than driving 120 mph down a deserted highway. Our legislators would also be quite surprised to know that fatality rates on the speed-limit free Autobahn in Europe are a fraction of what they are here on our radar-enforced roads.

History tells us the first person to officially be recognized for hitting 100 mph in a car was a Frenchman named Louis Rigolly who accomplished the deed in 1904. Although I wasn’t there, I can undoubtedly attest that this record was broken without the accompaniment of his wife, who had she been a passenger, would surely have been screaming at him to slow down. But over 100 years later, it’s possible with just about any new car, even something as pedestrian as a Toyota Prius. And ever since I bought my Ion Red Line in 2010, I was anxious to see if I could peg out its 140 mph speedometer. On paper, it seemed to be relatively easy given that a stock 205-horsepower example tested by Car and Driver magazine achieved a top speed of 144 mph and my car was modified to 310-horsepower. But in reality, many different things such as weather, humidity, and even road surface, can affect a vehicle’s terminal velocity. Likewise, some cars such as the 662-horsepower Shelby GT500 that seem like a top-speed slam-dunk, fail to attain their magic number. Ford claimed their 2013 model had been measured at 202 mph, but Car and Driver could only coax 189 out of it.

Shortly after getting my Ion, I briefly attempted a brazen top speed run in broad daylight. It was a bright, fall day and on that particular afternoon I suddenly found myself on an empty four-lane road. I quickly downshifted and nailed the throttle. The engine responded with immediate thrust and I swiftly saw the speedometer arching past 100 mph. I was nervously peering as far ahead as possible, trying to ascertain if anything in the distance vaguely resembled a law-enforcement vehicle. Paradoxically, the faster I went, the longer it took. The tiny gap between 110 and 120 stretched out to become a yawning, transcontinental divide as I waited feverishly for the red needle to surpass it. The wind noise, nearly imperceptible at legal speeds, had now become a vicious, howling animal as I attempted to bludgeon my car though it, going ever faster. My pulse was racing and my steely resolve was wavering. There was a clear Freudian struggle emerging between the id and the superego. The id was demanding that I keep my right foot down to achieve that lofty goal, but the superego’s self-preservation instincts were pummeling me with a million questions, all derived from the consequences of my life-threatening actions. Whomever said the mind gives out before the body was right in my case, as I let off at 120 mph and aborted my momentary quest for top speed. I then spent the next fifteen minutes frantically scanning my rear-view mirror for any sign of approaching authorities.

I suppose that disappointing result shouldn’t have surprised me, as in the past it has taken some liquid courage for me to accomplish my previous top speed runs. In 1991, I was in my Mustang GT when some Louisiana yuppies in a BMW convertible thought they could bully me with their presumably superior car. I knew their Nazi six-cylinder was no match for my domestic V-8, so when they attempted to speed up and cut me off in traffic, I dropped the hammer on them. An immediate influx of testosterone and adrenaline coursing through my veins gave me the temporary determination to keep the heel to the steel and not lift until I had maxed out the speedometer at 140 mph. In retrospect, it was clear that the Mustang lacked appropriate high-speed development, and was more suited to quarter-mile passes. That fact notwithstanding, it admirably galloped up to that velocity despite considerable front-end lift and steering that became worryingly vague. I never saw the frat punks again, but I bet they didn’t soon forget the way my thoroughbred kicked sand in their Cajun faces.

Another record-setting run occurred after an evening at a downtown brewery in Mobile and involved the kind of false bravado you can only get at the bottom of an 80-proof bottle. I was piloting the del Sol and my best friend Rick was riding shotgun. My alcohol-seduced brain was bamboozled into thinking that it was an appropriate time to see how fast the Honda could go, never mind that it was past midnight and completely pitch black. I recalled reading that the del Sol’s maximum speed was 125 mph and it was geared to reach that at the 7200 rpm redline in fifth gear. If Red Bull gives you wings, apparently Jack Daniels gives you guts, because I held the accelerator down until we saw 125 mph. But the valiant VTEC valve-train continued to pull, so I stubbornly kept the throttle planted as Rick barked out the ever-increasing digits. Unbelievably, it pulled 200 rpm into the redline, and an indicated 127 mph, before I released it. Only the next day, when I had sobered up, did I realize that it had been just a few electrons shy of hitting the fuel cut-off mechanism at 7500 rpm, potentially reducing the aluminum engine to junk yard silage. I also apologized to Rick since I regretted putting him in harm’s way with two young children at home. I’m content with risking my own life doing what I love, but I shouldn’t have imperiled him. 

 

Like different girlfriends, there have been other top speed runs over the years, although they admittedly weren’t as dramatic or exciting. My 1986 Fiero had a 2.8-liter V6 that was rated at 140 hp. With the catalytic converter hollowed out, it was probably closer to 145, and Car and Driver recorded a top speed of 125 mph from it. Never mind that the speedometer only went up to 85 mph, my youthful exuberance encouraged me to see how fast I could go down a long sweeping straight near my home. With the assistance of gravity, I pegged out the speedometer pretty quickly and as I continued to accelerate, I witnessed a phenomenon I have never seen before or after. The speedometer needle began nervously bouncing off the tiny post on the end of the dial, flinging it back around to reading 40 and 50 mph. Understandably, this bizarre occurrence was enough to quickly extinguish my ardor, so I immediately slowed down. I had a similarly dull experience in a 1992 SL1, the very first Saturn we ever owned. It was powered by an anemic 1.9-liter four-cylinder that also exhaled through a catless exhaust pipe and was rated from the factory at a feeble 85 hp. Unlike the Fiero, at least the speedometer in it was mercifully scaled to 110 mph, so one Saturday night I decided to see how fast it would go. The acceleration to 100 mph and beyond was so leisurely that I might have dozed off for a few minutes. And even at 105 mph, there was no thrilling sensation of speed, just the cacophonous bellow of a motor seemingly about to blow apart into a thousand pieces. Let’s be honest, “smooth” has never been a trait used to describe Saturn’s engines, particularly the early models. Despite that, it heroically  climbed until it crashed into the speed-limiter at 107 mph with an alarming stumble. Following that, I was wide awake and didn’t have any desire to duplicate it again.               

I seldom drive my car besides commuting to work, so I rarely have the opportunity to seek out a top speed run. However, each year at Christmas my employer holds a holiday party that sees me coming home from Alabama late at night. In 2015, I again failed to break 120 mph, but this year was different: energized after a hot streak of winning $20 and a tacky ornament, I was emboldened to finally crush that elusive 140 mph objective. On the way home, and again under the cover of darkness, I reached my perennial spot and opened it up. Above 100 mph, there was a huge whistling noise that sounded akin to a major air leak around my window. As I accelerated, it got louder and vibrated more, like the automotive equivalent of my conscience. I began to worry that the glass might suddenly blow out. At 130 mph, my confidence was shattered when the noise rose to a crescendo and then suddenly stopped. I abandoned the top speed pursuit and slowed, checking the instrument cluster for any abnormal readings. Everything appeared to be fine, so I surmised that perhaps it was an exterior piece of trim or molding that had ruefully ejected itself, a martyr protesting my top speed endeavor.

Nearly home, I was resigned to the fact that I’d been unsuccessful, so I comforted myself by reciting the New Orleans Saints mantra that there’s always next year. Then I remembered that the 1.5-mile stretch where I was hit top speed in the del Sol was coming up, and I had one last-ditch effort to shoot for the stars. I reasoned if the 125 hp del Sol could hit 127 mph, surely I could go 13 mph faster in my 310 hp Saturn! As I rounded the curve before the final straightaway, I played Devil’s Advocate, negotiating a deal with myself that if no oncoming headlights were present, I’d go for it. The ambient temp was showing a very supercharger-friendly 44 degrees, so I knew the conditions were ideal. I also realized that above 120 mph is where my dedication would truly be tested.

As fate (and some dubious luck) would have it, there was no one as far as I could see, so with reckless abandon I floored it.

I reached the 120 threshold pretty rapidly, and settled in for the long climb to 140 mph with the same apprehension and dread usually reserved for roller coasters. Both hands were tightly gripping the leather-wrapped steering wheel and even though I couldn’t see them, I knew my fingers were as white and cold as icicles. All my senses were on high alert and I was furiously studying every tactile, visual, and auditory input for any sign of danger. Like incendiary tracer rounds, my brain synapses were firing off warnings to stop, but I had developed a type of Zen-like tunnel vision. The whole experience was immensely surreal, and I felt detached from reality, as if it was all just a dream. I was eerily calm and was marveling at just how stable and planted the car felt. Thankfully, I’d just bought four new Z-rated B.F. Goodrich G-Force Sport tires a month earlier which obviously helped. Otherwise, I would never have attempted such an insane run on bald, worn-out rubber.  

I quickly shifted my gaze from the road just in time to see the speedometer go diagonal and pass 140. Similarly, the tachometer was at 6000 rpm in fifth gear and climbing. At that speed, I was covering 205 feet per second, or more than the length of a football field. Ahead of me was a small convenience store that was closed, and I wistfully hoped some deputy sheriff wasn’t parked there. Not that it really mattered, since at the speed I was travelling, I would be nearly an eighth-mile down the dark road before he could even react.

With 140 attained, I lifted and let the aerodynamic drag slow the car. I didn’t want any sudden inputs upsetting the balance of the car, which at that speed, felt like it was precariously balanced on the head of a pin. The huge rear wings acts as both a stabilizing aid and an artificial air brake. At 140 mph, it produces roughly 100 pounds of downforce which helps the car stick to the pavement like bubble gum. However, that same large profile also exponentially increases the requisite time and power needed to reach top speed. Once again, I conducted a quick inspection to make sure all the vital temperatures were in their normal operating ranges, and they were. As I pulled into my garage, I halfway expected radiator coolant to be fizzing out of the overflow vent. It wasn’t, but I popped the hood anyway to help vent the excess heat caused by the sustained wide-open run. There was some high-temp ticking and a distinct burning odor present that was unlike anything I had smelled before. I couldn’t isolate the origin, but I knew it was from the tortuous top-speed test. I envisioned the engine oil and supercharger fluid boiling like hot grease in a fryer, and quite frankly, it probably wasn’t much of an exaggeration.

Upon further examination, it was also apparent that it was the plastic B-pillar cover that had surrendered itself at 130 mph. The only remaining evidence of its disappearing act was a small nick in the paint and a single, solitary grease mark. 

Since I had survived the harrowing baptism of speed, I decided to study the metrics I’d observed during the run. Something didn’t feel right, so I dug up my owner’s manual to run some calculations. Factory speedometers can be notoriously inaccurate at speed, and that’s where I started. I knew from previous experience that my speedometer was actually a bit pessimistic about my actual velocity. Using the GPS on my phone, I’d witnessed that when my cruise control was set on 70 mph, my actual speed fluctuated between 71-72 mph. This represents up to a 3% difference and I suspected it might be even more erroneous the faster I went. Using the F35 transmission’s final-drive of 4.05 and fifth gear’s 0.70 ratio, I arrived at a calculation of 25.828 mph for every 1000 rpm. That is, at 2700 rpm I would be doing 69.735 mph (or roughly 70 mph) which I verified via the tachometer. Therefore, I was stunned when I estimated the true mph generated by the engine in fifth gear at 6000 rpm which produced 154.968 or essentially 155 mph! That was a far cry from the 140 I believed I was driving and just 2 mph off the wind speed of a Category 5 hurricane! Additionally, dyno charts show that all 310 thoroughbreds aren’t accounted for until 6500 rpm at which time my pace would be 167.882 mph. Finally, my car has a theoretical top speed of 180.796 mph based on fifth gear’s 7000 rpm redline. Honestly, I doubt I could find the necessary highway or nerves to attempt such a run. And with the enormous rear wing, it’s probably aerodynamically limited to a lot less than that. But what I do know is that on December 1st 2016 at approximately 9:30 pm CST, I drove faster than I ever have before in my life. And like losing one’s virginity, it was equally exhilarating and scary. Kids, don’t try this at home!

 

The next day, I went to my local GM dealer to price the driver side door trim cover. Chris, the parts manager, was assisting a couple in front of me who were futilely trying to obtain a part for their 2003 Saturn Vue.  They reluctantly left empty-handed when he informed them that the parts they needed had been discontinued. After I regaled him with my explanation of why I needed a new window piece, he checked and fortunately found it was still available. However, he cautioned that after ten years GM typically stops supporting any platform. The last Ion Redline was a 2007 model, so I reckon that I still have one year before parts will be phased out. Much to my chagrin, the appliqué (GM’s fancy term, not mine) was $47 which seemed exorbitant for a small section of injection-molded plastic. It also reminded me of why Henry Ford once proclaimed that he’d happily quit selling automobiles and would be content just selling their parts. Indeed, there’s a lot more profit to be made from selling the individual components rather than the whole car. Several days later when I got ready to install the new piece, I noticed on the underside that it had a manufacture date of April 21, 2015. That meant it was not old stock and, at least up until 2015, GM was still actively fabricating parts which was a good sign. As I attempted to attach the new piece, I discovered that a portion of the original part was still screwed into the door. Sure enough, the wind force had literally sheared the panel off the car. I now have a running joke that it cost me $47 to drive 155 mph!  

When I filled my car up the following week, I was curious as to how badly the multiple high-speeds run had cannibalized the fuel economy. My Aeroforce Interceptor once informed me that when the engine is at 100% throttle, it guzzles pricey 93 octane at the obscene rate of 4 mpg. I feared the worst, but despite the 155 mph foray, my average was still a respectable 26.3 mpg. Granted, that’s a ways off from the 31 mpg I usually see, but I certainly can’t complain. My Mother used to joke with me by saying “Never drive faster than you’re guardian angel can fly”. Thankfully, it looks like I didn’t.