Reflecting back on the past four years of ownership with my Ion, it seems I’m fortunate enough to participate in one good street race every year (The last I chronicled was Burger Dash on 11/30/2012). And Lord knows, my odds are even worse at the casinos. But on this tiresome Thursday afternoon, as I trudged home with the other commuters I observe coming and going every day, fate saw fit to intervene.
I turned off the four-lane asphalt artery that connects Hurley to Lucedale to take a rural shortcut that shaves a couple miles off my total travel. As I rounded one of the first curves, I was shocked to see an orange Mustang performing a traffic-blocking three-point turn in the middle of the road. Had I been drinking, I might have blamed such a sight on the alcohol. Immediately, I slowed not knowing how long he planned on obstructing my passage, or even which way he intended to go. After a couple of ham-fisted maneuvers, the Mustang was pointed in the same direction I was going. And in an attempt to extricate himself as quickly as possible, the rear tires spun as one was on the pavement and the other off on the grassy shoulder. The rear driver tire left a long black streak while the rear passenger tire threw up chunks of vegetation and sediment like a 400 yard-drive from John Daly.
Littered with trash and trailers that looked to be right out of an episode of “Hoarders”, the area I was in would never be classified as economically thriving, so I was surprised to see the Mustang’s dual tailpipes. Typically, for this depressed demographic the standard is strictly four-cylinders, and the realization that it was a V8 Mustang instantly quickened my pulse with anticipation. Now, I just needed to see if he was game for a backwoods Grand Prix. I’ve mentioned in past articles that the State Troopers patrol the highways with an ardent Al Qaeda-like fervor, so felonious velocities are best left to less visible routes such as the one I was on. Ironically, these poorly maintained country roads are much more dangerous for high speed travel but are the only viable avenue for avoiding radar-enforced revenue generation.
Now a couple car-lengths behind the Mustang, I was able to recognize it as a first-generation SN95 model. That is, it was after the 87-93 vintage I owned, but before Ford’s controversial “New Edge” styling theme of the ‘99 model. Doing the math in my head, I knew that Ford had dropped the venerable 302 for a smaller 4.6-liter V8. And assuming it was stock, I had the Stang’s 215 hp covered, but even with Stage 3, I couldn’t touch the tractor-like 285 lb-ft of torque.
We approached my turn-off, and I was sure he would go straight as almost everyone who travels this road does. But to my delight, he turned and then I spotted an older truck in front of us. I was endeavoring to determine if the Mustang was on his own, or was trying valiantly to catch up to friends in the truck. I was worried that may be the case and as such there would be no race. However, a short straightaway opened up and he gunned it to pass the truck, so I had my answer. I hastily judged the room I had to pass before the looming curve and went after him. The speed limit on the twisty back road was 45 mph, but I found that third gear (with a spread between 65-95 mph) was perfect. I’d never had a race in this area before and it was a wonderful opportunity to explore the acceleration, braking, and handling capabilities of my car.
At Christmas, when I had my left front tire off to change the transmission fluid, I noticed the factory rotor was developing a lip on it and needed to be replaced soon. I had received my new Akebono brake pads (the same as on the new $1 Million-dollar McLaren P1), but was still waiting on the cross-drilled rotors, so I didn’t want to push my brakes too hard. Yet even with that conservative approach in mind, it was evident that the Mustang was having to brake extremely early for curves while I could close the gap and brake a lot later. And while the Ford’s 17-inch tires were blessed with a slightly larger contact patch (245/45 versus my 215/45) it was also cursed with an extra 500 lbs of mass, much of it over the front wheels.
A longer straightaway appeared and I could see the GT already accelerating, trying to maximize its head start. Alas, it wasn’t enough as I floored the throttle—and with seemingly elastic performance—reeled him in like a trophy bass. But the Mustang was conspicuously quiet, even under wide open-throttle, enough that it validated my earlier assessment of it being stock right down to the mufflers. At this point, I didn’t know what was more startling...that I was witnessing a Mustang GT devoid of the famous Flowmaster exhaust everyone and their cousin installs, or that it was the color of Tang, that awful powered beverage Astronauts drank in the 1970s.
Like an automotive cat-and-mouse, we carried this pace up for another mile as he would squirm away and then a squeeze of my throttle would pull him back in. As mentioned in my initial ownership report (May 2010), the Red Line was GM’s first sport compact to benefit from high-speed development on Germany’s 14-mile-plus Nordschleife circuit that consists of 33 left turns, 40 right turns and 170 bends. And late last year, I installed the upgraded front and rear transmission mounts from the 2010 Cobalt SS Turbo. They were worth every penny here as despite the fast sweepers, the chassis stayed as smooth and flat as Nebraska. Conversely, given the way the Mustang was bobbing up and down on its springs like a dinghy in a hurricane, the Ford driver was not so fortunate. But then, he flipped on his blinker and took a fork in the road that led him away from my path home. I’m sure he had no idea what car was pursuing him; he probably thought it was a Lexus or some similar high-dollar import. Nevertheless, he found out the hard way that eight-cylinders don’t always beat four.
Once home, I googled the pumpkin pony I had dueled with and discovered some interesting facts: For starters, the paint is officially know as “Bright Tangerine” and only 829 Mustang GTs were sprayed that color in 1996. Such low production volume explains why I have never seen one that shade before, but after nearly twenty summers there was nothing “bright” about it. In fact, I would go so far as to describe it more along the lines of Sunset Orange, as the oxidation and fading had reduced the color to a dull luster. Let’s face it, that Mustang had probably not seen a can of car wax since it left the factory. And a test in Car and Driver of a similar ‘94 GT showed it galloping through the quarter in 14.9 seconds at 93 mph. Obviously, the Mustang would have fared better with my Ion when it was stock (14.7 @ 97 mph) but not by much--- at 130 mph, a stock 205 hp Ion would be almost ten seconds ahead (35.9 to 44.7). There’s a similar gap under hard braking too, as my Saturn stops from 70 mph in 162 feet as opposed to 179 for the Ford. With those numbers in hand, it’s obvious he never stood a chance against my 300 hp Saturn.
Regardless, the impromptu race injected a fair bit of excitement into an otherwise dreary winter evening, even if it did blow my fuel economy for the week!
I turned off the four-lane asphalt artery that connects Hurley to Lucedale to take a rural shortcut that shaves a couple miles off my total travel. As I rounded one of the first curves, I was shocked to see an orange Mustang performing a traffic-blocking three-point turn in the middle of the road. Had I been drinking, I might have blamed such a sight on the alcohol. Immediately, I slowed not knowing how long he planned on obstructing my passage, or even which way he intended to go. After a couple of ham-fisted maneuvers, the Mustang was pointed in the same direction I was going. And in an attempt to extricate himself as quickly as possible, the rear tires spun as one was on the pavement and the other off on the grassy shoulder. The rear driver tire left a long black streak while the rear passenger tire threw up chunks of vegetation and sediment like a 400 yard-drive from John Daly.
Littered with trash and trailers that looked to be right out of an episode of “Hoarders”, the area I was in would never be classified as economically thriving, so I was surprised to see the Mustang’s dual tailpipes. Typically, for this depressed demographic the standard is strictly four-cylinders, and the realization that it was a V8 Mustang instantly quickened my pulse with anticipation. Now, I just needed to see if he was game for a backwoods Grand Prix. I’ve mentioned in past articles that the State Troopers patrol the highways with an ardent Al Qaeda-like fervor, so felonious velocities are best left to less visible routes such as the one I was on. Ironically, these poorly maintained country roads are much more dangerous for high speed travel but are the only viable avenue for avoiding radar-enforced revenue generation.
Now a couple car-lengths behind the Mustang, I was able to recognize it as a first-generation SN95 model. That is, it was after the 87-93 vintage I owned, but before Ford’s controversial “New Edge” styling theme of the ‘99 model. Doing the math in my head, I knew that Ford had dropped the venerable 302 for a smaller 4.6-liter V8. And assuming it was stock, I had the Stang’s 215 hp covered, but even with Stage 3, I couldn’t touch the tractor-like 285 lb-ft of torque.
We approached my turn-off, and I was sure he would go straight as almost everyone who travels this road does. But to my delight, he turned and then I spotted an older truck in front of us. I was endeavoring to determine if the Mustang was on his own, or was trying valiantly to catch up to friends in the truck. I was worried that may be the case and as such there would be no race. However, a short straightaway opened up and he gunned it to pass the truck, so I had my answer. I hastily judged the room I had to pass before the looming curve and went after him. The speed limit on the twisty back road was 45 mph, but I found that third gear (with a spread between 65-95 mph) was perfect. I’d never had a race in this area before and it was a wonderful opportunity to explore the acceleration, braking, and handling capabilities of my car.
At Christmas, when I had my left front tire off to change the transmission fluid, I noticed the factory rotor was developing a lip on it and needed to be replaced soon. I had received my new Akebono brake pads (the same as on the new $1 Million-dollar McLaren P1), but was still waiting on the cross-drilled rotors, so I didn’t want to push my brakes too hard. Yet even with that conservative approach in mind, it was evident that the Mustang was having to brake extremely early for curves while I could close the gap and brake a lot later. And while the Ford’s 17-inch tires were blessed with a slightly larger contact patch (245/45 versus my 215/45) it was also cursed with an extra 500 lbs of mass, much of it over the front wheels.
A longer straightaway appeared and I could see the GT already accelerating, trying to maximize its head start. Alas, it wasn’t enough as I floored the throttle—and with seemingly elastic performance—reeled him in like a trophy bass. But the Mustang was conspicuously quiet, even under wide open-throttle, enough that it validated my earlier assessment of it being stock right down to the mufflers. At this point, I didn’t know what was more startling...that I was witnessing a Mustang GT devoid of the famous Flowmaster exhaust everyone and their cousin installs, or that it was the color of Tang, that awful powered beverage Astronauts drank in the 1970s.
Like an automotive cat-and-mouse, we carried this pace up for another mile as he would squirm away and then a squeeze of my throttle would pull him back in. As mentioned in my initial ownership report (May 2010), the Red Line was GM’s first sport compact to benefit from high-speed development on Germany’s 14-mile-plus Nordschleife circuit that consists of 33 left turns, 40 right turns and 170 bends. And late last year, I installed the upgraded front and rear transmission mounts from the 2010 Cobalt SS Turbo. They were worth every penny here as despite the fast sweepers, the chassis stayed as smooth and flat as Nebraska. Conversely, given the way the Mustang was bobbing up and down on its springs like a dinghy in a hurricane, the Ford driver was not so fortunate. But then, he flipped on his blinker and took a fork in the road that led him away from my path home. I’m sure he had no idea what car was pursuing him; he probably thought it was a Lexus or some similar high-dollar import. Nevertheless, he found out the hard way that eight-cylinders don’t always beat four.
Once home, I googled the pumpkin pony I had dueled with and discovered some interesting facts: For starters, the paint is officially know as “Bright Tangerine” and only 829 Mustang GTs were sprayed that color in 1996. Such low production volume explains why I have never seen one that shade before, but after nearly twenty summers there was nothing “bright” about it. In fact, I would go so far as to describe it more along the lines of Sunset Orange, as the oxidation and fading had reduced the color to a dull luster. Let’s face it, that Mustang had probably not seen a can of car wax since it left the factory. And a test in Car and Driver of a similar ‘94 GT showed it galloping through the quarter in 14.9 seconds at 93 mph. Obviously, the Mustang would have fared better with my Ion when it was stock (14.7 @ 97 mph) but not by much--- at 130 mph, a stock 205 hp Ion would be almost ten seconds ahead (35.9 to 44.7). There’s a similar gap under hard braking too, as my Saturn stops from 70 mph in 162 feet as opposed to 179 for the Ford. With those numbers in hand, it’s obvious he never stood a chance against my 300 hp Saturn.
Regardless, the impromptu race injected a fair bit of excitement into an otherwise dreary winter evening, even if it did blow my fuel economy for the week!
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