Star Power

100,000 miles in a 2006 Saturn Ion Red Line

 

Pirate Press     December 2017

 





 

Reflecting back on my trip to Daytona Beach in May 2010 to purchase my Red Line, a lot has certainly changed. Back then, our country was financially reeling from the 2008 economic crisis and the Gulf Coast was struggling with the Deepwater Horizon disaster. So, it’s no wonder that not even Nostradamus could have predicted that seven years later we’d have the most active Atlantic Hurricane season in history or a President threatening to build a 1,000-mile, $15 Billion dollar privacy fence.

Fortunately, my Saturn turned out to be a real blue-chip investment that would put the best S&P 500 stocks to shame. While new cars are terrible in terms of immediate depreciation, I saved more than half the Saturn’s original $25,000 sticker price by picking up the local, one-owner example with just 29,000 miles on it. Truthfully, it faced more danger at our beachside hotel on that rowdy Spring Break Saturday night than it did during the entire 500-mile trip home the next day. Despite that, it was in excellent condition both inside and out, even if there were a couple small items I needed to fix upon returning to Mississippi. The main item was a check engine light (P01189) that predictably waited until I made it halfway home before it began angrily flashing at me. Although the dealer I purchased it from promised a 30-day/1,000-mile warranty, my salesman quickly developed amnesia when I called  about it. However, I was prepared to drive the 8-hour trip back there the following weekend to pay him a personal visit, but my calmer (and some say, more level-headed) wife persuaded me not to. Therefore, I must implore each and every one of my loyal Pirate Press subscribers to swiftly and immediately deliver internet justice by dispensing negative feedback for Gary Yeomans Ford on all social media sites! With the crowd-sourced power of an EMP, the overwhelming barrage of unfavorable reviews will certainly bankrupt them, causing the dealership to shutter the doors forever and forcing my crooked salesman into a real life of crime, like Florida politics.  

But since they were no help, I dutifully visited Joe Bullard Cadillac for a professional diagnosis and was charged $209.24 to correct it, which was $89.24 for the Supercharger Inlet Pressure Sensor and $120 for labor. Three months later, the error code returned and  being a little more familiar with the car, I examined the aforementioned sensor myself. Not only did I discover that I could have ordered the exact same one from Amazon for $16.99, but that I was charged 90 minutes of labor for a task that literally took me one minute with a screwdriver. I felt so violated, I wanted to file a sexual harassment lawsuit! And needless to say, that was the last time I took it to that dealer.  

While I had crossed the 30,000-mile threshold driving it back from Florida, I deemed it a perfect time to change the oil, both air filters and the fuel filter. There was one of those tiny oil change reminders on the inside of my windshield stating it had just been changed. But what was puzzling was that I was bought the car from a Ford dealer, but the oil change sticker was from a Mazda place, so maybe they thought the Red Line was an import? I checked the dipstick and the motor oil was indeed new, but I sorely doubted they used the Mobil 1 Synthetic that was specified on the oil cap. As such, I wanted to drain it as soon as possible, just as I did with the full tank of gas that I was reasonably sure was regular 87 octane, and not the recommended 93 premium octane. Perhaps sensing that the car would be traded in soon, the original owner never bothered replacing anything. In fact, the cabin air filter was so dirty it actually impeded the air flow out of the vents. It was here that I sliced open my finger on the sharp plastic edge of the glovebox that the air filter sits behind, and I painfully learned that nothing on the Red Line was easy to work on. The Eaton M62 supercharger is both a blessing and a curse, as it imbues the car with double the power of the naturally-aspirated model, yet its inclusion makes general maintenance a nightmare. It so sufficiently blocks access to the oil filter that changing it requires a 9-inch socket extension as well as unbolting the intercooler fill tube. And trust me, even after 14 oil changes over seven years, the struggle doesn’t get any easier. The engine air filter is equally frustrating as there’s no room to squeeze a free-flowing K&N filter past the thick coolant hoses. In fact, it’s so awful that many owners simply resort to removing the entire driver side tire just to gain entry to it. The good news is that it only requires changing every 30,000 miles. If I didn’t know better, I’d think these items were sadistic puzzles deliberately devised by the serial killer “Jigsaw” to drive me to the brink of lunacy. Thankfully, the fuel filter was relatively easy, even if the entire underside was sprayed in sticky, black undercoating. Of course, it was also completely unnecessary, but was the dealer’s concession to profit so they could charge $99 for it. The corrosive gasoline that leaked from the fuel hoses washed away some of it, and the exhaust system burned the rest off. The only amount left was a small peppering on the inside of the aluminum wheels. It’s also hard to appreciate the high-speed development at Germany’s famed 14-mile-plus Nurburgring circuit that went into the Red Line when the flat bottom is only visible from underneath. But the Venturi channels and aero package certainly paid off as it was rock-solid when I hit 155 mph last December.  

Along the way, I swapped the restrictive cast-iron exhaust manifold and catalytic converter for a shiny, mandrel-bent long-tube header. However, removing the pollution control created some potent exhaust fumes that my daughter says smells like burnt cookies. Personally, I think it reeks of asphyxia in 0-60 seconds. Despite that, I’ve found it’s great for keeping tailgaters at bay. A few whiffs of the eye-watering emissions and they usually drop back a couple car lengths. It’s also particularly fun on motorcyclists, who are defenseless, and don’t have windows to roll up. But even keeping the rear factory 2.5-inch tubing and stock muffler, it’s still surprising how loud the exhaust is, particularly under boost. And speaking of the supercharger, the original heavy steel 3.35-inch pulley was swapped for a lightweight aluminum 2.9-inch unit with the understanding that anything smaller could incur belt slippage and cause the upgraded 42-lb. fuel injectors to run lean. When the smaller pulley was installed at 42,000 miles, the supercharger fluid was also changed. Measured on a dyno, peak boost climbed from the factory maximum of 12 PSI to 20.3 PSI and maximum power rose from 205 to 310. The Eaton M62 also doubles as a great heater during the winter months. Since the Red Line can be reluctant to warm up quickly when cold, I’ve found that a third gear pull from around 30-90 mph is more than enough to immediately flood the cabin with superheated air.

 

                      The stainless-steel header is great for performance, not so much for tailgaters.

Yet despite coping with an extra 105 horsepower for the past 58,000 miles, it’s only broken down on me twice: the first was for a failed crankshaft position sensor in 2015 that cost $31.08, and the other was when the original ten year-old battery finally died. Neither of those are consequences of the extra power, so I can’t legitimately fault them. However, when the battery expired, it seems the jump-start also fried the radio. Truthfully, I never used it much because the supercharger whine is such music to my ears, but I do miss the clock on it. Among the parts replaced under warranty was the electric steering motor, the ignition switch, and the ignition lock cylinder. Of course, these items were all due to the GM recall of 1.6 million vehicles. And while GM has only acknowledged 12 deaths linked to the faulty parts, an independent consumer watchdog group has stated that it could be responsible for as many as 303 deaths. Regardless, the engine seems to be running as strong as ever, evidenced by the fact that it uses no oil between 5,000-mile intervals, and it also recently returned an all-time best fuel economy of 33.1 mpg. Taking it a step further, I even had an oil analysis performed by Blackstone Labs which returned encouraging numbers. The report observed that “Wear metals are impressively low, showing no obvious mechanical problems” and highlighted a TBN of 5.3 which meant there was enough active additive left to delay the oil change another couple thousand miles if I desired. 

Flatbed service after the OEM battery was devoid of a single cold cranking amp.

 

Over the past 7 years, I’ve replaced a lot of items simply for cosmetic reasons, even though they’ve continued to work properly. The head lights and tail lights were the main offenders since the plastic tends to age faster than a Hollywood starlet. Despite polishing, the headlights grew increasingly hazy and the tail lights became dull. Similarly, I encountered problems finding bits like the aluminum ignition cover which was scratched up. Revealing its European roots, it’s actually a Saab part like the Red Line’s F35 transmission. I had several dealers tell me it was discontinued, but I finally located a new one at a Saab dealer in Atlanta. But what gave me the most difficulty was the Italian leather door inserts. Seeking to upgrade the Ion’s interior appointments, I ordered the buttery-smooth cowhides for what, according to the instructions, should have been a novice task. Predictably, the instructions omitted one critical step, which of course I didn’t discover until I had already ripped apart the passenger door. And then trying to communicate with the seller in India went over as well as peace talks between Palestine and Israel. Even armed with a drill, the plastic welds on it proved nearly impervious to damage, as I struggled and strained against it for a solid six hours. I finished it, but was left with the gift that keeps on giving: Tendinitis in my forearm that plagued me for a year afterwards. Suffice it to say, after that fiasco, I never even attempted to reupholster the driver door.                     

For Black Friday 2015, I was staying in Disney World but still managed to get online and order a set of ZZP high-performance coil packs. With the holiday pricing, I was able to purchase the custom coils for $25 apiece, which is cheaper than I could have gotten the inferior factory replacements. Furthermore, with the improved voltage, more windings and better core material, the ZZP units vastly improved the starting power of my car. I’d always heard that aftermarket ignition systems like MSD were the way to go, but this was the first time I’d actually experienced it. However, in the two years since, I’ve been unable to substantiate the purported claims of significantly better fuel economy.   

  
It also bears mentioning that my Ion is the last of an era in many regards. Most obvious is that with each passing year there are fewer and fewer Saturns on the road. Sadly, when I do manage to spot one, they are largely mistreated and have definitely seen better days. For instance, only 5,827 Ion Red Lines were built between 2004 and 2007 and that amount does not take into account over a decade’s worth of attrition which has reduced that figure considerably. Mine was one of just 274 silver coupes for 2006 and such scarcity means that my Red Line is actually more rare than many Ferraris. Unfortunately, such uncommon availability does not translate to overall worth. According to the National Automotive Dealers Association (NADA), my Red Line is worth a paltry $4,500 which is the same cost as a new transmission that it actually needs. One morning in 2012, I was driving to work when I noticed that a simple upshift into fifth was met with a noisy protest as the gears clashed. Since I had not experienced this phenomenon before, I initially blamed myself, thinking perhaps I had rushed the shift or released the clutch too early. Yet, despite checking my footwork and making steady, deliberate upshifts, the gear-grinding became more and more frequent. I did my best to appease the gnashing gear teeth, which included such measures as a new upgraded shifter linkage and bushings from a 2008 Cobalt Turbo, and even fancy synthetic transmission fluid that cost $50 for two quarts. Alas, it was all futile and for the past five years I’ve lived with the constant crunch that accompanies every fifth gear upshift. Even more frustrating, sometimes it tries to pop out of gear when turning. As best I can tell without disassembling the unit, the fifth gear synchronizer seems to have gone AWOL. So to avoid damaging it more, I’ve become pretty adept at simply driving my Redline like it has an automatic transmission. Thanks to a pretty-wide torque spread (90% of the 280 lb.-ft. is available from 2500 rpm) the engine is remarkably flexible. This allows me to simply leave it in fifth and drive it in one gear like a big-rig truck. It pulls smoothly from as low as 1000 rpm, and I’ve created a game by trying to make it the 22 miles from my job to my house with just one upshift into fifth gear. Of course, it helps being in a rural community with no stop signs and traffic lights. I tootle through town in fourth gear and then once on the highway perform my lone upshift into fifth. From there, I have roughly 20 miles before the requisite downshift for my driveway. Other motorists permitting, I generally never have to drop out of fifth, though it does require taking a couple 90-degree curves rather fast and wide to keep the revs up. I’ll also admit to enjoying the elastic sensation of flat-footing the throttle and briskly accelerating from 20 mph to 80 mph without a single upshift.

 

                      The Red Line model is so rare, it makes up only 1% of all Saturn Ions.

Living where I do, the topic of animal encounters is a frequent one, and sadly the Red Line is not immune to them. While over the years I’ve amassed a collection of splattered insects that would make an entomologist envious, I’ve thankfully avoided encounters with such large mammals as wild hogs, cows and deer. However, I have crossed paths with both a dog and a bird. The canine was furiously chasing something and bolted right out in front of my car one morning. I immediately swerved and managed to just barely clip him. It temporarily spun him around before he, apparently unfazed, continued on his pursuit. While our meeting was temporary, it created permanent damage on my front bumper, leaving a faint spider web mosaic of cracked paint. As with the dog, the blue jay also appeared out of nowhere, performing a suicidal nosedive under my car. Unfortunately, like a kamikaze X-Wing fighter zooming into the Death Star trench, the avian intruder never made it out the other side. Instead, there was just a flurry of feathers expelled in the wake of my car. But the one truly terrifying creature that strikes fear into the hearts of rural drivers everywhere is a skunk. Luckily, I’ve never hit one, but I’ve come behind some folks who were the unwanted recipients of an early morning skunk shower, and the noxious odor is truly nauseating. Charles Darwin, best known for his controversial Theory of Evolution, wrote in 1839: “We saw also a couple of Zorrillos, or skunks—odious animals, which are far from uncommon. In general appearance, the Zorrillo resembles a polecat, but it is rather larger and much thicker in proportion. Conscious of its power, it roams by day about the open plain, and fears neither dog nor man. If a dog is urged to the attack, its courage is instantly checked by a few drops of the fetid oil, which brings on violent sickness and running at the nose. Whatever is once polluted by it, is forever useless.” Personally, it leads me to believe that some of the people I’ve run into at Wal-Mart must be part skunk. But that notwithstanding, the fact that male skunks have multiple female partners and play no part in raising their young sounds pretty appealing to me!        

Shortly after rolling over 100,000 miles, I regrettably found out how fragile (and expensive) the plastic body panels are. It also harkens back to a lesson my Father taught me when I first started driving. And that is, it’s not so much my driving as the other people that I need to be cautious of. As it happened, I came off the highway to merge onto a local road near my job. There was an old Ford Explorer in front of me that was going slow enough to have been driven by Miss Daisy. There was a yield sign, but rather than doing exactly that, the Explorer driver proceeded to completely stop. But that’s not where the accident occurred. No, I was frustratingly stuck behind the Ford even though no oncoming cars were present. After a seeming eternity, the Explorer finally began to tentatively roll forward onto the highway. As it did, I inched forward also. But, then the Explorer driver spotted an approaching car and rather than following through and moving out, suddenly hesitated and slammed on the brakes. Naturally, this abrupt stop right in front of me caused me to bump the back of the Explorer at around 5 mph. However, since I was barely above idle when I touched the back of the Explorer, I didn’t anticipate much damage. But after getting out and seeing it, I realized that the damage wouldn’t have been half as bad had there not been a huge, rusty trailer hitch protruding from the bumper. Now, when Mr. McGuire admonished Dustin Hoffman’s character in “The Graduate” that plastic was the path to the future, he neglected to mention that its strength was also its weakness. That is, plastic has millions of uses given its flexibility and lightweight, but those same properties do not engender durability. Nope, that corroded trailer hitched punched through the Saturn’s plastic nose cone like a young Mike Tyson through a wet paper bag. And because the front bumper is largely hollow, it didn’t arrest the forward momentum until it encountered resistance from the steel hood, slightly bending it back as well.

 



                                   A plastic bumper is great until you actually have to use it.

Perhaps realizing that I bumped her because she stopped without warning, the elderly female driver immediately scurried back to my car inquiring if I was okay. I proclaimed that I was just fine, noting that the impact was so minor that it didn’t even trigger the airbags. And predictably, the Explorer didn’t even have a scratch (unless you count the numerous ones that it had already accumulated over its neglected lifetime). I opined that I was glad neither of us were hurt, since it took a patrolman twenty minutes to arrive even though we were just two miles from the Sherriff’s office. By the letter of the law I was at fault, even though she actually caused the accident by suddenly stopping in the middle of the highway. After ensuring we were both fine and submitting the accident report, I cautiously drove my car back to work. Since I couldn’t pop the hood, I was unable to visually inspect the damage and I was concerned about the possibility of a punctured radiator. Despite that, it drove fine even though it pained me to do so in such condition.

I took it to a body shop in Mobile that we had done business with for thirty years. My Father and the original owner had been friends, but I soon learned that he had retired and the shop had been turned over to his son. And I would unfortunately later discover that the son didn’t share his father’s pride or enthusiasm in running the business. He quickly tallied up the necessary parts and labor which amounted to a staggering $3,041.06. At $914.52, the hood was the most expensive piece, though I remarked that for that sum, I could almost certainly replace it with a lighter, carbon fiber hood. After that, the bumper rang up at $517.65 along with $223.63 for the headlight and a couple hundred dollars for other incidental items. Finally, the paint and labor at $1,144 rounded out the estimate. At this point, I was concerned that the insurance company might simply total my car given the estimated value was only $4,500. Of course, that amount is a slap in the face since there’s no way I could even remotely come close to finding another car with the same performance or immaculate condition for $4,500. Heck, even with $14,500 I would be hard pressed to find a viable replacement.

Fortunately, my insurance company decided to pay my claim and I was able to keep it. But funnily enough, the week before I had just mentioned to my wife that I should probably drop the comprehensive coverage on it. Thankfully I didn’t, and now I had a chance to recoup those seven years of premiums on it, along with a freshly painted hood and bumper which it sorely needed even before the accident. Also, I negotiated to have the rear spoiler repainted as well, since the five cats we “inherited” from my Mother had left quite a few scratches on it. The only downside to all this was that with the Saturn being out of production for ten years, new parts were scarce and had to be ordered from GM’s warehouse in Michigan. Additionally, every time I called the body shop, they never answered or when they did, were quick to provide a laundry list of excuses. One time, the wife professed that her husband was in the paint booth and she couldn’t go in there because she was pregnant. Another time, they blamed the delay on a worker quitting. All totaled, it took four weeks to get my Saturn back, which is an eternity to pay for a rental car (Disclaimer: Part of my low premiums was declining the rental car insurance). However, whether spending $850 upfront for the Hyundai as I did, or paying $10 extra per month for the coverage over the past 84 months, it was pretty much a wash either way.

So after my $500 deductible, I received a check for $2500 from my insurance company and coupled with the $850 rental car bill, I ended up paying almost $1500 out of my pocket just to get my Red Line on the road again. But remarkably, the story doesn’t end there as a couple weeks later I received a letter in the mail from my insurance company. I figured it was a follow-up to my claim, but much to my surprise it was a notice that the woman in the Explorer had filed a “bodily injury claim” fraudulently alleging that she was hurt in the accident. The letter went on to state that although I had personal liability limits of $50,000 per accident, that I might want to consider retaining an attorney in case the costs exceeded that. Naturally, I was furious at this deceptive practice since there wasn’t even a blemish on her vehicle. However, my insurance agent was not surprised in the least, and said he’s come to expect it. He volunteered that the insurance company will end up paying her something to settle it, despite it clearly being a case of fraud. However, he alluded to having some proof of the deception, but did not go into specifics for legal reasons.                                

Finally, my Red Line wrapped up seven years of service by being forced to indignantly endure the wrath of Hurricane Nate. At our original home, I was able to park it in a carport, but our rental house has no such provision, so it was relegated to withstanding the 75 mph fury in our front yard. Thankfully, flooding wasn’t an issue as it was in Houston, but I can confirm it got pretty nasty when Nate passed over. In fact, the wind was howling so loudly that it was impossible to tell if it was simply the storm itself or an approaching tornado. But, after Nate had moved through, my Red Line was only slightly worse for the wear. It was covered from bumper to tailpipe with leaves and debris, and a small flying oak limb had lodged itself under the rear spoiler. Inside, a tiny leak from the tropical deluge had soaked a small section of the foot well carpet leaving a musty odor behind, but otherwise there was no permanent damage.
                    

 The Red Line after enduring its first Hurricane.

 

Ironically, despite surviving the crucible of 100,000 miles, I’m happier and more comfortable in the Red Line now than when I first bought it. As it’s aged, I’ve been liberated from worrying about the slings and arrows of daily use, and have learned to really enjoy it in a way that would be impossible in a brand new car. It’s a unique, inexpensive thrill ride that I drive because I choose to, not because I have to. Unfortunately, I’m now at a crossroads whereby I have the unenviable task of picking whether to keep it or trade it. Both decisions offer advantages and disadvantages, so it will not be an easy one. Also, we’re living in a paradoxical age wherein we have the fastest production cars ever built (like the 808-hp Dodge Demon) yet police enforcement and traffic is equally high, stifling the ability to use it. I can rarely exploit my car’s 310 horsepower, much less one with 400 or 500. One way or another, I feel like 2018 will be a major turning point on the automotive highway of my life. 

To Live and Drive in L.A.*

*(Lower Alabama)  

Pirate Press    November 2017

Normally, in these pages I celebrate cars for the 1%, those exotic autos that have industrial amounts of horsepower and cost as much as a beachfront condo. However, after a recent fender-bender (see next month’s Pirate Press for the full details) I was relegated to just the opposite, spending four weeks in a car literally anyone can afford--- a 2017 Hyundai Accent. (Please try to control your laughter). To put that in perspective, the Accent’s MSRP of $14,745 costs virtually the same as the optional carbon ceramic brakes on a Ferrari California I test drove in 2015.  

Truthfully, I was hoping to rent something a little more exciting, such as a Mustang or Camaro, but nothing even remotely close to that was available. Welcome to living in Mobile, Alabama! The nearest performance offering was an EcoBoost Mustang convertible, but that was in New Orleans, and I’d accrue another day’s rental each way just picking it up and returning it. I even considered a Nissan Maxima with a 300hp V6, but at $750 per week, it was three times the cost of the Hyundai. Unfortunately, the young girl working the Enterprise rental car counter was no help, as she was as familiar with performance cars as I am with astrophysics, so we arrived at an impasse.  I resigned myself to the Hyundai, and left feeling that she probably still believes that Lamborghini is an entrée you order at Olive Garden. 

Back in 2011, when our Ford Freestyle was undergoing a transmission transplant, I was forced to commute in a Hyundai Accent and the experience was inscrutable. It was literally everything that people don’t want in a car: cheap, slow and ugly. So with that painful memory still burned into my prefrontal cortex, I wasn’t exactly looking forward to more seat time in an Accent.

However, I was pleasantly surprised when the Enterprise attendant led me to my Accent rental. Gone was the bland, generic styling of the 2011 model, and it had been replaced with nice looking compact curves. Granted, it wouldn’t put any Porsche designers out of business, but then again it wasn’t so horrible that I’d want to slit my wrists, either. Surprisingly, the slippery shape was also good for a wind-cheating 0.28 coefficient of drag, making it one of the most aerodynamic vehicles available at any price. Take that, Ferrari! 

I’m a sucker for red cars, and my Accent was a dark crimson known as Boston Red. And while that color choice was admittedly better than Hyundai’s other tangerine-hued shade known as “Vitamin C” , I hoped it wasn’t a forewarning that there was a pipe bomb in the trunk.

As the rental agent passed me the keys, I couldn’t help but notice that both sets were attached to a very sturdy steel cable. No, this wasn’t your average zinc-plated key ring, but rather one that looked capable of seeing duty in the Golden Gate bridge. Also affixed was a small plastic-coated tag that justified the Fort Knox tensile strength. It cautioned “Average Key Replacement Cost $225” and given that it contained two keys, I vowed to protect them with my life.

Walking around the Accent, I noticed that its tiny 175/70-14 tires seemed barely larger than the ones on my daughter’s bicycle. In fact, the last car I owned with such miniscule wheels was a 1996 del Sol. Aside from that, the color-keyed door handles and mirrors lent a harmonious monochromatic scheme that gave it the illusion of being much more expensive than it was. But spoiling this was an excessively elongated black rubber antennae jutting up from the rear roof that looked capable of helping E.T. phone home.

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Inside the Accent, there were acres of textured black plastic meant to impart an upscale experience. Regrettably, while visually appealing, the actual materials revealed a very hard and unyielding surface. Moreover, just thirty minutes of resting my leg against the door while driving was enough to induce pain. Similarly, the thinly-padded cloth seats were more uncomfortable than a private interview with Harvey Weinstein. And lastly, the budget nature extended all the way to the lack of cruise control, a feature I’ve come to expect in even the most basic transportation.

Yet bizarrely, there were other modern touches on the Hyundai that were absent from my 2006 Red Line, such as a USB charging port, tire pressure sensors, and even an outside temperature display. The Accent also boasted an Eco Mode as well as Traction Control, although I quickly disabled both in an effort to make it a little more lively. 

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Power is derived from a Direct-Injection 1.6-liter four cylinder with Variable Valve-Timing (two newer technologies my Saturn lacks) and maximum grunt is 137 hp at a lofty 6300 rpm. Hilariously, Hyundai saw fit to include a 140 mph speedometer as perhaps the only way it could achieve that velocity is if it was dropped from a Chinook helicopter. Its Veloster sibling utilizes the same 97 cubic-inch engine, but employs a turbocharger to pump it to 200 hp, and even it cannot exceed 134 mph.

Where the Accent does excel is its crash-diet weight of just 2,500 lbs which makes me wonder if the tires were possibly filled with helium instead of nitrogen? Despite incorporating all the latest safety technologies (including not one, but SIX air bags), it still manages to undercut my plastic-paneled Saturn by a whopping 300 lbs! Yet perhaps the most appealing factor is the entry-level MSRP that allows even minimum-wage workers the ability to slide behind the wheel. But, as mentioned earlier, rarely will a potential buyer cross-shop a Hyundai and options like carbon ceramic brakes. 

The Accent is equipped with a six-speed automatic that makes the most of the gear spread. Standing-start acceleration is brisk, feeling quicker than the 8.6-seconds measured by Car and Driver to hit 60 mph. However, power precipitously falls off as the tachometer surges to its 6750 rpm redline, accompanied by such audible detonation that mimics pebbles bouncing around in a tin can. Normally, that amount of knock would alarm me, but since it wasn’t my car, I wasn’t concerned with it. Nonetheless, it seems it might benefit from something higher than 87 octane, which I was unwilling to splurge on.  

Railroad tracks and similar highway impediments are soaked up with satisfying poise, as the Accent strives to offer a compliant ride. However, the cushy commuting comes at the expense of handling, which is just one notch above dreadful. The Frisbee-sized tires, understandably designed for low-rolling resistance, and not grip, are the main culprit. The Accent enters high-speed curves with all the composure of a rhino on roller skates, and when pushed harder, provokes the vehicle into an embarrassing ballet of tire-scrubbing understeer. At 0.80 g, the skidpad figure is roughly akin to that of a school bus.

Somewhat better are the brakes, which clamp down with a reassuring bite. They grab quickly, with very little initial pedal travel, and inspire late-braking confidence.  Despite the rear drums, I’m reluctant to admit that I prefer the Hyundai’s brake feel over my Red Line.

But the biggest margin of victory over my hot-rodded Saturn is undeniably in the fuel economy department. Going into this, I knew the Accent’s Verne Troyer-sized engine would have the advantage, but I didn’t expect it to be so pronounced. I’ve been pretty vocal and proud of my Red Line’s ability to consistently crank out 30 mpg while developing 310 hp, but the Hyundai redefined my expectations of what I thought possible. The EPA estimates are 27 City and 38 Highway, and given the way I was constantly flogging it and running the A/C continuously, I optimistically expected to maybe squeeze out 35 mpg. So, imagine my disbelief when I checked it and saw a stunning 43.5 mpg! That’s right, my humble Accent was returning the same mpg as my sister-in-law’s fancy new Prius, all without the benefit of an electric motor or a Kinetic Energy Recovery System (KERS). Even better, the frugal Hyundai ran acceptably on regular unleaded, saving me fifty cents per gallon over the 93 octane required by my Red Line.

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Since I had it over the Memorial Day weekend, we decided to use it for our trip to Orange Beach. This southernmost sliver of sand used to be Alabama’s best kept secret, but sadly that’s no longer the case. Our troubles started with the traffic blockage going into Mobile’s George Wallace tunnel, which it should be noted, is the single largest bottleneck I’ve encountered in the 1,000-mile stretch between San Antonio, Texas and Jacksonville, Florida. Invariably, the log jam of tourists headed east from Texas, Louisiana, Mississippi and Alabama begins around Spring Break and extends until Labor Day.  During this period, delays of one or two hours are not uncommon, and it took us a staggering three hours to make the 90-mile drive. It should also be noted that an hour of this leg was just to drive the final 15 miles from Foley to Orange Beach.

This area has teasingly been referred to as the South’s “Redneck Riviera” and unfortunately the moniker is quite apropos. Jacked-up 4x4 trucks with NRA stickers and Rebel Flags waving proudly roared up and down the highway, and we spotted one who had no problem voicing his disdain for the tourists who have invaded the area: “My Girl. My Water. My Sand. GO HOME!” it demanded on the back of his truck cab.

Indeed, it’s not just the influx of tourists, but also the swell of residents that have started to crowd the tiny 14.7-mile isthmus. In 1987 when I first visited the area, Orange Beach had a population of 2,000, but that figure has ballooned now to 6,000. A lot of locals blame one individual, Shaul Zislin, for the current overcrowding and commercialization. Zislin came to the area 25 years ago to collect on a debit and ended up buying the 2.5 acre parcel at the intersection of Highway 59 and East Beach Boulevard for $700,000. He then put “The Hangout” on it, a 17,000 square-foot restaurant with fours bar, a gift shop, and an outdoor stage for live music. Following that, he added seven Surf Style stores which litter the roads between Gulf Shores and Orange Beach.

In an effort to promote his venues, Zislin established an annual three-day concert series known as Hangout Fest. It was the weekend before we arrived and reportedly drew 40,000 attendees. The chaos has best been described as akin to having Panama City’s infamous Spring Break transplanted to Orange Beach. Aside from increased traffic congestion and blaring music, residents detest it because it attracts all sorts of unsavory activity. Underscoring this, arrests almost tripled from 2016 to 2017: Last year, 61 offenders were cited, whereas 171 were reported this year. Zislin was probably chagrined to discover that one of the Surf Style shops was looted to the tune of $3000 worth of Oakley sunglasses. And while that was an isolated incident, reports of pickpocketing seemed to be widespread. Although there are no total numbers for the three-day event, the manager of the Orange Beach AT&T store said that during the first 24 hours, 35 concert goers came in to file insurance claims or to get replacement phones.

The flood of vacationers has also enabled an unspoken price-fixing amongst the beachfront hotels. As I observed earlier, it’s the Redneck Riviera not the French Riviera, though you’d be hard pressed to differentiate that given the room rates. I’m certainly not price-sensitive when it comes to this, but I do object to paying Hilton prices for Holiday Inn accommodations. I remarked to my wife that we need another oil spill to shake up the greedy hotel owners. Back in 2010, after the Deepwater Horizon disaster, they couldn’t give away rooms. But as the tourists returned, so did the price gouging.           

And as we left Orange Beach after an undesirable weekend of rain and gridlock, we received a lovely parting gift in the form of a nasty-looking nail in the Hyundai’s rear tire. Thankfully, the pressure monitoring sensor alerted me to this, otherwise we could have been stranded with a tire flatter than Trump's sense of humor. But while the Accent lacked our Santa Fe’s sophisticated system that shows the individual pressure in each tire, it was enough to warn me to air it back up. And that’s precisely what I did each day, for approximately two weeks, before I returned it. With Enterprise charging me $35 per diem for the rental, I wasn’t about to spend another $20 to patch the tire.

After thirty days with the little bugger, it was finally time to turn over the keys. And quite frankly, after getting used to the convenience of an automatic transmission again, I was afraid that going back to my 11 year-old Saturn might be a letdown.

However, I’ve never been so glad to be so wrong. The three-inch wider tires, racetrack-tuned suspension, and almost 200 more horsepower made my Ion immensely more enjoyable. It was like rekindling a love affair. Whereas the Hyundai required careful planning and an extended stretch for passing slower motorists, such was not necessary with the Saturn’s instant-on power. And like the supercharged engine, there’s no way the Hyundai could compete with the Red Line’s fantastic Recaro seats. Being imprisoned in the Accent for a month certainly made me appreciate what I had taken for granted in the Ion. It’s not often you hear of someone willingly choosing a 2006 model over a 2017, but this is definitely the exception. 

So, in summation the Accent is a fine commuter, but unfortunately that’s all it ever will be. There’s no joie de vivre, nothing to magically transform the daily trudge into a pulse-pounding experience. Consequently, around the same time I read an article about small ways of improving the quality of life. The writer vowed that implementing tiny changes, no matter how seemingly insignificant, could lead to a happier, more fulfilled existence. Unbelievably, one recommendation was using premium toilet paper as they claimed the satisfaction and indulgence outweighed the slightly higher cost. To that list, I would like to add “Horsepower”. At the end of a long day, whether it’s been good or bad, horsepower always makes it better. It’s like a happy pill under my right foot. Most refer to it as an accelerator pedal, but for me it’s an antidepressant pedal. Over the past thirty years, whenever getting a new car, I’ve always strived to purchase a more powerful car than the one before it. Now while that hasn’t always been possible, I do presently have the fastest, most capable car I’ve ever owned.  And to me, that along with Cottonelle Gentle Care toilet paper, is worth every penny! #toiletpapermatters

GeForce GTX 1080 Ti: A Video Card Named Desire

Last fall, I reviewed Nvidia’s $399 GTX 1070, a graphics card that I had been eagerly awaiting for two years. I settled on it because the $699 1080 was nearly twice as expensive and only 25% faster. Despite that, neither card was able to provide the 4K (3840x2160) gaming experience I was looking for. Nvidia realized this also, and three months after milking the launch of the 1070 and 1080, slyly released the Pascal Titan X, a $1,200 sledgehammer and the only single-card solution capable of running the newest games at 4K. I fantasized about buying one and bludgeoning those 4K frame rates into submission. However, logic triumphed over passion, and I ended my article by observing that while the 1070 wasn’t quite powerful enough for 4K, it was the smart decision since I wouldn’t lose a fortune on a Titan X if Nvidia decided to release a 1080 Ti later on.

 

Well, it’s six months later and as I’ve said before, patience is a virtue. With the threat of it being dethroned by AMD’s upcoming Vega video card, Nvidia launched a preemptive strike with the long-rumored 1080 Ti.  Competition does wonders for complacency, and the 1080 Ti arrives with Titan-topping performance for the price of a standard 1080. In my twenty years of buying discrete graphics cards, never have I seen such a powerful card priced so aggressively. Granted, to a casual observer $699 for a single graphics card might seem excessive when one can purchase both a complete PS4 Pro and a Xbox One S for that sum. However, it’s important to remember that the 1080 Ti is effectively a $1,200 card with a $699 price. It’s also a fiscal nightmare for those early adopters who bought a Titan at Christmas and have now seen their equity fall faster than the UK economy after Brexit.

 

After much anticipation, the 1080 Ti was scheduled to be available on Friday, March 10th at 12:00 PM CST, but I was able to sneak my order in at 11:57. It was fortuitous as Nvidia’s stock sold out in the first five minutes. Many customers took to the message boards to complain that they had a 1080 Ti in their virtual shopping cart when it suddenly vanished and they were greeted with a disappointing “Sold Out” message. The same experience played out over and over again for other luckless shoppers hoping to find the cards on Amazon, NewEgg and similar E-tailers. Who knew so many people would line up to drop $700 on a video card? Every day it seems there’s one headline forecasting the end of PC gaming, but it’s clear that there’s still a resoundingly active contingent not fit to let that happen. To quote Mark Twain, it would appear that the imminent demise of PC gaming has been greatly exaggerated.

 

Despite the glut of sales, I was surprised (and honestly overjoyed) when I received a shipping notification a few hours later. Given that it was a bustling Friday afternoon, I wasn’t expecting it to ship the same day and was simply satisfied that I had managed to get my order in. An E-commerce site called Digital River was fulfilling the orders and mailed it from Circle Pines, Minnesota. Although I’ve never heard of that place, it sounded suspiciously like it should border the fictitious town of Wayward Pines.

 

Unbeknownst to me, Lady Luck was again on my side as it left the Land of 10,000 Lakes late Friday. Had it not gone out then, it would have been delayed to Monday when an unexpected blizzard blanketed the Northeast. Winter storm Stella closed thousands of schools, cancelled 8,800 flights and caused five weather-related deaths in three states and Canada. Eager buyers along the snow belt region, many of whom paid extra for expedited shipping and failed to see their cards materialize, furiously screamed the storm’s name like they were trapped in a Tennessee Williams novel. Meanwhile, my 1080 Ti was due to arrive on Wednesday, but actually came a day early on Tuesday. Score one for living in the hot and sunny South! 

 

However, when I received my package, it looked like Cristiano Ronaldo had used it in the intervening 1,300 miles for soccer practice. Both sides of the box were dented in enough to have torn the cardboard, and its placement on my garage floor looked like it was simply catapulted from the back of FedEx truck. Naturally, if it’s something like an article of clothing or vitamins, I don’t stress over a package’s condition too much. However, when it’s a $700 piece of sensitive electronics equipment, that gives me pause for concern.

 

Fortunately, the damage seemed to be relegated solely to the exterior and the card inside was unharmed. I’ve gone through a lot of video cards, but never one that’s cost $700. Therefore, I was pleased (and a little amazed) when I saw how nicely the presentation box looked and felt. Surely, I thought, if Tiffany’s ever sold a graphics card this would be it. Indeed, lifting it out of the box reinforced the idea that it felt as solid and expensive as a gold brick. I had my 1070 nearby and picked it up for an impromptu comparison. It appeared flimsy and cheap next to the 1080. Nvidia brags that the Ti boasts a die-cast aluminum body that is heat-treated for strength and rigidity, and I believe it. 

   

Tucked alongside the card was a little black folder that housed several pamphlets. The first one proudly proclaimed “Welcome to GeForce GTX Gaming” which would admittedly be more impressive if perhaps I owned an AMD card and had defected to Nvidia. However, given that I’m simply upgrading from a GTX 1070 to a GTX 1080 Ti, it seemed a little silly. The same could be said for the next piece of fluff, which looked to target 40 year-old virgins who still live with their parents. It was a “Special-Edition Premium Badge” that Nvidia smugly declared is “Unique Gamer Swag” although I wonder how such a tiny sticker can be considered much of an upgrade over a regular sticker? Furthermore, it cautions not to “affix it to your notebook or desktop’s internals, your sibling’s hair, or your pet” and I couldn’t decide if they were serious or trying to be funny. Lastly, “Stick Once. Stick Wisely.” was emblazoned at the bottom and it sounded like something you’d either find in a fortune cookie or a PSA about one night stands and STDs. 

 

Also present were two small guides, one for “Support” and one for “Quick Start”. But interestingly, there was no driver disc which is fine by me, since they are always hopelessly outdated. Finally, a DVI to DisplayPort adapter cable was dubiously included. (See below). Once powered up, “GEFORCE GTX” glowed menacingly in green and looked rather cool, even if it clashed with my red LED fans. I suppose I’ll switch to some green LED fans eventually to complete the alien motif.

 

Jealous Titan owners derisively refer to the 1080 Ti as a “cut-down” Titan as if to imply that it’s somehow inferior. The truth of the matter is that Nvidia disabled one of the 32-bit memory channels on its GP102 architecture to justify the price drop. That results in a somewhat odd amount of  VRAM (11 GB), a nonstandard 352-bit bus width, and 8 fewer ROPs. However, the 1080 Ti does sport higher memory frequencies than Titan (11,000 MT/s vs. 10,000 MT/s) which ultimately makes it a smidgen faster (484 GB/s to 480 GB/s). The king is dead, long live the king!

 

Visually speaking, it’s nearly impossible to distinguish the 1080 Ti from its lesser 1080 sibling, even though all the hardware underneath is pure Titan. The most obvious difference is that Nvidia has now deleted the DVI connector, which truthfully shouldn’t affect many potential owners. Considering that even Dual-Link DVI maxes out at 2560x1600@60Hz, I suspect few customers will want to limit their pricey purchase to that mid-level resolution.  Also evident is the inclusion of a new 6-pin power connector which joins the standard 8-pin connector. This is so the power-hungry GP102 platform can suck down its full 250 watts, nearly double what my 1070 draws. Sadly, I can remember when a 250-watt power supply was enough to power a whole computer, not just the video card. However, Nvidia claims that a new 7-phase dualFET power supply and 14 dualFETs yield a 40% improvement in energy consumption. Despite that, I don’t expect the 1080 Ti to win any power conservation awards.  Of course, all that extra juice makes a lot of heat, so the vapor chamber cooler has also been internally redesigned to double the airflow of previous models. And as I would later find out, it needs every iota of cooling available.            

3DMARK TIME SPY
After the spanking my 1070 received in Time Spy I was looking forward to a rematch with the 1080 Ti. Futuremark’s programs are always designed to be as future-proof as possible and as such are deliberately challenging. With the 1070, it scored a best of 37.7 FPS, though in certain areas  it was decidely choppy as the frame rate plummeted. With the muscular 1080 Ti, it was a whole new experience and I even recruited my wife and daughter to witness the spectacle as it unfolded. It ran as beautifully as it looked, pulling down 60.26 FPS in the graphics test and achieving the Holy Grail of Benchmarkers everywhere. I say this because 60 FPS is generally regarded as the optimum target for smooth game play, and to achieve that is impressive in any benchmark, much less one as demanding as Time Spy with a native resolution of 2560x1440.

  

FINAL FANTASY XIV: HEAVENSWARD
It seems Heavensward was baffled by my 1080 Ti, in much the same way I am by Trump’s bizarre tweets. It incorrectly reported my VRAM as 3072 MB, which is roughly a quarter of the total amount, and then spit out a composite score of 19,893, a figure just 15% higher than what my 1070 recorded. I knew that number wasn’t correct and could only assume that the Ti was being held back by the relatively low 1920x1080 resolution. Much like a Top-Fuel dragster can’t completely put down its power in a brief eighth-mile sprint, I felt sure the Ti needed more room to stretch its legs. I bumped the resolution to 2560x1440 and was rewarded with a new tally of 16,649 which is within 20-percent of my 1070’s best effort (17,086) at 1920x1080. Of course, the solitary frame rate doesn’t tell the whole story and Heavensward simply looked better and ran smoother no matter what the synthetic score was. 

      

UNIGINE VALLEY
At four years-old, this is the patriarch of the group and despite that advanced age, still proves to be a viable exercise. Whereas the 1070 was only 50-percent faster (48.4 FPS) than the 970 (31.6 FPS), the 1080 Ti took no prisoners by almost doubling the 1070’s score to 89 FPS. However, it’s not to say that victory didn’t come at the expense of some kilowatts. Usually silent, the 1080 Ti audibly spooled up when the test began and I watched nervously as the GPU temperature spiked like a life-threatening fever. While the 1070 peaked at 150 degrees, the 1080 rocketed skyward until it plateaued at a scorching 185 degrees, just 10 degrees shy of its maximum thermal limit. Finally, Valley also failed to correctly recognize the Ti’s VRAM, though at 5505 MB, it was admittedly a closer estimate than Heavensward was capable of. 

     

SNIPER ELITE 4
I suppose you could say that I bought a $700 graphics card for a $40 game, because I primarily purchased the 1080 Ti for the sole purpose of being able to run SE4 at 4K. Rebellion did a fantastic job developing this game, and it improves upon the successes of Sniper Elite III and Sniper Elite V2 which were both outstanding in their own rite. And after replaying the first level with all the eye candy maxed at 4K, I have to admit that it was unequivocally money well spent! Incredibly, the 1080 renders SE4 at 3840x2160 better than my 1070 did at 2560x1440. Everything is smoother, the visual effects are crystal clear, and the game borders on photo-realism. No longer is there an uncanny valley, where we’re forced to wince at poorly rendered animations and facial expressions. But perhaps most amazing is that SE4 is not only the first game to enable DX12 with a performance advantage over DX11, it’s also the only one to currently offer the option of offloading some of the work to Async Compute. I’ve mentioned before that Async Compute is Nvidia’s Achilles heel, as its software algorithms are no match for AMD’s hardware-supported silicon. However, the 1080 Ti succeeds here primarily due to its massive raw processing power. Although benchmarks with a Ti were not available, a regular 1080 was tested and returned 117 FPS with DX11, 123 FPS with DX12 and 126 FPS with DX12+Async Compute. Granted, the big news here is not the small gains under DX12+ASC, but rather the lack of a penalty for using them, something that has historically been the case until now.

 

SHADOW WARRIOR 2
Like SE4, this one doesn’t have a benchmark either, but I wanted to include it since I encountered an unusual anomaly with it. Somehow, I missed the original version of this game when it was first released in 1997, but I had a blast playing the 2013 reboot. It’s an unapologetic throwback with a lot of crude juvenile humor, so naturally I loved it. Last fall, the sequel arrived and I ripped through it on my 1070 at 2560x1440. As fate would have it, the new 14-mission Bounty Hunt DLC landed at the same time as my 1080 Ti, so I wasted no time trying it out. With it running so well on my 1070, I envisioned my 1080 Ti carving up those 4K frame rates as easily as my Katana sliced through a Yakuza soldier. But despite being nearly twice as powerful, the 1080 visibly struggled, and during intense firefights, the FPS plunged into the 30s. Dismayed, I reluctantly dropped the effects from “Ultra” to “High” but the problem persisted. Finally, I relented and accepted that it only ran smoothly at 2560x1440, acknowledging that it was a complete waste of money when it performed no better than a 1070. So, in a popular gaming forum, I casually mentioned how terrible SW2 was running on my 1080 Ti when one member suggested that I make sure VSYNC and Triple Buffering was disabled, and instead enable Adaptive VSYNC in the Nvidia control panel. Truthfully, I was a little skeptical of this recommendation since I’ve never had to do it before in 20 years of gaming, but with nothing to lose (and everything to gain) I decided to try it. Sure enough, that fixed it and my 1080 Ti started performing like a 1080 Ti should, with me gleefully hacking and slashing enemies at 4K Ultra settings. 

       

WHAT’S NEXT?
I’m not naïve enough to believe that I’ll have the fastest video card in the world for long. In fact, the same rumor mill that accurately predicted the 1080 Ti is already churning away with news of possible replacements. As mentioned above, the performance of AMD’s impending Vega video card could vastly increase or decrease Nvidia’s delivery window of such a successor. If Vega raises the bar, we could see an immediate retaliatory effort based around two new models. The first (and most probable) is a full-core GP102 likely to be crowned as the new Titan. The original Titan in 2013 started out as a graphics processing unit for deep neural learning at the Oak Ridge National Laboratory. But when Nvidia realized that enthusiasts would pay top-dollar for it, Titan was repositioned as the flagship of their consumer graphics card line. Following that, Nvidia deviously doled out upgraded versions almost annually to keep the revenue stream flowing and their coveted title of world’s fastest intact. The original Titan was succeeded by the Titan Black and Titan Z in 2014, the Titan X in 2015 and yet another Titan X in 2016, each based on that family’s current architecture. Presently, the $5,000 enterprise-level Quadro P6000 is the only graphics card utilizing the complete GP102 chip with 30 SMs and 3,840 CUDA cores. For that reason, it would be easy for Nvidia to repurpose it as the next Titan with a cheaper price.

 

A little further out on the roadmap is Volta, Nvidia’s next generation graphics card. References to it have already been spied in the latest round of GeForce drivers with the codename GV100. There was also a rather large order placed recently by Nvidia through TSMC for the GV100 chips. Aside from that, little else is known since there’s a lengthy debate over even the node size. Originally, Volta was to be a 10nm process, but the latest scuttlebutt is that yield problems have forced them to use a hybrid 16nm FinFET which is being billed as 12nm. What has been confirmed is that Nvidia will use HBM2 memory in Volta, after being criticized for using cheaper GDDR5 in Pascal, while AMD enjoyed success with HBM1 in Fury.

 

CONCLUSION
I spend less than 10% of my time gaming, so the idea of using a $700 graphics card for emails and web-surfing is a lot like using a $3 million Patriot missile to shoot down a $200 drone. It’s overkill really, but innovation is truly driving development. Dell just debuted their new $5000 8K (7680x4320) monitor and AMD engineers have admitted that their ultimate goal is 16K (15360x8640) for graphics so real they are indistinguishable from reality. Given that, it looks like there are still a couple graphic card upgrades in my future.      

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.