Roman Holiday

My Herculean quest to buy a new daily driver!

  Pirate Press         January 2021

Upon seeing me drowsily slumped over in my chair on Monday morning, my co-worker asked if I’d had a busy weekend? I acknowledged that I did, and that we’d left for Rome early Saturday morning and gotten in late Sunday night. But when he found out that I was talking about Georgia, and not Italy, he suddenly became disinterested and quickly disappeared.

Personally, I don’t blame him.  Truthfully, I’ve never aspired to visit Rome, Georgia, and I’ve always felt it was one of those boring little towns that was given a cosmopolitan name just to trick people into thinking it was a noteworthy place.  It turns out I was mostly right, but such follows my bad luck when trying to locate obscure cars.

It all started a week prior when I took my 2006 Saturn Ion Red Line to a local mechanic for an under-hood rattling noise. I’d pretty much pinpointed it to either the supercharger pulley coupler or the idler tensioner. He couldn’t tell for sure, but in his examination, he diagnosed a lengthy laundry list of other expensive items that all needed immediate attention. Granted, none of them were a surprise, but it was still depressing nonetheless. Essentially, my Saturn needed a new clutch, new transmission, new brakes and new tires. Even worse, I’ve never had to replace a single accessory items under the hood, so the air-conditioning compressor, alternator, fuel pump, starter and water pump were all original and could fail at any moment.  Being 15 years old and with 138,000 miles, KBB pegged my car’s retail value at $3000 with a laughable trade-in allowance of just $900. Sadly, it was finally time to put it out to pasture and start looking for a new daily driver.

Of course, I tried this back in 2019 with the Corvette, but I ultimately deemed it too nice for the daily abuse. I also briefly considered a Cobalt SS, but it was only available with a 5-speed, and that’s my biggest gripe with the Saturn. For the past thirty years, all my cars have been manual transmissions and I’m just plain tired of them.

My problem was that I wanted an automotive unicorn: something that was sporty, yet didn’t have a million miles on it, and wasn’t more than a king’s ransom. Also, I didn’t want a gas-guzzling V8 or a high-strung, forced-induction four, so that left me with a V6, something I haven’t driven since my 1986 Fiero.

I looked at some Honda Accords, but there were either high-mileage (150K+) or generally more than I wanted to spend for a work car. Likewise, I was fond of the ’98 Nissan Altima my parents owned, but later ones are plagued with CVT transmission issues. Finally, I came across the Ford Fusion, a car we initially considered in 2006 before we bought our Freestyle, and it was also Motor Trend's Car of the Year for 2010. At that time, it had a 220hp 3.0-liter V6 that made it pretty quick for a sedan. I remember racing one on the highway in my ’97 Saturn SC2 and it was nearly dead-even.

I began looking at the listings for a Fusion with the V6 and was dismayed to find that most of the local offerings were just four-cylinders. Eventually, I found a 2010 model with 65K miles on it located in Ft. Walton Beach, Florida. Aside from the heavily-tinted windows, it seemed like a good fit for me. But as I expanded my search, I stumbled upon a much rarer version that I didn’t even realize existed. It was known as the Fusion Sport and was only built for two short years, from 2010-2012. The real desirability stemmed from the larger 3.5 V6 which boasted 265 hp, sixty more than my Red Line had when I bought it. And combining the best of both worlds, it offered a six-speed automatic transmission with a sequential manual shift mode— pull back for upshifts, push forward for downshifts, for when I felt like rowing the gears.

But the Sport model was about more than just a larger engine: It was also equipped with 18-inch wheels (an inch larger than the ones fitted to my Red Line and the same size as the Corvette and Ferrari). Also, the suspension was tuned for a firmer and more responsive ride while the body had been upgraded with new pieces that echoed its energetic character. There was an aggressive lower chrome grille, sculpted rocker panels, a subtle rear spoiler, and new chrome exhaust tips that look like they were borrowed from the Mustang GT.

When comparing prices, there was only a roughly $1000 premium for the Sport over the SEL, a pittance when considering that for the extra clams you were getting—among other things—a more powerful engine, better interior, unique body kit, and larger wheels.

So, with my mind made up, I began searching for the Sport model. As expected, it turned out to be even more elusive than the standard V6 Fusion. I finally narrowed the two geographically closest to Russellville, Arkansas and Rome, Georgia, both places that were literally in the middle of nowhere. And while they were each essentially in the Southeast, they were still separated by 500 miles, meaning it would be a single-shot deal; If I didn’t like one, there was no way I could drive the eight hours to cross-shop the other.

Predictably, there were pros and cons to each. I preferred the Oxford White one in Arkansas, but while it was a year newer, it was also $1000 more and had higher mileage. So, by default I chose the 2010 model in Georgia which was ironically nearly the same crimson hue as my Corvette and Ferrari. Officially known as “Red Candy Metallic Tinted” it’s just a shade brighter than the Sport’s other similar color “Sangria Red Metallic.” Call me crazy, but I’m sensing a culinary trend here, wondering if the Ford designers were snacking and drinking heavily when they thought up these eccentric names? Regardless, I’ve been trying for thirty years to acquire a white-colored car and I’ve been foiled yet again.

Friday night, October 9th, we were waiting to see what Hurricane Delta was going to do and Victoria had invited her dance team over, so leaving then for Georgia was out of the question.

So, early Saturday morning we were hastily packing to hit the road by 8 a.m.  We had a six-hour drive ahead of us, and we were going to lose an hour to Eastern Time, but fortunately the dealership didn’t close until 6 p.m. Although Hurricane Delta had gradually moved westward and made landfall in Louisiana, it was still spawning massive amounts of rain and wind across Mississippi, Alabama and Georgia. We drove through these miserable conditions for nearly three hours and were almost ready to stop for lunch in Montgomery when Waze alerted us to an impending wreck ahead. With flashbacks of the Atchafalaya Basin Bridge fiasco from our drive to Houston a month earlier, I feared the worst. Fortunately, we were directed to an exit whereby we took some back roads through the rustic community of Sandy Ridge. My Mother always admonished me to try and make the best of a bad situation, so while I was furious that we had been delayed an extra hour, I tried to focus on the bucolic countryside that we would have missed had we stayed on the uninspiring Interstate. Well, that and the fact that the notorious Alabama pissing bandit was thankfully nowhere to be seen!

Approximately two hours of rain-soaked misery later, Waze had us turning near LaGrange, Georgia, which was at odds with the course I had selected. It was the age-old traffic debate as to whether to take the shorter-but-slower rural route or the longer-but-quicker Interstate one? My rationale was that while taking I-85 resulted in a further amount to travel, the extra distance was negated by the ability to drive at faster speeds. Despite my thinking that 1-85 would ultimately be better, I deferred to Waze and took the road less traveled.  

As with the voyage earlier through Sandy Ridge, we marveled at the pastoral fall foliage and the beautiful Autumn colors, even while the small-town speed limits and tortoise-slow traffic continued to aggravate me. And all the while, I was still expecting to get to the dealership and discover that the car had been sold. Given my history with these things, I had already prepared myself for that eventual outcome.

Up ahead, the Appalachian Mountains came into full view and it was such a breathtaking sight that I simply couldn’t be upset regardless of what happened. Geologists estimate that they formed around 480 million years ago and were once as tall as the Swiss Alps before natural erosion wore them down.  

We made it into the Rome City limits at 5:00, just an hour shy of the dealership’s closing time when I spotted a police car across the highway about to pull out. I didn’t give it much thought until I came to a red light and he was behind me. When the light changed, I put on my blinker to move out of his way and then he suddenly cut on his blue lights. Alarmed, Amanda asked if we were being pulled over and I clarified that we indeed were. When she asked why, I admitted that I had no idea. I had my radar detector on for the length of the trip and it hadn’t made a peep.

He came to my window and stated that he had received a call from another motorist that I was “all over the road” so he wanted to make sure I was okay. I admitted that I was fine and that I was certainly not driving recklessly in the wet conditions with my wife and daughter aboard. He asked to see my license, but strangely not any other documents like my insurance or vehicle registration, and then disappeared back to his patrol car.

A few minutes later, he returned and handed me my license. With no explanation or apology, he simply told me to try and be more careful. I reiterated that I was being extra careful and that we were simply in town to look at buying a car. With that, we were on our way, but I couldn’t shake the nagging suspicion that we were victims of “Tourist Profiling.” That is, we were detained simply because we were from out of state, not due to any violations or criminal activity. In hindsight, it was the calmest I’ve ever been during a traffic stop because (this time at least) I really was completely innocent.

However, after the seven hours of non-stop rain, the hour-long traffic jam, someone else possibly buying the car, and then getting pulled over just minutes from the dealership, I was starting to feel like the whole trip was doomed from the start.

The size of Rome reminded me a lot of Pascagoula, but the dealership, Heritage Nissan, was much bigger than I envisioned. I then told Amanda that since Heritage was also the name of the company that built our new house, it was most definitely a good omen.  

Sure enough, we pulled in and the Fusion was parked directly in front. It was still steadily raining, but after I got Amanda and Victoria inside, the salesman, Dustin arranged to pull it into the covered service department so I could inspect it. He volunteered that the Fusion was traded in less than a week earlier by an old man who hardly drove it. Indeed, it was a 2010 that just had 34,000 miles on it. I asked him if he was sure it wasn’t owned by a nymphomaniac who only used the back seat? He laughed and shook his head stating that the old man inexplicably traded it in on a new 370Z with a six-speed manual transmission. I admitted that it sounded like he was a masochist completely in the throes of a late-life crisis.

 

Despite that, the car reflected the low miles with glossy paint and a wear-free interior. Pointing to the back seat, Dustin exclaimed that it looked like it had never been used, sadly shooting down my nympho theory. The upgraded Charcoal Black leather, exclusive to the Sport model, featured silver stitching on the seats, steering wheel, shifter and door panels. I was pleased, but in disbelief that the Fusion actually had a nicer interior than the 2016 Hellcat I recently rented.

 

It also possessed nearly every creature comfort I’ve been missing in my Saturn thanks to the optional $4,030 “Moon & Tune” package.  That bundle included a moon roof, 12-speaker Sony sound system, and backup camera. The other items like ambient lighting, automatic headlights, blind-spot warning system, dual-zone HVAC and reversing sensors are nice, but pretty much superfluous in my opinion. Also, I don’t care how cold it gets, I’m never going to use the heated seats! Granted, my wife or daughter might, but I won’t ever.

For better or worse, this was my first test drive ever in the rain, so I purposely abbreviated it. However, I did discover that the windshield wipers were obviously new, and it rode much smoother than I expected with the 18” wheels.

 

But as we pulled back into the dealership, I was startled when I heard a groaning sound coming from the engine bay. As I steered around the parking lot, I found that it got louder.

We drove it back into the service department and I left the engine running as I popped the hood. Of course, I was replaying all the day’s events in my mind—and all the hurdles we had overcome—only to be seemingly defeated at the very end by a mysterious mechanical malady.

It felt like the final straw that broke the camel’s back.

However, I decided that after having come so far and through so much, I wasn’t going to just give up. I noticed the noise was most pronounced whenever I was turning the steering wheel, so I popped the cap off the power steering fluid reservoir to inspect it. Sure enough, it was nearly empty, and the tiny amount of fluid present was just gurgling in the bottom. The service department and parts department were both closed, so there was no way we could get our hands on any power steering fluid.

Dustin suggested we drive to the nearest auto parts store and pick some up. I agreed and that’s how I got a VIP tour of downtown Rome, Georgia.

We ended up at an AutoZone since it was the closest, and he magnanimously sprung for the $6 bottle of synthetic power steering fluid. I was fairly confident that it would fix the problem, but on the off-chance it didn’t, I wasn’t going to be responsible for lugging around a quart of power steering fluid I’d bought.  

Once back at the dealership, he filled the reservoir to the full mark, and the sound immediately vanished. Thankfully, it was a case of looking for the simple things. Initially, I had expected the worst, so I was relieved when it was such an easy fix. However, I didn’t see any leaks, so I was a little concerned as to why the fluid was low to begin with? Despite that, I’ve now driven it over 3,000 miles and the fluid level has remained unchanged and there are no puddles under the car. Besides, a power steering pump is rather cheap and easy to replace, unlike an engine or transmission.

After the usual back-and-forth negotiations, and we’d agreed on a price that was significantly lower than the advertised amount, Amanda and Victoria left in the Santa Fe and I followed behind them in the Fusion. While we were leaving, Dustin told me to be sure and let him know we made it back to Mississippi safely. I was pleased at his gesture of concern but didn’t think we had anything to worry about.

 

It turns out I was very wrong.

As we drove away from Rome, the already rainy weather began deteriorating rapidly. The sun was also setting, robbing us of what little daylight we had, and making our drive even more treacherous. We had planned to drive an hour southeast to Kennesaw, where the closest Chuy’s was for dinner, and then spend the night at a nearby hotel.

Roughly fifteen minutes later, Amanda called me in a panic because the emergency alerts on her phone were going off. A tornado had been spotted in the area and they were warning people to seek shelter immediately. Unfortunately, we were on a desolate stretch with nothing but the Appalachians around us, so I just told Amanda to keep going and not stop. My hope was that eventually we would drive out of it. In the meantime, I kept scanning the horizon for any signs of an impending twister. And while I didn’t see a full-fledged one, I witnessed the mist being pulled off the mountain tops and sucked up in cyclic formations, indicating conditions were ripe for tornadic activity. The next morning, we would learn that a terrifying seven tornadoes were confirmed in Georgia as Hurricane Delta passed over. Furthermore, The Weather Service was still trying to determine if other unaccounted for tornadoes had touched down.

On the 400-mile drive home, I never realized how noisy and run-down my Saturn had become until I bought the Fusion. Of course, I’ve always sought out cars that emphasized performance over luxury, and with that there’s not a lot of concessions to comfort. I knew that, and thought it didn’t matter, but it turns out it did.

Truthfully, I’m pretty spoiled with the Fusion’s opulent conveniences that I never experienced in the Corvette or Ferrari. It’s been 20 years since I’ve had a car with a sunroof, and I’d forgotten how much I enjoyed the open-air motoring. Of course, the Corvette had a removable targa top, but it was so cumbersome and unwieldy that I was reluctant to use it much. With the Fusion, it has a one-touch button that automatically opens or closes the sunroof.

 

And having owned a 2006 Ford Freestyle, there’s also a similarity that extends to the interior with the Fusion possessing the same steering wheel, door locks, and other switch gear. It lends a comforting familiarity to the cabin, although there were quite a few new features I had to figure out on my own. For instance, the Fusion is my first vehicle with a USB port and it was harder to find than the G-Spot. While the A/C adapter was in plain view under the radio, I spent the first 30 days of ownership thinking it didn’t have a USB port. It was only after I read about it in the owner’s manual—and used a flashlight—that I found it hidden in the bottom of the center console armrest.

The radio in my Red Line got fried five years ago when the battery died and I had to jump-start it, so I’ve gotten used to not listening to music on my drives. As such, I made the six-hour drive from Georgia in silence but made a startling discovery when I turned on the radio a week later to change the time zone from Eastern to Central. Apparently, the previous owner was a music enthusiast who’d purchased a subscription to SiriusXM Satellite Radio. Accustomed to just a handful of FM stations, I was suddenly overwhelmed by the music at my fingertips. I quickly developed a fondness for the 80s on 8, although it was fun to also hear what was playing on the 90s on 9 and the 2000s on 10. But when I pick up my daughter, she turns it to KIIS FM out of Los Angeles as they play her favorites like Billie Eillish and Harry Styles. I don’t know how long I’ll continue to have free Satellite radio, but hopefully it will go unnoticed for a while as I’m too cheap to pay the $13 per month myself!

Surprisingly, that wasn’t the only gift the old man (albeit unintentionally) bestowed upon me. As it turns out, the Fusion has a small, drop-down compartment in the headliner and he left his aviator-style sunglasses in there. Not only that, but they’re pretty nice, too. Granted, they’re no Ray-Bans but they are fairly sturdy, and the lenses are polarized. I should mention this is becoming quite common for me, as the Corvette owner forgot his twelve CDs in the trunk-mounted CD changer. Hopefully on my next car purchase, I’ll hit the jackpot and find a really nice stash of money or drugs!

It sounds silly (and Alfred Hitchcock would approve), but I’m also enjoying the unobstructed rear window. For the past ten years, I’ve had to contend with the Red Line’s ridiculously high spoiler which blocked the middle thirty-percent of my outward view. Granted, it looked cool (and provided a lot of downforce) but it was still like an annoying, silver censorship bar. I had a comparable experience with both the Corvette and Ferrari in that while there were no physical items hindering my view, both glasses were so radically raked that it distorted everything, making them nearly as useless. Fortunately, the Fusion retains a modest spoiler, but it’s one that doesn’t interfere with rearward visibility.

 

And while the Sport model makes do with conventional halogen headlamps instead of HID units, they are immensely more effective than the ones on my Saturn. The Red Line’s headlights were never great to start with, and they became progressively worse after the minor front-end accident in 2017. Although the body shop that repaired it swears otherwise, I’m convinced the frame was bent as evidenced by one infuriatingly cock-eyed headlight beam at night.

But, perhaps my biggest gripe about the Fusion centers around the cheap, “tinny” feeling when shutting the doors. If caution isn’t exercised, they can slam so hard it feels like the window might shatter. Moreover, the leather seats (which are an obvious upgrade over the ones in the Freestyle) still lack the support of the Recaros in my Saturn.  

Dustin thoughtfully topped off the Fusion’s gas tank before we left, but I knew I’d have to stop at least once to fill it up myself, and I was actually looking forward to it. That’s because it would be the first time in ten years that I wouldn’t have to pay the exorbitant prices for premium fuel, and I could run 87 octane which is what the Fusion’s V6 was designed for.

A conservative estimate shows that over the past decade and 100,000 miles, I’ve spent nearly $4000 just for the premium fuel surcharge in my Saturn. Of course, it’s been a blast, but I’m not convinced the fun-to-dollar ratio is still worth it. My priorities have shifted, and for better or worse, I’d rather save $15 on every weekly fill-up than have an extra 15 hp. I’m not saying that I won’t ever run 93 octane again—and I’ll definitely consider it if prices drop— but even an 87 octane tune can produce impressive gains in drivability and overall enjoyment.

And it’s a good thing I can run regular unleaded as the Fusion appears unnaturally thirsty: So far, I’m seeing around 24 MPG, which seems awfully low given that the Corvette averaged 23 MPG. The thermodynamic laws of combustion suggest that a modern V6 with variable valve-timing and a fuel-efficient six-speed transmission should easily trounce an aging, four-speed push-rod V8 at the gas pump.

Also, while I like the convenience of a cap-less fuel tank (which originated on the 2005 Ford GT super car), I did unfortunately learn that it doesn’t play nicely with pour-in bottles of fuel system cleaner. I have a long-standing ritual of adding such elixirs to my new cars when I get them, so I was quite dismayed when I had half a bottle of Royal Purple splash out on my shoes. Thankfully, my Tony Robbins motivational course of walking on hot coals had been postponed that day. Despite that, Ford apparently anticipated this predicament, so they included a “Fuel Filler Funnel” in the trunk.  The problem is, like most people, I didn’t discover it until it was too late. But given its creepy similarity, I’d likely have mistaken it for the old man’s portable urinal and tossed it out anyway.

 

I was pleased that the Fusion had brand new tires, though I suspect in this litigious society that it was mostly done for liability reasons. And rather than throw on the cheapest set possible, I’m glad that they outfitted it with Goodyear Eagle RS-A, the original tires it came with.  They’re V-Rated for speeds up to 149 mph, which makes it all the more puzzling as to why Ford limits the Sport to just 126 mph? Even worse, the 3.0 V6 SEL is governed to 112 mph, a speed my 85-hp Saturn SL1 could muster. No matter, an aftermarket tune can easily remove that silly governor and let my Sport sail up to its true top speed of 150+ mph. Because, let’s be honest, you never know when you may need it!

In the past, I’ve purchased Ultra High-Performance Summer Tires and run them year-round as temps rarely drop below freezing. But the RS-A sacrifices some extreme grip for better wet-handling, as well as a quieter and more comfortable ride, which I’m 100% fine with. Quite frankly, it’s a nice vacation from the jarring jolts of the Red Line’s stiff suspension and worn tires.

 

It’s bittersweet, but I’m starting 2021 without a Saturn, thus breaking my 29-year ownership streak. Luckily, my brother-in-law bought the Red Line, so it’s remaining in the family. Of course, I’m secretly eager to discover which part fails first, and he’s already bragged about racing (and beating) some showoff in a new truck.

As for the Fusion, I’m finding an unexpected level of sophistication and satisfaction that eluded me with the Corvette and Ferrari. I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t experienced it, but I’m really starting to embrace the notion of owning a sports sedan!

 

COMING SOON: The Fusion's very first Maintenance and Modifications!

 

Cat Scratch Fever!

Prowling Houston in a 900 hp Hellcat

 

  Pirate Press         December 2020

Three years ago, I came across a website called Turo that let car owners personally rent out their vehicles. Of course, I was mortified at the mere thought of handing my car keys over to someone I’d never met before. But as a potential rentee, it opened up a whole new world of possibilities. Unfortunately, the service—at least in my area—was still in its infancy and the selection of exciting cars was virtually nonexistent. Despite that, the idea was intriguing so I put it on a mental back burner, promising to return once it had matured.

In July 2019, a venture capital company injected $250 million into Turo, and in February of this year, another $30 million in funding was received. So when we decided to visit Houston for Labor Day weekend, it seemed like the perfect time to take a closer look at Turo. Well, that and the fact that my daughter is obsessed with the singer Billie Eillish who just happens to drive a black Dodge Hellcat. So, for completely unselfish reasons, I volunteered to rent a 707-hp Hellcat so my daughter could emulate her idol. I also explained to Amanda that this was most definitely *NOT* an excuse for me to drive one of the most powerful production cars on the planet.

She didn’t believe me.

Not even for a second.

But before I could wrap my sweaty fingers around the Hellcat’s red ignition key which unlocks its full feral fury, I had to agree to the stipulations required by the renter: “Please NO Burnouts. No Racing of any kind, also tires are gauged before a trip, brakes are also checked. Be aware that this vehicle has an active tracking device, that monitors speed, driver behavior, vehicle location, and is monitored 24/7. You are responsible for any damages done to the vehicle while under your care.” Naturally, this was to weed out any immature joyriders, and I do mean that literally: “Please don’t smoke inside the car, it’s very difficult and time consuming, besides being gross. Trying to remove the smoke and weed smell from the car.” Yes, because the last thing Houston traffic needs is someone who’s high as a kite in a car that hits 60 mph in 3.6 seconds.

So prior to us arguing whether driving a Hellcat 90 mph in a 55-mph zone constitutes irreconcilable differences in a divorce, Amanda and I experienced similar marital bliss just getting to Houston. That’s because everyone who’s been quarantined for the past six months apparently all decided to flood the highways for Labor Day. And in so doing, we encountered the most holiday traffic we’ve ever seen. It was like a real-life game of Frogger, where there was an endless supply of obstacles we had to avoid on the highway. Regrettably, it was the complete opposite of our trip through deserted Florida in July. At one point in rural Louisiana, we were trapped behind someone moving a brand-new barn. After several miles, we eventually passed them only to then be blocked by a full-size tractor, which was trailing a prisoner transport bus.  

However, the absolute worst part of the entire 1,000-mile trip was near Breaux Bridge, Louisiana, specifically the Atchafalaya Basin Bridge. Colloquially called the “20 Mile Bridge” by locals, it’s a pair of parallel bridges that are the 3rd longest in the U.S. and 14th longest in the world. Truthfully, I’ve never given them much thought as I’ve crossed over in the past, but all that changed this time. I suppose we were about halfway across when I noticed everyone hitting their brakes. Initially, I wasn’t concerned as with the volume of holiday traffic, it was constant. But as we came to a standstill, and the minutes started slowly ticking by, the enormity of our predicament began to sink in. For starters, we were on a tiny, two-lane bridge just forty-feet wide, so there was no where to turn around or exit. Secondly, we were above the largest wetland in the U.S., which spans nearly 1.5 million acres, so we had no cell service.

All we could do was wait...

 

And wait...

 

And wait.

After the first hour, other motorists began getting out of their cars. Some walked to their trunks to retrieve drinks or snacks, while others restlessly paced back and forth. In the distance, we could see a helicopter hovering overhead, possibly airlifting crash victims to the closest hospital. We lost count of the emergency vehicles and police cars that passed us on the bridge’s shoulder.

And as we would later find out, the Atchafalaya Basin Bridge is one of the deadliest stretches of highway in the entire U.S. with more than 1,000 accidents and 13 fatalities since 2014. As of 2018, total accidents rose by 12% over the previous year and 30% over 2014. Serving the major corridor between Baton Rouge and Lafayette, high-speed traffic averages 55,000 cars per day which is a recipe for daily wrecks like the one we were stopped in. 

When the second hour started, I noticed some activity in the silver Accord behind us. I briefly recalled seeing this same Honda from Alabama earlier in our trip, because it was driven by a mid-20s female who recklessly passed us a couple times. Of course, my competitive nature was satisfied by the fact that despite her dangerous driving, we still ended up ahead of her in this whole mess.

  
Her car door was open, and she seemed to be performing some sort of shimmy, almost like she was trying to hula hoop. But, with the door obstructing my view, all I could see was from her shoulders up and her ankles down. Then I noticed a prodigious puddle spreading beside her car, and I realized that she had just brazenly relieved herself in the middle of the highway. I told Amanda that I had heard of The Kissing Bandit, but this was the first time I’d ever seen a Pissing Bandit! 

 

Stuck for 3 hours on a bridge? Urine trouble!

Roughly an hour later, we arrived in Lake Charles, which a week earlier had been devastated by Hurricane Laura. Just 7 mph shy of Category 5 status, Laura was the most powerful hurricane to strike Louisiana in 164 years and was responsible for 34 deaths and $8.9 billion in damages. It was eerily reminiscent of the destruction we witnessed from Hurricane Michael two years ago in Florida, and was a frightening reminder that Mississippi is long overdue for another Katrina.

Luckily, we had enough fuel to make it into Houston because there was about a 50-mile radius on either side of Lake Charles where the gas stations were either completely destroyed, had no power, or both.

Due to our three-hour bridge delay, my lunch was a carton of chocolate milk from a rest-area vending machine, so I couldn’t wait until we got to dinner at B&B Butchers Restaurant. Located on the East Side of Washington Avenue, it’s a stone’s throw from the Houston Aquarium and is a nice respite from the chaos and claustrophobia of downtown. I joked with Amanda that if there was a Steakhouse Spa, this would be it thanks to the cozy and relaxing atmosphere. Indeed, Amanda liked to point out that the high prices keep out the “Riff-Raff” and ensure that we’re able to enjoy our meal in peace and quiet.

B&B has the singular distinction of possessing the best appetizer we’ve ever eaten, two thick slices of house-smoked Lamb bacon. According to owner Benjamin Berg, being the only one to offer such a delicacy in Houston presented its own set of problems, namely the difficulty in finding lambs over 100 lbs. That was a four-month process, but was necessary so that when they’re slaughtered, they have a large enough belly to make the bacon. And unlike New York steakhouses which only offer pork bacon as a side, Berg insisted on making the Lamb Bacon a full-fledged appetizer, serving it with tangy German Mustard and Mixed Greens. Truly, the serving size would be enough for Amanda or Victoria to have as a complete entrée. Cured and smoked on the premises, it has a distinct tenderness and richness that reminds me of Japanese A5 Wagyu, but it’s a heckuva lot cheaper. Even Victoria, our budding vegetarian, raved about the Lamb Bacon. And given her proclivity for avoiding meat, I was just glad she was ingesting some animal protein. As such, I intentionally didn’t remind her of the nursery rhymes about Little Bo Peep or Mary and her little lamb that we used to sing to her.

 

After dinner, I promised Victoria that we would do some shopping at The Galleria, which at 3 million square-feet is not only billed as the largest mall in Texas, but the seventh largest in the U.S. It has basically every notable fashion brand under one roof, and even an ice rink. However, before we could get there, she excitedly spotted somewhere else that she said she’d rather go. I didn’t believe my ears, so I asked her if she was sure? I couldn’t imagine what it could be—what she saw—that had her so determined to pass up stores like Louis Vuitton, Gucci and Tiffany?

It was dark and raining, and I was afraid to take my eyes off the road for more than a split-second, but from the freeway all I could make out was glimpses of a massive yellow and blue building. Then I realized that she must be talking about Best Buy, because it has the same blue and yellow color scheme, and we just bought her a fancy camera for her birthday that she wanted some accessories for. But as we took the interstate off-ramp, and it came into full view, I realized how very wrong I was.

It was a freakin’ IKEA!

That’s right, apparently IKEA is the hot new Millennial shopping trend, having done for home accessories what Starbucks has done for coffee and Chick-Fil-A has done for sandwiches. When I confessed to her that I’d never been in an IKEA (carefully choosing to omit that I wouldn’t be caught dead in one) she expressed amazement. She said she thought since I’d been to California that naturally I’d gone in an IKEA. I wanted to burst out laughing because it was the craziest teenage logic and generalization I’d ever heard. It’s like thinking French Fries come from France!

Despite that, I dutifully pulled into the parking lot and noticed that this IKEA was busier then some airports I’ve been to. Cars were impatiently driving up and down the aisles looking for empty spaces, and people were endlessly streaming in and out. Soon, we would join the nearly 1 billion people that visited an IKEA store last year. 

    
Inside, it was like some sort of crazy European maze of rooms, and this is intentional: IKEA deliberately makes it difficult to leave so you’ll spend more time (and money) in there. The aisles even curve every 50 feet to keep customers engaged. On studying this byzantine layout, Alan Penn, a professor of architectural and urban computing at The University College of London, pronounced it “sadomasochistic.” But that hasn’t stopped IKEA from becoming the world’s largest furniture retailer, a statistic punctuated by the slightly disturbing fact that 1 in 10 Europeans are conceived in an IKEA bed. Unfortunately, there were no Swedish girls there willing to let me test that theory.

Personally, IKEA struck me as a very, very big dollar store. There were endless aisles of cheaply made items, all stuffed in overflowing bins, which absolutely captivated my daughter. Of course, the Dollar Tree doesn’t sell home furnishings, but what I saw was terribly unappealing. I don’t know if it’s correct to describe furniture as androgynous, but the basic black and white pieces were completely uninspiring. I also learned that as part of the Scandinavian culture, IKEA workers are trained not to offer help unless deliberately asked. Apparently, their work ethic of self-sufficiency frowns upon this, and I was just thinking they were lazy like our Wal-Mart employees!

Fortunately, we made it out of there with just a few knick-knacks and not only did it satisfy her curiosity about IKEA, it was a lot less expensive than going to the Galleria.

BLACK SABBATH
We got up early Sunday morning for our 30-minute drive to Pasadena where the Hellcat was located.  Once free of Houston’s gridlock, the drive was fairly calm and relaxing. Of course, a lot of this had to do with the fact that most God-fearing folks were attending Church while we were literally on the Highway to Hell.

It’s not often that the cars parked in the driveway exceed the value of the home, but that was definitely the case in this instance. Given the accumulated horsepower, I expected a mansion, but was instead greeted by a modest, 1,300 sq.-ft. house built in 1979. In a crowded neighborhood of pedestrian Fords and Toyotas, the satanic Hellcat looked ready to pounce.

 

Likewise, my Turo host, Ismael, certainly didn’t fit the stereotypical profile of someone who owns a Porsche, two Corvettes and a Hellcat. In fact, there was nothing unusual about him that would advertise his addiction to fast cars: No gold chains, flashy watch, or designer clothes. He looked, and was dressed, like any other middle-aged guy who might be running an errand to Home Depot.

Immediately, Ismael explained that the Hellcat was modified and actually produces 900 hp, not the factory amount of 707, but insurance regulations prohibit him from advertising that on Turo. I thanked him for the confession and promised him that I was fine with it. Somehow, I don’t think that disclosure has been a deal-breaker for any of his customers, because who doesn’t like to get 30% more of anything—particularly horsepower—for free? However, he cautioned that because of the record-breaking heat sitting over Texas, the actual power was “only” 865 hp. I nodded, patted him on the back, and assured him that I would make do with a mere 865. 

 

 

Prior to this moment, the most powerful car I’ve ever driven has been a 2015 Ferrari California Turbo with 552 hp. But to top the Hellcat, I would have to spend $2.5 million on a LaFerrari which has 949 horsepower. Suddenly, the Hellcat seems like a ridiculous bargain, even considering it cost almost $100K when new.

 

 

CAT OUT OF HELL

Yet as soon as we were buckled in, Amanda began the nitpicking, complaining about the noisy exhaust and pointing out the cheapness of the interior materials. In the Hellcat’s defense, the custom 3-inch exhaust and race mufflers were loud, but there was no annoying highway drone. I explained that this was indicative of an expensive, well-engineered system, and the high decibels were due to the free-flowing nature, not cheap parts. Nevertheless, she was correct that the hard, black plastic on the dash and doors didn’t belong in a six-figure car. In fact, save for the leather seats, the entire interior looked like it came directly from the $25K base model V6 Challenger. I debated Dodge’s cost-cutting measures, agreeing that most of the budget was reserved for the supercharged V8, yet it was painfully clear that corporate profits were the main priority. But in a 900 hp sports car, leave it to my wife to be most excited about the sunroof and lighted vanity mirror.

Of course, the vehicle’s raison d’etra isn’t to pamper its occupants, but rather shove them back into their seats as forcefully as a Space Shuttle launch. And it does this in spades: Ismael produced a dyno sheet showing his Hellcat generating over 600 lb-ft. of torque at just 1500 rpm. This translates to instantaneous acceleration, with roughly an inch of pedal travel equaling 100-feet of forward momentum. Like a panther lunging after it’s prey, a quick stab of the accelerator provoked the Hellcat from around 60 mph to 90 mph in the literal blink of an eye, before a certain screaming spouse shut down the fun. Even so, Texas considers 25 mph over the limit as reckless driving, no matter how easily or safely the offending vehicle accomplishes it.

 

 
Under full throttle, the roar of the loud (but legal) exhaust takes an actual backseat to the air-raid siren whine of the supercharger spinning to 15,000 rpm. I explained to Victoria that at a whopping 2.4-liters, the Hellcat’s supercharger alone is larger than the entire engine in my Saturn. And I pointed out the hollow marker light, which is missing its bulb so that massive quantities of cool air can be funneled into the enormous 92mm throttle body, the largest ever used by Dodge. With half-inch fuel lines and eight injectors spewing over 600cc of fuel per minute, Ismael’s modified Hellcat can drain its entire gas tank in 10 minutes flat. Of course, it's far from carbon neutral, but there's even an "ECO" mode to satisfy left-wing environmentalists like Greta Thunberg which dials the power back to a less-offensive 500.

 

                 
But prior to driving it, my biggest concern about the Hellcat was the extra-large nature of it. It’s a Fat Cat, and with the three of us on board, topped the scales perilously close to 5000 lbs. Coming from a 2800 lb. Saturn, that’s a tremendous difference. Yet, it’s amazing how well 900 hp can camouflage such girth and make it vanish. There was also a misconception that it might lean and sway in the curves like a land barge, yet the SRT engineers did a fantastic job of keeping it firmly planted without degrading the overall ride quality. Houston’s roads are some of the worst in the nation, but the Bilstein Active suspension soaked up all the bumps and potholes with ease, including some of the worst ones I couldn’t dodge (no pun intended).

 

 
A minor quibble I levied at the power train is with the brakes, which didn’t quite feel up to the task of erasing the inertia as rapidly as the Hellcat can achieve it.  A couple times, I felt my confidence sapped when the big Dodge refused to slow as quickly as I expected it to. Thankfully, this didn’t result in any “pucker” moments, but rather reminded me that I needed to allot the hellish feline a little more braking distance than I’m typically accustomed to in my Saturn.

For lunch, we drove the Hellcat to the new In-N-Out at The Grid in Stafford, Texas. What was once the sprawling campus of Texas Instruments has now been repurposed into a sparkling $500 million mixed-use development complex featuring dining, shopping and apartments. Parked directly in front, the Phantom Black Hellcat looked like a demonic interloper against the stark white surroundings. But while enjoyable, the burgers didn’t seem to be as good as previous In-N-Out locations, leading us to speculate that perhaps the grill needs more time for the seasoning to accumulate.

 

Leaving In-N-Out, I ran across an issue that reared its ugly head several times throughout the day: The AutoStick option for the TorqueFlite 8-Speed Automatic Transmission is all too easy to unintentionally engage. This means the car is stuck in first gear and doesn’t shift out, which can be problematic when impatient drivers are rapidly bearing down upon you. I’m certain more seat time and familiarization with the controls would have corrected that, but for first time renters, it’s very alarming in unforgiving Houston traffic.

THE PANTHER KING

Following that, we traversed back across Harris County to Webster, Texas, where NASA’s Johnson Space Center is located. It was an easy 30-minute cruise on the Sam Houston Tollway, with the monstrous V8 purring along at 1500 rpm, and the exhaust an unobtrusive thrum in the background. In commuter mode, the Hellcat becomes incognito, seamlessly blending in with all the numerous other black Dodge sedans. Impressively, the owner exercised a lot of restraint by keeping the exterior completely stock, right down to the rectangular factory exhaust tips. And with nothing to advertise its otherworldly power aside from a small badge on the front fenders, it doesn’t bring the unwanted attention that an exotic like a Ferrari does. If you can exercise the willpower to not goose it at every opportunity (which is easier said than done) it will return a respectable 20 mpg. It is—dare I say it—actually practical.

 

 
We arrived at Johnson Space Center, the location of the famous “Houston, we have a problem” quote from Apollo 13. Due to the “panic-demic” occupancy was restricted to 50%, but even at that, there were so many people I couldn’t imagine how busy it would be at full capacity. Named for Lyndon B. Johnson, our 36th President, there were plenty of pictures of him throughout the facility, along with his predecessor John F. Kennedy, who spearheaded the Space Race. I’ve always believed that Johnson was responsible for Kennedy’s assassination (as he had the means and motive) but that’s a discussion for another Pirate Press.

Inside, I learned that while our nation was in the grip of a record-setting heat wave, the high temperature on Mars was going to be a chilly 36 degrees, or roughly the same temperature as when we landed in Chicago to buy my Ferrari two years ago. Given its distance from the sun, I expected it to be much colder, although the low of -89 has been seen on Earth in Antarctica a few times. This info was courtesy of the Curiosity Rover, which is currently located in the Gale Crater area of Mars. Boasting six-wheels, weighing 3000 lbs., and powered by Plutonium, it sounds like a futuristic version of the DeLorean from Back to the Future.

 

 
THE RIGHT STUFF

Next up, was a short tram ride to the gargantuan warehouse holding the original Saturn V rocket. Here I discovered that like our Hellcat, NASA’s formula is eerily similar: it’s all about air, fuel, and explosive thrust.  Even as of 2020, the Saturn V remains the tallest, heaviest, and most powerful rocket ever brought to operational status, and holds records for the largest payload launched and biggest payload capacity.  Standing 363 feet long and weighing 6.5 million pounds, it’s quite a site to behold. And with three stages of liquid propulsion, it’s basically a giant bottle rocket. While we were there, our tour guide informed us that NASA was planning another mission to the moon in 2024. He said that it was projected to cost $28 billion and that $16 billion of that would be just for the new lunar landing module. Personally, I’m hoping for a moon base soon, because I loved watching Space:1999 and we’re already  over twenty years late!

 

We also got to tour the Space Shuttle Independence. Unlike Challenger, it never saw any action, but was rather a dedicated replica provided for tourists to witness what life aboard it was like. It’s similar in size to a Boeing 727, but after realizing how claustrophobic it is and the toilet they must use, I promised never to complain about flying commercial again!   

 

On our way out, Victoria convinced us to let her visit the gift shop, and in so doing racked up over $200 of “official” NASA memorabilia. Among the apparently irresistible items she scooped up was a $10 foil package of freeze-dried duck for our puppy, Pippen. I told her that I doubted Pippen would care that it was “Raw, Grain-Free and All-Natural.” I then did the math in my head and realized that her space dog treat averaged $100 per pound! I told her that I hoped she was happy that her puppy snacks cost as much per ounce as the USDA Prime Beef Wellington I’d eaten the night before. I don’t think she cared, but I realized that if the parts for the next trip to the moon cost anything like the souvenirs in the gift shop, I can understand why their budget is $28 billion!

 

  
 

ALL I EVER WANTED

As we were leaving, I surveyed the surroundings and realized the time was right for what I had been planning since the start of our crazy trip. There was only one way to completely wrap up our fantastic day, and that was to put Victoria behind the wheel of the Hellcat. Never mind that she didn’t even have a Learner’s Permit or was easily confused between the brake pedal and the gas pedal. A 15-year-old girl with no driving experience and a 900 hp car: What could possibly go wrong?

I learned to drive on a 1973 Toyota Corona that made 80 hp, and that amount was now required just to turn the supercharger pulley on the car she was driving. It was pretty mind-boggling, but also quite a proud moment for me. With the advent of electric vehicles on the horizon and continuously stricter pollution standards, a gas-guzzling V8 like the Hellcat is an endangered species. For me, it represents the zenith of petroleum-powered cars, as California and New Jersey have just announced that by 2035 all new passenger vehicles sold there must be electric.

I climbed out and let her slide into the driver’s seat, while Amanda remained in the passenger seat. We were in a huge, empty parking lot and I stood on the sidelines as Victoria tentatively made several, slow figure eights with Amanda coaching her. I was poised and ready to leap out of the way at the last possible second if the situation called for it, but thankfully it never did. My father fostered my love for Ferraris by taking me all over the country to see them, and I’m glad I’ve been able to indulge her passions as well.

No License. No Insurance. No Problem!

Black clouds were gathering on the horizon, and the last thing I wanted was to be caught in a thunderstorm with the Hellcat, so we decided to return it early. The Michelin Pilot Super Sports offer heroic grip on dry pavement, but I wasn’t going to chance it in the wet stuff.

In Billie Eillish’s “All I Ever Wanted” video, she is seen committing suicide by driving her Hellcat into the ocean.  Despite that cheerful and uplifting subject matter, we thankfully managed to keep our Hellcat out of Galveston Bay. It’s stressful enough driving our own car in Houston, but someone else’s 900 hp car is absolutely nerve-wracking! In fact, just a few minutes after we’d picked it up, we were nearly side-swiped by a dilapidated Ford Explorer that blew through a yield sign. Fortunately, I saw them coming and anticipated that they might not stop. Not surprising, they had Arkansas plates and a “Thank You Jesus” bumper sticker. Maybe the next time, they should let Jesus take the wheel. I laid on the horn and discovered that it was the most ineffectual part of the entire car. I suppose because the Hellcat’s persona is so ferocious, I expected the horn to be equally fearsome, but it was clearly not.     

Back at Ismael’s house, he asked if I enjoyed it and I admitted that due to the female speed-limiter in the passenger seat, I never got it above 90 mph. He laughed and recounted a tale of how one night he was awakened at 2 a.m. by a phone call from Turo because his Hellcat’s GPS had just registered a speed of 207 mph.  I didn’t doubt it, as Dodge claims a “conservative” top speed estimate of 199 for the standard 707 hp Hellcat, although it was widely known that development mules hit 202 mph in testing. As the power required to overcome aerodynamic drag increases with the cube of the speed (e.g. 20 mph requires eight times the power as 10 mph to push through the air), a Mopar forum member took the time to plot out theoretical top speeds for the Hellcat based on factors such as aerodynamics, gearing and rolling resistance. With 900 hp, Ismael’s Hellcat should be able to achieve 230+mph, though finding an empty highway in Houston to accomplish that is the real challenge.

In August 2019, Car and Driver bragged about renting a 610 hp Mustang Shelby GT-S for $267 per day through Sixt, a German agency. That’s not a bad deal, especially considering a Hellcat I looked at in New Orleans goes for $780 per day. But neither of those can touch the $198.15 I paid for our 900 hp car. The daily rate, which covers 24 hours and 150 miles is $130. However, there’s also a non-negotiable $32.50 “Minimum Protection” fee and a $36.65 “Trip Fee.” Of course, I only used it for around six hours and put 90 miles on it because I was being cautious and careful.

 

 
As expected, hopping back into the Santa Fe with roughly 600 less horsepower was quite an adjustment. But I was at least partly thankful for less drama as we battled a watery deluge heading into The Heights area of Houston. This was to expressly visit Cane Rosso, a pizza chain we’ve dined at in Dallas. I’ve been fortunate to eat Lou Malnati’s Deep Dish in Chicago and real New York thin-crust at Grimaldi’s in Brooklyn, but Cane Rosso’s Neapolitan style is still my favorite. We’re partial to the Honey Bastard, which has Bacon Marmalade, Habanero Honey, and Hot Soppressata Salami. Personally, I never would've thought of combining honey and pizza, but it works incredibly well. The location was a little seedier than I would have preferred, so a lot of their business was carry-out. That's when I saw an incredibly rare Typhoon truck pull up and a guy around my age hop out. The Black-on-Black example was just one of 1,262 built in 1992 and with a 280-hp turbocharged V6, was the progenitor of today's sport SUVs. It's sibling was the Syclone truck which I test drove waaayyy back in the second issue of Pirate Press.         

 

Proving how white-hot the crossover market still is, I spotted a Lamborghini Urus the next day in Lafayette, Louisiana. The Urus, named for the ancestor of modern domestic cattle, has so many different fathers, I wouldn't want to be spotted with the mother in public. Its DNA is a result of cross-breeding parts from Audi, Bentley, Porsche and Volkswagen. And demonstrating that wealth is not necessarily an indicator of good taste, Lamborghini recently sold the 10,000th Urus in July 2020. However, I suppose that unlike my Saturn, it's fortunate they didn't name it after another planet in our solar system like Uranus. It would definitely be the butt of endless jokes!         

 

 

We arrived home late Monday night absolutely exhausted from the breakneck pace of the weekend. Despite that, I'd definitely categorize my first rental experience with Turo as an unqualified success. In fact, it went so smoothly I already have an idea for my next Turo rental. Stay tuned!