“Life’s too short to buy the same car twice,” I always say. As the owner of a 2002 Mustang, I figured it would be my last example of the stallion. It’s not that I dislike the car, but I still haven’t checked “German” off my automotive ownership list and I’m dying to do it soon. When I showed up to the rental counter and was presented with the choice of a base Grand Caravan and a spanking new Mustang GT with the much-publicized interior upgrades, I didn’t need to blink twice. Minutes later, Montreal was fading in the background. So how did the GT fare in forcing me to re-assess my edict? The truth is, the car delighted me in all the ways you’d expect.
The burble when I turned the key was erection-inducing. The interior was a huge step up from the New Edge Mustang. But the best parts of the car, like the nostalgically long, bulging hood, the retro-styling and the torque were all present and reporting for duty. Ah, yes, the Mustang GT’s party-piece is the effortless torque it produces, almost from the get-go, to the very end.
I loved the styling on the new ‘stang, even if RF didn’t. The front lights look menacing, but retain the elegant shape of the retro Mustang. The rear lights have a few more accents, which give the car a more futuristic posterior. Who cares if you can’t see how wide the rubber is at the bottom? As long as you can smell it, it’s OK.
This is still the car that epitomizes cheap and cheerful. Yeah, I get that interior plastics are still cheap, but they look a lot better this time. And when the exhaust note is ripping up the innocent, skin-so-soft faces of the children in cars beside you, and you know that heaping mounds of torque can be summoned by flicking your ankle, who cares? Porsche drivers, I guess.
Screw it, I’ll buy a Mustang twice, even if I said I never would. I was already customizing my new Mustang in my head (I wonder if they do a red interior) before I even reached RF’s house. And then I took the exit off the Interstate. And that’s when I fell out of love.
In the narrow streets of East Providence, I took a turn on Cypress Street at an alleged 65 miles per hour. As my rear wheel hit a manhole—not even a pothole—I felt it. The car axle-hopped. The wheels spun uselessly in the air for a fraction of a second, wasting all of the power produced by the engine. I’m used to it, mind you, and I just held my course until the landing. Just like my 2002 Mustang. Live rear axle and all. Seven years later, and they still haven’t fixed that? I guess life really is too short to buy the same car twice.