MINI Cooper Review

By Justin Berkowitz

George Clooney is box office catnip AND the critics’ darling. And no wonder: he looks great and he acts better than he looks. But what if you’re a movie producer who can’t afford Clooney’s vig? You get Thomas Haden Church. You know: the guy in Sideways, the movie about chit-chatting wine guzzlers. Sideway's producer knew Church wasn’t nearly as high profile as Clooney, but he was a lot less expensive. See where I’m going with this? If the MINI Cooper S is beyond your reach, should you lower your grasp? Big savings yes, but do you still get something of substance? Well, Church is an Oscar nominee. As for the Cooper…

It’s a relief to see an automobile that wasn’t designed in anger. Unlike Japanese and German sporting machines’ menacing headlights and blood-drawing creases, the Cooper remains a four-wheeled cheeky chappie. Although the MINI was maximized for ’07, only OCD brand fans can make the call. In case you meet a MINI enthusiast, just remember that the front indicators now sit like laconic “floaters” inside the MINI’s eyes, and the rear window line rises 0.7” higher up at the B-pillar than previously.

Thanks to the Mother of All Option Lists, the Cooper’s cabin is as plain or ornate as you desire, covered in funky cloth or leather or mother of pearl or space shuttle tiles. Most of the first gen’s retro touches (e.g. chromed toggle switches and unrelenting ovality) remain in situ. While these design-lead differentiators may continue to lure buyers who are comfortable deploying the term “post-modern irony” in polite conversation, the Cooper’s cabin is beginning to look increasingly whacked-out.

Equally disappointing, there’s no British-ness to the MINI Cooper. Cocked eyebrow whimsy has been replaced with weird for the sake of weird. The big central speedo of MINI Mk1 has morphed into a dinner plate-sized gauge that could easily double as the weigh-in scale for The Biggest Loser. Still, the ergonomics are bloodied but unbowed, and the fit and finish overall is impressive; part and parcel of Mini’s premium-puny philosophy.

So you stick the fob in the dash, press the “START/STOP” affectation, and fire up the engine. Hang on; can you “fire up” an engine with less displacement than a bottle of Diet Coke? In fact, it’s amazing to us buy-by-the-pound Americans that BMW would dare offer the 118 horse Cooper for sale on this side of the pond. That’s less poke underfoot than offered by a lowly a Kia Spectra. But unlike the original MINI's base (in the precise sense of the word) engine, which was made from rusted toaster ovens in a Brazilian Chrysler factory, the new 1.6 liter four-pot is a peach.

This PSA Peugeot-Citroen sourced mill doesn’t rev like one of Honda’s methamphetamine motors, but there’s plenty of space between zero revs and the 6500 rpm redline. The manual shifter is as slick as Clooney’s hair in O, Brother Where Art Thou? Whatever oomph there is is there for the taking. Metrosexuals and their mates will be delighted to discover that MINI has finally replaced the Continuously Vile Transmission with a proper six-speed autobox. Punch the pedal or row your boat; the best case is still naught to 60 in 8.5 seconds. Not too long ago you would have been impressed.

In day to day driving, the Cooper has plenty of zip. No, it’s not a Cooper S, but it’s still a car that could get you arrested… eventually. That’s because the suspension rewards any and all efforts to build the big Mo. Once you get a lick of speed and get into the game, the MINI’s handling becomes seriously addictive. Snap into a corner. More! Push into an S-curve. Is that really all you’ve got? Surge around a highway on-ramp at 73 mph. Down shift because damn it Scotty, we need more power! I dare you to drive the Cooper a few miles without cackling like a cocaine-crazed craps player.

Come to think of it, the Cooper is a smug little bastard of a car. I don’t have to brake for that turn. I can carve through traffic. I can fit into that parking space. I get 40 mpg highway. Unlike that psychotic dust-buster Civic, I've got completely customizable character. And I have to pay for home delivery because I can’t haul a damn thing. Err, never mind that last one.

No pistonhead worth his TTAC Tic Tacs would pass up a chance to buy a MINI Cooper S instead of a Cooper. Used S instead of new Cooper. Sorted. But let’s face it: there are plenty of people for whom $18k is already a stretch. And no other box fresh sub-$20k car has half the MINI Cooper’s flair and panache. Clooney’s cool, but sometimes you gotta go to Church.

MG ZT190 Review

By Robert Farago

This of course isn't MG's first badge engineering exercise. Although the Montego and Maestro only linger in our memories as beige nightmares, the MG badge did adorn the more tasty variants including the rather mental Tickford Turbo Maestro. Check them out here: MG Links

The UK ads for the MG-ZT promise 'fire breathing, full bodied, red blooded' pleasures. In a country where driving fast is as socially acceptable as puffing a Cuban cigar in a children's hospital, MG's message is welcome news for petrolheads. Still, let's not get carried away; it's only advertising. Or is it? Does the MG-ZT actually live up to the hype? Or is it an empty marketing exercise, shamelessly exploiting one of motor sport's most distinguished marques?

The entire concept is a bit worrying. The ZT is based on the Rover 75, BMW's ode to corporate hubris. No shade of eyeball assaulting paint can disguise the ZT's humble origins as a mid-market luxury barge built for the blue rinse and flat cap brigade. If ever a car was voted 'least likely to thrill anyone ever', the Rover 75 is it. And yet…

MG sent the demure 75 off to the School of Hard Looks for a first-class degree in Restrained Aggression. The graduate's mesh front grills and a lowered stance betray its high-speed aspirations without resorting to Japanese-style flared arches or razor-sharp wings. Subtle detailing and perfectly proportioned curves give the machine what MG [re]designer Peter Steven calls 'outside lane credibility'. Max Power Muppets have a better word for it: 'wicked'.

Inside, it's dull city. The ZT's interior is the automotive equivalent of those grey waterproof jackets favoured by England's elderly- totally practical and instantly forgettable. Someone in Rover's Marketing Department must have decided English retirees find oval shapes irresistibly soothing. Every single control is oval-shaped: air vents, gauges, horn, heater controls, door pulls, side mirrors, turning stalks, window buttons, the lot. There's plenty of space for luggage, but not enough rear legroom for a four-year-old.

The few attempts to inject a measure of sporting intent- the 'technical finish' fascia, the sports seats' lurid blue bolsters, the red on white dials - are less convincing than a coffee can exhaust on a Nova. Still, the doors clunk with Aryan solidity. There are no paint or glue drips, or nasty unfinished edges. Nothing broke, fell off, failed or rusted during my occupancy. The [thankfully] octagonal MG badge hasn't adorned anything this well built since, um, ever.

The ZT's racy gear knob may not overcome the interior's drabness, but it's connected to a five-speed Getrag gearbox that slots home like a rifle bolt. The slick shifter hooks you up to a 2.5 liter, 24-valve, transverse-mounted, quad cam, six-cylinder engine. Maximum power is 189bhp @ 6500rpms. As the torque figures indicate-181 ft. lbs. @ 4000rpms- the urge is evenly spread throughout the rev range.

For the non-technical, that's barely enough grunt for a lightweight roadster. Lest we forget, the ZT is a four-door saloon. Fifteen hundred kilos is an awful lot of weight for a small capacity six to schlep around. As a result, when it comes to speed, the ZT is only slightly more than merely adequate.

The 0 - 60 sprint takes 7.8 seconds. That's excellent compared to the Rover 75's 8.4 seconds, but laughable for a car that's supposed to brand you a hooligan. Standstill to the ton requires 22 seconds - a scant two seconds faster than a 2.5 litre Ford Mondeo. Hit the autobahn, stick the ZT in fifth, plant your foot and… you'll eventually achieve a hardly-worth-the-risk 141mph. Strangely enough, the gearing is biased towards cruising. When you leave the motorway and give it large, you'll be lucky to get 20mpg.

In its defense, the somewhat leisurely MG-ZT feels faster than the numbers suggest. The power delivery is smooth and satisfying, right up to the red line. Okay, the engine note is about as raucous as a night out with a Rover driver, but you're never left waiting for something to happen. Extracting maximum power is as simple as 'stamp, go, change; stamp, go, change'. The ZT's steering also helps maintain the momentum, providing just the right amount of feel and feedback.

MG's engineers have made the now familiar pilgrimage to the Nurburgring to fettle the ZT's suspension for ride quality and control. It was worth the trip; the Z-axle (rear) and McPherson struts (front) keeps things flat and happy through the twisties yet provide adequate comfort for the long haul. The car's ventilated discs are equally well sorted; you can scrub off speed like burnt egg off Teflon. The 18' wheels generate significant tyre roar, but it's a minor price to pay for such astounding levels of poise, grip and control.

The MG-ZT's systems all work harmoniously. A performance-minded driver will find it easy to extract maximum pleasure from the ZT's surprisingly tame power plant. In short, the MG-ZT is a well-built, mechanically sophisticated car, but not the rabid TVR-wannabe its advertising suggests. Not to put too fine a point on it, the MG-ZT is the perfect four-door for British enthusiasts with £20k to spend- as long as they forget the words 'Subaru Impreza Turbo'.

Mercury Grand Marquis Review

Mercury Grand Marquis (Outside)



Mercury Grand Marquis (Inside)



By Sajeev Mehta

Way forward. Bold Moves. Screw that. If America wants a bold, innovative car, they'll buy a Toyota. If they want something honest, inexpensive and comfortable, they'll buy a Ford. If they want an honest car with added spizzarkle, they'll spend a little more for a Mercury. Well, that's how it used to be, until Ford started building sub-par Japanese wanna-be's. Thankfully, the Blue Oval offers at least one rear-wheel drive automobile that stays true to the company's roots: the Mercury Grand Marquis.

Park the Grand Marquis next to its foreign counterparts and it's clear that the American luxobarge ain't livin' large no mo'. Snout-to-tail comparisons with a Camry require measurements smaller than a foot; millimeters differentiate their relative heights. Fortunately, the Marquis' ping-pong table hood and aircraft-carrier rear deck survive into the new millennium, while its broad shoulders continue to evoke memories of Officer Badass. Although the Marquis' police-a-like shape sends shivers down the spines of Boy Racers, the car's basic design is wildly inoffensive. This despite a new-for-'06 schnoz that blends-in about as well as a Speedo-wearing fat guy in Sports Illustrated's swimsuit issue.

The Grand Marquis' soft-touch keyless entry system ensures that its well-aged core clientele never lock themselves out, or loved ones in. (Take that, OnStar!) Even better, its portals swing open with all the reassuring monumentality of an '80's Mercedes S-Class. Once inside, the barge's beltline makes for excellent visibility and ensures easy parking maneuvers for one so broad of beam (the car, not its driver). Although the luscious nomenclature evokes memories of "Studio 54" decadence, the Grand Marquis' cabin sports a cabaret of dull and brittle coverings– in stark contrast to the fake tree trim glowing with radioactive glee on the car's massive dash.

The Grand Marquis' appointments can't hold a candle to a Camry's, but the big Merc is still leagues ahead of the Chrysler 300's blue light special. A pair of indulgent seats offers another clear advantage. Fold the deeply padded armrests and a spare bedroom awaits episodes of marital distress. Or perhaps a second honeymoon with the cavernous backseat? Six-passenger seating in a sedan is a forgotten delight, and beats the third row penalty box found in any similarly priced SUV. Crank up the tunes and feel the bass booming from the bowels of Mercury's Brick House trunk. The Commodores never sounded so mighty-mighty.

The Marquis keeps the muscle car flame alive with a redesigned analog gauge cluster, complete with its first-ever tachometer. Fire-up the cammer V8 and a distant rumble filters in from the ghosts of big-block Cyclones and Marauders. Although the Grand Marquis' mill only musters 239 horses, there's more than enough torque to take the "grind" out of the daily. Four gears are all you get (only one less than you really need). If you're young enough to read this site on a regular basis, or old enough to remember the Blues Brothers, you'll want Mercury's little known police package: cop engine (dual exhausts), cop tires (speed rated), cop shocks (monotube dampers) and cop suspension (revised front coils, Watts-link rear with heavy duty air springs and bigger sway bars). Evo's keep on frontin' but that guy in the Camry is toast.

Yank the column shifter to first and hammer the throttle. The Marquis' composed suspension, marginally-involving steering, torquey mill and RWD orientation make it an honest-to-God hoot in the corners. Pseudo-Super Troopers whose courage exceeds their skill benefit from the Marquis' five star crash test ratings. Credit the same brick shit house construction for the smoothest ride in town: hydroformed components on a body-on-frame chassis. Pot holes, speed bumps or subcompacts are a distant blip on the butt radar. Factor in a solid 21mpg (on regular gas) in mixed driving, and rough-riding, gas-guzzling SUVs hang their heads in shame.

Obviously the Grand Marquis is no match for a stick-shifted V6 Accord or Altima. But the Marquis ushers the family to grandma's house in far greater comfort. And, lest we forget, the Marquis' price lines up against baseline, four-cylinder versions of those wrong-wheel drive whips. According to the official Mercury website, the last of the Great V8 Interceptors has $5000 on the hood. And the deal grows sweeter down at the showroom. Hell, they're giving them away!

So why are Matlock fans the only people buying Mercury's Grand Marquis? Clearly, Ford turned its back on the old soldier; their press gang can't even be bothered to update the website with photos of the Marquis' analog instrumentation. No matter. It's time for pistonheads to reclaim old-school American cars for their own. The fact that Ford is killing this platform for some weak-kneed front driver only makes the Grand Marquis more desirable. And don't forget: it never hurts a speed demon to look like a cop.

Mercury Mariner Hybrid Review

By Jonny Lieberman

During a business trip to Canada, my manager and I watched a Swedish colleague use his cell phone to hold a three-way conference call with Tel Aviv and Hong Kong. The boss was infuriated; his US cell couldn’t even reach Toronto from Toronto. He called Sprint on a land line. "This is unacceptable,” he screamed. “It’s un-American to sell technology that’s seven years behind the Europeans!" The exact same thing’s been said about Detroit’s inability to counter fuel-sipping low-emission hybrids. Enter, finally, the Mercury Mariner Hybrid. Ah, but is the gas/electric Merc ready for prime time or is it just a Johnny-come-lately phoning it in?

Like its platform partners, the Ford Escape and Mazda Tribute, the Mariner is a dapper looking cute-ute. While I've never been a fan of the brand’s twenty-toothed family grill, the vertical blingery suits the Mariner’s massive front bumper like shoulder pads on a three-button suit. The SUV’s tight and tidy side-sculpting is equally well-wrought; the concave effect suggests a healthy, trim vehicle with a bit of sporting pretension. Our tester’s Charcoal Beige Clearcoat metallic paint kept the chrome jewelry from visual overload, while the 16" five-spoke aluminum wheels that (nearly) fill the arches show brand-faithful restraint. If ever a badge-engineered vehicle gained a little something in translation, the Mariner is it.

Inside the Mariner’s cabin, it’s an ersatz world after all. The soft-roader’s combination of fake leather, fake wood and fake aluminum is strangely effective, in a 50’s Las Vegas hotel room kinda way. Although it’s not a bad place to spend some time saving the planet, there are plenty of cavils: the HVAC knobs (lifted from the Focus) couldn’t go any further down market if they cruised Union Square in a miniskirt, the leather-wrapped steering wheel is Olsen Twin thin, and the cow-clad seats are less supportive than a deadbeat dad. Despite six-way power seats, a perfect seating position proved eternally elusive. And I dare you to find the seat-heater button.

The Mariner’s Nav system/head unit is the SUV’s greatest ergonomic failure. The credit card-sized screen can’t fit street names — just tiny white lines. Why didn’t Ford install the Freestyle’s big, beautiful LCD touchscreen? Half the fun (satisfaction?) of driving a hybrid comes from watching a real-time mpg readout while modulating the throttle and brakes to conserve as much fuel as possible. The Mariner's micro-screen doesn’t let you check your power source (Engine? Batteries? Hybrid-drive?) and mileage at the same time. You have to flip back and forth between the two screens– which is bad form for a company publicly committed to automotive safety.

Speaking of not dying, it’s best to pay careful attention to the Mariner’s brakes. Thanks to the regenerative braking gear, the anchor pedal weighs a ton. There is simply no way to smoothly roll on the stopping power; you have to stomp. The batteries and second engine benefiting from the recharge push the Mariner’s GVW up to nearly two tons. The extra weight degrades the tall, short wheel-base truck's ride and handling. At 80mph, driving the Mariners feels as if you’re riding a dented washboard.

There are three types of propulsion. Flutter the go-pedal and the torquey 94hp electric mill does the clean deed (although I could only get the Mariner into full-electric mode when tooling around parking lots). Mash the gas and the Hybrid switches to its 2.3L I-4 Atkins-style dead dino diet. Ninety-seven percent of the time you’re using both mills. After a few hundred miles of mixed driving the bottom line was… 25.8mpg. That’s nearly the same as the 21/24 EPA estimates for the four wheel-drive 2.3-liter Mariner. What's the point? Why spend $10k more to haul around an extra 400 lbs. netting you roughly 10% better fuel economy?

It gets worse. In stop and go traffic, the Mariner’s powerplant hibernates. With the engine off, calling the already weak air conditioning anemic is an insult to the iron-deficient. Mercury’s recommendation: when it’s “overly hot” switch the controls to MAX AC, which keeps the engine from shutting off. During summertime daylight hours, you get to choose between saving the planet and not sweating to death. The reverse is also true. The instructions issue the same warning when it’s “overly cold;” the Mariner’s electric motor is little more than a space heater. If you live in a flat, temperate climate and enjoy slow speed cruising, Mercury has a very handsome hybrid to sell you.

Taken as a whole, the Mariner Hybrid can’t compete with Toyota’s more complete hybrid Highlander. But at least Mercury has started the hybrid conversation with its mid-market buyers. Bold moves aren’t usually successful first time; they require follow through and persistence. As long as Mercury keeps hitting redial, they’ll eventually make the connection.

Mercury Montego Review

By Sajeev Mehta

My parents' first new car was a 1970 Montego coupe. They liked it so much they added a Montego sedan to the ranks– just in time to transport this nascent pistonhead home from the hospital. They no longer own a Montego. And soon, no one else will either. At least not a new one. Ford is about to rebadge the current Montego (a gussied-up Ford Five Hundred) a Sable; just as they’re about to rebadge the Five Hundred (the Taurus’ replacement) a Taurus. Which leaves everyone exactly where they started. I think. Let’s take a look.

The Five Hundred, sorry, Montego, began life as an Audi A6-a-like penned by the same designer who gave us the A6. Ugly it ain't. Boring it is: a third grade piano recital on wheels. Needless to say, the Quicksilver Boys grossly underestimated the need for brand specific product differentiation. Adding an aluminum-toned spizzarkleprow, LED eye catchers and Xenon lighting to a Ford Five Hundred is no substitute for unique sheetmetal. It’s like putting lipstick on a sloth.

Even if the Montego had the svelte sheetmetal to lure the public into a Mercury showroom, there's precious little inside the car’s cabin to keep them there. Swing open those tall and imposing portals and the geriatric bling theme continues apace. Sure, the dark wood-effect trim and richly textured leather hides exude a slight amount of Teutonic flavor. But someone forgot to sweat the details. The chrome ringed gauges look great– provided you can ignore the wall o' matte black buttons on the center stack.

You can see where Ford—sorry, Mercury thought they had a winner. Although fundamentally utilitarian, the Montego’s cabin is also fundamentally huge. According to the age-inappropriate image on the official website, the trunk can swallow enough gear for a small rock band. Stratocaster owners: you can fold down both the rear seat (trunk pass-through) and the front passenger seat and lay your naked, unsecured axe across two rows. How great is that?

Anyway, the Montego’s back seat is Old School Caddy wide and reasonably cushy; there’s plenty of room for three real adults back there. Unfortunately, the space offers all the charm of an airplane hangar. A full complement of airbags (including a side canopy system) ensure five star crashworthiness all ‘round, save for rollover (four stars), which may explain the class-exclusive rollover sensor.

At nearly 201 inches, the turnpike cruisin' Mercury creams most any bump, lump or stump. The spoke-intensive 18" wheels keep things on course, but the noise from the Pirellis at cruising speed throws a howler monkey into an otherwise competent isolation chamber.

Ease the Montego into a corner and it’s clear that this is not your typical land yacht. Thanks to its Volvo-fettled underpinnings, this large, nose-heavy, front wheel-drive sedan does a superb job at keeping understeer at bay without sacrificing ride quality. Predictably enough, the Montego’s steering is to road feel what a Stannah stair lift is to a leg workout. But it’s accurate enough to place the big Merc with precision. And if you don’t, four wheel discs will save your bacon (them’s the brakes).

Of course, this assumes you can amass enough forward speed to get into trouble. Ford's last-gen Duratec V6 welcomes you with a coarse hum at idle that stays all the way to the mill’s modest redline (5700rpm). The powerplant’s 203 horses struggle to tow the Montego’s massive 3670lb frame from rest to 60mph in eight seconds— or any other accelerative metric you can name.

Luckily, the powertrain has a singular saving grace. Well, six of them. The Montego's close-ratio six cog slushbox canes the motor rapidly enough for most, netting respectable fuel economy (21/29) in the process. Even a certified lead foot will find the combination of a flat torque curve and an always-willing gearbox adequate at part throttle, if wholly unacceptable at full-tilt.

In short, the Montego is a fine car for buyers seeking an unassuming full-size sedan that’s a tiny bit more exclusive and sparkly than a Ford Five Hundred, for around $825 more (base to base). Too bad this niche exists only in the world of product planners and flak-talking spin-doctors. Everyone else flocks to well-established import sedans or “real” American cars like the Grand Marquis. In fact, Mercury’s royal sweetheart sports a competitive sticker price and frequently triples the Montego’s monthly sales numbers. Oops.

The Volvo-Mercury is a bowl of corporate porridge that’s so "right" even Goldilocks smells a trap from a mile away. It’s no match for smaller cars in its class and lacks the swagger of its Panther chassis partner. Even with (another) retro name and modest upgrades, the Montego's successor faces an uphill battle in 2008. Ford’s money would have been better spent whipping the old Crown Victoria, Mercury Marquis and Lincoln LS into shape.

Mercury Milan Review

By William C Montgomery

Milan is the fashion capital of Italy. Step off the tourist trail and it’s a combination of industrial parks and urban sprawl with only slightly more charm than Trenton, New Jersey. Still, you have got to give Ford’s beleaguered near-luxury division credit for naming their hecho-en-Mexico Fusion derivative after the home of Alfa Romeo, rather than resorting to the alphanumerics afflicting Lincoln’s take on the same model. But the question remains: is Mercury’s glammed-up Fusion a credible fashionista or an industrial waste?

The Milan's grill is the most striking difference between Mercury’s mid-market sedan and the car upon which it's based. While Ford decorated their front wheel-driver’s front room with Venetian blinds, Mercury opted for verticals. Less obviously, the Milan’s lower front fascia is more pronounced, the bright work less blingy, the wheels statelier and the rear lights look less… like an aftermarket afterthought.

Subtle as they are, the changes work. The Milan projects greater maturity and wealth than its FoMoCo donormobile. And compared to the redesigned Toyota Camry, whose front-end looks like a saggy-nosed boxer after years of cartilage pulverizing abuse, the Milan is elegantly beautiful.

Color has a Jekyll and Hyde effect on Milan’s mien. The more vibrant hues– Redfire Red, Ebony Black and Dark Blue Pearl– establish a welcome contrast to the crystalline headlight cluster and chrome accents, projecting the requisite eau de upmarket. Conversely, the bland non-color tones– Charcoal Beige, Dune Pearl, Light Tundra, Satellite Silver, Silver Frost or Tungsten Silver— create a pale and pasty pallet of pernicious pabulum.

The Milan’s interior is proof positive that Ford knows how to design and assemble a comfortable, graceful and ergonomic interior. OK, the panel gaps around the dash top cubby can be seen from outer space. And most of the luxury stuff that should be basic– automatic climate control, heated seats, leather wrapped steering wheel with secondary controls, etc.– is optional (bumping the Milan's price towards the Lincoln Fusion homonym). But there are some genuinely nice touches.

For example, the Milan’s center-mounted analog clock is so-not-plastic and the wood is. And kudos to Ford Mercury for the clever center storage bin that combines an MP3 jack, Nintendo-friendly power point and change holder.

The Milan’s elegant monochromatic gauges could use a touch of red, as in REDLINE. While it’s not a concern when driving a Milan equipped with a five-speed automatic, pistonheads opting for stick shift (available on the four cylinder engine) must rely on their ears to avoid triggering the engine’s self-preservation software.

As with the Fusion, the Milan comes in a choice of a 2.3-liter in-line four or a 3.0-liter Duratec V6. The four-cylinder mill produces a class appropriate power (160hp @ 6250rpm) and economy (23/31mpg). It revs effortlessly and remains suitably hushed at cruising speed.

Unfortunately, the manual transmission’s 3.31:1 first gear ratio is a little too much for an engine whose 150ft.-lbs. peak torque doesn’t arrive until 4250rpm. (Translation: unless you rev the engine and dump the clutch north of 3000rpm, you ain't going nowhere fast.)

The V6 Milan delivers an altogether different driving experience. Mated to a six-speed slushbox, the silken six-cylinder engine puts Toyota’s, Nissan’s and Honda’s mills to shame, redefining smooth, effortless, frugal and dependable power for the entire mid-size market.

Just kidding.

Don’t get me wrong: the Duratec is a fine engine. But discriminating buyers will notice that the Milan’s 221hp six banger quickly runs out of puff, especially compared to Honda Accord (244hp) Toyota Camry (268hp) and Nissan Altima (270hp). The Milan's mill is also a pretty thrashy unit, with a decidedly downmarket sonic signature.

While the Milan’s mechanical anemia should eliminate torque steer, it doesn’t. Under hard acceleration, the sedan's front end rises like a powerboat as the forward donuts scrabble for purchase. For less adrenal (read: older) buyers, it’s no biggie. These comfort-oriented customers will be well satisfied with the Milan’s sophisticated short and long arm (SLA) front and multi-link rear suspenders. So equipped, the magic carpet Milan surmounts highway irregularities with near-Camry refinement.

On the fun-to-drive side of things, the Milan carves corners with Accordian poise and precision. I'm not saying the mid-sized Merc begs to be whipped. But when your inner hooligan tempts your soul, the Milan has enough spring in its step to keep everyone heading in the right direction.

At the end of my test drive, I asked my handler why anyone would buy a Mercury Milan over a Ford Fusion. “Why eat with a plastic fork when you can dine with a silver spoon?” I reckon that depends on what and where you’re eating. And even if we accept the analogy, the Milan is, at best, a silver plated plastic fork.

Anyway, the bottom line: for around $600 over the Fusion SE, you can buy a few optional trim choices and a slightly nicer looking ride. And that’s about it. I don't know about you, but that doesn’t sound very glamorous to me.

Mercedes E320 BlueTec Review

By Jay Shoemaker

A few years ago, I found myself comfortably ensconced in the back seat of a German taxicab. I was luxuriating in what I thought was leather (it was MB Tex, the convincing faux hide) when the driver cranked-up the engine. Smoke and stench poured from the Mercedes’ diesel engine. I scoffed– until the driver blew straight through 180kph on the autobahn to Munich. Even from the passenger seat, the torque was more intoxicating than the exhaust wafting in through the window. I was hooked.

In 2005, dodging the arcane emissions rules of my home state of California, I became the fortunate owner of a used Mercedes E320 CDI (as they were then known). I loved the linearity of the sedan’s acceleration; it was as though the electronic throttle was hardwired to my brain. In 22k miles of ownership, I averaged 34 miles per gallon and enjoyed a nearly 700 mile range per tank. When I sold my Merc, it retained 85% of its value. I went from hooked to smitten.

Alas, my fellow Americans don’t share my enthusiasm for automotive oil burners. Perhaps they can’t shake the memories of being stuck behind a sloth-like diesel Caddy during the ‘70’s and ‘80’s, inhaling clouds of noxious particulates, listening to an endless mechanical clatter. To combat PDESD (Post Diesel Eldorado Stress Disorder), the clever folks at Mercedes have finally imported a quiet, clean-burning, California-compliant diesel engine that will increase American automotive fuel efficiency AND torque the torque.

Get this: it’s not a diesel. It’s a BlueTec! Yes, all the new Mercedes engine needs is a cute little blue logo to confuse consumers into thinking that their vehicle is motivated by some new hybrid-like technology– rather than a 100 year plus diesel design. Meanwhile, you can bet that Mercedes is in touch with Blue Man Productions for some incredibly clever ad campaign. The fact that Mercedes, VW and Audi will all use the same BlueTec branding simply seals the deal. Anyway…

Installed in the E320, Ye Olde BlueTec converts up to 80 percent of nitrogen oxide emissions into nitrogen and water. When juiced with ultra-low sulfur diesel fuel, the BlueTec produces 97 percent lower emissions than the last generation CDI diesel engine. Needless to say, this isn’t clean enough for California’s tailpipe police. For these low CARB policy makers, Mercedes has developed an additional, urea-based exhaust treatment system, set for launch in March of 2007.

When you fire up the new Blue (sans glow plug), its bucket of bolts soundtrack certainly won’t be mistaken for a purring HEMI. Standing behind the E320 BlueTec as it revved, the sound didn’t touch the parts of my brain labeled AMG. But there was no noticeable diesel odor. One casual observer claimed she actually enjoyed eau de BlueTec; but then I’ve seen people snorting hi-test down at my local Shell station.

Once underway, the E320 BlueTec pleases everyman and enthusiast alike. The turbocharged BlueTec powerplant is a typical oil burner: short on horses (208hp @ 3800rpm) but big on twist (388ft.-lbs. of torque @ 1600rpm). That’s fifty percent more torque than the gas-powered E350 or, more interestingly, roughly the same torque as an E550– delivered nearly 1000rpm lower in the rev range. No surprise then that the E320B pulls to 60mph in a completely satisfying 6.6 seconds AND provides far more on-demand driving pleasure than its petrol-powered cousin.

The switch to Merc’s silken seven-speed transmission helps make the E320B an oxymoronic wunderkind: an economy-minded bahnstormer. I hit 120mph without any undue stress. At the same time, due to the low axle ratio, I cruised at 80mph with just 2100rpmon the clock. And the winner is… 34mpg in mixed use. A hybrid gets better mileage, but what pistonhead wouldn’t trade a handful of efficiency for massive thrust?

What’s more, Mercedes has improved the previous oil burning E’s brake feel and added a quicker steering ratio. Unfortunately, while you can add satellite radio, keyless-go and a digital surround-sound music system, you can’t order an E320 BlueTec with Airmatic suspension or proper wheels/tires/brakes. In fact, the E320B sits on the same steely suspension, 16” wheels and all-season rubber as its German taxi counterpart. The hard-riding E320 BlueTec doesn’t feel comfortable during enthusiastic maneuvers. Turn-in is sloppy, grip is iffy and mid-corner bumps are deeply unsettling.

It’s an unconscionable compromise. To gain widespread domestic acceptance, diesel cars need to capture the hearts of America’s automotive alphas. Pistonheads will not be well pleased with the $52k E320 BlueTec’s handling– unless Mercedes develops a proper sport package. If they do, this could be the breakout vehicle that opens the floodgates for The Next Big Thing. If not that, then maybe it’ll be the ML320 BlueTec, the GL320 BlueTec or (if Mercedes realizes that sharing is caring) the Jeep Grand Cherokee BlueTec. Or… a taxi.

Mercedes CL63 AMG Review

By Jay Shoemaker

Mass, what mass? As I hurled 4500 lbs. of rippled and flared German steel through a long, sweeping, belt-cinching corner, I felt like I was playing a driving simulation. Thanks to its improved active body controls, the Mercedes Benz CL63 AMG remained absurdly unaffected by the enormous lateral g-forces generated by its gyrations. Lacking suitable anti-gravity aids, my passenger and I were thrown towards the outer radius of the turn, welded to the CL63’s seat bolsters. Now that’s what I call fun.

The CL63 reminds me of the rockets I designed as a kid; the Merc's a massive, sleek shape punctuated by slits and evil looking slashes. Whereas the chop top CLS-Class seems more than a little forced, the CL63 makes perfect sense. Its athletic stance, gigantic wheel arches and aggressive surface effects combine to create a coupe that looks like it eats continents— and Porsches— for breakfast.

The CL63’s rear is especially effective. Framed by a Batmobile-esque rippled valence, its quad pipes give the car’s rear the kind of purposefulness denied BMW’s overwrought 6-Series. While both cars have so much “flame surfacing” they could put Burger King out of business, it’s the big Merc that let’s me have it my way.

The CL63’s interior is a bit too staid for my taste/money. That said, Affalterbach’s artisans add the requisite luxury touches, including rich, soft and dense leather and a sweet smelling Alcantara roof lining. The aforementioned seat bolsters provide an unwelcome awakening for first time users, before they learn to guide their bottom’s trajectory with appropriate care and precision.

Mercedes’ COMAND system remains the most intuitive of Germany’s multi-media controllers— which is a bit like saying Rocky III isn’t quite as terrible as Rocky V. Tweaking the seat massage functions and adjusting the air flow from the HVAC from diffuse to focused is no great challenge. Not so the eight window controls; choosing the correct button to raise or lower one of the four windows is an ergonomic lottery.

I’m no great fan of the massive pods enclosing the CL63’s speedometer and navigation systems. While I appreciate the aeronautic theme, there’s too much dash for those of us who prefer visual flight rules. AMG’s 200 mph speedometer is a suitably wicked touch (that violates the spirit of Germany’s “gentlemen’s agreements”), but I find it hard to read. And despite exalted specifications, the CL63’s stereo sounds disappointing flat and dull.

The AMG steering wheel is neither. Its organic shape immediately attracts your hands to the correct 10 and 2 positions. The perforated leather’s a bit hard to the touch, and I wish the wheel itself would adjust lower (my elbows couldn’t find a suitable perch). But the obligatory paddles, crafted from thick lumps of aluminum, tell you the tiller’s hooked-up to some serious stones. Yes indeed.

Igniting the CL63’s 6.2-liter, 518 horsepower, hand built AMG engine is an orgasmic experience. The four pipes spit out a guttural roar that vibrates your soul, resonating flesh and bone like the deep registers of gigantic church organ. Revving the CL63’s engine nearly breaks the sound barrier, sending children and small dogs scurrying in terror, and condemning BMW’s “bag of bolts” V10-powered M5 to eternal sonic shame.

AMG has installed this remarkable engine across virtually the entire Mercedes line. While it has transformed every chassis it has touched, it has transmogrified only two. The E63 is remarkable for its balance and, dare I say it, affordability. In the CL63, the mega-V8’s acceleration turns a boulevardier into a stealth fighter, capable of cruising serenely at speeds that other vehicles struggle to achieve.

More to the point, the CL63’s acceleration is exactly as you’d imagine: endlessly effortless and totally telepathic. Accompanied by a Wagnerian soundtrack, the naturally aspirated powerplant does a damn fine imitation of a big-bore V12– only without the hushed progress and nose-heavy nature. In fact, at speed, I’d swear the CL63 AMG was no bigger than a 911.

The CL63’s steering is firm but fair, communicating just enough surface information to make cornering worthwhile. The brakes are slightly stiff but unflappable, lending confidence to aggressive driving. The CL63’s ride quality is firm (there’s that word again) yet compliant. Road imperfections intrude very little on the luxury experience, despite standard 20” five-spoke AMG wheels.

In short, I’d trade my left arm for a Mercedes Benz CL63 AMG. Trouble is, the German automaker wants an arm AND a leg. The price of admission to AMG’s leather-lined roller coaster ride: 140 large. The monthly lease cost exceeds $3k. Even in California, a mortgage payment of this magnitude still affords a pretty nice house.

Still, it’s only money. If you ever wanted to fire-up a Merc that sounds like a muscle car, if you fancy leaping entire Western states in a single bound, there’s nothing to touch the CL63 for class, comfort, pace and grace.

Mercedes C300 Review

By Justin Berkowitz

Mercedes currently offers American consumers a choice of thirteen different model lines. What a difference from the Mercedes Benz of 1987, when only four U.S.-legal models wore the three pointed star. Back then, the Mercedes brand was renowned for fastidious, brick-shit-house over-engineering. Today, Benzes are known for many things, but mechanical robustness and reliability ain’t two of them. If anything, Mercedes has earned itself a reputation for persistent electrical gremlins and multitudinous mechanical misfires. Fresh from its divorce from Chrysler, Mercedes would like us to believe that the new C-Class represents a return to form. When you wish upon a star…

Looking at the new C, especially when positioned next to the outgoing blob, you can almost hear the new sheriff’s spurs clank as he strolls into town. Whereas the last C was flabby and farcical, Mercedes’ refreshed entry level model possesses unmistakably muscularity. And purpose. From the swage line slicing across the C’s side panels towards its snout, to the minuscule front overhangs, to the slight bulge in the front wheel arches, this is a car that’s not shy about going forward.

The new C300 (not to be confused with the 300C) comes in Luxury and Sport derivations. In Sport trim, the C-Class sho’ ‘nuff comes complete with hood strakes, an aggressive front air dam and an elephantine three pointed star, sitting dead center. If it makes stealth-oriented pistonheads feel any better, the over-sized, retro-blingy logo is historically justifiable: sportier versions of Ye Olde 560 SEC wore a similar statement of in yer face heritage (not to mention Ye Olde Aftermarket 190Es). Luxury- trimmed versions get the proper chrome grill with the Old School erect hood ornament.

The C-Class’ cabin continues the exterior’s overall theme of restrained modernism. Instead of the former model’s litany of obsequious features and capricious buttonology, Mercedes engineers have finally [re]placed function over form. The switchgear is now exactly where it belongs, doing exactly what it should be doing. The decapitated Pokemon steering wheel is a particular delight; the thick-rimmed tiller provides unfettered visual access to clear, elegant gages.

Giant slabs of brushed aluminum– not Lexus-style silver plastic– grace the baby Merc’s doors and dash. The headlamp knob is made of wonderfully tactile material, a package that has no business in a car this cheap. Throw in build quality we haven’t seen in the C-Class, er, ever, and you have an interior whose beauty looks set to age as gracefully as a medium-priced bottle of Chateau Margaux.

The previous generation C-Class had all the on-road prowess of a toaster. I had such a rotten time driving it I had to stop and to see if the wheels had been replaced with those chocolate cupcakes with the squiggle icing on the top. The engineers responsible for the old model’s so-not-luxurious-it-literally-hurt suspension and endlessly endless turning circle have been permanently reassigned to the Chrysler section of Mercedes’ historical archives.

The C300’s drive train is shocking. I remember this engine from the C280. Paired with a five-speed auto, it was wretchedly pedestrian. Sampling this new application is like finding a Franklin in a jacket pocket. Hooked-up to Benz’s seven-speed cog-swapper, the mill churns out a modest (by today’s standards) 230 horses. But the V6’ in-gear acceleration is such that it made me doubt the necessity of the 270 horsepower C350. With a zero-to-60mph sprint time in the low seven second range, the C300 reeks of expectation exceeding.

There is a caveat. Acceding to the temper of the times, Mercedes has tuned C300’s seven-speed cog-swapper for maximum mpg. It wants to hand you a higher gear as eagerly as a Jehovah’s Witness wants to give you a copy of the Watchtower. The go-pedal sinks some distance towards the carpet before summoning more power. In the process, it occasionally kicks down a cog too far.

Both C-Class models suppress road nuisances like a dictator dealing with democracy. And yet, miracle of miracles, the C’s ride isn’t Cadillac mushy. In fact, the sedan’s ride is classic old-school Mercedes-Benz: firm yet compliant.

Although the C300 is an ante-penultimate driving machine, it acquits itself in the corners with honest, admirable aplomb. Although there’s a not inconsiderable amount of initial body roll, the C300’s responses are so predictable– and discernible– you can push it far further than you would if you had any common sense.

The new C-Class gives U.S. consumers a reason not to buy a 3-Series or G35. Not because it’s the sportier choice (get real). The C300's appeal lies in the fact that it’s an old school cruiser, gliding through life in a once-upon-a- time-in-a-Mercedes kinda way. The new Mercedes C300 is the best non-AMG Mercedes since the 1991 to 1998 monster S-Class. With this new model, Mercedes is finally bringing the sexy back.

Mercedes-Benz B 200 Review

By Samir Syed

I sat anxiously in a showroom Mercedes CLS while the salesman processed my paperwork for a test drive. Even in repose, the CLS is a magnificent machine. Soaking in that heady blend of luxury and gravitas, I wondered if my spin in the B200 (available in Canada and Europe) would capture any of that Mercedes quintessence. Sometimes, brand extension works (Bentley Continental GT) and sometimes, it doesn't (VW Phaeton). So does the B 200 fit in Herr Doktor Daimler's pantheon of pomp and circumstance?

The B 200's rakish styling is a farrago of Mercedes' styling cues. The diminutive people mover's front sports the familiar three-bar grill with a giant Merc badge (Yo! Yo!). The B's rear echoes the C-class and M-class, while the side profile offers up the same rakish swoops as a CLS– squashed between two Mack trucks. On a tall glass of water like the B 200, the coupe-style lines are distinctly Picasso-esque.

The B 200's interior has less Mercedes-ness than a Ford F-150. The Benz' seats are as firm as an old German frau, fabricated from a fabric that's coarser than her husband's three-day beard. The center armrest is made of an odd rubbery plastic carefully designed to remind Gen X of their childhood Ninja Turtle action figures. To make room for the e-brake, the armrest is truncated on its right side– exactly where my elbow sought relaxation. German engineering has apparently overlooked the fact that I'm not apt to use the e-brake whilst driving.

On the positive side, the B 200's controls operate with silky-smooth precision. And the radio delivers wikkid beats, with the added satisfaction of one button per function ergonomics. Beyond that, Mercitude is strictly (and expensively) a la carte. Heated seats, Bluetooth adapter, Bi-Xenon headlights with "active curve illumination," sunroof, a tilting and telescoping steering wheel; it's all gonna cost ya. Bottom line: even a fully-loaded B doesn't have enough luxury to earn the right to wear the Mercedes moniker.

Thanks to B 200's "sandwich concept," there's plenty of room for four real adults. Like Ye Olde VW van and Toyota Previa minivan, the B 200's engine sits under the floor, beneath the passenger cell, inclined downwards. The arrangement frees up space for passengers. More importantly, it provides more snout for crash deformation and helps in lateral collisions (occupants are seated above the impact zone). It also raises passengers up, in accord with the mini minivan gestalt.

Once underway, the B 200's family DNA finally asserts itself. Though the petite four-door isn't even on speaking terms with the word "fast," it goes about its business in the traditional stately Mercedes fashion. Bizarrely enough, most of the credit's due to the mini-Merc's Continuously Variable Transmission (CVT or "rubber band job"). Hooked-up to a 143hp in-line four (a 193hp turbo is… more money), the tag team motivate the 2900-lbs. car with genuine grace.

The CVT seamlessly serves-up the optimal gearing ratio as the situation demands. Accelerate slowly and the CVT keeps the mini mill at the ideal torque point. Floor it, and the CVT seamlessly gets taller while the engine revs get wilder. Depress the Sport button beside the shifter and seven virtual gears keep performance on the enthusiast's preferred side of the oomph / fuel economy trade-off.

Like Mercedes' A-Class models, B 200 is a front wheel-drive machine. And a damn fine one it is too. The electromechanical power steering is sharp and direct, on the same level as an Audi A3. The B 200's handling is a delight. Throw the lightweight into the twisties and it's equal to the task, easily dispatching turns, on-ramps and curves without a squeal. All hail the B's low slung engine and suspension, blessed with a new parabolic rear axle in back and McPherson struts and wishbones up front (both with twin-tube gas-pressure shock absorbers, coil springs, and torsion bars).

The ride quality is excellent. The B 200 exhibits zen-like calm as it glides over most of the road's imperfections, transmitting very little of the commotion to its blissful passengers.

So what we have here is a de-contented Germanic budget luxury car with snobby aspirations. I'm not sure if it works. Everyone knows the B 200 is a Merc, but it's not a "real" Merc– which is the only fathomable reason someone might pay $32k for the non-turbo stripper. Seriously, in the same price point you have similar Eurosnob value and better handling in a BMW MINI or a Golf GTI– neither of which would dare insult you with such low-tech seating and unacceptably rubbery, plasticky interiors.

That said, the B 200 is a capable, pleasant, fine-riding small automobile. It brings no dishonor to the Mercedes brand. But in a field crowded with credible competitors, it's simply too expensive for a relatively clunky-looking machine with a pedestrian interior.

Mercedes CLK 63 AMG Black Series Review

Fifth Gear : Mercedes CLK 63 AMG Black Series



By Jay Shoemaker

My co-pilot sat motionless, stupefied from the previous night's revelry. Strangely, this poor fellow thought I could be trusted not to challenge Alka-Seltzer's restorative powers. I allowed him the luxury of this delusion all the way from the hotel to the highway. And then I floored it. The CLK Black Series' engine bellowed WAKE UP FOOL! The uber-bad Benz' back end quivered from side to side. The traction control light sent a steady stream of Morse code through first, second and third gear. The ten second wake-up call placed us well north of 100 mph. The jobbing journo groaned his disapproval. God I love this work!

Of course, any pistonhead who's ever inhaled the smell of burning brakes in the morning and identified it as "victory" knows that AMG on a Benz' butt guarantees straight-line firepower. To that end, the CLK Black Series boasts a near-as-dammit 6.3-liter V8, modded to produce 500 horsepower and 465 ft.-lbs. of torque. But this time, the boys from Affalterbach have wrought something a little different: "a track car adapted for use over the road." Stimmt?

Stimmt. The carbon-covered cabin's cornering bias is immediately identifiable by its miniaturized seats, steering wheel and transmission stalk. Despite its diminutive diameter, the leather-clad, square-bottomed helm is a superb addition to the AMG canon (cannon?). The CLK BS' racing-derived chairs are less successful. Even this 140-pound test pilot found the hard shell seat incredibly confining; the side bolsters are ended right around my armpit, resulting in non-stop elbows akimbo. My 200-pound compadre moaned about his back throughout our journey.

Those of you who say shaddup– adding lightness is the best way to get a sedan to sprint from rest to sixty in 4.1 seconds– don't speak AMG. Yes, AMG's Black arts artists fitted lightweight forged alloy wheels, removed the back seat and carbon-fibered the brake cooling ducts, rear spoiler and rear apron. But the CLK BS is 228 lbs. heavier than a CLK500.

All that extra heft is deployed in pursuit of handling. We're spreching three transverse chassis reinforcements and a new multi-plate limited slip differential. There's also a trick adjustable suspension that allows changes to the CLK's ride height, camber, toe-in and shock dampers' compression and rebound. Provided you're a mechanic in a tuning shop, AMG says "you" can transform the CLK AMG 63 Black Series from a road-compliant commuter to a track-ready monster in an hour or less.

The out-of-the-box, on-the-road solution is insane. Anyone who wants, needs or thinks he could use more lateral grip on a public road should have their license revoked on general principle. The steering is a shout-out to Porsche: "we could match your helm feel on all our cars; we simply choose not to." And the brakes– including 360mm ceramic front discs with six-piston calipers– could stop an evangelical preacher mid-syllable.

I saved my comments about the tranny for last because I liked it the least. No doubt the 7G-Tronic's stubby lever looks cool, but since it is made of aluminum, looks can be deceiving, especially on a hot day. Worse, it feels flimsy. The first time I waggled it sideways to shift the gears, it felt like I was giving the car a prostate exam. Fortunately, the paddles behind the steering wheel are beefy and loads of fun to press. The seven-speed even blips the throttle for downshifts, DSG-style.

Driving the CLK Black Series over serpentine mountain back roads near Half Moon Bay, I hereby solemnly swear that Mercedes can build a car that is not solemn and will make you swear. If nothing else, the CLK BS sounds like the unholy off-spring of a Mercedes - NASCAR union, complete with popping backfires during engine braking. But there's plenty else, and all of it makes this car weapons-grade ammunition for drivers determined to murder corners and terminate straights (with extreme prejudice).

In fact, the CLK Black Series is a slap in the face of BMW's new M3– albeit at a daunting price.

Yes, there is that. At $130k, the CLK Black Series asks for a 150 percent premium over the CLK 350, and demands $40k more of your hard-earned money than the CLK 63 Cabriolet, which packs a "detuned" version of the same engine. Mercedes has sold all 350 U.S.-bound CLK BS– ensuring that your "investment" will seem cheap compared to the resale market. But the onset of AMG's traditional cliff-face depreciation curve can not be forever delayed.

There are now 15 models in the AMG line. Die-hards (literally) will be glad to hear that more Black Series AMG cars are on their way. While the CLK 63 AMG Black Series is a very special car, it's worth waiting for these details to be applied to a more interesting chassis, like the SL-class, before making the jump to hyperspace.

Mercedes C350 Sport Review

Comparison Test: 2007 BMW 335i vs. 2008 Mercedes-Benz C350



By Justin Berkowitz

The previous gen C-Class was not Mercedes’ finest hour. Chief amongst its non-virtues: base engines that offered little in the way of functional power, refinement, fuel efficiency or brand faithful character (e.g. the 1.8-liter blown four). The fourth gen C300 (W204) put paid to that– and how. In fact, the new C may have finally have broken the bigger-is-always-better mold that the German carmaker has deployed to lure Benz buyers up the ownership ladder. Ah, but does that mean that the new, more highly-horsed C350 is so superior to the C300 as to steal stars– and sales– from its cheaper stablemate?

The C300 Sport and C350 Sport are sheetmetal doppelgangers. From their AMG-designed grill– whose oversized three-pointed star seems specifically designed for fans of Mr. T– to their tightly tailored tushes, there’s nothing save rim design between them. For C300 Sport buyers, that’s no bad thing. In all its iterations, the new C is a profoundly attractive car; it’s perfect in proportion and elegant in effect. For owners of the more expensive car, well, price confers no honors.

Inside, same deal. Although we understand why Mercedes reserves its engine-size-related interior mods to their AMG variants (money), how much would it cost to give a C350 driver some indication that he’s got a hotter shoe than a C300 Sport driver? Anyway, the basics are [still] brilliant. The cabin is well assembled. The solid feel of the door and dash switchgear imparts the old-school Mercedes Benz attitude. It’s stoic, it’s stolid, it’s German, and it’s going to look the same when it’s thirty years old.

In my test car, it was all about the black, with predictably monotonous results. The brushed aluminum trim adorning the gear lever provides the only aesthetic relief from the Goth gestalt. One detail from the C350’s interior merits special attention: the tilt and telescope steering wheel. While many people will consider its manual operation a bit cheap at this price point, it’s a hopeful sign that the C-Class may be built (however inadvertently) for longevity.

Obviously, the engine underhood is the principal difference between the C300 and C350. Whereas the C300 has a 3.0-liter V6 making 228 horsepower, the C350’s [unchanged for ‘08] 3.5-liter six pot brings 268 horses and 258 ft.-lbs to the party. Accelerating from rest to sixty mph takes only a shade over six seconds; that’s a full second faster than the not-entirely-slow C300 Sport. As you’d hope.

Even better, C350 offers aural pleasures you’d never, ever expect in anything other than an AMG-fettled Merc. Once the V6 winds to the sweet spot, around 3000 rpm, the damn thing begins to growl. And it’s not the usual Mercedes “wall of sound” aggression, where you’d swear you were piloting an industrial strength vacuum cleaner. It’s a genuine gathering of sonic fury. And yet the C350’s engine’s smoother than the Pickup Artist and at least as refined as Nissan’s lauded VQ engines.

The new C350’s suspension remains more or less unchanged. In this case, less is more. Riding on firmer bushings, new subframes, revised geometry and a slightly lowered chassis, the C350 is a capable corner carver. Body lean is perfectly controlled, and the chassis responds instantly (if excessively) to inputs from the new, more tactile power-assisted tiller.

While a determined C350 driver could give a BMW 328i pilot a genuine run for the money down a twisting road, the C ain’t no 3. Like the interior, the C350 goes about the business of changing direction in a dour, cheerless sort of way. It’s as safe as houses [used to be], with easy-to-find limits and completely predictable responses at all times. But it’s just not what I’d call fun.

Compared to its real competition– the C300– the C350 asks you to give up a great deal for those 40 extra ponies and suspension tweaks. For starters, there’s the small matter (to some) of $5300. You also have to surrender the possibility of all-wheel drive and “Luxury” trim. Worst of all, the six-speed manual transmission is only available on the lower-priced C300 and its Sport derivative. Even if you forgive this omission, the C350’s seven-speed autobox is dim-witted when you need it most: downshifting for power. For a sports-minded vehicle, that’s an unforgivable sin.

In sum, it’s hard to understand why a “real” enthusiast would choose the Mercedes C350 Sport over a more genuinely sporting alternative (or the monster C63 AMG version). It’s also hard to fathom the C350 Sport's advantages over a C300. The “entry level” C-Class is a back-to-basics car that does what you want a Mercedes to do– better than the C350 does what you wish it could do. In that sense, the C350 reverses the curse, and puts sensible Mercedes owners in a happier place than those who continue to believe that bigger is always better.

Mercedes-Benz AMG SL63 Review

2009 Mercedes-Benz AMG SL63



By Jay Shoemaker

I made my first pilgrimage to AMG in 2001. Arriving unannounced, I was relegated to longing stares through a chain link fence at rows of serious looking automobiles. I eventually bought an SL55 AMG. I loved its ability to terrify unsuspecting passengers. But it always struck me as an engine in search of a chassis. And better steering. And brakes. In fact, it was a steroid injected boulevardier. And now, the SL63 AMG.

After six years, Mercedes has contemporized the SL's look. The effect is jarring and far less graceful than its forbearer. The SL63's "designers" have tacked-on tasteless plastic bits onto tasteless plastic bits– from the V-shaped plastic front spoiler lip to the garish AMG badge on the side, to the unspeakably awful rear diffuser. The new look AMG brings to mind the English expression "mutton dressed as lamb."

Or a wolf in bling wolf's clothing. Fire-up the the 6.2-liter AMG engine– good for 525 horsepower and 465 pound-feet of torque– and both tach and speedo needles peg their respective gauges and draw your attention to the words 6.3-liter AMG engraved on the dash. The car literally shakes with an enthusiastic, deeply sonorous exhaust rumble, exhorting its driver to find someone to race and I mean now.

New for this model: "Race Start." So I found an empty parking lot, warned my wife to put a cap on her juice bottle and start pushing all the new buttons, waiting for a breakthrough. When none occurred, I place a call to my favorite AMG advisor in Germany. He instructed me to push the button marked AMG, turn off the traction control, twiddle the transmission dial (more on this later), stand on the brake, pull the right paddle towards me and await confirmation.

Affalterbach, ve haff a problem. My wife actually nodded off while I was trying to figure this all out. So I just floored it and let the electronics do the rest. There may be owners of the SL55 thinking that their supercharged powerplant has greater thrust off the line, but the gearing of the SL63 offsets any theoretical advantage. And no one buying the SL63 will be embarrassed at the stop lights; it baritones from rest to 60 in 4.2 seconds.

Mercedes finally ditched the electronic brakes from its SL line; I was expecting easier modulation. Alas, such is not the case; the stoppers still feel grabby and remote. The new squared-off steering wheel looked like another affectation but turned out to be surprisingly comfortable to hold, aside from the rhomboidal plastic thing at the bottom. Other revisions to the interior are modest. There is still far too much plastic for a car in this price range.

The decidedly uncomfortable Airscarf system incorporated into the headrests looks unattractive in a robotic sort of way. The SL's COMAND system has been updated and seems to possess capabilities on par with the more modern S-Class. Without the controller knob, who knows? My Garmin Nuvi is easier to use than the SL63 AMG's electronics. On the positive side, the larger gear-revealing numerals on the center gauges were extremely… helpful.

The SL63's new transmission is AMG's answer to the dual clutch automated manuals found in Volskies and Ferraris' F1-style paddle shift. The SL63's SPEEDSHIFT MCT 7 knob (next to the transmission) rotates between two automatic and two manual modes. The box compromises smooth operation in the automatic mode, particularly at slower speeds, where it unceremoniously clunks between gears. Strangely enough, the smoothest shifts occur in the fastest manual mode; boulevardier, no longer.

A button to toggle between sport and comfort suspension settings lies just beneath this "multi-clutch technology" knob. Next door: another button labeled AMG, which pre-selects sport settings for the transmission and suspension. The comfort settings yield a highly compliant ride and the sport position is highly livable.

In either mode, the initial cornering attitude is Kansas flat. The active body control settings have been revised for greater confidence and you're riding on 19's, but you're still talking 4300 lbs. worth of German two-seater. Toss this heffalump into a tight corner and, as usual, understeer rears its ugly head. A built in race timer? A Boxster driver would just laugh.

The SL55 had a cobbled together feel. The SL63 feels more thoroughly considered and engineered. The uber-SL is more Affalterbach than Stuttgart now, more competitive with BMW and Porsche as a driver's machine.

Still $150k buys you a lot of sports car elsewhere (not to mention AMG's mythic depreciation). And the SL63 isn't even the top of the SL tree; $187k SL65 AMG anyone? One wonders if the SL63's a bit… pedestrian at the price. No wonder AMG is hard at work on a Black Series SL with even more power and less weight.

Mercedes-Benz GL 320 CDI Review

2008 Mercedes-Benz GL 320 CDI



By Jay Shoemaker

I flew into Los Angeles with aspirations of driving something powerful; I had visions of some mighty motor displacing six liters or more. Anything with the letters AMG on the back would have suited me just fine. Instead I was staring at a gigantic Mercedes GL 320 CDI. That's CDI as in "diesel." I reckoned it was going to be a long drive to San Diego. I reckoned wrong.

Walking around the Mercedes GL class, I struggled to find inspiration. The SUV's descending belt line and downwards sloping swage lines create a forward facing arrow-like shape– which does an excellent job of hiding the GL's massive bulk. It's a Midwest corn silo SUV; the closer you get, the more amazed you are at its size. But the overall effect is squared off and blunt, even workmanlike. The GL's snout– complete with bootylicious big Benz badge– rescues the beast from invisibility on both the brand and design level.

I climbed up the side of the beast, planted myself behind the wheel and began looking for the CB radio, finding only the usual Mercedes COMAND stack. The view from the driver's throne is certainly commanding– as long as your viewing angle doesn't dip lower than 30 degrees below the horizon. Beneath that, all things are invisible– small children, motorcycles, Toyotas.

The GL320's materials quality isn't up to Range Rover's "tough luxury," but the assembly is outstanding. The ‘Bama-built Benz looks and feels built to last (as in longevity, not relative traffic position). Less enjoyably, the not-so-cheap tester's range of adjustments and toys were quite limited, and the sound system's quality and functionality had me searching for my IPod. On the positive side, the GL's interior space utilization and practicality– multiple seat flips, cupholders, cubbies, etc.– is ideal for a large family with a gaggle of messy tikes.

Including the conjunction, the big Benz' driving experience can be summed up in three words: imperious and impervious. Straight line driving is dreamy and plush, with no vibrations to speak of. Other than that… the GL 320's limited visibility rules-out quick and aggressive lane changes; every move requires careful planning. Fortunately, I was only required to turn twice in 100 miles, so I didn't have much opportunity to experience the pleasures of helming the leaning tower of Benz.

The GL 320 CDI's steering was a tad vague at the straight ahead and the brakes oddly squishy, but the dynamics were wholly appropriate with the rest of the driving experience. I wasn't bothered about testing the stoppers' performance in a panic stop; I felt I could pretty much run over or through anything that crossed my path without noticing (save in a legal and moral sense). Cruising along serenely, captain of a dreadnought class vehicle, I instantly understood why these giant SUV populate the American interstates.

And if perchance I ventured to Big Bear, I felt confident the GL 320 could handle anything nature threw my way. Like most Mercedes owners/drivers, I've seen the commercials. What more do you want? One button off-road handling and traction gizmo recalibration? Done. Seventy-five hundred pounds of towing capacity? Riva owners of the world rejoice!

The GL 320 CDI's diesel engine's performance is extremely well suited to the vehicle's mellow mission. Although the GL CDI's 3.0-liter turbocharged V6 powerplant produces "only" 215hp, the oil-burning SUV drives like a tsunami. It accumulates speed relentlessly, surfing on a never-ending wave of torque (398 lb-ft @ 1,600 - 2,800 rpm). The truck had enough power to indulge every passing whim with calm assurance, while tree stumps quivered in fear.

Given the GL's 5313 pound curb weight and the aforementioned braking pillow-cum-pedal, I had to temper my accelerative enthusiasm, lest I evoke runaway train metaphors. Pricing for this leviathan starts in the mid $50k's, but quickly makes its way into the $70k's.

And speaking of money– or at least political correctness– anyone who purchases a giant SUV must, at some point, face the mileage issue. The BlueTec diesel powering the GL 320 CDI offers a great salve to the well-heeled, environmentally-conscience SUV driver. I managed 23 mpg at a steady state 80mph. In EPA terms, the GL320 CDI represents a 30 percent improvement over its gas-equivalent.

At last, the best of the German-engineered modern diesel engines are making their way to the US of A, erasing all memories of the Detroit's abortive efforts in the 1970s. These next gen diesels offer significant fuel saving, cleanliness and outstanding drivability. And now that we're finally getting great diesels, the price of the fuel has rendered mileage gains moot, and obviated rational contemplation of the diesel engine's price premium.

But don't let this hinder your consideration of a diesel-powered truck or car. If you appreciate torquey smooth performance, the GL320 CDI's diesel is the next best thing to a powerful, thirsty, expensive, CO2-belching V12.

Mercedes-Benz C63 AMG Review

By Justin Berkowitz

With all this media talk of a gas electric plug-in hybrid clean diesel hydrogen fuel cell future, someone forgot to tell Mercedes that the horsepower war is over. Sure, the new BMW M3 has a 414hp V8, trumped by the Audi RS4’s 420hp eight pot. But who gives a shit? The new automotive arms race: building and selling enough small, high-mileage, low-profit vehicles that various government agencies will let you sell large, low-mileage, high-profit vehicles. Meanwhile, the Mercedes C63 AMG.

Four-hundred fifty-one horses. That’s the headline number produced by the 6.2-liter V8 crammed into the 3993 lbs. C-Class' snout. It sure doesn’t look lunatic. Yes, there are some tacky pieces of body kit, including a gaudy bumper that speaks of Honda Civics down at the 7-11. But the C63 is a butch little bastard whose hunkered stance and müde autoreifen convey more solidity than Brando at the end of Streetcar.

Aside from my test car’s porno-quality cream-colored leather seats and door panels, the C63’s cabin adds nothing to the sense of occasion– which may or may not be the point. A mere three grand buys you hyper-bolstered sport seats, completely unsuitable for anyone who’s ever eaten a deep fried mozzarella stick.

Drive the C63 around town and you'd never know a murderer lives just beyond the firewall. Burbling around the Best Buy parking lot (where DO the ultra rich hang out these days?), the mini-Merc seems like a normal, albeit brisk, shrunken S. In town, the C63’s sublime suspension tackles all; this ain't no hard-edged tooth-chip express.

Toggle the AMG’s transmission from C (for Comfort) to M for (Manubetterbereadyforthis), grind the gas pedal into the carpet and the C63 parachutes into Afghanistan with the Tenth Mountain Division, all guns blazing. As you’d expect from a combat-ready sedan, time suddenly slows down. The C63’s massive meats shriek and hop around as they desperately try to do something, anything with 443 ft.-lbs. of torque (torque is more modest 369 lb ft from 2000-6250 rpm). You can hear the V8 nuking gasoline; the mega-motor is screaming like a pissed off bear with a megaphone. HOLY SHIT!

Time resumes its normal pace. It has been exactly one second since mashing the gas. The tach needle rockets around. The LCD in the center of the speedo flashes "UP! 2" Pull the damn shift paddle! Second gear is gone before it arrives. The engine is doing a passable imitation of a jet exhaust. At 4.3 seconds, we’re passing sixty. I need to upshift again. Third gear at 5000 pm and the deep, throaty roar indicates V3. I’m mainlining sex, and power, and drugs into my arms. And I like it.

After 9.2 seconds, we're in triple digits. The C63 crests 100 miles per hour on its way to Mach 2. And get this: it was totally an accident. I just was just trying to ingest a little more of that engine bellow, the closest approximation to crack/cocaine money can buy, and probably a lot more dangerous. But it's not my fault.

There's so much power lingering about, it's a wonder the C63 AMG doesn't simply implode when you nail the throttle. The only problem: trying to power out of corners in third or fourth gear. With the torque closer to its peak, the wheels can't deal with all the activity. Yes, we're going sideways– in spite of an optional $4k limited slip differential lock. Lift a little off the gas and everything is jake again. You can absolutely massacre corners at arbitrarily chosen speeds.

The suspension is miraculous. If every car was like this, we'd never bother to fix potholes. I swear you cannot feel them, in spite of the low profile tires and 18" wheels. And the huge brakes scrub off enormous speed in less time than it takes to yell “radar!” And thank God for that.

The C63 AMG is not cheap. The $54,565 sticker competes squarely with the legendary BMW M3, not to mention a regular E350. Oh, did I mention my tester punched out at $70k? And the C63 won't get any love from the Prius people, what with single-digit mileage. But this, my chain saw-wielding, carbon positive friends, is a bargain.

The biggest problem with the C63 AMG: many of the C63's virtues are available in, gulp, a regular C-Class. I'm not saying buy a C300 instead. I'm saying you the C63 AMG needs a lot of lebensraum. Otherwise, you’ll spend your life in that special place called “time exposed to danger,” blasting past the guy in a Lexus RX350 who's blocking "the windy road" to work (at 60 mph). But if you can afford the C63 and all the depreciation that AMG implies, and you have the context in which to drive it, the C63 proves that all's fair in love and war.

Mazda RX8 Review

Top Gear: Mazda RX8



By Robert Farago

Fancy a game of "spot the triangle"? The RX8 wants to play. I spotted a triangle between the exhausts, in the front spoiler, embedded in the bonnet, under the headrests and on the top of the gear lever. They're there to remind us that Mazda's top-shelf sports car has a rotary engine, which consists of two triangle-shaped rotors, four spark plugs and… that's about it. So what? Most drivers wouldn't care if their car was powered by racing hamsters - just as long as it doesn't break.

As you might expect from a car with a four-year, 50,000-mile, bumper-to-bumper warranty, the RX8 is reliable enough. Any doubts about this singular machine centre on its performance and handling, rather than its quirky propulsion. Sports car buyers want to know one thing: how's it drive? To which the only possible answer is "like a motorcycle".

Excluding the two-wheeled dinosaurs known as Harley Davidsons, motorcycles are known for their light weight and hi revs. In the hands of Japanese engineers, the combination creates the kind of visceral acceleration and telepathic handling that leads large numbers of speed-crazed kids straight into a tree. Still, it's fun while it lasts - the same sort of fun provided by the featherweight, rpm-mad RX8. Here's how it works…

Imagine you're zizzing along in third gear, waiting for an opportunity to put pedal to metal. The instant you floor it, the RX8's tacho needle begins an Olympic sprint around the dial straight to - hold on, is that really 9000rpms? "Nine", as in one before "ten"? After a few seconds spent listening to the binging rev limiter, you look down at the speedo and discover you're doing over 80mph, with three more gears available for your dining and dancing pleasure. All of which offer identical levels of blender-smooth grunt and go.

Slot the flyweight gearbox into fourth, fifth or sixth. Guide the RX8 into a bend. Notice that the turn-in is quick, crisp and accurate. As you seek out the apex of the turn, the RX8's perfectly-balanced chassis adjusts to your throttle and helm inputs both intimately and infinitely. You can change your attitude mid-corner without life-threatening repercussions.

Meanwhile, the 18" Bridgestones grab the tarmac with well-mannered tenaciousness. The suspension, though comfort-biased, absorbs surface imperfections with no appreciable loss of traction. Around you go; no fuss, no muss. More curves? A little over-taking perhaps? With just 2.9 turns from lock-to-lock, you can use the RX8's electrically-assisted rack and pinion steering to flick the car back and forth like a sports bike.

Put it all together, make liberal use of the RX8's serious stoppers, and you're free to thrash this 1373 kilo rice rocket to an inch of its/your life. It takes a major act of demented hooliganism to get the car bent out of shape - and even then a reasonable driver has an excellent shot at regaining control.

The RX8's sure-footed velvety prowess demands a bit of mental acclimatization. The lack of engine noise (up to 5000rpms) and vibration makes full acceleration so effortless that pressing on becomes the default option. Temperate throttle use (i.e. protecting your driving license) requires considerable restraint. Resisting the urge to carry the RX8's perpetually-mounting speed through the twisty bits is equally daunting. Because you can, you do.

Getting comfortable with the RX8's exterior design is also a bit of a "challenge". This beholder found little beauty to delight his eye. The front's open-wheel-racer look is way cool, but the truncated back end and hideous rear window leave me cold. I also reckon the 8's terminally cheerful Pokemon face looks better on the chick-friendly MX5 than this, their no-holds-barred sports car.

Actually, I lie. Despite its rapid pace (0 to 60 in 5.9 seconds) and sterling road manners, the RX8 is not a hard-core street racer. For one thing, the RX8's suspension doesn't blur your vision and loosen your fillings. For another, it comes with rear seats. OK, they only accommodate small children, and you'd have to leave the car chairs at home, but hey, they're more than big enough for a baby boomer to point out to his wife and say, "See? I told you it's sensible."

And so it is. The RX8 offers enthusiasts reasonable practicality and tremendous value for money. Tick every available option - six-speed gearbox, bigger engine, traction control, bi-xenon headlights, fog lights, heated leather seats, Bose audio system with 6-CD changer, power moonroof, the works - and you'd still be hard-pressed to spend $32k (UK Price ~£23,400). There aren't a whole lot of sports cars at that price that can keep up with the RX8. In fact, when it comes to bang for the buck, the RX8's only real competition is… a motorcycle.

Mazda MX5 Review

Top Gear - Mazda MX5



By Robert Farago

The new Mazda MX5 is the sports car I always wanted. It's a small, sexy, sure-footed thrill machine that easily and completely outwits all those huge, over-embellished, slow-witted American muscle cars. The only problem is, I wanted the MX5 way back in '75. Things have moved on since then. There's a wide range of well-balanced sports cars vying for the enthusiast's attention. Some of them are even American. And none of them are as dangerous as Mazda's diminutive roadster.

Endless reviews praise the MX5's purity of form, clarity of purpose and banquet of sensations. None mention the pint-sized roadster's lack of "compatibility". In other words, when the MX5 collides with something, the something's driver gets out and says "Dang!" whereas the MX5 driver… doesn't get out. No wonder the website's safety section begins with "Beyond the safety benefits of having a car that allows you to react quickly to avoid hazardous situations…" and touts "systems that help make it easier to avoid accidents in the first place."

Of course, Mazda's right: the best way to survive an accident is not to have one. There's no question that [what my two-year-old called] "the baby car" is supernaturally maneuverable– as you'd expect from a balanced two-seater that weighs less than half a Lincoln Navigator. Although there was nothing wrong with the way the last MX5 danced the light fantastic, the new rag top offers sharpened everything: chassis, brakes, engine, steering, suspension, gearbox, the lot. You can nip, dart, cut, thrust, hang a Louie and generally thrash the car some 25% faster than you could previously.

If you can't drive this puppy fast, you can't drive. But I challenge any enthusiast worth his Sparco shoes to drive it slow. For one thing, the MX5's 2.0-liter four-pot buzzes all the way from the basement to the penthouse, with genuine shove lingering at the top of the rev range. Why wouldn't you cane it? For another, the steering is ponderous at the straight ahead. When you fling the MX5 into a corner, the helm springs to life, providing handful after handful of delicious feedback. Why wouldn't you dice? The brakes are game for a laugh: strong, fade, free and progressive. Why wouldn't you slip into grin mode at every opportunity?

Why not indeed? My time with the MX5 gave me a profound respect for its owners. Where I once saw MX5 drivers as lifestyle victims in search of cutesy-tootsie street cred, I now see them as irredeemable throttle jockeys risking life and limb for the sheer joy of clipping an apex or avoiding an SUV making a left turn from the right hand lane. In this, the MX5 is an ideal partner: ready, willing and able to squirt through the tightest of spaces into the mystical hidden lane. In fact, the highway is the only place where the roadster doesn't shine, but buying a Mazda MX5 for long-distance cruising is like buying a Honda Odyssey for track work.

Mazda has wandered into borderline OCD in their attempts to eliminate any other reason NOT to buy an MX5. Visually, the artist formerly known as Miata has traded suppository chic for a more sophisticated and aggressive appearance. The MX5's flared wheel arches and post-modern power dome are perfectly judged addenda to the basic bathtub shape. The MX5 has such a well-judged form it creates an optical illusion; you think you're still ten yards away when you bump into it. And apologize. While the car's slightly more generous but still teeny weeny proportions maintain its position as an automotive gay icon, it's now more like the Village People's construction worker than, um, the leather one.

Inside, Mazda has opted for the Audi funeral parlor look, minus the high quality plastics. The fake piano wood running across the dash would jar on a Fischer Price keyboard, and the faux aluminum steering wheel surrounds and rollover hoops are less convincing than Fritz Saukel's Nuremberg defense. But the overall effect is dignified and refined: an exponential improvement over the previous car's cabin in both look and feel. The MX5's audio system is the only major letdown; it makes FM radio sound like AM. The aural assault is an unforgivable technological lapse for a vehicle in which fun is Job One.

Aside from the tinny radio, the 16-year-old MX5 challenges the 911 as the world's most highly evolved automobile. That said, unlike potential Porsche ownership, it's best to approach MX5 possession by asking yourself the question Henry V asked his troops: "Do you want to live forever?" The truth is, if someone had handed me the keys to an MX5 when I was a teenager, I couldn't have written this review.

Mazda CX-7 Review

By Michael Karesh

If any mainstream brand can build an SUV that handles like a sports car, it’s Mazda. The Japanese automaker has a proven track record of developing vehicles with superior agility and dynamic appeal. Little wonder that ads for Mazda’s new CX-7 imply that it drives like a sports car, and that most junket-based reviews of the new “crossover” verify the claim. Well, I’ve driven the CX-7 and I’ve driven sports cars and the CX-7 is no sports car.

Looking at Mazda’s new crossover, you’d be forgiven for thinking otherwise. The CX-7 combines the MazdaSpeed6’s big-grilled nose, the RX-8’s protruding fenders, a laid-back windshield and a complete absence of straight lines. While the sporty-looking result distances the CX-7 from the mainstream of SUV design, the relentless surface effects deployed to disguise the machine’s fundamental portliness don’t meld into a coherent whole. More to the point, aerodynamics do not driving dynamics make.

The CX-7’s cabin comes closer to realizing the intended car-like gestalt. While a liberal application of hard, ungrained plastic risks placing passengers in econobox Hell, artful styling and metal-effect trim yield an intriguingly ultra-modern atmosphere (at least in the black interior). The Grand Touring model even adds a nifty strip of faux alligator hide down the center of each seat. The CX-7’s instrument cowl signals the machine’s sporting intent, while the heavily stylized dash does an admirable job of hiding the raked windscreen’s acres o’ dash effect.

Thanks to its relatively low driving position and prominent center console, the CX-7’s cockpit feels more athletically honed than the more open cabins of competing crossovers. (Some will simply find it tight.) But the CX-7’s front seats provide a clue that the model’s pistonhead proclivities may be less than advertised; the comfortable chairs don’t provide much lateral support. In back, there's about as much legroom as you'll find in the average midsize sedan, but shoulder room is a bit tight for three across. Buyers drawn to SUVs in search of elbow room won’t be happy. The CX-7’s 58-cube cargo bay is about 20 shy of the class average, but still sufficient for lifestyle schlepping or a weekend away.

The CX-7’s direct-injected, turbocharged DOHC four (borrowed from the MazdaSpeed6) stumps up 244 horses. While the output is generally sufficient for everyday progress, the powerplant fails to kick those fillies out of the stable with any alacrity. A firm press on the CX-7’s go pedal from a dead stop yields… nothing much. (Think boost lag combined with old school DOHC behavior; the 3,000 rpm torque peak is high for a turbo.) Buzz the four over 3500 rpm, where your ears definitely won’t mistake it for a six, and the CX-7 finally starts to get a move on. But even then the crossover’s two-ton curb weight and power-sapping, slow-reacting six-speed slushbox deny enthusiastic drivers sufficient thrust to justify opting into the new genre. The manual shift mode takes off some of the wait, but not enough.

In casual driving, the CX-7’s handling lives up to its billing. In gentle turns, body lean is well controlled. The steering is quick with a hint of tactile feedback. Unfortunately, tall 60-series sidewalls muffle communication from the contact patches and slow transitional responses, hobbling this sports car wannabe’s dynamic feedback. Shod the beast in lower profile tires and it might actually feel agile.

Press on and the whole fast driving thing falls apart. The crossover’s nose drifts wide, its steering feel goes AWOL and the chassis’ limited composure becomes apparent. The best vehicles seem to shrink and shed pounds when driven hard. The harder you push the CX-7, the heavier and clumsier it feels. But you won’t want to push it very hard, anyway, as the Goodyear Eagle RS-A’s on the outside front corner howl in protest at the slightest provocation. Ignore the complaining and you’ll find that there’s still plenty of grip available. But the noise! The noise! The noise! You’ll suffer less squealing at a children’s book reading.

Once calm is restored, the CX-7’s ride is moderately supple and quieter than that of other Mazdas. Credit those generous sidewalls. The CX-7’s softcore suspension tuning should make highway trips a breeze and back country roads with sweeping curves a joy. But caning the crossover around the tightly wound two-laners that feature prominently in the Japanese company’s ads? Forgeddaboutit.

Let’s face it: it doesn’t matter who makes an SUV or how they tune the chassis. A sports car is a low-slung, properly balanced vehicle with razor-sharp reflexes. SUVs are too high and too heavy to provide even a remotely similar driving experience. Mazda ought to know better. As the progenitors of the superb MX-5 and tightly focused RX-8, they should know that there’s only one sort of vehicle that drives like a sports car: a sports car.

Mazda Speed6 Review

By Jonny Lieberman

For a certified car freak living in the City of Angels, the drive to Las Vegas is a special treat. Sure, LA is only a traffic jam or three away from the kind of twisting coastal tarmac that ad makers and throttle jockeys adore. But the two hundred seventy-five mile haul across Interstate 15 to Sin City tells you everything you need to know about a car’s capacity for long distance love. Well, that’s my story and I’m sticking with it. My tale began when my friend and I jumped into the hairy knuckled Mazda Speed6 and set off for a suite at Caesar's Palace.

The Speed6 Grand Touring is the opposite of a Q-car. It’s deeply, strangely, and tragically ugly, or, if you prefer, bold, brash and muscular. Mazda's performance specialists fitted the beast with an air-to-air intercooler mounted WRX-style on top of the engine (fed through a pipe instead of a hood scoop). To accommodate the extra oomph, the designers creased the hood and raised it by four inches. The dolphin skull look-alike signals the Mazda’s incipient roid rage. The double-sized gaping mouth fitted below the grill adds to the effect, threatening to swallow Mazda3's whole.

The Speed6’s rear end is even goofier. A huge drooping bumper pays unnecessary homage to mid-70’s safety legislation (which led to a plague of hideous plastic butt grafts). The rear lip spoiler is garish and the oversized oval tailpipe surrounds mounted in the sticky-outty plastic bumper bit are not only phony in practice, but deeply reminiscent of Ford's second generation Taurus. The Speed6’s fifteen-spoke wheels are needlessly fussy, overshooting good taste by a factor of ten.

The Speed6’s cabin can’t quite shake its proletarian roots; the storage bin on top of the center stack looks as though it was hacked out of the dash with a Leatherman. Luckily, there are enough sporty touches– mod squad pedals, red on black dials, Audi air vents– to keep it party real. Pistonheads will be well pleased with the gigantic windshield and huge mirrors, which guarantee an unobstructed view in all directions. The two-tone leather seats are the biggest disappointment. There are park benches that offer more side bolstering. Dial-up some angry-footed hoonage and you might as well be seated on a Slip 'N Slide.

The garden variety front wheel-drive Mazda6 is a genuine driver’s car that manages to keep understeer at arm’s length. The all wheel-drive Speed6 eliminates that problem, and then some– provided you switch off the traction control. Then the Speed6 literally screams to life. You like squealing tires while deep in the midst of four wheel drift? Then you will like the Speed6. While the 3600 lbs. four-door is a bit too chubby to ginsu blacktop like a Subaru WRX, the Mazda is (gulp) more fun to drive. Credit the relatively narrow 215 Pirellis that hold on for a two count before breaking loose. Fo 'rizzle, you shouldn't be able to have this much fun on dry pavement.

Good thing that the brakes are nothing short of astonishing. A light tap on the middle pedal and you’ll shed twenty-miles per hour, from any speed. In a full-blown emergency, the anchors muscle the Speed6 to a standstill with virtually no drama. Highway or byway, you can do some real damage to your license with this mad Mazda machine. But talk about a reluctant warrior…

The Speed6’s 2.3L turbo DOHC in-line four pumps out 274 hp @ 5500rpm. That’s a lot of horses for a mid-sized four-door. But roll on the gas and… nothing. Goose the revs above 3500 rpm and 280 foot pounds of torque comes on like a fire hose. If Mazda added a second, smaller turbo or figured out how to make this sucker spool-up faster (call Porsche), the Speed6 could shave a half second or more from its 5.4 second sprint to sixty. That's WRX country, and not a bad place to live. However, the Scoobie Legacy spec.B does the deed a tenth of a second quicker with 24 less ponies. Our consolation prize? After cruising to Vegas at speeds ranging between [a theoretical] 90 and 110mph, we arrived at The Strip with more than a quarter tank of gas left (from full).

All of which begs a question; what is the Mazda Speed6? It offers the performance of a WRX for a $5k premium. As good as it is, it’s too clumsy and slow to compete with equally priced STI’s and EVO’s. It’s outclassed inside and out by the svelte Legacy. And the answer is… who cares? Mazda has created a charming, keenly priced, everyday family sedan that transforms into a snarling, tire-shredding maniac at the kick of a pedal and the touch of a button. Besides pocket aces, what more could you ask for?

Mazda MX-5 Miata Power Retractable Hardtop Review

By Jonny Lieberman

Why is it so hard for carmakers to get the little things right? Most of these guys have been building cars for over a century. Yet they put the pedals in the wrong place, or give their machine numb steering, or equip the interior with less style than a Day’s Inn. One reason: compromise. Manufacturer X could offer you perfect pedal placement, or share pedals between five models and save you a grand. Another case in point, who doesn’t want a convertible? Put another way, who the Hell wants a convertible? With the MX-5 Miata Power Hartop, Mazda has removed compromise from that particular equation.

Drivers in the know have always seen past the Miata’s mini-suppository shape and focused on its brilliant driving dynamics. No more. The “refreshed” MX-5 is now one of the best looking vehicles on the road, especially from the front. Finally, someone’s built a Japanese car that’s proud to be Japanese. The Miata shows the world an angry, fishy, warrior face, and I love it. I like the MX-5’s profile as well, with its elegant fenders, meaty arches and athletic-looking ten-spoke wheels. The back is [still] pure pabulum, but at least it’s massaged and sculpted pabulum that’s been fitted with business class twin-pipes.

Like the sharp front end, the new hard roof is a homerun. The origami-tastic top looks like something an autocrosser might bolt onto their track day sled. (You half expect to see a roll cage welded under it.) At a stroke, the hardtop casts off the aesthetic aspersions thrown at previous Miatas; the lid makes the car look serious. And it’s easy to operate too. Release a simple latch, press a button and read this sentence twice. It takes just twelve seconds to fold and stow the top, which is four seconds faster than a Mercedes SL550. Even better, all that mechanical slickness adds just 77 pounds to the car’s weight. And wind noise isn’t an issue until you crack 75mph.

The interior belies the Miata’s sub-25k sticker. Snobs will moan that Mazda uses plastic where they could have used wood, or that the leather does not come from pampered, sushi-sucking cows penned in by rubber band fences. Ignore them. At this price-point, the MX-5 sports one of the classiest interiors extant. Press the double-cool air vent buttons and you will believe. The steering wheel, clutch pickup, pedal and shifter placement are all ideally positioned, despite the car’s Lilliputian proportions. Normally, I detest steering wheels buttons, but Mazda has arranged them perfectly for tweakers who know the value of keeping their eyes on the road.

Like Mazda’s Speed6, the MX-5 has two personas. Leave the traction control on and you can take any turn at any speed and live to tell the tale. Of course, crappy pavement and a strong right foot send the little yellow idiot light blinking faster than a timing gun, but that’s half the fun. In that case, DSC stands for “Don’t Sweat Charlie.” Put the e-nanny to bed and the Miata transforms. Oversteer clocks in at the press of the throttle; only pilots familiar with the phrase, “when in spin, both feet in” need apply. Turning off the computer makes the Miata go from fantastically fun to an open invitation at Hoonatics Anonymous. Caning the wee beastie on the fabled Angeles Crest Highway, I aged the Michelin Pilots 2,000 miles in 30. The desperate squeal from the rubber coupled with the buzzsaw of the motor’s 7,000rpm redline was pistonhead paradise. While I could keep up with the motorcycles in the bends…

Sadly and predictably, the MX-5’s a little… slow. The relatively high-revving 2.0-liter I4 manages just 170hp @ 6700 rpm. Worse still, you only get access to 140lbs. feet of torque @ 5000rpm. Even when pitted against 2575 pounds of car, it’s not enough twist for a watered down Tom Collins. (Call me overly American, but I can’t abide losing to big, fat Yank-tanks at stop lights.) Equally troubling, cruising at 80mph, the Miata’s engine spins at 4000rpm in sixth gear, burning plenty of premium petrol. Future MazdaSpeed versions will no doubt slap on a turbo to fix the power gap, but Honda squeezes way more juice out of a normally aspirated 2.0-liter mill. Mazda’s mechanical minions should follow suit.

By keeping the price below $25k, the MX-5 sacrifices raw grunt. Besides luggage and ass-space, that’s it for compromise. It’s by no means a deal breaker. Combine the Miata’s legendary handling with the relative convenience and security (and coolness) of a hardtop drop top, and it’s clear that little Mazda has succeeded where no other automaker has bothered to go. Yet. The introduction of the first generation Miata back in 1989 was an automotive high water mark. The MX-5 Hardtop is déjà vu all over again.