North Shore Times (New Zealand)
Opinion: Inside the Ford Mustang myth
There’s always that lingering sense of being a fraud when you drive a car you can’t possibly afford.
Add to this my complete mechanical ignorance of how cars work and you’d have to say my place behind the wheel of the new Ford Mustang V8 GT was, in my role as journalist, dubious.
But something about the car in question, the Mustang, made my lack of qualification irrelevant.
Because there’s no logical reason, financial, mechanical or otherwise why people buy Mustangs.
It’s a choice based on a myth that surrounds all American muscle cars but which peaks with the Mustang - their archetypal form.
It’s the status of the elegant hoon. A delicate balance of raw, idiotic power offset by simple, stylish lines.
Its engine gratifys the male ego and general sense of bravado but its body was was not designed by that same basic impulse.
The wide arching bonnet and snub boot have a grace not seen in a Japanese turbocharged counterpart, or a modern hotted-up Commodore, Falcon offshoot.
Steve McQueen chased down a murderer through the San Francisco streets in a turtleneck and blazer ensemble driving a Mustang and it seemed totally appropriate.
On the flip side, there is something irreverent, working class, about a V8 Mustang that separates it from other cars in its $70K-plus price category.
The Mustang would not sit in the car park of the North Shore Golf Club with the same ease and inconspicuousness as a horizon blue Mercedes C-Class or cypress green Jaguar.
Especially not if you drove, as I did, a white Mustang with two huge royal blue racing stripes down the centre.
But aside from what it means to drive a Mustang, how does it actually feel?
Well, if you’re test-driving a V8 with a racing mode that deactivates all traction control then peak hour on Auckland’s inner suburban streets will probably not let you explore its full reckless potential.
Ironically, for a city obsessed on driving everywhere, the streets are not that good for driving.
My Mustang experience was a cluttered, crawling affair, but it allowed time to think.