1995 saab 9000 aerO (TUned)

Classic Car Weekly (UK) - - Our Classics -

OWned sinCe Mileage sinCe lasT re­pOrT TO­Tal Mileage laTesT COsTs

SOc­to­ber 2015 1000 miles 174,912 £366 (MoT, electrics, tyres)

ince Septem­ber, it feels like I have spent less time with my Saab than Don­ald Trump has with com­mon de­cency. And it has pun­ished me for this er­ror re­lent­lessly. Get­ting it through an MoT proved more dif­fi­cult than stay­ing awake dur­ing the Cricket World Cup and af­ter the cer­tifi­cate was handed across the prob­lems didn’t stop.

First, there was the ex­haust sys­tem fall­ing apart fol­lowed by sev­eral elec­tri­cal grem­lins, with a side or­der of au­to­matic choke and idling is­sues. Oh, and to cap it all the brakes de­cided to go on strike, all of a sud­den too.

How­ever, now these nig­gles have been dealt with, the miles have been dis­patched in spec­tac­u­lar fash­ion. De­spite hav­ing sat in the fam­ily farm­yard for seven months, more than 1000 miles have been cov­ered by the Saab with­out re­ally try­ing since I re­trieved it from Scot­land. The urge to take the 340bhp beast out for a drive af­ter work has been too much to ig­nore and sev­eral poor souls have come along for the ride.

First, there is Pam Web­ster, one of the of­fice man­agers at work, who clam­bered into the jump seat for a lunchtime ‘spin’ and still hasn’t quite re­cov­ered. Then there was my ever suf­fer­ing house­mate Liam who braved the back­roads of Oakham for sev­eral night runs to test the han­dling. Af­ter sev­eral cat­tle grids ap­peared with­out warn­ing he now has an appointment with a chi­ro­prac­tor to re­align his back. The sus­pen­sion of­fers lit­tle in the way of move­ment.

How­ever, the vic­tim suf­fer­ing most is CCW con­trib­u­tor Richard Gunn’s part­ner, Dianne to whom I give a lift to work. Ev­ery morn­ing and evening she ut­ters a few Hail Marys be­fore we set off up the A1.

It’s not that the Saab is dan­ger­ous or held to­gether by hope – as the Mini cur­rently is – it’s just that the power de­liv­ery is sav­age, push­ing you back into the great leather seats so vi­o­lently that you risk a nose bleed. The best part, how­ever, is that the ex­te­rior of­fers no clues to the steroid-laden lump lurk­ing un­der­neath the slop­ing bon­net. The paint­work is por­ridge-like and the ex­haust rat­tles, lead­ing to gen­eral be­wil­der­ment as I power away on a shunt of raw adren­a­line. There is a par­tic­u­lar souped-up BMW that en­joys ter­ror­is­ing the A1 around the same time that I com­mute into the of­fice – cutting up other driv­ers. How­ever, af­ter sitting on my bumper for sev­eral Of­fice man­ager Pam en­joys a sooth­ing trip to the shops. In­ter­est­ingly, Calum’s ex­penses pro­voke a sim­i­lar re­ac­tion. min­utes, I caught one glance of his shocked ex­pres­sion in the rear view mir­ror as the Saab left him for dust, firmly putting him in his place. The A1 is al­ready a bet­ter ex­pe­ri­ence, if not nec­es­sar­ily a safer one. Saab pro­duced one hell of a car with the 9000, but Ab­bot­sport def­i­nitely made it bet­ter.

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