NEW CARS PUT THROUGH THE WRINGER
ROBBO GETS TOEY IN THE PUMA
I’VE BEEN blessed/cursed with sensitive feet. No, I don’t mean I break out in hives if I expose them to salt water or anything like that. It’s more how my tootsies interact with the pedals of a car; in particular, the middle one.
I have no idea why I’m so fussy with brake feel. It’s not like I was subjected to ritualistic sensory training as a child that set me up for a life of being overly judgemental about vehicle retardation.
So what do I like under my right (or left, I’m fine either way) foot? I like a medium-high pedal, with a low-resistance transition to a wellmodulated, fulsome engagement that is consistent right through the application, and one that transitions off-brake just as nicely. Not fussy, then. But as I guide the Puma through our local urban landscape, wincing every time I try and balance that crucial point between activation and retardation, I can’t help but wonder why any car feels any different to any other – ever. Look at the bits and bobs required to make a brake work in a modern car. A pedal, lines to carry fluid, a booster to multiply your pedal effort, a caliper, pads and a rotor. Not much, then.
Sure, tyres have a role to play, and electronics also have a say, but the fundamentals of a modern braking system are tick-box items now, over-engineered, costed to within cents of their lives, their physical existence and associated terabytes of testing data collated (I imagine) as ones and zeroes on a hard drive that can be called up at whim should an engineer want to replicate a task. Pedal pivot angles, brake line length, caliper type, piston diameter… it’s all science now, surely.
For whatever reason in the Puma, though, it feels like there’s an
extra millimetre or kilopascal or something that’s been added to an engineering file somewhere that has the effect of rendering the Puma’s brake pedal as an on-off switch.
Brush the pedal at suburban speeds and there’s a wall of fuzzy, muted resistance that provides almost nothing in terms of slowing effort before – wham! – stage two kicks in like an Apollo rocket dropping its primary stage, standing the Puma on its nose.
Your passenger, long tired of your endless car shenanigans, gives you their best side-eye glare, even though there is nothing that can be done to amend it from your side. The feeling improves with more speed on board… but honestly, at sub-60km/h velocities, the Puma’s brake feel makes me want to walk home. And three drivers are reporting the same thing, so it’s not just me.
So to my question; why does this even have to happen? The Puma rides on the older B2E platform, so it’s not as trick as the new C2 version that rolls beneath the larger Escape – but the last Fiesta was a terrific little thing, with loads of brake feel and a sweet balance at the pedal.
Yes, there’s pad feel variance, and I do wonder if a different compound would improve it. The Dunlops on the Puma are quiet and supple, so I don’t suspect them at all.
The curiously tied-down nature of the Puma’s suspension tune is a bit player, though; firm off the top, the springs don’t allow for sufficient pitch to contribute to brake feel at lower velocities.
Putting aside that (large for me at least) grievance, the Puma’s life in suburbia continues unhindered. The harder, less luxurious plastic surfaces between the front seats are holding up well to the generalities of life, the three-cylinder engine continues to impress with its surprising vim, and the combo of the faultless Sync 3 screen and digital dash still feels special every day.
Oh, and if you’re playing along at home, last month’s published fuel figures were incorrect. We’re burning about seven litres per hundred kilometres, and it’s all city work. Not bad going against a combined claim of 6.3L/100km.