BRADY. ‘THE HEART OF TEXAS’.
Literally and – as I’m about to discover – metaphorically. The air stirs lazily, barely sifting the high summer heat it carries. I descend from the cool cockpit and slam the flat door. It’s quiet in town. Not much moves, and nothing moves fast. Then...
Quick footsteps. “Say, is that mine?” I can’t decide if the guy is joking or not, but the expression sure is serious. As he strides across the baked, dusty street, I notice the Ford sign on the wall of the garage he’s just left. “Ah’ve bin waiting months for this. Boy, it’s a fine lookin’ thang”. He’s still walking, excitable arms jabbing and semaphoring like a TV evangelist.
The boots stutter fractionally as he reaches out to pat the Bronco, “I don’t remember orderin’ the Sasquatch pack, have you thrown that on for free?”, he exclaims, “and why’s it on manufacturer plates?” The penny drops. This, unfortunately for the lead salesman of Brady’s Ford dealership, is not his now-six-weeks-behind-schedule demo car.
Still, it’s the first Bronco anyone in town has seen, so across come the mechanics who’ll one day be working on it. Solidly built is an early impression, bigger than they expected, too. They’re excited about it and so are their customers. The Brady (pop 5,513) community has already ordered six, but there’s much chat about delays caused by the nationwide semi-conductor shortage – only one buyer is actually expected to take delivery this year. One chap disappears, returning minutes later with an original 1976 Bronco. Its 302 V8 sounds terrific, belying the 125 horses contained within. He has another, a gorgeous green pickup, in the garage behind. It’s like a film set inside, there’s so much dusty Americana.
We’d only stopped here for the mural on the wall opposite, but end up shooting the breeze about TopGear, about Ford, about Texas. They lean back and drawl, the conversation only drying up when one of the techs, asked if NASCAR still mattered, shrugged and said, “Yeah, but I stopped going when they banned me taking my confederate flag.”
There’s a line in The Wizard of Oz where Dorothy, freshly arrived in the Land of Oz, informs Toto “I’ve a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore”. It first came to me after a sunset walk around metropolitan Austin last night when photographer Dave turned and said, “We’re going to see some stuff tomorrow because Austin... well, Austin ain’t Texas.”
The phrase will dance through my head again tonight, when we park up after 745 miles at a Super 8 motel in a small town called Las Vegas (no, the one in New Mexico, pop 13,753), and while checking in a huge guy in camo gear walks in behind me with a hunting rifle, waves it at the clerk and says “I’m just bringin’ it in from my truck for safekeepin’”. That night I do not consider myself kept safely.
This Bronco is my key to a world I don’t really recognise. Same language, different barriers. Here’s a car to prise them open though. Everyone, everyone knows what it is, knows the heritage, the tech spec, wants to talk – and knows embarrassingly more about it than I do. When we grab a late lunch just north of Justiceburg I sit in the diner booth genning up.
In days gone by, the toughest, most rugged off-roaders had a separate ladder frame chassis with beam axles at either end and a body on top. That’s still the current Jeep Wrangler. The latest
Defender was a radical shift, using a monocoque chassis and fully independent suspension at each corner. The Bronco is more aligned with the Jeep (its separate chassis will underpin the next Ranger pickup), but has independent double wishbone front suspension. Over here we’d say it’s a proper 4x4, in America it’s an adventure truck. If it came to Europe – and having driven it I think that’s less likely than ever – I’m not sure what we’d use it for. We don’t have the same yee-haw attitude to punting about in the boondocks, because we don’t have boondocks to punt about in. And it’s not aligned with current European tastes – we’re moving ahead, embracing electric, but here’s a rugged truck with a choice of two petrol engines, neither with a hint of hybridity. No V8 mind you – choices are the 2.3-litre four-cylinder Ecoboost familiar from the Mustang, and the motor we have, a twin-turbo 2.7-litre V6 Ecoboost with 330bhp and 415lb ft. That’s progress, I guess.
The Lone Star state isn’t ready for electric. The distances are too big, the towing needs too hefty. Only once all day do we pass within 20 miles of a Tesla Supercharger. An enlightened attitude to speed though, with many single carriageway roads carrying 75mph limits. Here’s another surprise: wind turbines outnumber nodding donkey oil pump jacks. Hadn’t expected that. For the energy generators – and most oil production out here is a rusty one-pump porchfront operation – wind must be so much more cost-effective. You put a fan up, feed electricity straight to the grid. We stop by a silent pump jack. A pigeon flies out from its nest in the back of the donkey’s head. It’s dusty, bleak and remote, No Country for Old Men territory. Suddenly the head rears and it creaks into life. Another pigeon flies out. The smell of oil is instant and potent, but this is crude in more ways than one. We love the end product, but this is petrol’s abattoir stage. It’s best not to look where it’s come from.
Texas is only embracing one end of the energy switch at the moment, but with everyone out here mounted on a pickup, it makes me realise how potentially vital the F150 Lightning is for Ford, how that could be the real revolution. The Bronco is a plaything, people want it because of the headlights, the attitude, the retro vibrations that strum straight back to the 1965 original, even though it’s been 44 years since Ford last introduced a new one – the MkII that eventually died in disgrace, forever associated with one fallen angel’s low-speed flight from justice.
The Bronco is a short-range image builder, full of fun and zest for life. It’s probably at least partially responsible for making me think a 185-mile late afternoon detour is entirely sensible. Roswell, New Mexico: a four town, three-hour hop along the 380 just to take a picture by a daft sign. Worth it. Especially for the sign above a shop that reads “Ancient of Days: rocks, fossils, Christian supplies”. Dave and I, slurping iced coffees, try to work out what those might be.
These distances should be purgatory for anything with a ladder frame, 35-inch tyres and lift-out roof panels. But I’m impressed by
“THE BRONCO IS A SHORTRANGE IMAGE BUILDER, FULL OF FUN AND ZEST FOR LIFE”
“WE STOP AS THE SUN DROPS AND FIND A DIRT ROAD, JUST TO KICK UP A ROOSTER”