[The intrepid backpacker, Frankiess recently paid a visit to Florida. Here’s his two cents of his (non-Ecoboost, duh) rental vehicle of choice. -Antti]
You’ve heard it all before. Europeans make the only true sports cars. Europe has the best small twisty roads and the best chassis engineers on the planet. And the Nürburgring! Every decent sports car is European.
Americans, on the other hand, build huge landbarges with boat engines, truck chassises and give them the moniker of a “sports car” because it’s a good marketing term.
This is an undeniable fact, and everyone knows this.
.. Right?


So then comes the day when you’re planning your first real trip to the US of A. Knowing the American car culture, you pick out a familiar grey sedan to fulfill your immediate transport needs. A Toyota Corolla. With A/C. But forget the GPS, let’s not go overboard with all this spending! Printing out the receipt, you shake your head slightly at how cheap the rentals are overseas.
Some weeks later you step onto US soil, after a lengthy immigration process, and begin to look for your rental car-desk, which you find actually has its own wing and parking garage at the airport. Immediately something starts to change. Your European minimalism, that British sort of uppityness, is turning into a slightly humbled form of culture shock.
These people seriously value comfortable transport.
The American marketing mentality has its flaws for sure, but the amount of smiling people wanting to help you does have a certain charm to it. Of course they’d love to chat long enough to get you interested in their product, but does it really matter if they’re spreading some positive vibes meanwhile? Reinforced by marketing vibes, you enter the appointed floor in the parking garage and start to look for an information desk.
An attendant catches you, quickly checks out your papers and informs you of the ultimate in Americanisms: a free upgrade. What does it cost, you ask, with that Southern European cynicism. The attendant, invulnerable to snarky tourist comments, points at the endless rows of cars and instructs you to pick out anything you want.
Anything you want. A European company can’t say that – wars have started over less.
Being humble by nature, you walk to the nearest grey Toyota.
Anything. You put down your carry-on and grab the trunk lid handle.
Anything you want. You stop.
You’ve just travelled 9000 km. Might as well have a look around, right? No harm in that. A row of grey Corollas, Dodge whatevers, and Ford Mustang convertibles spread in front of you. Wait, what was that?

Ford Mustang convertibles. Two of them. You feel your chest drum with an accelerated heartbeat. Welcome to America. NOW GO FOR IT! Moving as briskly as possible, even risking social ridicule by running silly fast, you jump into a sweet dark red Ford Mustang. It feels quite unbelievable, getting a muscle car for the price of a Toyota, almost guiltylike. You quickly adjust the seat and take off before anyone gets a chance to correct the obvious mistake they made. But it’s no mistake. The gate opens and you’re off!
You’ve just entered a giant city in your Toyota Corolla or similar. Which just happens to be a convertible muscle car. It’s big. It’s bulky. But its presence is undeniable.
The American road layout is confusing. It’s even dangerous. Six lane roads just to pass through town? Europe would’ve made this into a park by now. The car is slow and lumbering and the convertible top is letting in the boiling summer heat. Why doesn’t the A/C work? Why doesn’t the bluetooth accept your phone? Is this a toll road or not? Frustration starts creeping in.
Relief comes in a surprising form, when you notice a familiarly loathsome symbol in the near horizon. Something that normally would cause a strong whiff of angst when travelling past. But now it was a saving grace:
The golden arches of free wifi.
Time to pull over and figure out how things work.
You get out of the car, ready to dismiss American cars as the heaps of pile you originally thought them to be. As you’re about to slam the door, something catches your eye. Something about this muscle car shape starts luring you in with that cavemanly charm. It’s .. not ugly. You let the door go and take a step back. As you contemplate the shape and the undeniably cool hood bulge, you start to feel the penis-compensation effect it’s designed for.
Actually, it’s a pretty damn cool car.
You grab a soft drink from the establishment and explore the various switches and keys in the cabin. Slowly they start to make sense. Slowly the completely un-German logic of this car starts to unfold. Suddenly the cabin is filled with a lovely cool breeze, the convertible top is protecting you from the burning heat, and the stereo is blasting your favourite tunes from your own phone.
Suddenly you have an ally in this intimidatingly foreign nation.
You’ve tamed the Mustang.
And it makes sense. It makes SO much sense!
It’s pretty much obvious the Americans don’t know how bends work. The roads are built around square patches of land, and bends are for poor people who can’t afford to buy another car for the return leg. The Mustang seems to be perfectly happy to just cruise along, minding its own business. But your inner dynamic driver (read: hoonigan) isn’t happy with minding its own business.

What’s that?
There’s a what on the gear-lever?
So it seems the automatic gearbox has a manual shift button available on the sport-setting. This might come in handy in the upcoming roundabout, you hear your inner hoonigan whisper in a mischievous tone. You feel a wide grin forming on your face as you prepare to take the bend in a racing line fashion. Two blips on the tiny minus-button and the surprisingly eager autobox shoves more revs into the engine, and something awakens under that bulge of a hood.
The engine is alive, and it’s a roaring beast. With all the elegance of a V70 Volvo estate, you escape the roundabout followed by a glorious symphony of muscle car brass! And it’s ridiculously entertaining!
For a simple rental spec V6, this Toyota Corolla or similar sure makes for a good show. It’s enough to remind you that the muscle car exists, and for a good reason as well: to give you that wide smile that only a silly characterful car can give.
Eventually it’s time to go home. With a hint of melancholy, you arrive at the airport to return not a mere rental, but a companion.
[Images: Frankiess]