Dearborn, MI – Essentially, it’s the 2014 model of the venerable “business coupe” – any color you want, as long as it’s black – from Model T to eternity.
And it is – black on black – in black, with a six and a stick, but it’s not your grandpa’s biz coupe.
This has a gutty fuel-injected V-6 with a 6-speed, full synchro-mesh manual transmission, a very cool stereo, and the potential for a turbo-charged sizzle. So it’s low-slung and quick, an enjoyable drive that makes it fun getting somwhere.
There’s only one problem, and it came at me by surprise, in the mail, on a neatly printed
* * * IMPORTANT SAFETY RECALL* * *
There are no two ways about it. It says here.
My Mustang is trying to kill me.
Ralph Nader would say, “I told you so, Jimbo.” True story. He did. Tell me. Long ago.That was way back there. In another century, when “Sir! The Secretary of the United States Department of Defense is, sir! Robert S. McNamara, sir!” Sir McNamara had previously served time as president of Ford Motor Company, Dearborn, Michigan, and before that, he was a numbers cruncher for General Curtis LeMay of the United States Army Air Force.
But this is a revenge killing in the plotting stages, according to the letter. Unsettling. Hit something, you die in the name of safety!
“In certain vehicles, the front driver side air bag inflator housing may rupture and deploy abnormally in the event of a crash necessitating deployment of the driver side frontal airbag. An inflator rupture could result in metal fragments striking the driver or other occupants resulting in serious injury or death.”
It makes it kind of hard to ride down the road looking at the galloping Pony in the middle of the steering wheel, just over the little letters on the bottom of the padded roundel, where it says, “AIRBAG.”
Not to worry.
It says here.
“What should you do? When parts are available, Ford Motor Company will send a letter to inform you that parts are available and to contact your dealer to schedule a repair.”
All I have to do is contact my dealer, bring the cayuse back to the barn, and Ford will take care of parts and labor.
Meanwhile, out on the bridal paths of the iron monsters (according to Henry Miller) all I have to do is keep an eye on where I’m going. Crash into something, you get shot in the head with flying shrapnel propelled at your face with enough force to kill. And then there’s the screeching halt.
Ouch! At least, it’s not some pastel shade of primrose. This is a business machine – black on black in black – with twin exhaust pipes, independent suspension, and a quarter-horse pickup and go. Fair warning. Beep beep.