The US standard railroad gauge (distance between the rails) is 4 feet,8.5 inches. That’s an exceedingly odd number.
Why was that gauge used?
Because that’s the way they built them inEngland, and English expatriates built the US railroads.
Why did the English build them like that?
Because the first rail lines were built by the same people who built the pre-railroad tramways, and that’s the gauge they used.
Why did ‘they’ use that gauge then?
Because the people who built thetramways used the same jigs and tools that they used for building wagons, which used that wheel spacing.
Why did the wagons have that particular odd wheel spacing?
Well, if they tried to use any other spacing, the wagon wheels would break on some of the old, long distance roads in England , because that’s the spacing of the wheel ruts.
So who built those old rutted roads?
Imperial Rome built the first long distance roads in Europe (and England ) for their legions. The roads have been used ever since.
And the ruts in the roads?
Roman war chariots formed the initial ruts,which everyone else had to match for fear of destroying their wagon wheels. Since the chariots were made for Imperial Rome, they were all alike in the matter of wheel spacing. Therefore the United States standard railroad gauge of 4 feet, 8.5 inches is derived from the original specifications for an Imperial Roman war chariot.
So the next time you are handed a Specification/Procedure/Process and wonder ‘What horse’s ass came up with it?’ you may be exactly right.
Imperial Roman army chariots were made just wide enough to accommodate the rear ends of two war horses.
Now, the twist to the story:
When you see a Space Shuttle sitting on its launch pad, there are two big booster rockets attached to the sides of the main fuel tank. These are solid rocket boosters, or SRB’s. The SRB’s are made by Thiokol at their factory in Utah. The engineers who designed the SRB’s would have preferred to make them a bit fatter, but the SRB’s had to be shipped by train from the factory to the launch site. The railroad line from the factory happens to run through a tunnel in the mountains, and the SRB’s had to fit through that tunnel. The tunnel is slightly wider than the railroad track, and the railroad track, as you now know, is about as wide as two horses’ behinds.
So, a major Space Shuttle design feature of what is arguably the world’smost advanced transportation system was determined over two thousand years ago by the width of a horse’s behind.
Did you think being a horse’s ass wasn’t important? Ancient horse’s asses control almost everything… and modern ones are controlling everything else.
Via : http://aproposofnothing.wordpress.com/2008/05/27/the-importance-of-a-horses-ass/
Saturday, May 31, 2008
The gas prices around the US, and it's really easy to see how bad some have it.. RED - BAD , Green - good
http://www.gasbuddy.com/gb_gastemperaturemap.aspx Constantly updated website and map.
MINI Cooper Review
By Justin Berkowitz
George Clooney is box office catnip AND the critics’ darling. And no wonder: he looks great and he acts better than he looks. But what if you’re a movie producer who can’t afford Clooney’s vig? You get Thomas Haden Church. You know: the guy in Sideways, the movie about chit-chatting wine guzzlers. Sideway's producer knew Church wasn’t nearly as high profile as Clooney, but he was a lot less expensive. See where I’m going with this? If the MINI Cooper S is beyond your reach, should you lower your grasp? Big savings yes, but do you still get something of substance? Well, Church is an Oscar nominee. As for the Cooper…
It’s a relief to see an automobile that wasn’t designed in anger. Unlike Japanese and German sporting machines’ menacing headlights and blood-drawing creases, the Cooper remains a four-wheeled cheeky chappie. Although the MINI was maximized for ’07, only OCD brand fans can make the call. In case you meet a MINI enthusiast, just remember that the front indicators now sit like laconic “floaters” inside the MINI’s eyes, and the rear window line rises 0.7” higher up at the B-pillar than previously.
Thanks to the Mother of All Option Lists, the Cooper’s cabin is as plain or ornate as you desire, covered in funky cloth or leather or mother of pearl or space shuttle tiles. Most of the first gen’s retro touches (e.g. chromed toggle switches and unrelenting ovality) remain in situ. While these design-lead differentiators may continue to lure buyers who are comfortable deploying the term “post-modern irony” in polite conversation, the Cooper’s cabin is beginning to look increasingly whacked-out.
Equally disappointing, there’s no British-ness to the MINI Cooper. Cocked eyebrow whimsy has been replaced with weird for the sake of weird. The big central speedo of MINI Mk1 has morphed into a dinner plate-sized gauge that could easily double as the weigh-in scale for The Biggest Loser. Still, the ergonomics are bloodied but unbowed, and the fit and finish overall is impressive; part and parcel of Mini’s premium-puny philosophy.
So you stick the fob in the dash, press the “START/STOP” affectation, and fire up the engine. Hang on; can you “fire up” an engine with less displacement than a bottle of Diet Coke? In fact, it’s amazing to us buy-by-the-pound Americans that BMW would dare offer the 118 horse Cooper for sale on this side of the pond. That’s less poke underfoot than offered by a lowly a Kia Spectra. But unlike the original MINI's base (in the precise sense of the word) engine, which was made from rusted toaster ovens in a Brazilian Chrysler factory, the new 1.6 liter four-pot is a peach.
This PSA Peugeot-Citroen sourced mill doesn’t rev like one of Honda’s methamphetamine motors, but there’s plenty of space between zero revs and the 6500 rpm redline. The manual shifter is as slick as Clooney’s hair in O, Brother Where Art Thou? Whatever oomph there is is there for the taking. Metrosexuals and their mates will be delighted to discover that MINI has finally replaced the Continuously Vile Transmission with a proper six-speed autobox. Punch the pedal or row your boat; the best case is still naught to 60 in 8.5 seconds. Not too long ago you would have been impressed.
In day to day driving, the Cooper has plenty of zip. No, it’s not a Cooper S, but it’s still a car that could get you arrested… eventually. That’s because the suspension rewards any and all efforts to build the big Mo. Once you get a lick of speed and get into the game, the MINI’s handling becomes seriously addictive. Snap into a corner. More! Push into an S-curve. Is that really all you’ve got? Surge around a highway on-ramp at 73 mph. Down shift because damn it Scotty, we need more power! I dare you to drive the Cooper a few miles without cackling like a cocaine-crazed craps player.
Come to think of it, the Cooper is a smug little bastard of a car. I don’t have to brake for that turn. I can carve through traffic. I can fit into that parking space. I get 40 mpg highway. Unlike that psychotic dust-buster Civic, I've got completely customizable character. And I have to pay for home delivery because I can’t haul a damn thing. Err, never mind that last one.
No pistonhead worth his TTAC Tic Tacs would pass up a chance to buy a MINI Cooper S instead of a Cooper. Used S instead of new Cooper. Sorted. But let’s face it: there are plenty of people for whom $18k is already a stretch. And no other box fresh sub-$20k car has half the MINI Cooper’s flair and panache. Clooney’s cool, but sometimes you gotta go to Church.
MG ZT190 Review
By Robert Farago
This of course isn't MG's first badge engineering exercise. Although the Montego and Maestro only linger in our memories as beige nightmares, the MG badge did adorn the more tasty variants including the rather mental Tickford Turbo Maestro. Check them out here: MG Links
The UK ads for the MG-ZT promise 'fire breathing, full bodied, red blooded' pleasures. In a country where driving fast is as socially acceptable as puffing a Cuban cigar in a children's hospital, MG's message is welcome news for petrolheads. Still, let's not get carried away; it's only advertising. Or is it? Does the MG-ZT actually live up to the hype? Or is it an empty marketing exercise, shamelessly exploiting one of motor sport's most distinguished marques?
The entire concept is a bit worrying. The ZT is based on the Rover 75, BMW's ode to corporate hubris. No shade of eyeball assaulting paint can disguise the ZT's humble origins as a mid-market luxury barge built for the blue rinse and flat cap brigade. If ever a car was voted 'least likely to thrill anyone ever', the Rover 75 is it. And yet…
MG sent the demure 75 off to the School of Hard Looks for a first-class degree in Restrained Aggression. The graduate's mesh front grills and a lowered stance betray its high-speed aspirations without resorting to Japanese-style flared arches or razor-sharp wings. Subtle detailing and perfectly proportioned curves give the machine what MG [re]designer Peter Steven calls 'outside lane credibility'. Max Power Muppets have a better word for it: 'wicked'.
Inside, it's dull city. The ZT's interior is the automotive equivalent of those grey waterproof jackets favoured by England's elderly- totally practical and instantly forgettable. Someone in Rover's Marketing Department must have decided English retirees find oval shapes irresistibly soothing. Every single control is oval-shaped: air vents, gauges, horn, heater controls, door pulls, side mirrors, turning stalks, window buttons, the lot. There's plenty of space for luggage, but not enough rear legroom for a four-year-old.
The few attempts to inject a measure of sporting intent- the 'technical finish' fascia, the sports seats' lurid blue bolsters, the red on white dials - are less convincing than a coffee can exhaust on a Nova. Still, the doors clunk with Aryan solidity. There are no paint or glue drips, or nasty unfinished edges. Nothing broke, fell off, failed or rusted during my occupancy. The [thankfully] octagonal MG badge hasn't adorned anything this well built since, um, ever.
The ZT's racy gear knob may not overcome the interior's drabness, but it's connected to a five-speed Getrag gearbox that slots home like a rifle bolt. The slick shifter hooks you up to a 2.5 liter, 24-valve, transverse-mounted, quad cam, six-cylinder engine. Maximum power is 189bhp @ 6500rpms. As the torque figures indicate-181 ft. lbs. @ 4000rpms- the urge is evenly spread throughout the rev range.
For the non-technical, that's barely enough grunt for a lightweight roadster. Lest we forget, the ZT is a four-door saloon. Fifteen hundred kilos is an awful lot of weight for a small capacity six to schlep around. As a result, when it comes to speed, the ZT is only slightly more than merely adequate.
The 0 - 60 sprint takes 7.8 seconds. That's excellent compared to the Rover 75's 8.4 seconds, but laughable for a car that's supposed to brand you a hooligan. Standstill to the ton requires 22 seconds - a scant two seconds faster than a 2.5 litre Ford Mondeo. Hit the autobahn, stick the ZT in fifth, plant your foot and… you'll eventually achieve a hardly-worth-the-risk 141mph. Strangely enough, the gearing is biased towards cruising. When you leave the motorway and give it large, you'll be lucky to get 20mpg.
In its defense, the somewhat leisurely MG-ZT feels faster than the numbers suggest. The power delivery is smooth and satisfying, right up to the red line. Okay, the engine note is about as raucous as a night out with a Rover driver, but you're never left waiting for something to happen. Extracting maximum power is as simple as 'stamp, go, change; stamp, go, change'. The ZT's steering also helps maintain the momentum, providing just the right amount of feel and feedback.
MG's engineers have made the now familiar pilgrimage to the Nurburgring to fettle the ZT's suspension for ride quality and control. It was worth the trip; the Z-axle (rear) and McPherson struts (front) keeps things flat and happy through the twisties yet provide adequate comfort for the long haul. The car's ventilated discs are equally well sorted; you can scrub off speed like burnt egg off Teflon. The 18' wheels generate significant tyre roar, but it's a minor price to pay for such astounding levels of poise, grip and control.
The MG-ZT's systems all work harmoniously. A performance-minded driver will find it easy to extract maximum pleasure from the ZT's surprisingly tame power plant. In short, the MG-ZT is a well-built, mechanically sophisticated car, but not the rabid TVR-wannabe its advertising suggests. Not to put too fine a point on it, the MG-ZT is the perfect four-door for British enthusiasts with £20k to spend- as long as they forget the words 'Subaru Impreza Turbo'.
Mopar experts - Soledad Performance, 7636 Lemon Ave, a block North of Broadway in Lemon Grove
619-697-1136 ... http://www.soledadperformance.com/ a specialty shop building and restoring Plymouth and Dodge cars from 1962 to 1973. They also source parts for people trying to keep their MOPARS alive, and offer finished cars as well as rollers. 
One big Brodix 500 something cu incher, based on a 440
Thats one cool test stand.. wish I could hear them light off that HemiAn example of make the car you want, even if the factory didn't
A '69 charger with '70 R/T side scoops, and '68 front fenders
Mercury Grand Marquis Review
Mercury Grand Marquis (Outside)
Mercury Grand Marquis (Inside)
By Sajeev Mehta
Way forward. Bold Moves. Screw that. If America wants a bold, innovative car, they'll buy a Toyota. If they want something honest, inexpensive and comfortable, they'll buy a Ford. If they want an honest car with added spizzarkle, they'll spend a little more for a Mercury. Well, that's how it used to be, until Ford started building sub-par Japanese wanna-be's. Thankfully, the Blue Oval offers at least one rear-wheel drive automobile that stays true to the company's roots: the Mercury Grand Marquis.
Park the Grand Marquis next to its foreign counterparts and it's clear that the American luxobarge ain't livin' large no mo'. Snout-to-tail comparisons with a Camry require measurements smaller than a foot; millimeters differentiate their relative heights. Fortunately, the Marquis' ping-pong table hood and aircraft-carrier rear deck survive into the new millennium, while its broad shoulders continue to evoke memories of Officer Badass. Although the Marquis' police-a-like shape sends shivers down the spines of Boy Racers, the car's basic design is wildly inoffensive. This despite a new-for-'06 schnoz that blends-in about as well as a Speedo-wearing fat guy in Sports Illustrated's swimsuit issue.
The Grand Marquis' soft-touch keyless entry system ensures that its well-aged core clientele never lock themselves out, or loved ones in. (Take that, OnStar!) Even better, its portals swing open with all the reassuring monumentality of an '80's Mercedes S-Class. Once inside, the barge's beltline makes for excellent visibility and ensures easy parking maneuvers for one so broad of beam (the car, not its driver). Although the luscious nomenclature evokes memories of "Studio 54" decadence, the Grand Marquis' cabin sports a cabaret of dull and brittle coverings– in stark contrast to the fake tree trim glowing with radioactive glee on the car's massive dash.
The Grand Marquis' appointments can't hold a candle to a Camry's, but the big Merc is still leagues ahead of the Chrysler 300's blue light special. A pair of indulgent seats offers another clear advantage. Fold the deeply padded armrests and a spare bedroom awaits episodes of marital distress. Or perhaps a second honeymoon with the cavernous backseat? Six-passenger seating in a sedan is a forgotten delight, and beats the third row penalty box found in any similarly priced SUV. Crank up the tunes and feel the bass booming from the bowels of Mercury's Brick House trunk. The Commodores never sounded so mighty-mighty.
The Marquis keeps the muscle car flame alive with a redesigned analog gauge cluster, complete with its first-ever tachometer. Fire-up the cammer V8 and a distant rumble filters in from the ghosts of big-block Cyclones and Marauders. Although the Grand Marquis' mill only musters 239 horses, there's more than enough torque to take the "grind" out of the daily. Four gears are all you get (only one less than you really need). If you're young enough to read this site on a regular basis, or old enough to remember the Blues Brothers, you'll want Mercury's little known police package: cop engine (dual exhausts), cop tires (speed rated), cop shocks (monotube dampers) and cop suspension (revised front coils, Watts-link rear with heavy duty air springs and bigger sway bars). Evo's keep on frontin' but that guy in the Camry is toast.
Yank the column shifter to first and hammer the throttle. The Marquis' composed suspension, marginally-involving steering, torquey mill and RWD orientation make it an honest-to-God hoot in the corners. Pseudo-Super Troopers whose courage exceeds their skill benefit from the Marquis' five star crash test ratings. Credit the same brick shit house construction for the smoothest ride in town: hydroformed components on a body-on-frame chassis. Pot holes, speed bumps or subcompacts are a distant blip on the butt radar. Factor in a solid 21mpg (on regular gas) in mixed driving, and rough-riding, gas-guzzling SUVs hang their heads in shame.
Obviously the Grand Marquis is no match for a stick-shifted V6 Accord or Altima. But the Marquis ushers the family to grandma's house in far greater comfort. And, lest we forget, the Marquis' price lines up against baseline, four-cylinder versions of those wrong-wheel drive whips. According to the official Mercury website, the last of the Great V8 Interceptors has $5000 on the hood. And the deal grows sweeter down at the showroom. Hell, they're giving them away!
So why are Matlock fans the only people buying Mercury's Grand Marquis? Clearly, Ford turned its back on the old soldier; their press gang can't even be bothered to update the website with photos of the Marquis' analog instrumentation. No matter. It's time for pistonheads to reclaim old-school American cars for their own. The fact that Ford is killing this platform for some weak-kneed front driver only makes the Grand Marquis more desirable. And don't forget: it never hurts a speed demon to look like a cop.
Mercury Grand Marquis (Inside)
By Sajeev Mehta
Way forward. Bold Moves. Screw that. If America wants a bold, innovative car, they'll buy a Toyota. If they want something honest, inexpensive and comfortable, they'll buy a Ford. If they want an honest car with added spizzarkle, they'll spend a little more for a Mercury. Well, that's how it used to be, until Ford started building sub-par Japanese wanna-be's. Thankfully, the Blue Oval offers at least one rear-wheel drive automobile that stays true to the company's roots: the Mercury Grand Marquis.
Park the Grand Marquis next to its foreign counterparts and it's clear that the American luxobarge ain't livin' large no mo'. Snout-to-tail comparisons with a Camry require measurements smaller than a foot; millimeters differentiate their relative heights. Fortunately, the Marquis' ping-pong table hood and aircraft-carrier rear deck survive into the new millennium, while its broad shoulders continue to evoke memories of Officer Badass. Although the Marquis' police-a-like shape sends shivers down the spines of Boy Racers, the car's basic design is wildly inoffensive. This despite a new-for-'06 schnoz that blends-in about as well as a Speedo-wearing fat guy in Sports Illustrated's swimsuit issue.
The Grand Marquis' soft-touch keyless entry system ensures that its well-aged core clientele never lock themselves out, or loved ones in. (Take that, OnStar!) Even better, its portals swing open with all the reassuring monumentality of an '80's Mercedes S-Class. Once inside, the barge's beltline makes for excellent visibility and ensures easy parking maneuvers for one so broad of beam (the car, not its driver). Although the luscious nomenclature evokes memories of "Studio 54" decadence, the Grand Marquis' cabin sports a cabaret of dull and brittle coverings– in stark contrast to the fake tree trim glowing with radioactive glee on the car's massive dash.
The Grand Marquis' appointments can't hold a candle to a Camry's, but the big Merc is still leagues ahead of the Chrysler 300's blue light special. A pair of indulgent seats offers another clear advantage. Fold the deeply padded armrests and a spare bedroom awaits episodes of marital distress. Or perhaps a second honeymoon with the cavernous backseat? Six-passenger seating in a sedan is a forgotten delight, and beats the third row penalty box found in any similarly priced SUV. Crank up the tunes and feel the bass booming from the bowels of Mercury's Brick House trunk. The Commodores never sounded so mighty-mighty.
The Marquis keeps the muscle car flame alive with a redesigned analog gauge cluster, complete with its first-ever tachometer. Fire-up the cammer V8 and a distant rumble filters in from the ghosts of big-block Cyclones and Marauders. Although the Grand Marquis' mill only musters 239 horses, there's more than enough torque to take the "grind" out of the daily. Four gears are all you get (only one less than you really need). If you're young enough to read this site on a regular basis, or old enough to remember the Blues Brothers, you'll want Mercury's little known police package: cop engine (dual exhausts), cop tires (speed rated), cop shocks (monotube dampers) and cop suspension (revised front coils, Watts-link rear with heavy duty air springs and bigger sway bars). Evo's keep on frontin' but that guy in the Camry is toast.
Yank the column shifter to first and hammer the throttle. The Marquis' composed suspension, marginally-involving steering, torquey mill and RWD orientation make it an honest-to-God hoot in the corners. Pseudo-Super Troopers whose courage exceeds their skill benefit from the Marquis' five star crash test ratings. Credit the same brick shit house construction for the smoothest ride in town: hydroformed components on a body-on-frame chassis. Pot holes, speed bumps or subcompacts are a distant blip on the butt radar. Factor in a solid 21mpg (on regular gas) in mixed driving, and rough-riding, gas-guzzling SUVs hang their heads in shame.
Obviously the Grand Marquis is no match for a stick-shifted V6 Accord or Altima. But the Marquis ushers the family to grandma's house in far greater comfort. And, lest we forget, the Marquis' price lines up against baseline, four-cylinder versions of those wrong-wheel drive whips. According to the official Mercury website, the last of the Great V8 Interceptors has $5000 on the hood. And the deal grows sweeter down at the showroom. Hell, they're giving them away!
So why are Matlock fans the only people buying Mercury's Grand Marquis? Clearly, Ford turned its back on the old soldier; their press gang can't even be bothered to update the website with photos of the Marquis' analog instrumentation. No matter. It's time for pistonheads to reclaim old-school American cars for their own. The fact that Ford is killing this platform for some weak-kneed front driver only makes the Grand Marquis more desirable. And don't forget: it never hurts a speed demon to look like a cop.
Mercury Mariner Hybrid Review
By Jonny Lieberman
During a business trip to Canada, my manager and I watched a Swedish colleague use his cell phone to hold a three-way conference call with Tel Aviv and Hong Kong. The boss was infuriated; his US cell couldn’t even reach Toronto from Toronto. He called Sprint on a land line. "This is unacceptable,” he screamed. “It’s un-American to sell technology that’s seven years behind the Europeans!" The exact same thing’s been said about Detroit’s inability to counter fuel-sipping low-emission hybrids. Enter, finally, the Mercury Mariner Hybrid. Ah, but is the gas/electric Merc ready for prime time or is it just a Johnny-come-lately phoning it in?
Like its platform partners, the Ford Escape and Mazda Tribute, the Mariner is a dapper looking cute-ute. While I've never been a fan of the brand’s twenty-toothed family grill, the vertical blingery suits the Mariner’s massive front bumper like shoulder pads on a three-button suit. The SUV’s tight and tidy side-sculpting is equally well-wrought; the concave effect suggests a healthy, trim vehicle with a bit of sporting pretension. Our tester’s Charcoal Beige Clearcoat metallic paint kept the chrome jewelry from visual overload, while the 16" five-spoke aluminum wheels that (nearly) fill the arches show brand-faithful restraint. If ever a badge-engineered vehicle gained a little something in translation, the Mariner is it.
Inside the Mariner’s cabin, it’s an ersatz world after all. The soft-roader’s combination of fake leather, fake wood and fake aluminum is strangely effective, in a 50’s Las Vegas hotel room kinda way. Although it’s not a bad place to spend some time saving the planet, there are plenty of cavils: the HVAC knobs (lifted from the Focus) couldn’t go any further down market if they cruised Union Square in a miniskirt, the leather-wrapped steering wheel is Olsen Twin thin, and the cow-clad seats are less supportive than a deadbeat dad. Despite six-way power seats, a perfect seating position proved eternally elusive. And I dare you to find the seat-heater button.
The Mariner’s Nav system/head unit is the SUV’s greatest ergonomic failure. The credit card-sized screen can’t fit street names — just tiny white lines. Why didn’t Ford install the Freestyle’s big, beautiful LCD touchscreen? Half the fun (satisfaction?) of driving a hybrid comes from watching a real-time mpg readout while modulating the throttle and brakes to conserve as much fuel as possible. The Mariner's micro-screen doesn’t let you check your power source (Engine? Batteries? Hybrid-drive?) and mileage at the same time. You have to flip back and forth between the two screens– which is bad form for a company publicly committed to automotive safety.
Speaking of not dying, it’s best to pay careful attention to the Mariner’s brakes. Thanks to the regenerative braking gear, the anchor pedal weighs a ton. There is simply no way to smoothly roll on the stopping power; you have to stomp. The batteries and second engine benefiting from the recharge push the Mariner’s GVW up to nearly two tons. The extra weight degrades the tall, short wheel-base truck's ride and handling. At 80mph, driving the Mariners feels as if you’re riding a dented washboard.
There are three types of propulsion. Flutter the go-pedal and the torquey 94hp electric mill does the clean deed (although I could only get the Mariner into full-electric mode when tooling around parking lots). Mash the gas and the Hybrid switches to its 2.3L I-4 Atkins-style dead dino diet. Ninety-seven percent of the time you’re using both mills. After a few hundred miles of mixed driving the bottom line was… 25.8mpg. That’s nearly the same as the 21/24 EPA estimates for the four wheel-drive 2.3-liter Mariner. What's the point? Why spend $10k more to haul around an extra 400 lbs. netting you roughly 10% better fuel economy?
It gets worse. In stop and go traffic, the Mariner’s powerplant hibernates. With the engine off, calling the already weak air conditioning anemic is an insult to the iron-deficient. Mercury’s recommendation: when it’s “overly hot” switch the controls to MAX AC, which keeps the engine from shutting off. During summertime daylight hours, you get to choose between saving the planet and not sweating to death. The reverse is also true. The instructions issue the same warning when it’s “overly cold;” the Mariner’s electric motor is little more than a space heater. If you live in a flat, temperate climate and enjoy slow speed cruising, Mercury has a very handsome hybrid to sell you.
Taken as a whole, the Mariner Hybrid can’t compete with Toyota’s more complete hybrid Highlander. But at least Mercury has started the hybrid conversation with its mid-market buyers. Bold moves aren’t usually successful first time; they require follow through and persistence. As long as Mercury keeps hitting redial, they’ll eventually make the connection.
Mercury Montego Review
By Sajeev Mehta
My parents' first new car was a 1970 Montego coupe. They liked it so much they added a Montego sedan to the ranks– just in time to transport this nascent pistonhead home from the hospital. They no longer own a Montego. And soon, no one else will either. At least not a new one. Ford is about to rebadge the current Montego (a gussied-up Ford Five Hundred) a Sable; just as they’re about to rebadge the Five Hundred (the Taurus’ replacement) a Taurus. Which leaves everyone exactly where they started. I think. Let’s take a look.
The Five Hundred, sorry, Montego, began life as an Audi A6-a-like penned by the same designer who gave us the A6. Ugly it ain't. Boring it is: a third grade piano recital on wheels. Needless to say, the Quicksilver Boys grossly underestimated the need for brand specific product differentiation. Adding an aluminum-toned spizzarkleprow, LED eye catchers and Xenon lighting to a Ford Five Hundred is no substitute for unique sheetmetal. It’s like putting lipstick on a sloth.
Even if the Montego had the svelte sheetmetal to lure the public into a Mercury showroom, there's precious little inside the car’s cabin to keep them there. Swing open those tall and imposing portals and the geriatric bling theme continues apace. Sure, the dark wood-effect trim and richly textured leather hides exude a slight amount of Teutonic flavor. But someone forgot to sweat the details. The chrome ringed gauges look great– provided you can ignore the wall o' matte black buttons on the center stack.
You can see where Ford—sorry, Mercury thought they had a winner. Although fundamentally utilitarian, the Montego’s cabin is also fundamentally huge. According to the age-inappropriate image on the official website, the trunk can swallow enough gear for a small rock band. Stratocaster owners: you can fold down both the rear seat (trunk pass-through) and the front passenger seat and lay your naked, unsecured axe across two rows. How great is that?
Anyway, the Montego’s back seat is Old School Caddy wide and reasonably cushy; there’s plenty of room for three real adults back there. Unfortunately, the space offers all the charm of an airplane hangar. A full complement of airbags (including a side canopy system) ensure five star crashworthiness all ‘round, save for rollover (four stars), which may explain the class-exclusive rollover sensor.
At nearly 201 inches, the turnpike cruisin' Mercury creams most any bump, lump or stump. The spoke-intensive 18" wheels keep things on course, but the noise from the Pirellis at cruising speed throws a howler monkey into an otherwise competent isolation chamber.
Ease the Montego into a corner and it’s clear that this is not your typical land yacht. Thanks to its Volvo-fettled underpinnings, this large, nose-heavy, front wheel-drive sedan does a superb job at keeping understeer at bay without sacrificing ride quality. Predictably enough, the Montego’s steering is to road feel what a Stannah stair lift is to a leg workout. But it’s accurate enough to place the big Merc with precision. And if you don’t, four wheel discs will save your bacon (them’s the brakes).
Of course, this assumes you can amass enough forward speed to get into trouble. Ford's last-gen Duratec V6 welcomes you with a coarse hum at idle that stays all the way to the mill’s modest redline (5700rpm). The powerplant’s 203 horses struggle to tow the Montego’s massive 3670lb frame from rest to 60mph in eight seconds— or any other accelerative metric you can name.
Luckily, the powertrain has a singular saving grace. Well, six of them. The Montego's close-ratio six cog slushbox canes the motor rapidly enough for most, netting respectable fuel economy (21/29) in the process. Even a certified lead foot will find the combination of a flat torque curve and an always-willing gearbox adequate at part throttle, if wholly unacceptable at full-tilt.
In short, the Montego is a fine car for buyers seeking an unassuming full-size sedan that’s a tiny bit more exclusive and sparkly than a Ford Five Hundred, for around $825 more (base to base). Too bad this niche exists only in the world of product planners and flak-talking spin-doctors. Everyone else flocks to well-established import sedans or “real” American cars like the Grand Marquis. In fact, Mercury’s royal sweetheart sports a competitive sticker price and frequently triples the Montego’s monthly sales numbers. Oops.
The Volvo-Mercury is a bowl of corporate porridge that’s so "right" even Goldilocks smells a trap from a mile away. It’s no match for smaller cars in its class and lacks the swagger of its Panther chassis partner. Even with (another) retro name and modest upgrades, the Montego's successor faces an uphill battle in 2008. Ford’s money would have been better spent whipping the old Crown Victoria, Mercury Marquis and Lincoln LS into shape.
Mercury Milan Review
By William C Montgomery
Milan is the fashion capital of Italy. Step off the tourist trail and it’s a combination of industrial parks and urban sprawl with only slightly more charm than Trenton, New Jersey. Still, you have got to give Ford’s beleaguered near-luxury division credit for naming their hecho-en-Mexico Fusion derivative after the home of Alfa Romeo, rather than resorting to the alphanumerics afflicting Lincoln’s take on the same model. But the question remains: is Mercury’s glammed-up Fusion a credible fashionista or an industrial waste?
The Milan's grill is the most striking difference between Mercury’s mid-market sedan and the car upon which it's based. While Ford decorated their front wheel-driver’s front room with Venetian blinds, Mercury opted for verticals. Less obviously, the Milan’s lower front fascia is more pronounced, the bright work less blingy, the wheels statelier and the rear lights look less… like an aftermarket afterthought.
Subtle as they are, the changes work. The Milan projects greater maturity and wealth than its FoMoCo donormobile. And compared to the redesigned Toyota Camry, whose front-end looks like a saggy-nosed boxer after years of cartilage pulverizing abuse, the Milan is elegantly beautiful.
Color has a Jekyll and Hyde effect on Milan’s mien. The more vibrant hues– Redfire Red, Ebony Black and Dark Blue Pearl– establish a welcome contrast to the crystalline headlight cluster and chrome accents, projecting the requisite eau de upmarket. Conversely, the bland non-color tones– Charcoal Beige, Dune Pearl, Light Tundra, Satellite Silver, Silver Frost or Tungsten Silver— create a pale and pasty pallet of pernicious pabulum.
The Milan’s interior is proof positive that Ford knows how to design and assemble a comfortable, graceful and ergonomic interior. OK, the panel gaps around the dash top cubby can be seen from outer space. And most of the luxury stuff that should be basic– automatic climate control, heated seats, leather wrapped steering wheel with secondary controls, etc.– is optional (bumping the Milan's price towards the Lincoln Fusion homonym). But there are some genuinely nice touches.
For example, the Milan’s center-mounted analog clock is so-not-plastic and the wood is. And kudos to Ford Mercury for the clever center storage bin that combines an MP3 jack, Nintendo-friendly power point and change holder.
The Milan’s elegant monochromatic gauges could use a touch of red, as in REDLINE. While it’s not a concern when driving a Milan equipped with a five-speed automatic, pistonheads opting for stick shift (available on the four cylinder engine) must rely on their ears to avoid triggering the engine’s self-preservation software.
As with the Fusion, the Milan comes in a choice of a 2.3-liter in-line four or a 3.0-liter Duratec V6. The four-cylinder mill produces a class appropriate power (160hp @ 6250rpm) and economy (23/31mpg). It revs effortlessly and remains suitably hushed at cruising speed.
Unfortunately, the manual transmission’s 3.31:1 first gear ratio is a little too much for an engine whose 150ft.-lbs. peak torque doesn’t arrive until 4250rpm. (Translation: unless you rev the engine and dump the clutch north of 3000rpm, you ain't going nowhere fast.)
The V6 Milan delivers an altogether different driving experience. Mated to a six-speed slushbox, the silken six-cylinder engine puts Toyota’s, Nissan’s and Honda’s mills to shame, redefining smooth, effortless, frugal and dependable power for the entire mid-size market.
Just kidding.
Don’t get me wrong: the Duratec is a fine engine. But discriminating buyers will notice that the Milan’s 221hp six banger quickly runs out of puff, especially compared to Honda Accord (244hp) Toyota Camry (268hp) and Nissan Altima (270hp). The Milan's mill is also a pretty thrashy unit, with a decidedly downmarket sonic signature.
While the Milan’s mechanical anemia should eliminate torque steer, it doesn’t. Under hard acceleration, the sedan's front end rises like a powerboat as the forward donuts scrabble for purchase. For less adrenal (read: older) buyers, it’s no biggie. These comfort-oriented customers will be well satisfied with the Milan’s sophisticated short and long arm (SLA) front and multi-link rear suspenders. So equipped, the magic carpet Milan surmounts highway irregularities with near-Camry refinement.
On the fun-to-drive side of things, the Milan carves corners with Accordian poise and precision. I'm not saying the mid-sized Merc begs to be whipped. But when your inner hooligan tempts your soul, the Milan has enough spring in its step to keep everyone heading in the right direction.
At the end of my test drive, I asked my handler why anyone would buy a Mercury Milan over a Ford Fusion. “Why eat with a plastic fork when you can dine with a silver spoon?” I reckon that depends on what and where you’re eating. And even if we accept the analogy, the Milan is, at best, a silver plated plastic fork.
Anyway, the bottom line: for around $600 over the Fusion SE, you can buy a few optional trim choices and a slightly nicer looking ride. And that’s about it. I don't know about you, but that doesn’t sound very glamorous to me.
Mercedes E320 BlueTec Review
By Jay Shoemaker
A few years ago, I found myself comfortably ensconced in the back seat of a German taxicab. I was luxuriating in what I thought was leather (it was MB Tex, the convincing faux hide) when the driver cranked-up the engine. Smoke and stench poured from the Mercedes’ diesel engine. I scoffed– until the driver blew straight through 180kph on the autobahn to Munich. Even from the passenger seat, the torque was more intoxicating than the exhaust wafting in through the window. I was hooked.
In 2005, dodging the arcane emissions rules of my home state of California, I became the fortunate owner of a used Mercedes E320 CDI (as they were then known). I loved the linearity of the sedan’s acceleration; it was as though the electronic throttle was hardwired to my brain. In 22k miles of ownership, I averaged 34 miles per gallon and enjoyed a nearly 700 mile range per tank. When I sold my Merc, it retained 85% of its value. I went from hooked to smitten.
Alas, my fellow Americans don’t share my enthusiasm for automotive oil burners. Perhaps they can’t shake the memories of being stuck behind a sloth-like diesel Caddy during the ‘70’s and ‘80’s, inhaling clouds of noxious particulates, listening to an endless mechanical clatter. To combat PDESD (Post Diesel Eldorado Stress Disorder), the clever folks at Mercedes have finally imported a quiet, clean-burning, California-compliant diesel engine that will increase American automotive fuel efficiency AND torque the torque.
Get this: it’s not a diesel. It’s a BlueTec! Yes, all the new Mercedes engine needs is a cute little blue logo to confuse consumers into thinking that their vehicle is motivated by some new hybrid-like technology– rather than a 100 year plus diesel design. Meanwhile, you can bet that Mercedes is in touch with Blue Man Productions for some incredibly clever ad campaign. The fact that Mercedes, VW and Audi will all use the same BlueTec branding simply seals the deal. Anyway…
Installed in the E320, Ye Olde BlueTec converts up to 80 percent of nitrogen oxide emissions into nitrogen and water. When juiced with ultra-low sulfur diesel fuel, the BlueTec produces 97 percent lower emissions than the last generation CDI diesel engine. Needless to say, this isn’t clean enough for California’s tailpipe police. For these low CARB policy makers, Mercedes has developed an additional, urea-based exhaust treatment system, set for launch in March of 2007.
When you fire up the new Blue (sans glow plug), its bucket of bolts soundtrack certainly won’t be mistaken for a purring HEMI. Standing behind the E320 BlueTec as it revved, the sound didn’t touch the parts of my brain labeled AMG. But there was no noticeable diesel odor. One casual observer claimed she actually enjoyed eau de BlueTec; but then I’ve seen people snorting hi-test down at my local Shell station.
Once underway, the E320 BlueTec pleases everyman and enthusiast alike. The turbocharged BlueTec powerplant is a typical oil burner: short on horses (208hp @ 3800rpm) but big on twist (388ft.-lbs. of torque @ 1600rpm). That’s fifty percent more torque than the gas-powered E350 or, more interestingly, roughly the same torque as an E550– delivered nearly 1000rpm lower in the rev range. No surprise then that the E320B pulls to 60mph in a completely satisfying 6.6 seconds AND provides far more on-demand driving pleasure than its petrol-powered cousin.
The switch to Merc’s silken seven-speed transmission helps make the E320B an oxymoronic wunderkind: an economy-minded bahnstormer. I hit 120mph without any undue stress. At the same time, due to the low axle ratio, I cruised at 80mph with just 2100rpmon the clock. And the winner is… 34mpg in mixed use. A hybrid gets better mileage, but what pistonhead wouldn’t trade a handful of efficiency for massive thrust?
What’s more, Mercedes has improved the previous oil burning E’s brake feel and added a quicker steering ratio. Unfortunately, while you can add satellite radio, keyless-go and a digital surround-sound music system, you can’t order an E320 BlueTec with Airmatic suspension or proper wheels/tires/brakes. In fact, the E320B sits on the same steely suspension, 16” wheels and all-season rubber as its German taxi counterpart. The hard-riding E320 BlueTec doesn’t feel comfortable during enthusiastic maneuvers. Turn-in is sloppy, grip is iffy and mid-corner bumps are deeply unsettling.
It’s an unconscionable compromise. To gain widespread domestic acceptance, diesel cars need to capture the hearts of America’s automotive alphas. Pistonheads will not be well pleased with the $52k E320 BlueTec’s handling– unless Mercedes develops a proper sport package. If they do, this could be the breakout vehicle that opens the floodgates for The Next Big Thing. If not that, then maybe it’ll be the ML320 BlueTec, the GL320 BlueTec or (if Mercedes realizes that sharing is caring) the Jeep Grand Cherokee BlueTec. Or… a taxi.
Mercedes CL63 AMG Review
By Jay Shoemaker
Mass, what mass? As I hurled 4500 lbs. of rippled and flared German steel through a long, sweeping, belt-cinching corner, I felt like I was playing a driving simulation. Thanks to its improved active body controls, the Mercedes Benz CL63 AMG remained absurdly unaffected by the enormous lateral g-forces generated by its gyrations. Lacking suitable anti-gravity aids, my passenger and I were thrown towards the outer radius of the turn, welded to the CL63’s seat bolsters. Now that’s what I call fun.
The CL63 reminds me of the rockets I designed as a kid; the Merc's a massive, sleek shape punctuated by slits and evil looking slashes. Whereas the chop top CLS-Class seems more than a little forced, the CL63 makes perfect sense. Its athletic stance, gigantic wheel arches and aggressive surface effects combine to create a coupe that looks like it eats continents— and Porsches— for breakfast.
The CL63’s rear is especially effective. Framed by a Batmobile-esque rippled valence, its quad pipes give the car’s rear the kind of purposefulness denied BMW’s overwrought 6-Series. While both cars have so much “flame surfacing” they could put Burger King out of business, it’s the big Merc that let’s me have it my way.
The CL63’s interior is a bit too staid for my taste/money. That said, Affalterbach’s artisans add the requisite luxury touches, including rich, soft and dense leather and a sweet smelling Alcantara roof lining. The aforementioned seat bolsters provide an unwelcome awakening for first time users, before they learn to guide their bottom’s trajectory with appropriate care and precision.
Mercedes’ COMAND system remains the most intuitive of Germany’s multi-media controllers— which is a bit like saying Rocky III isn’t quite as terrible as Rocky V. Tweaking the seat massage functions and adjusting the air flow from the HVAC from diffuse to focused is no great challenge. Not so the eight window controls; choosing the correct button to raise or lower one of the four windows is an ergonomic lottery.
I’m no great fan of the massive pods enclosing the CL63’s speedometer and navigation systems. While I appreciate the aeronautic theme, there’s too much dash for those of us who prefer visual flight rules. AMG’s 200 mph speedometer is a suitably wicked touch (that violates the spirit of Germany’s “gentlemen’s agreements”), but I find it hard to read. And despite exalted specifications, the CL63’s stereo sounds disappointing flat and dull.
The AMG steering wheel is neither. Its organic shape immediately attracts your hands to the correct 10 and 2 positions. The perforated leather’s a bit hard to the touch, and I wish the wheel itself would adjust lower (my elbows couldn’t find a suitable perch). But the obligatory paddles, crafted from thick lumps of aluminum, tell you the tiller’s hooked-up to some serious stones. Yes indeed.
Igniting the CL63’s 6.2-liter, 518 horsepower, hand built AMG engine is an orgasmic experience. The four pipes spit out a guttural roar that vibrates your soul, resonating flesh and bone like the deep registers of gigantic church organ. Revving the CL63’s engine nearly breaks the sound barrier, sending children and small dogs scurrying in terror, and condemning BMW’s “bag of bolts” V10-powered M5 to eternal sonic shame.
AMG has installed this remarkable engine across virtually the entire Mercedes line. While it has transformed every chassis it has touched, it has transmogrified only two. The E63 is remarkable for its balance and, dare I say it, affordability. In the CL63, the mega-V8’s acceleration turns a boulevardier into a stealth fighter, capable of cruising serenely at speeds that other vehicles struggle to achieve.
More to the point, the CL63’s acceleration is exactly as you’d imagine: endlessly effortless and totally telepathic. Accompanied by a Wagnerian soundtrack, the naturally aspirated powerplant does a damn fine imitation of a big-bore V12– only without the hushed progress and nose-heavy nature. In fact, at speed, I’d swear the CL63 AMG was no bigger than a 911.
The CL63’s steering is firm but fair, communicating just enough surface information to make cornering worthwhile. The brakes are slightly stiff but unflappable, lending confidence to aggressive driving. The CL63’s ride quality is firm (there’s that word again) yet compliant. Road imperfections intrude very little on the luxury experience, despite standard 20” five-spoke AMG wheels.
In short, I’d trade my left arm for a Mercedes Benz CL63 AMG. Trouble is, the German automaker wants an arm AND a leg. The price of admission to AMG’s leather-lined roller coaster ride: 140 large. The monthly lease cost exceeds $3k. Even in California, a mortgage payment of this magnitude still affords a pretty nice house.
Still, it’s only money. If you ever wanted to fire-up a Merc that sounds like a muscle car, if you fancy leaping entire Western states in a single bound, there’s nothing to touch the CL63 for class, comfort, pace and grace.
Mercedes C300 Review
By Justin Berkowitz
Mercedes currently offers American consumers a choice of thirteen different model lines. What a difference from the Mercedes Benz of 1987, when only four U.S.-legal models wore the three pointed star. Back then, the Mercedes brand was renowned for fastidious, brick-shit-house over-engineering. Today, Benzes are known for many things, but mechanical robustness and reliability ain’t two of them. If anything, Mercedes has earned itself a reputation for persistent electrical gremlins and multitudinous mechanical misfires. Fresh from its divorce from Chrysler, Mercedes would like us to believe that the new C-Class represents a return to form. When you wish upon a star…
Looking at the new C, especially when positioned next to the outgoing blob, you can almost hear the new sheriff’s spurs clank as he strolls into town. Whereas the last C was flabby and farcical, Mercedes’ refreshed entry level model possesses unmistakably muscularity. And purpose. From the swage line slicing across the C’s side panels towards its snout, to the minuscule front overhangs, to the slight bulge in the front wheel arches, this is a car that’s not shy about going forward.
The new C300 (not to be confused with the 300C) comes in Luxury and Sport derivations. In Sport trim, the C-Class sho’ ‘nuff comes complete with hood strakes, an aggressive front air dam and an elephantine three pointed star, sitting dead center. If it makes stealth-oriented pistonheads feel any better, the over-sized, retro-blingy logo is historically justifiable: sportier versions of Ye Olde 560 SEC wore a similar statement of in yer face heritage (not to mention Ye Olde Aftermarket 190Es). Luxury- trimmed versions get the proper chrome grill with the Old School erect hood ornament.
The C-Class’ cabin continues the exterior’s overall theme of restrained modernism. Instead of the former model’s litany of obsequious features and capricious buttonology, Mercedes engineers have finally [re]placed function over form. The switchgear is now exactly where it belongs, doing exactly what it should be doing. The decapitated Pokemon steering wheel is a particular delight; the thick-rimmed tiller provides unfettered visual access to clear, elegant gages.
Giant slabs of brushed aluminum– not Lexus-style silver plastic– grace the baby Merc’s doors and dash. The headlamp knob is made of wonderfully tactile material, a package that has no business in a car this cheap. Throw in build quality we haven’t seen in the C-Class, er, ever, and you have an interior whose beauty looks set to age as gracefully as a medium-priced bottle of Chateau Margaux.
The previous generation C-Class had all the on-road prowess of a toaster. I had such a rotten time driving it I had to stop and to see if the wheels had been replaced with those chocolate cupcakes with the squiggle icing on the top. The engineers responsible for the old model’s so-not-luxurious-it-literally-hurt suspension and endlessly endless turning circle have been permanently reassigned to the Chrysler section of Mercedes’ historical archives.
The C300’s drive train is shocking. I remember this engine from the C280. Paired with a five-speed auto, it was wretchedly pedestrian. Sampling this new application is like finding a Franklin in a jacket pocket. Hooked-up to Benz’s seven-speed cog-swapper, the mill churns out a modest (by today’s standards) 230 horses. But the V6’ in-gear acceleration is such that it made me doubt the necessity of the 270 horsepower C350. With a zero-to-60mph sprint time in the low seven second range, the C300 reeks of expectation exceeding.
There is a caveat. Acceding to the temper of the times, Mercedes has tuned C300’s seven-speed cog-swapper for maximum mpg. It wants to hand you a higher gear as eagerly as a Jehovah’s Witness wants to give you a copy of the Watchtower. The go-pedal sinks some distance towards the carpet before summoning more power. In the process, it occasionally kicks down a cog too far.
Both C-Class models suppress road nuisances like a dictator dealing with democracy. And yet, miracle of miracles, the C’s ride isn’t Cadillac mushy. In fact, the sedan’s ride is classic old-school Mercedes-Benz: firm yet compliant.
Although the C300 is an ante-penultimate driving machine, it acquits itself in the corners with honest, admirable aplomb. Although there’s a not inconsiderable amount of initial body roll, the C300’s responses are so predictable– and discernible– you can push it far further than you would if you had any common sense.
The new C-Class gives U.S. consumers a reason not to buy a 3-Series or G35. Not because it’s the sportier choice (get real). The C300's appeal lies in the fact that it’s an old school cruiser, gliding through life in a once-upon-a- time-in-a-Mercedes kinda way. The new Mercedes C300 is the best non-AMG Mercedes since the 1991 to 1998 monster S-Class. With this new model, Mercedes is finally bringing the sexy back.
Specialists in Mercedes Benz 280SL, 300SL Gullwing, 190SL, 450SL
1956 Fiat Abarth 500GT Zagato (the prototype of the small run 500 GT Zagatos) and it was the 1957 Turin Show car
Luigi Argenti of Bologna purchased this car from the factory on April 26, 1958 and apparently entered it the very next day in the hill climb at San Marino and won the 500 GT class. 
The boss' '72 Pantera, just back from paint
1963 mk II
This 1969 280 SL is the bread and butter of the company
A no expense spared restoration of a family heirloom, it's looking to hit the concours de elegance car shows and win trophys... around 1/4 million into this 1958 190sl hardtop convertible that the dad bought for his two boys for a highschool driver.
This engine bay is going for trophy winning cleanliness and restoration
1956 Mercedes 300c Convertible D (4 door cabriolet)Mercedes-Benz B 200 Review
By Samir Syed
I sat anxiously in a showroom Mercedes CLS while the salesman processed my paperwork for a test drive. Even in repose, the CLS is a magnificent machine. Soaking in that heady blend of luxury and gravitas, I wondered if my spin in the B200 (available in Canada and Europe) would capture any of that Mercedes quintessence. Sometimes, brand extension works (Bentley Continental GT) and sometimes, it doesn't (VW Phaeton). So does the B 200 fit in Herr Doktor Daimler's pantheon of pomp and circumstance?
The B 200's rakish styling is a farrago of Mercedes' styling cues. The diminutive people mover's front sports the familiar three-bar grill with a giant Merc badge (Yo! Yo!). The B's rear echoes the C-class and M-class, while the side profile offers up the same rakish swoops as a CLS– squashed between two Mack trucks. On a tall glass of water like the B 200, the coupe-style lines are distinctly Picasso-esque.
The B 200's interior has less Mercedes-ness than a Ford F-150. The Benz' seats are as firm as an old German frau, fabricated from a fabric that's coarser than her husband's three-day beard. The center armrest is made of an odd rubbery plastic carefully designed to remind Gen X of their childhood Ninja Turtle action figures. To make room for the e-brake, the armrest is truncated on its right side– exactly where my elbow sought relaxation. German engineering has apparently overlooked the fact that I'm not apt to use the e-brake whilst driving.
On the positive side, the B 200's controls operate with silky-smooth precision. And the radio delivers wikkid beats, with the added satisfaction of one button per function ergonomics. Beyond that, Mercitude is strictly (and expensively) a la carte. Heated seats, Bluetooth adapter, Bi-Xenon headlights with "active curve illumination," sunroof, a tilting and telescoping steering wheel; it's all gonna cost ya. Bottom line: even a fully-loaded B doesn't have enough luxury to earn the right to wear the Mercedes moniker.
Thanks to B 200's "sandwich concept," there's plenty of room for four real adults. Like Ye Olde VW van and Toyota Previa minivan, the B 200's engine sits under the floor, beneath the passenger cell, inclined downwards. The arrangement frees up space for passengers. More importantly, it provides more snout for crash deformation and helps in lateral collisions (occupants are seated above the impact zone). It also raises passengers up, in accord with the mini minivan gestalt.
Once underway, the B 200's family DNA finally asserts itself. Though the petite four-door isn't even on speaking terms with the word "fast," it goes about its business in the traditional stately Mercedes fashion. Bizarrely enough, most of the credit's due to the mini-Merc's Continuously Variable Transmission (CVT or "rubber band job"). Hooked-up to a 143hp in-line four (a 193hp turbo is… more money), the tag team motivate the 2900-lbs. car with genuine grace.
The CVT seamlessly serves-up the optimal gearing ratio as the situation demands. Accelerate slowly and the CVT keeps the mini mill at the ideal torque point. Floor it, and the CVT seamlessly gets taller while the engine revs get wilder. Depress the Sport button beside the shifter and seven virtual gears keep performance on the enthusiast's preferred side of the oomph / fuel economy trade-off.
Like Mercedes' A-Class models, B 200 is a front wheel-drive machine. And a damn fine one it is too. The electromechanical power steering is sharp and direct, on the same level as an Audi A3. The B 200's handling is a delight. Throw the lightweight into the twisties and it's equal to the task, easily dispatching turns, on-ramps and curves without a squeal. All hail the B's low slung engine and suspension, blessed with a new parabolic rear axle in back and McPherson struts and wishbones up front (both with twin-tube gas-pressure shock absorbers, coil springs, and torsion bars).
The ride quality is excellent. The B 200 exhibits zen-like calm as it glides over most of the road's imperfections, transmitting very little of the commotion to its blissful passengers.
So what we have here is a de-contented Germanic budget luxury car with snobby aspirations. I'm not sure if it works. Everyone knows the B 200 is a Merc, but it's not a "real" Merc– which is the only fathomable reason someone might pay $32k for the non-turbo stripper. Seriously, in the same price point you have similar Eurosnob value and better handling in a BMW MINI or a Golf GTI– neither of which would dare insult you with such low-tech seating and unacceptably rubbery, plasticky interiors.
That said, the B 200 is a capable, pleasant, fine-riding small automobile. It brings no dishonor to the Mercedes brand. But in a field crowded with credible competitors, it's simply too expensive for a relatively clunky-looking machine with a pedestrian interior.
