Week 3: 1987 Buick Regal GNX

"We have around 114 million pounds of debt." -Gerard Lopez

If the road to Hell is paved with good intentions, I believe that I may have inadvertently created the first super-highway.  You see, when one is paid to drive a car for a living, there comes with it a certain amount of unspoken expectations that one is expected to follow.  You might think that being paid to race cars for several hours each weekend would include 5-star hotels, celebrity status and enough supermodels to satisfy Max Mosely.  Even if you aren't a Formula One driver, automotive journalists enjoy quite a few luxuries that the average enthusiast can only dream and read about.  Who needs Hollywood when you can obtain the same lifestyle whilst doing over 200 mph?

   What they don't talk about, at least not often enough, is the dark side.   When you're a top Formula One driver you're expected to win championships, and if you aren't a top driver, you're expected to be one the following year regardless of what you're given.  Likewise, journalists are expected to attract more and more viewers and readers each year, until eventually everyone on the planet becomes so obsessed with automobiles that the Kardashians can no longer find employment.  Even pizza delivery drivers are expected to be at their destinations within 30 minutes, even if that's in another country entirely.  Above all else, the principle expectation that every driving profession requires is this: DON'T BREAK THE DAMN CAR!

​

   As with nearly every tale of regret, it all started innocently enough.  One of the audio technicians and I were having a spirited debate about the differences between Van Halen and Van Hagar while waiting for delivery of this week's car.   The technician, who's name has been withheld until the trial, preferred the sex-driven lyrics of the man-child David Lee Roth, while I preferred the maturity and depth that Sammy Hagar introduced.  Both of us agreed that the differences between 1984 and 5150 were about the same as those of James Carville and Marlee Matlin, and both of us agreed that although the two were distinctly different, the sound was still uniquely Van Halen.  It wasn't like today's music, when every time you turn on the radio you are assaulted by something from a glorified YouTube user, who's music is nearly indistinguishable from Madonna.

   When the transport truck arrived with the car, I took the opportunity to jump, and clocked the technician across the jaw.  He had just paraphrased the American Vice President Joe Biden when he said "Sammy Hagar is nothing more than a noun, a verb, and Cabo Wabo."  While he was regaining conscientiousness, I was busy unloading the Darth Vader of Detroit, the 1987 Buick Regal GNX.  While the tech briefly thought about retaliation, it was the sound of the Buick's V6 that reminded him that I still had the upper hand, on top of being handed a lethal weapon.  Another wrong word and he might give me the satisfaction of knowing what it's like to lay down tyre marks of a color other than black.  But instead of being focused on revenge, I was distracted by the sudden flood of disappointment that filled my brain.

   Ah, GM...

​

According to Polyphony Digital (via Translator-san):

  "In 1987, the Buick company made the decision that, within the year, production would have to come to an end for its high-performance Regal Grand National, which was released three years earlier in 1984."

 "At the time, the Grand National was a limited production model designed to draw attention to Buick's high-performance.  However, every model eventually must come to its and, and for the Grand National it was the "Grand National to end all Grand Nationals."

  "The last Grand National later to be called the GNX, was also the ultimate Grand National produced by ASC/McLaren, a company with an excellent reputation for turbo tuning, who had built a factory in Los Angeles."

 "ASC took orders from Buick, and chose to fit the cars with Garret AiResearch ceramic impellers and over-sized intercoolers, with specially-ordered engine management computers from Bosch.  What resulted was a car that was special even among other specialty cars.  One that distinguished itself from so-called mass produced cars."

  "The engine used the same 3.8-liter V6 turbo as the normal Grand National, with maximum output raised from the normal 242 HP to 276 HP.  Due to the qualities of a turbo charged engine, this could easily be taken to over 296 HP with only minor modifications."

  "It could do 0 to 60 mph in 4.7 seconds, and the quarter-mile in 13.4 seconds.  It goes without saying that these were world-class times for the mid-eighties."

  "Only 547 of these cars- whose name means "Grand National Experimental"- were built, but most of those are now well maintained by dedicated fans of the car."

  If there's anything more annoying than a muscle car enthusiast, it's the brands they follow.  Don't get me wrong, during the Golden Age each produced fine examples for their time, and each have built icons that have managed to stand the test of time.  While Ford gave us the Mustang, they also completely ruined it with the sequel, the Mustang II.  Likewise, Chrysler (pronounced Mopar) introduced the Charger, then years later forgot to give it a manual transmission.  Chevrolet produced the Camaro to give rapists a form of transportation, and the Corvette to compete with pensioner's retirement plans.  It's as though they've stumbled upon the cure for baldness, then followed it up with products that ensure that you go bald with no possible cure.

   So even though I've only driven the car exactly 5 feet and no more, the amount of disappointment I feel has been psychologically conditioned into me because I've seen what those brands have become.  Ford experienced the same feelings when it first broke into the SUV market, Chrysler needed a Ford executive to bail itself out before ending up where it is again, and General Motors somehow thought that Geo and Saturn were brilliant ideas.  This conditioning is only reinforced when you visit Detroit, now financially and morally bankrupt by it's own gluttony and greed. If ever there were a Mecca for cock-ups, this is surely it.  Yet I'm "expected" to be impartial.

​

Performance (as purchased): January 10, 2014, Black (Do you really have to ask?)
Displacement: 3,791 cc
Max. Power: 289 HP @ 4,500 rpm
Max. Torque: 377.9 ft-lb @ 3,000 rpm
Drivetrain: FR
Length: 200.6 in., Height: 54.6 in., Width: 71.6 in., Weight: 1600 kg
Tires: Comfort (Soft)
Performance Points: 434
Mileage: 263.2 mi.

   After looking over the numbers, you might ask yourself "why can't this be love", but let me assure you, lurking beneath the skin of our barely legal Regal is the heart of the problem.  You see, ever since the departure of Bunckie Knudesen, General Motors has been run by accountants.  They handle everything from administrative tasks like payroll, technical tasks like fuel economy and build quality, to labor disputes and vehicle design.  Rather than lose a few pennies in order to print dollars bills, they'd rather save those pennies and the associated labor that it takes to print the money.   Instead of ensuring that the rest of its lineup has the same research and development as the CTS or Corvette, they blow it on ridiculous advertising and cheap materials.  GM had the Nikola Tesla of the muscle car, and rather than milking his talent while dancing the night away, they can't even finish what they've started!

   So it's with an incredible amount of trepidation that I took delivery of this week's car.  The old saying goes: expect the worst, hope for the best, and that couldn't be more appropriate than right here, right now.  Although Buick has been in the business longer than anyone else in America, they aren't exactly known for their hair-raising performance.  There were certainly marks in the 60s that held reverence with knuckle-draggers like the Skylarks and Wild Cats, but as soon as folks like John DeLoran and the aforementioned Bunkie left, Buick reverted back to the luxury brand they were before.  Also, it's worth keeping in mind that with the exception of styling, GM products were built then like they are now, by swapping parts from a bin.  The styling may be original but then again so is a receipt, and how many of you keep the receipts from your accountant?  Don't worry... I'll wait.

​

   The producer and I left the car in the expert hands of our Super Best Friends at the Superest of Aguri to ensure that the car was up to spec, while we made travel preparations and enjoyed the comforts of central air conditioning.  It'd be up to them to guarantee that the car was safe and in perfect running order, a task made infinitely easier by the current owner who keeps the car in immaculate condition.  Although I can't begin to fathom why, Buick owners remain exceedingly loyal to the mark and typically own more than just one.   Rare cars like this are made even more exceptional by the lack of changes needed.  At nearly 30 years old, the wiring, bushings and paint look like they've just come directly from the factory.  Even the tyres had the correct inflation.  The only change we made was the oil because horsepower is like cocaine, and just like in the 80's, everybody wants some.

   A few hours later it was determined that instead of enjoying an exotic location like Panama or Monaco, we'd instead head back to The Green Hell to put the Grand National through its paces.   I believe I would've had better luck debating the back of Helen Keller's head than with the producer, because every objection I had was met with reminders of who I worked for and the debt I owed.   Rather than poke a volcano and pray to the gods to prevent an eruption, I signed the consent forms with the belief that our trip to the Nurburgring Nordscleife would go just as smoothly as it had with the Volvo before.  The only difference, and the root cause of my apprehension, was that neither the producer or myself actually owned the car. Driving an asthmatic  Volvo would be a piece of cake compared to flogging a Buick, let alone a turbocharged Buick, and then there are the expectations which are increased exponentially by the addition of a third party.  Regardless of my concerns, I was clearly in no position to either bargain or object.

​

   Our arrival in Der Fatherland went smoothly enough, our luggage actually making the trip instead of being rerouted to Singapore, and the hotel wasn't a shed.   Likewise, our arrival to the gates of The Green Hell also went without hindrance or delay.  I was beginning to think that I was worried about nothing until we started discussing the details about the run.  I'd almost completely forgotten about my previous apprehensions until the owner, Jamie, showed up to look over his car before we began.   "No problem," I thought, "I'll just drive like Ann Coutler in church and no one will be the wiser."  With no electronic equipment to betray my feedback to the producer and writers, it would be like getting a free lap along a lovely countryside without any traffic.

   "We'll be monitoring your run with this" the producer said, holding up a stop watch.  I've never pretended to be Doyle Brunson, but I must've done something right because I didn't see any reaction from his face or mannerisms to my reaction to the news.   I hoped that I looked like the original icecream man Kimi Raikkonen on the outside, because inside I was screaming like a petrified little girl.  I was given a target time of eight minutes, forty five seconds, which around this track is no small feat.   Rather than driving Ms. Daisy, I was expected to be running with the Devil.  Granted, I've been on flat out high speed runs here before without incident, but in cars known for their balance and handling.  Buicks are known for their luxurious handling, which is infinitely different than the performance driving that I'd actually be doing.  The Best Friends advised me that the Buick had revised shocks and springs compared to the base model, but to be honest it came as no consolation at all.

   Minutes later... I was off.

   To be honest, I don't remember much of the accident.  What I do remember is waking up to metal being peeled away from all around me, then the helicopter ride to the hospital, then waking up to Jamie crying on about his damaged baby.  While he and the insurance adjuster were screaming, and with the equivalent of enough narcotics for several third-world nations in my system, what was meant as an apology and desperate plea for mercy instead came out as "so, that's 546 then?"  Had I not slipped back into unconsciousness a second later, I might have paid for that remark.  Understandably so.

   Despite much whinging, I was released two days later.  I hadn't suffered any life-threatening injuries from the accident, but you'd never know that from the bills that arrived a week later.  Our producer had managed to find another GNX and was able to procure its use with only one condition, that it be used in a race.  I expressed my relief (I wasn't), and my producer expressed his gratitude (he wasn't).  After going over the numbers, taking this opportunity to drive the Grand National would be the only means of paying off my medical bills, nevermind the car I'd also have to pay for.  Rather than swimming, choking, or even drowning in debt, I became the poster child epitome of it.

   Work hard kids, and all of this can be yours...

​

   Learning from our previous mistakes, this time I'd be given a fair go in an effort to get acclimated and accustomed to the nuances of the Buick.  Some around the office that had watched the video felt that I had reacted to the car's tendencies rather than inducing and controlling them, and for all I know they could very well be right.  Even though my concussion and time had passed, the only thing I remembered from the incident was to take two pills every 12 hours for pain, and then to not make any plans for the following few hours.  We met up with owner of the second car, Chuck, and were taken on a lap around the Datyona International Speedway.

   While I can appreciate the accomplishments of Buick and the Grand National in NASCAR, it's absolutely physically impossible for me to stay awake beyond two consecutive left turns.   When we left the pits, Chuck began educating us on the nuances of Daytona.  Down the back stretch he pointed out Buick's long-time association and success within NASCAR, as well as the differences between the production car and its racing counterpart.  By the end of the second turn, it was lights out.   I'm not a doctor but I'm pretty sure that Automotive Narcolepsy is a thing and I have it.  Indanapolis 500?  I can't even get a mile and a half into it without passing out like the town drunk on an all night bender. Sprint races?  I could have the exhausted plugged directly into my ears, yet still be asleep before the end of the first lap.

​

  Two weeks later, off the narcotics and with plenty of discomfort, I once again dressed in Nomex to tempt the hand of fate in the crucible of motorsport.  A group of Regal enthusiasts nearby had rented the quasi-infamous Trial Mountain circuit, and it would be there that I would compete amongst the other amateur boy racers.  The entrants weren't strictly limited to Regals, but there were plenty of them.  A Flock of Regals, you might say, with the other notable entrants being a Honda NSX and S2000, as well as a Dodge Ram pickup.  I'm not sure why that person though that circuit racing a pickup truck on a technical course like Trial Mountain was a good idea, but I'm almost certain that it has to do with local government cuts to education spending.  Or drugs.   Or both.

   In the actual race, I was quite relieved to find that although I'd recently been through a traumatic accident, I still maintained the racer's desire to win.  However, while being in a stock Grand National, I was also hampered by my lack of acceleration relative to those around me.  Combined with nerves of pudding, the first few laps served to evaluate my skills and the tendencies of the car.  Oddly, somewhere between the accident and the race, I seemed to have discovered... control?

​

   I can't say for sure what exactly popped back into place in my brain, but by the second lap I got much better and more aware of inputs needed and changes to the environment around me.   It was then that the Honda S2000 began his attack, and with my newly found sense of control, I was going to be damned if I let another car by!  Turn after turn we went head-to-head, the S2000 pulling out it's knife and taking stabs every time I bothered looking.   If I'd found the absolute leading edge of performance, he'd have to surpass it in order to get by!  Despite being in the slower car, I was giving everything that both the car and myself had to give, and it seemed to be working.

   When the checkered flag dropped, my blind and greedy rage-filled determination had actually produced a positive result.  While you might not be surprised, I sure as hell was, because usually those rage-filled runs end in a similar manner to that which happened in Germany.   This time, however, I had the supreme satisfaction of not only the final result, but also the knowledge that there was absolutely nothing more that car could've done.  We both were completely spent, and although exhausted, we'd manage to keep a much faster car behind us as well as earn a podium finish.  As far as I was concerned, that was a win.

​   After the many celebratory alcoholic refreshments, Chuck expressed his appreciation for the showing that the car earned.  I wouldn't have to worry about funding the repairs to the Jamie's GNX, as Chuck took over the expense as an opportunity to meet up with a fellow GNX owner.  And from what I understand, Jamie's car is 90% restored already.  The money made from the race covered a majority of my medical expenses, and the exposure from the excitement of the race has already landed us a lead on our next car to test.  Given everything that's happened during our test, that's a miracle!

   So, then, what's not to love?

   Well, I ain't talking about love.  The Buick managed an impressive performance against stiff competition, on a road course no less, but it leaves me with far more questions about why GM doesn't replicate this success with other cars.  For instance, the CTS-V is now gathering its own cult following similar to the GNX, and it has also thrived on The Ring.   And while that might seem like a good thing, remember that it's happening at the expense of the Camaro.  If there's one thing that's hated by accountants more than I hate muscle car enthusiasts, it's expenses.  It's only a matter of time before some bean counter finds the executive that's creating these performance variants, and axes them, too.  It might seem like their cars offer dreams of pretty women, but since the 60's, General Motors hasn't exactly had a history of letting engineers have their poundcake and eat it too.

  Although the GNX has made me hot for teacher, she'll eventually end up as the lunch lady, and that's no fault of Buick's.

*The views and opinions expressed in this review do not necessarily reflect those of the manufacturer, the publisher, GTPlanet.net or it's members, nor anyone with an IQ above 3.  If you have a history of epilepsy or seizures, consult a doctor before use.  Certain patterns may trigger seizures with no prior history.  Before using see the instruction manual included with your system for more details.  For previous reviews, please visit: McClarenDesign's Very Serious SLS AMG Reviews of the Car of the Week N Stuff.   All videos were filmed before a live studio audience.  Car setup monitored by Dark Lion Racing's GT6 Tunes and Tricks app on Android, as administered by Super Best Friends Super Aguri.  No goats were harmed in the making of this review that we are aware of.  This product may cause significant hair loss, headaches, and damage to the immune system.   Best wishes to Michael Schumacher!

-Super Previous Super Reviews-​

Insightful... but bollocks: Introduction To Failure (or How I went from a Very Serious SLS AMG to Super Best Friends Super Aguri)
Week 1: '10 Peugeot RCZ
Week 2: '88 Volvo 240 GLT Estate

Week 2: 1988 Volvo 240 GLT Estate

 "Mansell will never win a Grand Prix so long as I have a hole in my arse." -Peter Warr​

  You'd think that after being gone for so long, there would be some concern amongst my family. Granted, I wasn't captured by some terrorist nation or held as a political hostage, but you'd think there would at least be some celebration that I was still alive and back home.   The television shows tearful reunions when others are released from captivity, with wives weeping and children refusing to let go for fear that whomever may never return again.  For a brief few seconds before landing at the airport, I fantasized about what my return home would be like, back to the loving arms of an adoring family.

   Instead, what I return to is a list of broken appliances, a lawn that resembles the Amazon rain forest, a stack of bills that would take a team of accountants a decade to sort through, and a note asking me to stop off and pick up groceries on my way back.  Since I'll be out running errands anyway, apparently.  Rather than a tearful wife sobbing that her hero has finally returned home, my wife acts as though the entire ordeal has been a constant nuisance.  What the neighbors will say, or worse, the press?  Instead of tears I'm badgered about how, once again, I've managed to ruin everyone's lives.  Instead of clutching cheerful children, I find an indifferent daughter more interested in the gibberish spewing from her iThingy.

   It's as if I never left.

  Amongst the lengthy list of chores includes finding a car for my daughter, and she's quick to point out that I've already wasted over a year, and that whatever I get her had better be good.  Originally I had considered getting her an Audi S3 that we had tested at the time, but seeing that car made me question the sort of gentlemen that might attempt to gain her favor.  Remember "The Todd"?  I may have been away from home for over a year, but the fact that cocks drive Audis still hasn't changed, and do I really want my beloved daughter married to a tax attorney?  Or a dentist?  Or a car salesman?

   Flipping through the classifieds, it became abundantly clear that what I really needed was something smart, economical, safe, and able to carry other iThingy-obsessed teens without stuffing them into a telephone booth and without attracting the Alpha-self-obsessed twits that she normally brings home.   I checked with my daughter, and again she pleaded and begged for a new Scion FR-S, which I promptly reminded her that I would be happy to purchase for her should she stumble across $30k in the near future.   Or she could simply wait the 8-10 years that it'd take me to scrape up the money.  If she didn't mind walking to and from college and after, I had no problem waiting with her.  This then lead to several hours of screaming, the replacement of a few doors, cleaning up a few broken bits of whatever was handy to throw at me, and finally the acceptance that life was indeed unfair.  If I wasn't going to get her the FR-S, she finally didn't care what she got so long as it allowed her to leave here.

   So far, everything was going exactly to plan.

  A few days later, while discussing it over with The Super Best Friends and our producer, we had an epiphany.  Rather than focusing on the short-term practicalities of convincing my offspring to get the hell out as quickly as possible by means of psychological torture, we also needed a fallback plan.  Something we could use when she eventually tires of it and buys her own car, as I'll invariably be stuck with whatever I purchase until the return of Jesus.  She might be satisfied in merely getting from point A to point B because she's never previously had a taste of the unencumbered freedom that comes with owning an automobile, but since I'm going to be stuck with it, it had to be something I could get use out of well after its shelf life had run out.

   Again we raided the local classifieds, and each member of the team selected a car based upon the aforementioned criteria and then plead their case.  Amongst the entries were Beetles, Golfs, Corollas, Malibus, Escorts, Town Cars, Civics and equally as many variants of SUVs and crossovers.  One by one, like a World War II fighter ace, I shot them down nearly as quickly as they were presented.  One poor chap was even fired by Super Aguri for having the gall to suggest a Chrysler product, apparently a Best Friend no more.   Beetles required too much seasonal maintenance... The Golf was ruined by the ending of License to Drive... Finding a proper Corolla is nearly impossible... The Malibu is made by General Motors... I'll be damned if I let my daughter drive anything called a Escort!... If I buy a Civic, I'll just have to buy another one next week...  And the problem with SUVs and crossovers is that you're never getting what you actually purchased.  It's either a van built on a truck's frame, or a truck built on a car's frame, and giving one to a teenager would be akin to giving them the launch codes to America's nuclear arsenal.   Someone's going to die!

   The situation seemed hopeless... until lunch arrived.

According to Polyphony Digital (via Translator-san):
 

 "Volvo made its mark in the U.S. as a producer of stylish and sturdy station wagons.  And the 240 Wagon, introduced in 1974, was no exception.  Created in response to the American station wagon boom of the 1950s, Volvo station wagons, with their ongoing policy of simple and sturdy construction, were among the highest-quality models on the market.   They were never head-turning high-performance cars, but their practicality and interiors, brimming with that unique Northern European ambiance, helped establish Volvo's safety-first brand image." 

 

   "At the time, Volvo used a three-digit format for its car names.  The rule was that the first digit represented the series name, the second signified the number of cylinders in the engine and the third indicated the number of doors, thus the 245 was a 200 series with an inline-4 that had 5 doors.  ...and before you ask I have no idea why this is called the 240 on paper and not the 245, that's just what it says in the script so shut up!" 

 

  I didn't say a word. 

 

  "The drive system was a conventional FR (Front engine, Rear drive).  The engine was a liquid-cooled pushrod inline-4 that came in two displacements, 1,985 cc and 2,127 cc, the latter available in both carbureted and fuel-injection versions.  The smaller engine produced 81 HP while the carbureted version of the 2.1-liter pumped out 96 HP. The fuel-injected variant produced 121 HP." 

 

  "Volvo's high standard for safety was already on of the company's trademarks, and the 240 Wagon was a shining example of this.  Although airbags were not yet available, safety features like crushable body construction, 5-mph bumpers and 3-point seatbelts were standard equipment." 

 

  Sitting in our car park was a 1988 Volvo 240 GLT, slightly modified to accept a small-block V8 engine although you couldn't tell that just by looking at it.  While stuffing our faces, the delivery driver lectured to us about the transformation from grocery-getter to pizza delivery rocket ship, and then told us about the local track racing that he uses his tips to fund.  In just a few short months he was able to acquire nearly everything he needed to pass scrutineering at the track minus the roll cage, fire extinguisher and a few other minor bits of safety kit which took a little bit longer.  Surprisingly most of the stock components were more than capable of coping with the increase in power, the necessary parts for the swap were salvaged so the cost was ridiculously inexpensive, and the wealth of knowledge on the internet quelled any remaining doubts.  Toss in a set of lightweight composite wheels, stickier rubber and a spoiler, and it was job done.

 

  But that's not the best part.   When asked how many dates he's been on in the Volvo, our delivery driver, Phillip, responded with the car's number one feature: "girls won't go near it."  Instead, he'd had to rely upon another car for everyday use other than delivering pizzas, which of course includes attracting the opposite sex.  "I have to park it behind the house so that girls won't immediately run in horror when they come over.  My neighborhood thinks it's an eyesore and I've been ticketed 13 times for illegal dumping, even after I explain that it's car and not a lump of scrap metal trash."  Before he left we were treated to the sound of a howling V8, the exhaust note replicating the sound Satan makes when he's constipated.   It was heavenly!

(Pictured left to right: William Perry, Phillip, and our turd.)​

Performance (as purchased): January 5, 2014, Beige Metallic (Brown)

Displacement: 2,300 cc

Max. Power: 127 HP @ 6,000 rpm

Max. Torque: 140.2 ft-lb @ 3,000 rpm 

Drivetrain: FR 

Length: 188.6 in., Height: 57.5 in., Width: 67.3 in., Weight: 1890 kg

Tires: Comfort (Medium)

Performance Points: 314

Mileage: 0.0

   With the help of Phillip we were able to locally source our own 240 GLT for more testing.  As a comparison, Phillip's agreed to tag along and allow us the use of his modified GLT for a few track events as well in exchange for some tuning from our Super Best Friends.  Even with the modifications that Phillip has added, there's very little distinction that anything has been altered other than the lowered suspension, a common upgrade popular with today's youths yet sensible considering the car's actual track use.  For our car, we'll be keeping it completely stock, only with fresh fluids and proper tyre inflation.  We were warned, however, not to have high expectations for what we were getting ourselves into.   Despite the changes that Phillip has made, no amount of tips was going to magically transform the handling into that of a Porsche, and no amount of talented labor could mold it into looking like a Ferrari.

   But instead of having superb handling or drop-dead aesthetics, what we have in spades is safety and ugly.  I can rest very comfortably knowing that my daughter has a far greater chance of wrapping a telephone pole around the car instead of the other way around, and without massive power, the only way she'll get a speeding ticket is with tailwinds equivalent to Category 4 hurricane speeds... down a very, very steep hill.   I like that, but the enormous amount of space in the boot reminds me of when I was a teenager, and that's definitely something I'll need to address before she takes delivery of the car.  While I can't guarantee her virginity until my death, the very least I can do is not contribute to it's loss, and that massive amount of space in the back is currently only occupied by air and opportunity. 

*For those keeping score at home: Cargo space- 41 cu. ft.

    Before handing the car over to the Spawn av Helvetets, we first needed to establish a baseline of performance.  After all, she's expected to beat this already-mostly-dead horse around for a few more years, so we needed to know what it could do before she had the chance to inflict further damage.   While the Superest Aguri began examinations of our patient, I booked travel and freight to the only sensible place to test a European econo-barge... the Nurburgring Nordschleife.  Although it's known as "The Green Hell" and kills many drivers each year, I'm assured that no harm will come to me simply because I'll be going as fast as allowable, or as the Swedish speedometer indicates, Lagom.  With the innovative crumple structures, I'll be protected by the same safety technologies employed on today's cars rather than wrapped in a lead coffin.

   When we eventually get there, I'm sent off without any fuss.  None of the usual coaxing that you have to give supermodel hypercars before they'll come out of their dressing room, and no last-minute oil leak that you'd typically find on most other American-sold used cars either.  As with the styling, the preparations after the initial inspection back home yielded a no-drama start to our track rental, and finally I was free to roam the German countryside in the safest Estate in Europe.  While the AMG and BMW boys make a fine estate, finding a driver that can pilot one around here without crashing is roughly the same winning the lottery while being struck by lightening while watching a shooting star on a new moon on a Monday.  The only person I know capable of such a thing is Sabine Schmitz, and her contract with rival BMW specifically requires that she be alive the following day and uninjured.  While I don't doubt Volvo's safety rating, I do understand Sabine's speed... and although I don't fully comprehend physics, I don't have to be Steven Hawking to realize that having someone crash here at those speeds will turn this tank to tinsel.   It isn't that I don't think she'll survive, it's that we simply cannot afford to battle BMWs lawyers should she happen to break a nail.  Although I'm no Sabine, I pushed the car enough, and my white knuckles acknowledged that the time we set would have to do. 
*For those keeping score at home: Best Lap (no modifications)- 10.32.941

 ​   When we returned home a few days later, I found the adoring daughter I originally expected upon my release from incarceration, albeit with an ulterior motive.  It seems my wife had inadvertently let the cat mostly out of the proverbial bag by endlessly complaining about my wasteful travel expenses while I was away, and one of those expenses included the car.   Luckily and frighteningly, none of the receipts she was able to track down told her exactly what I bought, so as far as she was concerned it was yet another expensive and pointless toy that I'd use to assert my masculinity and superiority to anyone that would pretend to give a damn.  Because the whinging had been so constant and loud and unending, my daughter assumed that I had screwed up pretty big, then became a mathematician and deduced that I bought her a car instead of one for me.  Only instead of the $900 I had originally spent, she was under the impression that Daddy had gotten "his perfect little angel" that FR-S she wanted and that it was outside with a lovely pretty pink bow on top just for her.  

  The initial minute home was enjoyable enough, with squeals of "DADDYDADDYDADDY!" the moment I opened the door.  As soon as I entered, she leapt into my arms in the same manner that she did when she was 6 years old on Christmas Day. Being the father of Verruca Salt, I instantly caught the look in her eyes the moment they made contact and began assembling a battle plan for when the bombs began raining from the heavens.  The disappointment of a six year old I can handle, it's the hormone-filled berserker rages of teenagers that earns fathers the Victorian Cross, and the moment she left to check the driveway I dove into the trenches.   Sirens began their wail... priests began their prayers... even the neighbors hid behind fortifications worthy of George C. Scott, board included.  Providing explanations to the blitzkrieg of questions and accusations was as pointless as lighting a match while drowning, but at least she hadn't found out about the car because it was still back at the office, and that meant we still had more time to play test.

    Two weeks later I was in sunny and beautiful Monterey, California, a stark and drastic contrast to the frozen and bitterly cold environment I'd left at home.  Along with Turd Ferguson, Phillip had brought along William Perry, so named due to it's uncanny resemblance to the appliance that the American football player is nicknamed after.   While we chatted and waited in line for our respective technical inspections, we were greeted by another old friend that I hadn't seen in quite some time, and had changed so much that I nearly didn't recognize him, Formula One World Champion Lewis Hamilton (+LewisHamiltonMSPR ).  The puzzlement on Phillip's face came as no shock since Formula One hasn't yet developed the same following in the States that it has in the rest of the civilized world, but then again America is last at practically everything anyway.  Why should motorsport be any different?

  Being World Champion provides plenty of incentives, but what it doesn't provide is year-round excitement.  Although Lewis has been known to ski and rock climb during the off season, he keeps mentally fit by participating in small amateur events, and since Formula One doesn't have the same audience in America as NASCAR, Lewis has the anonymity that he wouldn't get over in Europe.  Having a home in Colorado keeps these events close by so that none of his regular fitness training is interrupted.  While I recounted our previous test with Lewis in the Mercedes to Phillipe, he introduced us to his entry for the event, the Vodafone McLaren Volvo deliciously nicknamed "The McGLT".

  In the race, our stock tune ensured that I launched off the line with the energy of a tortoise anchored by an anvil, comforted only by the gleaming little yellow Diahatsu Copen directly behind, and that's only because the sanctioning body limited it's allowable modifications since it isn't legal for street use here.  Had this been Japan, I'd be in serious trouble, and although it has considerably less weight, my little pony doubles his.  When I enter the first corner, the racer within takes over, and the comfort I took a few seconds ago becomes as significant as being a celebrity's caddy, which is to say none.  I muscle the girth of the Volvo out of the third corner and into the twisted carnage ahead, cars bashing about in a gladitory battle for automotive real estate.   Think 300 meets Oklahoma.

  Despite a poor ending to the first lap, I was able to make up a few positions and settle into the track's rhythm.  The squishy tyres announced their protest to my shenanigans at every turn, but my course knowledge and swift reflexes kept the car in a positive, forward attitude, and by the third lap I'd managed to pass a Canadian who'd loaded his Volvo with a full-sized spare wheel in the boot for traction and balance.  At least I think he said it was in the boot. At the end of the third lap a bit of bafoonery just ahead granted me another position, followed quickly by another thanks to the same sort of decision making that turns high school hopefuls into college dropouts.  Senna I'm not, so it should be no surprise that I was stalked and eventually challenged a short time later, fending off the advances of a white Estate and eventually losing that position just before the infamous corkscrew drop.   Going through the corkscrew felt like a piloting a submersible, handling just as nimbly upon the exit and spewing smoke out the back while the protestors (read: the tyres) lit themselves on fire.  In doing so, the bastards failed to keep up the pace, and I watched as that final position disappeared like the Lone Ranger upon his horse.  No one driving this should expect a win, and I was prepared for that, but the oddity of it somehow made it fun.

    The following week the three of us competed at Grand Valley, only this time Lewis had managed to wrangle some equipment to record various bits of data throughout the race.  Despite lots of contact and many individuals of questionable morality, we now had scientific proof that the car could take a hit without passing it onto the driver.   The extra hours Volvo had put in meant that although I'd be roughed up and bruised, the other guy would look much worse, and isn't that how you determine a fight without a knockout?  After that we battled torrential conditions in Belgium, then the desert conditions on the streets of Willow Springs on our way to the final race at Fuji, Japan.  While Phillip, myself and the rest of our crew looked like extras from The Walking Dead, Lewis maintained the usual bounce in his step, going from place to place, country to country just as easily as if he were an international spy on holiday.   It all seemed very par for the course for him, which I supposed comes from being acclimated to F1.

  Meanwhile we'd spent the entire week patching, fixing, mending, and banging on our Estate to cover up all the damage we'd inflicted, and me with the understanding that I could very well be back to pounding a week later when I hand over the car to a teenager.  My daughter's well aware of the delicate inputs needed, as well as the attentiveness required to drive, but I'm still not convinced that she actually cares to do so.  Given the evil genius at work, she could intentionally set to write this poor little Volvo off in a misguided attempt to obtain something better, but my evil genius has already prepared the list of my remaining chores that she could just as easily accomplish as a form of retribution.

  ...and then it hit me...

​

   What on Earth happened to the station wagon?  While I have been gone a year, it's been far too long since I've seen a station wagon on public roads.  Sure, there are the occasional gems like the one we've purchased, but aside from a few tarted up luxury cars, it's become an endangered species.  Along with the proper manual transmission, the modern station wagon is being phased out in favor of something that completely lacks Sport and/or Utility.  Much like DVD to VHS, the minivan is also dwindling in numbers thanks to a rise in crossover sales, which to any non-enthusiast sounds like a clinic for sex changes.  After driving them, the description isn't that far off, either.

  Honestly, most crossovers are nothing more than extra fat with lipstick, yet you put those same ingredients on an actual woman and she's unattractive?  Well I suppose that if you like watching men in high heels walk across a room, that would make sense because it's the same way that crossovers handle the slalom!  And while SUVs aren't exactly cross-dressers, they aren't honest about what exactly they are.  They're more like closeted pickup trucks, trying to convince the world that they're a soccer mom's minivan while trying desperately not to drive like they've had all that extra weight added upon their shoulders.  Just say you're a truck with a roof over the bed and we'll still hate you just like we do now, but at lease we're honest about it!   Then there are mini-SUVs, the niche within a niche that apparently couldn't be filled by the Legacy or any other station wagon.  I know the oil crisis and Chrysler's introduction of the mobile lunchbox didn't help, but who decided that wagons weren't good enough anymore and why aren't they dead yet?!

   At the final race in Japan, we posed that same question to Lewis (Editor's note: To clarify, we asked Lewis "Where did station wagons go?", and not "who was the guy and why isn't he dead?") and he put things into perspective with four simple words: "Wagons had no swag, man."  He's right.  Despite a few funky incarnations in the 1970s, wagons had lost a lot of they're appeal from a combination of poor designers, overbearing accountants, and perceived negative social status.   Having a wagon meant that you had a family, which meant that any fun you might be interested with anyone else was well beyond your capability now because of your responsibilities.  Wagon owners don't bring home questionable members of the opposite sex from the pub!  They don't gamble their savings on a wheel with some numbers and ball!  No, wagon owners are at home by six o'clock and in bed by nine.  Letterman or Leno? Forget it, those days are over!   That's not how wagon owners "roll".

  Which is perfect.  The last thing my daughter needs now that she's reached byxmyndig is to be out every night partying with strange men, playing cards with the college tuition that I'm paying and gallivanting about till morning.  She should be studying, preparing herself for the rest of her life, not having a one night stand with a complete stranger.  Of course, since I'm her father, she'll never listen to me.  So that's precisely why I'm currently busy spreading dead animal intestines and feces all over the rear boot.  Sure, the smell will eventually come out, but not until after she gets the car.  Once she gets that first whiff, any notions of impurity will be exercised as quickly as they begin.  This car is practically the best form of birth control a father could hope for, and that makes everything absolutely worth it.    Evil genius? Who do you think taught her everything she knows?

*The views and opinions expressed in this review do not necessarily reflect those of the manufacturer, the publisher, GTPlanet.net or it's members, nor anyone with an IQ above 3. If you have a history of epilepsy or seizures, consult a doctor before use. Certain patterns may trigger seizures with no prior history. Before using see the instruction manual included with your system for more details. For previous reviews, please visit: McClarenDesign's Very Serious SLS AMG Reviews of the Car of the Week N Stuff. All videos were filmed before a live studio audience. Car setup monitored by Dark Lion Racing's GT6 Tunes and Tricks app on Android, as administered by Super Best Friends Super Aguri. No goats were harmed in the making of this review that we are aware of.  Best wishes to Michael Schumacher!
 

-Previous Week's Reviews-

Introduction- Insightful... but bollocks: Introduction To Failure (or How I went from a Very Serious SLS AMG to Super Best Friends Super Aguri)
Week 1: '10 Peugeot RCZ