Thursday, 2 p.m.
Trek to Sonoma: Jim Hall Kart Racing School Oxnard, Calif.
Us: Highway 285, South Park, Colo.
Yes, that South Park. It really exists. While the rest of the Trek was busy dicing at the Jim Hall Kart Racing School, we were learning about the history of Trey and Matt's homeland. Here's what we learned: South Park used to belong to the Ute Indians. Then it belonged to the French. Then the Spanish. Then the Americans. Now it's owned by four fourth-grade kids made out of paper. End of history lesson.
The Focus RS has massive road presence; with its squat, wide stance, gaping grille and perfect proportions, it's clear this is what the Focus was supposed to look like, not the slab-sided thing we ended up with. People notice.
We've only been driving for four hours, and have already had more than a dozen opportunities to patiently explain that this car is the ultimate factory hot-rod version of what most Americans consider a rental car. It's got a Garrett ball-bearing turbo and an air-to-water intercooler from the factory, it's got the bad-ass fender flares from last year's WRC Focus, and it wears massive 225/40-18 Michelins at all four corners. It comes with Brembos from the factory. And a Quaife diff. And Sparco seats. And did I mention the turbo?
This always gets the same response:
"The steering wheel is on the wrong side."
"Yeah, it's from England."
Finally, we decide to just tell people the steering wheel was a quality control problem, "kinda like those collectable stamps that were printed upside down," and skip the specs.
Thursday, 5 p.m.
Trek to Sonoma: BBQ at Santa Maria Mazda, Santa Maria, Calif.
Us: Cajun Steamers, Durango, Colo.
Despite its impressive top speed, the RS feels languid off the line and even manages a large dose of lag at every shift. In all, it's hardly the fire-breathing monster the British press had led us to expect.
In England, Ford is generally considered a British brand, worthy of almost the same disproportionately high praise reserved for Jaguar or Lotus. I'm ready to dismiss the Focus RS as just another hometown hero for the limeys when, crossing the third, or fourth,or maybe the fifth 10,000-foot mountain pass, it finally dawns on me.
The highest point in England is only 4,406 feet. The RS's languid performance is a result of more than just thin air, it's a result of inexperience. It's likely that no Focus RS has even been this high. The car was never tuned for this. I start itching for thicker air and twistier, more British roads.
That will have to wait. For now it's Durango, Colo., a veritable metropolis next to South Park, but still a quiet, little, white-bread, redneck, mountain town compared to where the rest of the Trek is surely dining. We find a promising spot, and after a few brews, don't even hesitate at the waiter's suggestion of the Cajun Steamer, a mountainous concoction of seafood and chili powder so powerful we're both in tears by the end of the meal. In retrospect, crab, Cajun, and Colorado don't seem a very healthy combination. It will be more than a week before either of us really feels right again.
Thursday, 11:30 p.m.
Trek to Sonoma: Sleeping like babies in Pismo Beach, Calif.
Us: Looking for a room in Mexican Hat, Utah
Mexican Hat, Utah, consists of a gas station and two hotels. The town was named after a rock. At least six people live here. We have reservations at the San Juan Inn, but that doesn't make the door any less locked.
The sign in the window suggests we call 586-22 for late check in. The fact that someone peeled the last two numbers off, leaving us 100 phone numbers to try, matters little, since we passed the last cell phone tower 200 miles ago. Just as I'm getting ready to call dibs on the passenger's seat for the night, a cleaning lady pops out the door to dump the evening's janatorial jetsam. We gleefully check in and race for our one shared bathroom.
By E. John Thawley III
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