The interior catches as many looks from passersby as the exterior, with a Pi Xpress digital dash, carbon seats and chromed stainless roll bar each scoring high bling points. The dash is there to provide rpm readings, as the needle on the stock tachometer is limited to the engine's stock redline, and much time is spent past that point with the Cosworth package installed.
The Reverie seats are lovely pieces, autoclaved carbon-fiber skinned with thin sheaves of padded orange leather. They are, unfortunately, sized laterally for the average American, whose posterior dimensions are more Bob's Big Boy than skinny journalist. Most unfortunately, the padding is Maxi-pad-like in thickness and density. For the first five minutes, you lament the San Quentin-like ass pounding; and then in the sixth minute, all gluteal nerve endings go numb, improving the situation slightly. Should the masochist in you want one, they are available in a variety of widths.
The sadist in us demands we ask the twisties to judge whether the Cosworth Focus lives up to its namesake. Mulholland Drive unfurls in front of us, with the lights of San Fernando illuminating the valley floor to our right and the blur of Hollywood warming the dim haze to our left.
Thanks to recent storms and resulting slides, the city closed traffic in one direction, leaving us a deserted stretch of rambling macadam. Ford Motorsport H.I.D.s burn fervently, encouraging a hard run, and we cinch the Schroth harnesses tighter, forcing our anesthetized butts deeper into the carbon shells. Windows go down to hear the engine scream and tires work.
Second- and third-gear turns lay coiled on each other like a sleeping nest of rattlers, with steep drops and rock outcroppings waiting to bite back. We lob ourselves deeper and deeper into every corner-so consistent and impressive are the brakes. The Cosworth Focus takes steering input as command rather than suggestion and practically steers itself toward the inside of each turn. We'd expect nothing less from any engine with Cosworth written somewhere on the valve cover, but the Focus revs like an open-wheel car, and the soundtrack is so addictive, the left foot becomes quickly envious of the right.
All the in-car Group A tarmac footage we've watched is played in real time through the windshield by a car that sounds and turns like a racecar and makes us eye the parking brake handle with scurrilous intent. An uncomfortable seat, punishing ride and unsteady idle should be virtues of a car we loathe.
The remarkable feel and immediacy and unsteady idle, however, make it a car worth suffering for; gratification doesn't get any more instantaneous. This is not a car in which involvement is a choice; in the Cosworth Focus, as driver or passenger, your experience is owned.
There is no downside to the Cosworth engine package, other than the $5,285 price tag, but you get what you pay for. And given the Focus' low cost of admission, you can finally, truly build a naturally aspirated American compact car that'll go all 10 rounds with the imports.