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By Robert Farago

About a decade or so ago, I traveled to BMW's Munich HQ to pick-up a press fleet K100RS. I arrived with a hard shell suitcase, intending to transfer its contents to the motorcycle’s panniers. When a press flack asked about the case, I joked that I was going to bungee it onto the back of the bike. When we returned from lunch, German engineers had attached my suitcase to the butt of Beemer’s “flying brick,” complete with homemade aerodynamic addenda. They’d found an elegant way to accomplish a completely ludicrous task. Porsche Cayenne Turbo S? Same deal.

C’mon, why build a 5500 pound truck that can accelerate like a sports car, ford streams, plug mud, climb and descend precipitous inclines AND provide upmarket MILF’s with a leather-lined suburban schlepper? Yes, yes; Porker’s porker is a hit. The Cayenne has dumped enough cash into the German automaker's corporate coffers to finance family plans to re-conquer VW and, thus, the world. But even if you set aside the SUV’s corrosive effect on the Porsche brand, you still have to wonder if this whole Cayenne thing is nothing more than porcine lipstick application.

The answer depends on two questions. First, would you drive a $112k SUV off-road? If you’re ready, willing and able to throw Porsche’s mad bad beast into streams and mud, over stones and sand, through forests and Wadis; to scratch your precious paint and dent your fantastic fenders, then I’ve got no beef with this truck. The Cayenne Turbo S can triple digit down a gravel road as easily as a Honda Fit can squeeze into an urban parking space. It can raise itself up, detach its front and rear anti-roll bars and overcome a medium sized boulder. Even without the Advanced Offroad Technology Package, the Cayenne Turbo S rocks. Literally.

Second, if I tell you that a German vehicle can blast from zero to sixty in 4.8 seconds and top out at 168mph; is that just about everything you need to hear? The Ford Mustang GT500 proves there are plenty of wealthy pistonheads for whom cornering ability plays second fiddle to the thunderous timpani of massive straight line thrust. If you’re a well-heeled truck-loving fool who lives for foot-stomping, neck-snapping yee-haws, the Cayenne Turbo S is good to go like Hell. And while the Turbo S doesn’t relish corners any more than a K100RS with a suitcase strapped to its ass, it is without doubt the least likely of its ilk to fall off the road should you be brave stupid enough to carry even a small portion of its considerable speed into a tight corner.

In case you hadn’t guessed, neither of these talents is enough to endear the Cayenne Turbo S to your humble reviewer. When I go off-road, I want a relatively simple and inexpensive machine that I can thrash and stash without paying the body shop cash. When I want to have my vision blurred by acceleration-squeeshed eyeballs, I want a small, light, low-slung machine that can corner like a Boxster S. And if I want a fast SUV, I want a beast that beams me from A to B in seamless, mindless luxury. This the Cayenne Turbo does not do.

Mind you, the Turbo S’ cabin is as far from a torture chamber as the Waihua spa at the Maui Ritz. There are Saville Row tailors who couldn't match the fit and finish of the truck’s fragrant Alcantara headlining and leather-wrapped dash. The toys are all present and accounted for, save a rear seat DVD system but including a BOSE blaster fully capable of drowning out your passengers’ screams (as they learn that a Boeing 747 isn’t the only behemoth that can fly). On the down low, the Cayenne Turbo S’ switchgear is a bit small, cheap and not so cheerful; a reflection of both parts bin cost saving and Bauhaus chic.

But the real trouble lies with the model’s engine – gearbox combo. As you might expect from a 2.5 ton vehicle with a turbo-charged V8, turbo lag is something of an issue. Even with 530 foot pounds of torque underfoot, it’s entirely possible to catch the Cayenne Turbo S’ six-speed slushbox off-guard and bog down. Much of the blame rests with the ECU’s struggle to reconcile bonkers speed, personal driving habits and the need to eke out more than ten real world mpg (e.g. it always starts off in second gear). Sometimes she’ll kick down two gears, sometimes one, sometimes none. Bottom line: wafters need not apply.

The Turbo S meets or beats any other luxury SUV in terms of off-road prowess and on-road élan. But it lacks that one ingredient that would make it an unimpeachable daily driver and a better vehicle than the magisterial Range Rover or the hot-to-trot ML63 AMG: mechanical harmony. Come the March refresh, we’ll learn whether or not Porsche's boffins have somehow fixed the Cayenne Turbo S' powerplant's inherent limitations.

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Fifth Gear - Porsche Cayenne Turbo



By Jay Shoemaker

Global warming. Some consumers consider hybrids the responsible response. Others are busy taking one last toke on the tailpipe of extravagance. Pistonheads, have I got a bong for you! After accelerating Porsche's 2.5 ton brick to 60mph in less than five seconds, I can only conclude that you NEED a Cayenne Turbo– if only to outrun the Earth Day crowd tossing rocks at your windows. The Turbo is pointless and politically incorrect and you better get one now before all the oil and clean air are gone forever.

The previous Cayenne Turbo was styled by the same people who train (inject? genetically engineer?) WWF wrestlers. The '08 model is even less in touch with its feminine side. In fact, the new Turbo's mammoth grill looks set to swallow a Miata whole. In the rear, quad pipes jutting out from my tester's prison wall rear made an interesting contrast to the trailer hitch ($630) located between them. The Porker's 21" wheels ($4145) had me checking my fillings ($375).

The Cayenne Turbo ($93,700) comes standard with plenty of modern conveniences: satellite radio, heated seats and steering wheel, dual zone climate control, etc. For slightly less than the price of a Kia Rio, your dealer will gladly upgrade his profit your comfort to the requisite extreme. How about a cool looking cargo management system ($590 or the same price as 118 bungee cords)? The panoramic sunroof ($3,900) is a must-see. But I'm not so sure about the rear camera and park distance control ($1680); I'd rather pay a bystander $5 each time I need help backing up.

The Cayenne Turbo's nav system had me wondering about the price of tour guides. I swear: Werner Von Braun couldn't operate this system. After my driving partner and I became momentarily disoriented (lost), he fiddled with the 39 buttons surrounding the nav screen for a good ten minutes. We eventually gave up and retraced our missteps.

As you might expect from a German automaker that came to luxury trucks via purpose built sports cars, the Cayenne Turbo has a few lessons yet to learn. Although the leather makes the grade, the plastic switchgear isn't pleasant at this price and the erstwhile operation of the Cayenne's fold-down rear seats is maddening. Continuing your OCD RTFM education from last week's Bimmer review…

First, squeeze the cleverly concealed latch that allows you remove the rear headrests and throw the neck savers on the floor. Next, pull on the back of the rear seat cushions, starting on the driver's side, until the bench stands upright. Now fold the seat back towards the front– oops, not enough clearance. Open the front door, move the front seats forward. Ignoring the effect on front legroom, fold down the seats [as] flat [as they can go].

On the flipside, Porsche engineers get Mehta-esque mad props for making the "refreshed" ‘08 Cayenne Turbo even faster than its preposterously pacey predecessor. Using direct injection engine technology (applied across the Cayenne line), Porsche's boffins boosted the Turbo's horsepower to 500 and upped torque to 516 ft.-lbs. I'm afraid it must be said: that's an excremental load of grunt for an SUV.

Forward thrust is appropriately brutal. The Turbo's weight actually adds to the experience– in the same sense that an F18 Hornet wouldn't be half as much fun blasting off a carrier deck if it weighed half as much. Unlike the outgoing Cayenne Turbo S, blower lag is no longer an issue. Although there's a momentary delay as the afterburners light-up, the twin turbos are wonderfully responsive to both a wide open throttle and cruise control. As you'd hope, the anchors are automotive arresting wires.

Acronym-starved rivet counters (and the Pendleton District Camera Club) will delight in the knowledge that The Sultans of Stuttgart have blessed the PASM-equipped Cayenne Turbo with yet another automotive acronym: PDCC or Porsche Dynamic Chassis Control. So now upmarket truck drivers get a side order of active stabilizers (on the front and rear axles) with their infinitely adjustable adaptive dampers. With both systems engaged (or at least going steady), you'd swear you were driving a VW GTI with sandbags in the back.

Again, the Cayenne Turbo's fuel economy sucks: 12 city, 19 highway, and a lot less when driven by the type of person bound to buy one of these astounding luxobarges. But hey, it's better than it was– only the EPA's changed the testing procedure so it doesn't seem that way and anyway how many people really care? About as many people who've taken this thing off-road.

If you're ready to party like it's 1999, the 2008 Porsche Cayenne Turbo will gargle gas, accelerate, brake and handle better than any of its competition– you know, if there was any. It's an extremely capable, utterly unique and completely indefensible vehicle. Nice one Porsche.

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By Matthew Neundorf

Since 1859, Charles Darwin’s theory of evolution has challenged religious fundamentalism. Forget Adam and Eve. Humans started as random spices in a primordial soup. Natural selection took us from soup to trees, trees to cars. And then Ferdinand Porsche created a mutant Volkswagen. Since its inception, the 911 has been evolution’s four-wheeled poster child, moving quickly from an oversteer monster to a supersonic pussycat. And then, on the seventh day, Stuttgart created the latest Turbo, a car so capable that driving it is a biblical revelation.

Walking up to my loaded lender, I realized that the more things stay the same, the more they change. The Turbo still wanders the line between “normal” and “steroidal” with delicious subtlety, advertising its alpha status with the kind of nonchalance one associates with closeted superheroes– and TV serial killers.

If natural selection dictates aero-friendly styling, artificial selection demands the return of the bug eyes. And there they are. Meanwhile, the Turbo moves the styling needle towards the temper of the times: Bauhaus bling. Clock the split-level induction ducts in the rear quarters and the new, “Audi-inspired” LED’s in the snout.

Nineteen inch two-tone rims (revealing epic brake discs) and a subdued spoiler indicate function, while Bette Davis’ eyes and Bettie Page’s hips project the iconic form. The Turbo’s wheels are by far the most “distinctive” yet offered as stock. To my eyes the fifteen-spoke Ferrari-esque pentagrams are the only miscue in an otherwise perfectly judged stealth wealth gestalt.

Open the Turbo’s door and the six figure price tag is well represented. Illuminated door sills greet, leather aromas intoxicate. The Turbo’s build quality and material choices offer haptic harridans Teutonic titillation. All the buttons and switchgear click with infinite precision, nestled within their intuitive homes. The Turbo’s low-slung sport seats hug your hide while the side bolsters holster your spare tire. Digital ICE rends Floyd asunder through thirteen channels. While Dr. B’s boom box isn’t as orchestral as Lexus’ Levinson unit, Turbo owners won’t care until at least their third oil change.

Twist the Ned Flanders-friendly ignition and life breathes into the miraculous mill through twin-intercooled turbines. (THAT’S what you paid to hear.) The horizon takes on a bi-xenon hue as you slot first. Loop your thumbs over the spokes at nine and three, mash the gas and the world begins to look like the Matrix. The seats give a little before they don’t; keeping you locked and loaded.

The last Turbo I sampled was of the calf-master floor-mount clutch variety. It provided an ideal setup for three pedal track tangos, but felt like three left feet when negotiating a city grid. The new Stiletto-savvy pedal positioning and lighter clutch uptake make pothole-piloting and Honda parking a piece of piss. Yes, well, even a gentle tickle on the go-pedal provides an unequivocal indication that this car is built to be driven hard and put away wet.

As enthusiasts of a certain age will tell you, waiting for big blowers to spool up sucks. I’m pleased to report that Porsche’s professors nixed the problem in the low-rpm bud by blending Variable Turbine Geometry (VTG) and VarioCam Plus. VTG modifies the planes directing exhaust gases to the turbine so that low rev launches are fully spooled. Those planes then change as the big tach needle in front of you flickers by, keeping optimum boost primed. VarioCam Plus keeps the twist on tap through two different cam profiles; city schlepping and Bahn burning.

The new Turbo Porker’s 3.6-liter flat six stables 480 apocalyptic horses. When dispatched, over 500 pounds of twist try to eat Mother Earth. In manual trim, rest to sixty arrives almost before it arrives: 3.7 seconds. Endure cries of wuss, and the Tiptronic S gets there .3 seconds earlier. To keep all that power from going up in ZR-rated Holy Smoke, an all new electronic controlled multidisc AWD system ensures forward motion.

There are very few cars that mind meld with the driver as quickly and easily as the new 911 Turbo. Look, point, accelerate. Wipe stupid grin from face and repeat. I’m told there’s a bit of understeer out there, somewhere. Didn’t see it. In fact, this car is so easy to drive at such stupendous speeds that within minutes I was thinking Matthew “Schumacher” had a nice ring to it. When your ego gets the better of you (and it will) Porsche Stability Management (PSM) steps in to save your bacon.

The new 911 Turbo is the fastest, friendliest and safest evolution yet– at least until the Turbo S arrives. Why in the world anyone would want to make this car any faster is beyond me. But then this is the company that has done more than any other to ensure that well-heeled speed freaks can procreate. That is, if their Porker’s ever parked long enough for them to bother.

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By Robert Farago

Sam Adams Light. Porsche Cayenne GTS. Same deal. Both the American light beer and the German "sport truck" are fundamentally flawed concepts– made palatable by knowledge, passion and invention. Did I say palatable? I meant enjoyable. You can quaff copious quantities of Sam Adams' 124-calorie-per-bottle beverage without thirsting for "real" beer. By the same token, you can drive the snot out of the 405hp GTS without asking your companion "Dude, where's my Boxster?" In both cases, if you didn't know better, you wouldn't, and you wouldn't care. But if you do, will you?

To placate the purists, the Sultans of Stuttgart have made the GTS a mucho macho machine. Wheel arches that once sheltered Bambi's friends are now stuffed with 21" tires. The GTS shares its nose with the range-topping Turbo– continuing to prove that you can't make a silk purse out of sow's snout. Yes, well, the GTS' no-cost optional rear spoiler is pure Porsche: stylish, slick and sick. The quad pipes, not so much.

Inside, there's nothing to remind GTS drivers that they're the something wicked that this way cometh. A meaty steering wheel pretty much completes the list. I was expecting Porsche to go the whole hog (so to speak) and fit some honest-to-Gott racing seats. Perhaps that's where the keepers of the flame drew the line; the chairs offer nothing more than a little extra bolstering (front and back) and Alcantara inserts, just waiting for juice box dribbles and Diet Coke debacles.

Kick-over the GTS' V8 and the next time you do so you'll be channeling the WWE's announcer. Initially, it's not so much a rumble as a whole lot of noise– which had me wondering if the GTS was firing on all cylinders. And then the vario-cam plus powerplant settled into the "outer space is really big" sub-woofer special effect, ready for a couple of infantile brap, braps on the go-pedal.

Obviously enough, the Cayenne GTS is quick. Should you wish to blast the beast from zero to sixty miles per hour (hey, you're paying for it), the German SUV will oblige your accelerative aspirations in 5.7 (manual) or 6.1 (auto) seconds. That's either a half second faster than the Cayenne S or, according to Car and Driver, not. Anyway, talk about motor authority; in full kick-down, the GTS' mill issues an entirely purposely growl, winding out to the redline with unrelenting determination. Followed by a tiny upshift beep. Oh, please.

Journalists have seized on the fact that the GTS comes with a stick (as does the base V6). Our GTS didn't; the Porsche guy says his store sells fewer manuals than an iPod dealer. Although reports indicate that the Porsche's six-speed self-shifter is a sloppy cog swapper, I was left lusting for an oar to row. Yes, once again, the Cayenne's gearing sucks.

Despite [new] direct injection technology, the GTS remains insensitive to anything but major inputs. It might be OK for a Saturn slushbox to rethink on the fly, but when you're shelling out $70k (and the rest), you don't want a vehicle that shifts down a gear, then shifts down again. You can use the Porsche truck's Tiptronic buttons to manage the problem, but the GTS is supposed to be a luxury sport SUV. [Note to self: did I just say that?]

The problem is, still, weight. The GTS tips the scales at a kaffe und kuchen-loving 4949 lbs. With Porsche unable or unwilling to ditch the SUV's phenomenal off-road capability, the boffins had no choice but to gear the GTS for mileage. While Car and Driver hails the Porker's "400 mile fuel range," the EPA reckons the GTS (auto) gets 13/18 mpg. Yeah right. Mix gas and air like you just don't care and you're looking at single digits. To achieve S-Class throttle response, well, how low can you go?

At least the brute handles impeccably, in a "747 doing a barrel roll" kinda way (true story). As long as you keep the GTS' handling Nannies on duty, you'll only run out of grip if you're stupid enough not to change over to winter tires (special order, big ticket). And although my lack of "ass calibration" (Porsche guy's term) prevented me from discerning any difference in any of the GTS' three suspension modes, no matter. The ride quality on those jumbo donuts is fully commuter compatible.

I also appreciate the fact the GTS' elevated seating position allows you do things on the highway that no low-slung sports car could/should do. But I'm still left wondering if the forthcoming four-door Porsche Panamera wasn't the family car Porsche should have built in the first place.

And I still prefer the Infinit FX45 for high-end SUV fast-driving fun. [Note to self: read previous note to self.] But the Porsche Cayenne GTS is easily the best fully off-road capable sport truck money can buy– including the less dramatically styled, lag-afflicted Cayenne Turbo. Put another way, the Porsche Cayenne GTS is the world's most-fire-resistant-paper-hat-on-wheels. Now that's saying something; although I'm not exactly sure what.

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By Robert Farago

Pontiac's ads proudly proclaim that their latest sports sedan is "the first ever G6"– as if the company somehow beat its competitors to build a G6. Which is what exactly? A car that gets 100 miles per gallon? Brings peace to the Middle East? Self-replicates? We all know the G6's REAL claim to fame: it's the first automobile personally bestowed upon every member of a studio audience by a chat show Queen, under false pretences. (Pontiac provided the vehicles, Oprah took the credit, recipients didn't like the taxes.) Otherwise, the G6 is a standard sort of car.

Come to think of it, that IS a major breakthrough. Pontiac has been making sub-standard cars for decades: front-wheel-drive machines with asthmatic engines, no handling and even less build quality. [NB: The new GTO is an Australian import.] The idea that GM's nominal performance division could create a machine that can hold its own in a class filled with talented, well-established Japanese contenders is about as credible as cold fusion. And yet, here it is.

This remarkable achievement is wrapped in an unremarkable package, which, again, is remarkable. Pontiac's current lineup is suffused with some of the most hideous cars to ever foul public pavement, including the inter-galactically execrable Aztek SUV. The G6's design may lack anything resembling panache, style or élan, but at least it doesn't make you want to run and hide. It's a distinctly Honda-esque shape, with a single striking characteristic: a "butt in the air" stance familiar to fans of French cars.

For some reason, Pontiac is embarrassed by the G6's Gallic posture; the website's photo gallery doesn't include a single rear end shot and the 360 tour whizzes past the angle at multiple kbps. In a move that rivals the Wizard of Oz' admonition to "pay no attention to that man behind the curtain", the site advises potential customers to view the G6 "from the inside out".

If so, Pontiac better hope that black is the new black. Aside from the silver bezels surrounding the main dials, the G6's interior is unrelentingly funereal. The HVAC and audio knobs offer common sense command and precision tactility (albeit without anything as sophisticated as climate control), but the tiny LED display is positively Vampiric in its aversion to bright sunlight. Like Nosferatu, the G6 is a night creature, best experienced when the backlit instruments' red glow gives the cabin a jet cockpit's sense of purpose.

Despite its rakish roofline, the G6' black hole will swallow five adults, provided the rear passengers are less than six feet tall and narrow of beam. (Kids ride free.) Ironically enough, the extra-commodious-for-its-class car's coolest feature operates when the cabin is empty. Press the remote start button on the key fob (which only operates after the car is locked) and you avoid both mafia-style assassination and the physical discomforts inflicted by environmental extremes. Unlock, pop the key in the slot, and you're ready to rock.

Make that rock lite. Pontiac endowed my first ever G6 with their umpteen millionth 3.5-liter V6. The General's venerable 200hp pushrod powerplant is a big step up from the base model's four-cylinder snoozer, but military pilots driving the car won't be left wishing they'd packed their G-suits. The sedan's laconic four-speed autobox doesn't help matters. The mileage-seeking shifter is reluctant to approach max power's neighborhood (5400rpms). You can thrash the G6 GT by snicking the shift lever sideways and tipping the gears manually, but that leaves you longing for a slick stick…

Still, any proper four-seater that can zip from zip to sixty in 7.2 seconds isn't exactly slow. And major props go to GM's boffins for dialing-out [most of] the torque steer that keeps other front-wheel-drive Pontiac products from sprinting from A to B without fishtailing to C. There's a bit of squirm when you plant your right foot, but it's nothing to get excited about.

The G6's handling is also more-than-merely-adequate, without straying into the realm of genuine exhilaration. Like its platform partners, the Saab 9-3 and Chevy Malibu, the G6's suspension sports gas struts up front and a four-link independent set-up in the rear. The result is a city-compliant ride with just enough body control to make spirited progress possible, if not particularly enticing– especially if you fancy a bit of at-the-limit oversteer. Even a Hollywood stunt driver would need a judiciously placed oil slick to induce a sideways smile.

Given its Euro-style design, dour cabin and semi-spicy performance, it's hard to imagine for whom the G6 rolls. At $27k "before incentives", the G6 may find a home with tuner-types, or frisky slackers, or someone who just wants an affordable mid-sized sedan. In any event, the G6 is the first ever budget Pontiac pistonheads should honestly consider renting– I mean, buying.

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By admin


On a recent episode of Jeopardy, none of the contestants could identify the company responsible for the motoring miscarriages known as the Aztek and Grand Prix. Seems GM's 'excitement' division has some heavy brush to clear. Despite the paddles-to-the-chest prospects of the new Solstice, the marque's main hopes for financial salvation lie with the Torrent. It's unfortunate that the name of the re-badged Chevy Equinox (or is it the other way around?) is commonly associated with the phrase "of abuse," because the little SUV doesn't deserve it. Well, maybe a trickle…

The Torrent excels in a sport in which most American cars don't even place– styling. Given the Torrent's only-a-cataract-eyed-mom-on-tranqs-could-love predecessor (What is an Aztek, Alex), Pontiac's gold medal in the sheet metal sculpting event is a Miracle on Ice-caliber result. Although the Torrent's sharp lines and tailored creases are standard-issue cute-ute, the SUV is one of the more cohesive-looking vehicles in GM's truck-heavy lineup. The Torrent's both perfectly proportioned and elegantly detailed. Even Pontiac's signature "butterfly" twin-port grille looks like it finally found a happy place.

The raise-the-roof reverie continues inside the Torrent's urban-but-not-intimidating interior. Yes, you've seen this GM dash frame before and turned away in not so mock horror. But the Torrent's two-toned color scheme, chrome accents, and cool orange glow lift the cabin beyond the cookie-cutter Sunfires of days gone by. Major controls (e.g. the round, user-friendly climate selection knobs) are well-spaced and Spock logical. The rectangular interior door handles nestle within black circles are rimmed with chrome, contrasting boldly with the tan leather lingering underneath. This is deft, Germanic-level pattern manipulation. Ich applaudiere.

Reach into the interior's underworld, however, and it's a different story. The driver's seat lives so close to the door I couldn't access the six-way power controls without painful exfoliation. The Torrent's cargo hold is eight lanes wide, but the two plastic tray-anchors jutting out from the frame seem specifically designed to eliminate the possibility of carrying anything larger than a college dorm fridge that isn't deformable. Tell your relocating buddy a new Barca will be good for the soul.

The all-wheel-drive Torrent comes equipped with a 3.4-liter V6 married to a five-speed automatic. The 185hp SUV bolts out of the gate like a cattle-prodded thoroughbred, then settles into a distinctly bovine pace. Given the Torrent's weight, the generously-torqued pushrod powerplant is adequate for the trudge at hand, nothing more. The smooth-shifting autobox and symphonic silence (provided by GM's expert noise suppression squad) keeps your mind from wondering if that's you getting in your own way (it is). As for the Torrent's fossil fuel factor, the EPA rates the mid-sized SUV at 18mpg in the city, 24 on the highway. The numbers are, of course, a stovepipe dream. I averaged 19-something during a seven-day mix of back roads and truckerbahns.

Pontiac's ads tout the Torrent's "car-like agility." Call me a gullible spin victim, but I expected the Torrent to negotiate corners like a car. Unless we're talking about a 3700-pound ten-year-old Honda Accord, it doesn't. Down twisting roads, the Torrent feels like a natural candidate for The Biggest Loser, or at least Sweatin' to the Oldies. Turn the wheel past nine o'clock and it's as if a nitrous-sucking dentist pumped the helm with Novocain. It's feel no evil, see no evil; the Torrent's C-pillars are to trucks what non-reflective coating is to stealth bombers. Push the Torrent through a turn and the apple cart you upset just might be your own. One hopes this isn't the kind of excitement Pontiac set-out to create.

Which reminds me: Pontiac bundles side impact and head curtain airbags with OnStar as part of a $1,090 option package. This shameless connection between consumer safety and corporate greed doesn't do the Pontiac brand any favors. Of course, if you're among the dwindling group known as Pontiac loyalists, you're not likely to complain about safety-related blackmail — or anything else for that matter. You'll take one look at the Torrent and say, yup, OK, fair enough. More discerning customers will see that GM is, once again, building an excellent vehicle that's a full model cycle behind the competition. Compared to more mechanically sophisticated mid-sized utes like the RAV4 (268hp) or Ford Escape (available hybrid), the Torrent's stylishness is only skin deep.

Despite its dynamic drawbacks, the Pontiac Torrent has just about enough vitality to make potential buyers forget about the brand's recent history as a washed-up producer of has-beens, also-rans and rental cars. But not quite. Given the quality of the alternatives, the Torrent needed to be faster, sharper and more fuel efficient. If Pontiac doesn't raise it's game soon, the brand will be back in jeopardy, heading for a $100 slot in the category 'DEAD CAR BRANDS.'

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By Terry Parkhurst

When you punch the Pontiac Solstice’s go pedal to the floor, you can almost hear that great Les McCann/Eddie Harris tune “Compared to what?” Normally, the Solstice is compared to the Mazda MX5 or its twin-under-the-skin, the Saturn Sky– which is a bit like comparing Heather Graham to Sarah Michelle Gellar and Salma Hayek. While it's clear that the GM cars have more visual appeal than the Japanese roadster, looks can be deceiving. Has GM “made it real,” or is the Solstice just playing a part?

The Solstice’s flowing sheetmetal is soft, sensuous and good-to-go. From the front, it’s a superb retro reworking of a mid-Fifties Thunderbird. (I reckon cops in several US states will specialize in writing Solstii tickets for failure to display a front license plate.) Move to the right, and it’s a Corvette mini-me. The wheels fill the arches so completely the car seems designed as an extra for “Cars.” The stubby rear end deserves twin pipes, but it might as well have that old white trash bumper sticker on it that says “I’m nuts about butts.” The sports car’s stance is yang to the body’s yin: it hunkers on the pavement like a crouching bobcat.

For old MG owners, lowering the Solstice’s soft-top is a piece of cake. For anyone else, it’s a nightmare. The small tent-like rear flutings must be drawn taut and attached via fasteners to the rear deck. And once you fold the canvas top into the trunk, there is no storage space whatsoever-– unless you count the passenger’s foot well. Whereas an MX5 driver can pack light and live, a Solstice driver is hard pressed to stow enough H2O to make it between Arizona rest areas. At a stroke, Pontiac has rendered the Solstice a toy, a four-wheeled motorcycle.

The Solstice’s seats place you low with the hood out high; it’s highly reminiscent of the last generation Chevrolet Camaro. Large, graphically dull black-on-white gauges (courtesy of the Chevy Cobalt) nestle in a nacelle that swoops away to encompass the shift lever. Three simple, round controls for the heat and air-conditioning (courtesy of the Hummer H3) sit just above the radio. Although the GM plastics [still] won’t worry Audi’s haptic team, the Solstice’s much-appreciated minimalism and aesthetic restraint give the cabin a purposeful mien.

Fire-up the 177 horsepower Eco-Tec and the mini-mill produces a warbling base note. Once underway, the 2.4-liter powerplant proves adequate shove for the task at hand; zero to sixty in 7.2 seconds may not set the world on fire, but it will warm it up a bit. Acceleration comes on steadily, like a turbo-prop desperate to leave an aircraft carrier. On the downside, the motor’s as thrashy as an International Harvester combine in an Iowa hay field. Peak torque (166 ft.-lbs.) arrives at 4800 rpm, generating more than enough vibration to discourage a regular exploration of the top of the rev range.

The Solstice’s five-speed transmission is a short throw work of art, snicking home like a Honda S2000’s shifter. No surprise there. Aisin manufactures the Solstice’s five-speed gearbox as well as Honda’s six. Yes, but– the Pontiac’s clutch has a decidedly springy feel and a distinctly heavy action. It’s not exactly truck-like, but those who look at this machine and think “girl car” will change their mind after driving it a dozen miles or so. Still, loping along with just a trace of suspension travel, you’d swear you were in a much larger car. Which is not always a good thing…

The sports car law of the decreasing radius will carry you deep into a turn, with more than a bit of understeer. There’s enough push at the throttle and rubber underfoot to get you through with [mostly] neutral balance registering at your seat. That said, the lightly powered Solstice is a porky little thing. Although the fully independent suspension (A-arms, coil springs, tube shocks and anti-roll bars front and rear) keep things tied down tight, with little cowl shake to disturb the proceedings, you still feel all of the Solstice’s 2888 lbs. through a bend. Unlike its deadly rival, the highly-evolved Mazda Miata, the Solstice doesn’t beg to be thrown about. And with ABS a $400 option, you really need to keep on top of things.

There’s no question that the Pontiac Solstice is a driver’s car. If nothing else, the slick shifter and communicative rack-and-pinion steering demand constant involvement, in the same sense an intelligent, beautiful woman always keeps you on your toes. But the Solstice lacks that final measure of entertainment– a rorty engine note, a bit of unnecessary shove, some real delicacy at the limit– that would make it a “fun” driver’s car. For the vast majority of owners, that won’t be a problem. They’ll love the looks, live with the lid and laugh as they go.

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