Scene but not Herd.

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So I’m typing this sat at Newcomb’s ranch off the Angeles Crest Highway in the middle of the San Gabriel Wilderness, about 40? Miles north of LA. I’ve just spent the morning carving up canyons in a mustang.  Pinch me now, I must have died and gone to heaven.

But let’s back up for a bit.  I am very fortunate at my young age to have a job that requires me to travel the world, and write about cars.  On this occasion I’ve come to the west coast, for the 2014 Los Angeles Auto Show.

  14 hours on a plane, the worst customs I’ve ever been through, and I find myself at the rental desk waiting to pickup my pre-booked “KiaRioOrSimilar”.  Hardly an appetising prospect I’m sure you’ll agree.  A moment of impulse and self indulgent credit card swiping later, I find myself in a ‘Murica red Mustang V6 cabrio.  This is not my first time in the states, nor driving a ‘stang, but the first burble when I turn the key still makes me feel like a naughty child. 

  I arrived at the hotel in Pasadena at what my body thought was bedtime +8, and thanks to my Spanish speaking neighbours and a highly confused body clock I was already restless at the crack of dawn.  Before my trip, I’d done a little research and scoped out the squiggliest 5 roads I could find north of LA.  Having risen so early, I wolfed down the diabeetus special breakfast, loaded the closest route I could find onto my iPwn, and hit the road. 

  This took me to the Angeles Crest Highway, a snaking ribbon of tarmac which heads into the San Gabriel Wilderness National park, joining Altadena to Interstate 15, in an uninterrupted string of petrolhead nirvana. 

As I began to climb, my face sprouted an unintentional smile, as the speed limit lifted and the corners became increasingly … European.

  I pulled over at the first major viewpoint I came to, and a delightful young Mexican family on holiday immediately began pouring over my Pony car.  I stopped to take some snaps of the incredible view looking back over the city.  This was small fry compared to what the mountains had in store for me.

  A small burnout was of course in order.

Initally, for the first 10 or so miles of canyon road, the mustang felt laboured, cumbersome, and all round like a pudding.  This was definitely an American car being used on a road better suited to something with half the weight, a manual ‘box and a centre of gravity lower than a rattlesnake.  No matter.  Improvise, adapt and overcome. 

  I eventually found my groove, after a couple more stops.  Stick the slushmatic into SST mode and it genuinely does hang on to gears – and keeping the traction control off allows for a little squeal out of each corner from the open rear diff, easily corrected. 

This groove went on for mile after mile, feeling the rhythm of the turns, flowing over camber changes, loading up the outside tyres with the near comical body roll, and squealing them out of every turn.  I didn’t care that it was an entry level V6 rental special, I was having the time of my life.  Top down motoring at its very best, enjoying every squeak of tortured 65 profile tyres, the smell of dust and pine trees, and the growl of the 300hp V6 finally getting an Italian tune up.

  I allow a biker on an R1 to pass me, and chase him for around 45 minutes up through the mountains, before pulling over at Dawson’s saddle, a peak on the northern fringe of this range, at an altitude of 7,900 feet.  The last two miles had been a very steep climb, and the road increasingly littered with rocks the size of my head.  The temperature had dropped to 32 degrees farenheit, or 0 celsius in new money, and still the sun beat down on my convertible. 

At this point, I came over all wussy, put the top up and headed back down to a Café I had passed earlier for some lunch.

  I was still giggling in ecstasy as I pulled into Newcomb’s ranch, which had a car park indicating its status as a petrolhead Mecca. 

It was a veritable who’s who of desirable motors, sporting a 50% mix of high powered motorcycles and 50% tuner cars.  BMWs, Subarus, a Porsche Boxster in heavy camoflauge with german number plates, EVOs, Nissans, and a stunning GT3. 

Slicks and downforce. Because race car.

I parked my lowly rental mustang in the heart of it all, and spent a good 20 minutes nattering with a couple of locals who had come up in an FRS about the epicness of this road.

  Inside the Ranch, the temple to ashphalt and octane continues, with a cosy bar/diner filled with motorcycle memorabilia, and even featuring its own (small) Ducati dealership.  Get the burger with everything on it, and a large soda of your choice.

  As I sit attempting to digest the half pound of epicness, I have a moment of deep thought, pinching myself at the epic half day I’ve spent up here in the mountains.  I’m just a normal chap from Milton Keynes, who drives a small diesel hatchback.  Just 48 hours ago, I was sitting at my desk, 4000 miles away.  And now here I am, living the dream, hooning across southern California in a mustang.  Epic day is epic.

  I am already vowing to return, although next time I will bring a manual featherweight to this fight.

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