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Serious as a Detroit Freeway
Car of Choice: 2005 Chevrolet Corvette Z51
Point A: A nondescript Suburb
Point B: Historic East Grand Boulevard, Detroit
Scenario:
In Detroit, cars are more than a vehicle, they are an extension of self. What you drive is who
you are, where you come from, where your family earned their keep, and where you spend a good
part of this lifetime -- behind the wheel going from point A to point B. Like most
Midwesterners who spent their formative years in a 100-mile radius of the Motor City, the
accompanying rides crystallize my childhood memories. I can still feel the sticky grip of
piping hot seats of my mom's Dodge Omni on my buns after a day at the beach. My best friend
Tracy's grandmother's hooptie Nelly, a burnished 1982 Chevy Malibu, came alive for Grandma
when our cheers coaxed the engine to life. My first date kicked off in an •88 Ford Escort. I
first experienced off-roading with my best friend Jim in his brand new Ford F-150, back in
1994. Yet, my Corvette experience came later when the rich dude (whose name escapes me) from
Bloomfield Hills snagged his dad's ride for the weekend to cruise up and down Woodward Ave.
Yet, as a passenger and savvy spectator, I didn't know a car could make my toes tingle!
My perspective changed the instant I launched the 2005 bell pepper yellow
Corvette Z51 to life with the push of the autostart button, and with a whoosh, foreign
sensations overtook me as I added throttle with a tap of my right foot. I had ridden shotgun
with brash ballers out to impress me with their clout in past models, but the enticement of the
sixth generation made it much more fun to ride in the drivers' seat. Just remember I said it
first: The Z51 is a car for a real woman.
I also didn't realize how seriously Detroit took its flagship model. Silly me,
underestimating the classic Corvette's power in its visionary designer Harley Earl's hometown
digs. Realizing the power I yielded, I decided to test her out on the ultimate strip -- the
Detroit streets -- where the car makes the person and the Corvette is BMOC.
 
 
All it took was one sunny, autumn afternoon of blazing rubber on the John Lodge
Freeway and any doubts about this prospect were quelled by the hoots and hollers I heard from
suburban Farmington to downtown Jefferson Ave. "Hey L'il Mama, can I ride with you?” It's no
accident that Aretha Franklin, Detroit's best loved queen of soul, composed her 1985 hit song
"Freeway of Love." While other states have highways, where roadhogs rudely jut in and out of
lanes like rabbits in heat, maxing out at 55-mph, they can't hold a candle to the ladies and
gentlemen who commute daily, gliding over winter's pothole kisses. For Motor City motorists,
driving 55-mph will leave you flat in the dust, eating Gram's dust in her Mary Kay pink
Cadillac.
While foreign fancies are hot, a superior engine emitting 400 stellar
horsepower and 400 "whoomp there-it-is” pound-feet of torque is as good at it gets. When the
mathematical equation is coupled with the curvaceous Corvette body, the title is undeniable.
After all, how could I go wrong with a car that has more curves than me? Effortlessly, I lifted
the targa top off and let the sunshine beat down as I accelerated past a sea of SUV lead foots
with my 6.0 liter V-8. The cool fall day didn't faze me as I cranked up the knob on the heated
seats.
Yet, quick to doubt my judgment, I decided that I needed to back my sense of
elation with expertise -- a mechanic hobbyist. I rolled up to my source's spot, with the XM
station pumping. I officially became the sweetest lady on the streets when he and the crew
peeped me behind the wheel, awed by the redesign. Abandoning his office work, he jumped into the
passenger seat. We engaged Magnetic Selective Ride Control, primed to adjust to my EZ-ride
preferences or his racecar driving fanaticism, opting for sport mode. Taking it one step
further, we fiddled with traction control, and delighted in the brake's buoyancy. The precision
provoked him to shout unprintable expletives in glee!
Forgetting the pile of work that called him, he joined me as we piloted the car
to a quiet street somewhere near East Grand Boulevard, a few blocks from the Motown Museum and
GM's former headquarters. We punched the clock, and boom, we were rolling tough on the Detroit
streets. The results were tantalizing -- less than 5 seconds and we were at 60 mph. As I
dropped him back to reality, I proclaimed my title as the baddest Sista' on the block.
As the sun melted into the open air, my Chariot was primed to turn into a
pumpkin. I made one last stop ã Palmer Park, a swanky inner city hood. I drove past a woman and
her kin in a spanking new Lincoln Navigator. She demanded to know the sticker price of my new
favorite sportscar. She jumped out of the car into the street when I revealed the magic numbers:
the coupe based at $44,510 and the convertible clocking in at $52,245. "Girl, are you serious?"
"Serious as a Detroit freeway," I said, tapping the
gas, headed toward I-75. |
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