How easy is your car to use?  I'm not talking about acceleration, steering or cornering. I'm talking about the mental effort required to successfully interact with your car’s secondary features, such as in-car entertainment or the trip computer. While controls like steering (the brilliant simplicity of a wheel), throttle (foot pedal farthest to the right) and braking (second-to-right pedal) are standardized for most vehicles certified for use on a public road, the majority of other controls are confusing enough to plunge an automotive reviewer (or a Hertz Platinum Club member) into RTFM rage.

Sometimes it’s a simple matter of old habits dying hard: in many ways the best interface is one you don't have to re-learn. If you're used to having to jab at a button several times to adjust the temperature several degrees while surveying the change on a display that’s located on the opposite hemisphere of the dash, that may be the best user interface—for you.

But that’s not the whole story when something as basic as starting the car has now taken on innumerous forms. Do you A) insert the key in a slot (to the right or left of the steering wheel or in the center console) and turn it or B) insert the key in a hole and push it or C) insert the key into a slot and push a start button or D) ignore the key altogether as long as it's on your person and then either push a button or twist a piece of plastic adjacent to the steering wheel? Each of these methods are used by at least one current production car—and I’m sure I’ve missed at least one type of ignition sequence.

Changing gears is a similar issue. If you want to upshift using an automatic transmission with a shift-it-yourself mode, do you tap the shifter forward, backward or to the right? Or do you use buttons on the steering wheel? If you use steering wheel buttons, do you push the button on the right to upshift or on the back to downshift and the front to upshift?  Or does the car instead use paddles behind the steering wheel? Which paddle do you use? Do you push or pull?  And in case you want to shift while turning, do the paddles rotate with the steering wheel or are they stationary?

Even something as simple as automatic door locks come complete with their own set of usability issues.  Do they lock when you put the car in Drive or when you reach a preset speed? Do they automatically unlock when you put the car back in Park?  Do they automatically unlock when you pull the interior door handle, and if so, in the back seat or just the front?  How do you disable them? Can you disable them?  Can you even answer these questions about your own car?

Clearly, usability and interface design principles are taking a backseat to aesthetics and automakers’ oddly conflicting compulsions to be both trendy and unique.  The problem is compounded by the unprecedented numbers of features being added to new cars, such as satellite radio and navigation, iPod integration, DVD players, Bluetooth cell phone connections, four-zone climate control, OnStar, heated and cooled massaging memory seats, etc. Without well-thought-out ways of interacting with these new features, the result is anarchy.  I’d like to know how many times BMW Assist has been summoned by X5 drivers who thought they were opening their sunroofs, since the corresponding buttons are poorly marked, nearly identical, and adjacent to each other in matching wells, for no apparent reason other than BMW’s ever-questionable ideas regarding aesthetics.

Annoyances aside, this is a serious matter. Among products that most of us deal with on a day-to-day basis, cars inhabit a special subcategory: products that regularly cause death.  Anything that requires us to dawdle too long with an in-car interface literally puts lives in danger, yet cars are still often poorly thought out or designed with form over function. No matter your opinion on how easy BMW’s iDrive controller is to learn, there’s no getting around the fact that you have to take your eyes off the road for significant periods of time to navigate through its seemingly endless hierarchy of menus.

While manufacturers may be aware of the problem, they’re not very good at solving it. They often seem to simply compete in shoehorning more features into fewer buttons, birthing such disastrous ideas as the aforementioned 11-way haptic feedback control knob (a.k.a. iDrive) and nearly equally—though differently—awful in-car voice recognition. For enthusiasts, these issues are particularly pressing. Any device which gets between them and driving is, rightly, reviled.  Any device that adds to their enjoyment without frustrating them is celebrated. For hi-tech-loving manufacturers, designing a car that’s easy-to-use that pleases the cognoscenti isn’t proving easy. 

The National Highway Traffic Safety Administration (NHTSA) has a mission: “Save lives, prevent injuries, reduce vehicle-related crashes.” NHTSA also commits itself to “providing the most accurate and complete information available to its customers, the American traveling public.” While NHTSA’s progress towards its stated goals is (and always will be) a matter of debate, the agency has failed us. They’ve failed to tell the truth about ABS.

Modern ABS consists of a computer (CPU), four speed sensors (one on each wheel) and hydraulic valves (attached to the brake circuit). When the CPU senses that one or more of the wheels are turning significantly more slowly than the others, it decreases the pressure on the braking circuit. If the wheel or wheels then turn too fast (freed from braking), the force is reapplied, creating a pulsing sensation through the brake pedal.

When Bosch’s Antiblockiersystem appeared on the US automotive scene in the late ‘70’s, safety advocates hailed electronically assisted braking as a life-saving technology that would reduce the number and severity of accidents. Tests under controlled conditions seemed to support the contention. NHTSA and the insurance industry quickly embraced and promoted the technology.

Thanks (in part) to insurance industry discounts, almost every passenger vehicle now sold in America is fitted with ABS. NHTSA’s web site proclaims “…an antilock brake system (ABS) is a safe and effective braking system. ABS allows the driver to maintain directional stability, control over steering, and in some situations, to reduce stopping distances during emergency braking situation, particularly on wet and slippery road surfaces.” The real-world evidence doesn’t support their claims. 

Researchers have compared accident and fatality rates for vehicles with and without ABS. Other studies have examined the driving records of ABS and non-ABS equipped taxi drivers in Munich and Oslo. The accident and fatality data shows that ABS exacerbates the severity of accidents in certain situations. The taxi study proved that drivers tend to take greater risks in cars equipped with ABS (although the difference in collision rates was not significant).  In short, ABS may do more harm than good.

More specifically, the studies show that ABS has no real-world effect on dry-surface braking, ABS-equipped vehicles take longer to stop on ice than non-ABS vehicles, ABS-equipped vehicles are more prone to roll-over accidents than non-ABS vehicles, ABS-equipped vehicles are involved more often in single car fatal accidents than non-ABS vehicles, and drivers of ABS-equipped vehicles tend to drive faster and apply their brakes later than non-ABS drivers.

The AAA Foundation for Traffic safety has determined that improper driver steering in an ABS-equipped vehicle can send it veering out of control. In their tests, jerking the wheel (as if trying to steer around an obstacle) in a 35 mph panic stop sent ABS-equipped cars careening across two lane widths. (Without the ABS, the car skidded in a straight line.) This behavior may account for the higher roll-over rates for ABS-equipped vehicles. Other research revealed that many drivers don’t use ABS properly; they pump the pedal as they would regular brakes.

NHTSA, the insurance industry, manufacturers and engineers are all well aware of ABS’ shortcomings. In 1994, Dr. Charles J. Kahane published a paper for NHTSA entitled “Preliminary Evaluation of the Effectiveness of Antilock Brake Systems for Passenger Cars." Kahane reported that “All types of run-off-road crashes – rollovers, side impacts with fixed objects and frontal impacts with fixed objects – increased significantly with ABS. Nonfatal run-off-road crashes increased by an estimated 19 percent, and fatal crashes by 28 percent.” Kahane also concluded that “Rollovers and side impacts with fixed objects… had the highest increases with ABS. Nonfatal crashes increased by 28 percent, and fatal crashes by 40 percent.”

In 1996, the Insurance Institute for Highway Safety published a news release titled “Antilock Brakes Don’t Reduce Fatal Crashes; People in Cars With Antilocks at Greater Risks- But Unclear Why.”  In 1998, Leonard Evans of General Motors’ Global R&D Operations checked NHTSA’s ABS crash data and concluded “it is unlikely that on dry roads ABS can materially reduce risk” and, more shockingly, “ABS is associated with a 44% increase in rollover risk.” In 1999, the Society of Automotive Engineers reported that “ABS was found to be associated with a 51 percent increase in fatal rollover crashes on dry roads. For fatal side impact crashes, ABS produced a 69 percent increase for unfavorable road conditions, and a 61 percent increase for favorable road conditions.”

The average cost of an ABS system is $240. Multiply that figure by millions of vehicles, add the number of lives lost and the injuries suffered because of ABS' ill effects, and the true cost of this potentially lethal braking systems is evident. At the very least, NHSTA should launch an immediate investigation into the advisability of fitting SUV’s with ABS. Meanwhile, you’ve been warned: ABS can kill. 

Obesity is rampant in America. Between the Center for Disease Control’s dire reports, documentaries like “Honey We’re Killing the Kids” and endless infomercials for every diet and exercise program imaginable, it’s obvious we’re becoming a nation of Fat Bastards and Sherman Klumps. Now the Environmental Protection Agency is sounding the alarm about our cars. The EPA recently announced that America’s vehicle fleet is the heaviest it’s been since Ford touted the Pinto’s “road hugging weight” as a safety feature. Our cars and trucks, like their drivers, are piling on the pounds.

Let's face it: most vehicles sold in America are obese.  Today’s average car is portlier than a binge-eating sumo, while your standard issue full-size SUV weighs as much as a fully-grown hippopotamus. In 1987, the U.S. fleet average was 3220 lbs. In 2006, the average US vehicle tips the scales at a scarcely credible 4142 lbs. In a time of high gas prices, when we should be building cars that eke out the last mpg, this makes no sense at all. Or does it?

In the intervening years, federally mandated safety equipment and the commercial importance of crash test ratings have added weight to America’s fleet. But, in 2001 (the last year where I could find applicable data), safety equipment accounted for only 125 lbs. of an average vehicle’s total weight. It’s risen since then, but even if you double this figure it’s still a far cry from the over 900 lbs. increase over the past 19 years.

Clearly, manufacturers have met passive safety requirements without resorting to simple fortification. In fact, the weight gain comes in spite of an upsurge in lighter-weight automotive materials. Cars were once built almost entirely out of ferrous materials; today’s vehicles are constructed with less than 65% steel. The remainder consists of materials like plastic, aluminum, magnesium, titanium and balsa wood. Yet vehicles keep adding poundage.

Of course, it takes energy to move all this mass around. While most manufacturers meet federal Corporate Average Fuel Economy standards (save fine-paying miscreants like BMW), almost every single carmaker has shown a lamentable decrease in overall fuel economy during the past three years. As weight goes up, so does fuel consumption. It doesn’t take a genius to figure that one out, so why can’t carmakers cut the crap?  Why aren’t they doing more to decrease the weight of their products across the board?

The bottom line is the bottom line. The auto companies are in business to make money (Ford’s and GM’s recent performances notwithstanding). Large SUV’s and pickups are far more profitable than passenger cars. Automakers have been doing everything they can to push as many of these money-makers into the hands of the consumer as possible. Until recently, the car-buying public rushed to them like bomb shelters in Baghdad, oblivious to their appetite for Jurassic juice. As car makers sold entire flotillas of big-ass behemoths, they’ve driven the average weight stats higher and the fuel economy averages lower.

Consumers who wouldn’t even think of buying an SUV or pickup truck are also contributing to the trend toward excess automotive avoirdupois. Once upon a time, electric windows, remote alarms and power door locks were a luxury. Just ten years ago, sunroofs, automatic climate control and sat nav systems were restricted to luxury cars. Today, all these toys are available in the most basic econobox, and a “necessity” in any car with upmarket pretensions. Extra goodies, extra weight. No wonder the two-door Honda Civic has porked-up nearly 400 pounds over the past 10 years.

So what’s the solution to this weighty problem? U.S. car makers must get serious about slimming down. Earlier this summer, several automakers established weight targets for parts and asked suppliers to redesign them accordingly. That’s an excellent step in the right direction, but they need to go further. Every manufacturer redesigning their products– from economy cars to mid-size sedans to full-size SUV’s– needs to make weight loss a top priority. They should trim vehicle weight by at least 20% while maintaining utility. And why not? In 1977, GM downsized their entire full-sized passenger car lineup and watched sales go up.  It’s time for an encore.

The American Plastics Council estimates every 10 percent reduction in weight delivers a seven percent increase in fuel efficiency. If the 5342 lbs. Chevrolet Tahoe lost 20% of its fat, urban mpg would rise from 16 to 18.24 mpg. But fuel economy isn’t the only benefit. Can you image thrashing a Pontiac Solstice that weighed 500 lbs. less? Or how much more tossable a Honda Civic hatchback would be with today’s power at ‘96’s weight? For pistonheads, “road hugging weight” is as undesirable today as it was in the 70’s. No matter how you look at it, it’s time for all U.S. vehicles to go on a diet.

A recent TTAC post asked for nominations for the car most likely to get you “a date” (as my wife puts it).  Our well-informed readers made all the obvious suggestions: studly Italian V12’s, check-out-my-package Teutons, midlife-crisis American roadsters, horny-royal Astons and phallic-as-you-wanna-be XKE’s. Yet nobody mentioned the absolute sure thing getluckymobile: the Amphicar. Yes, we’re talking about that 1960’s-era wackiness that answered the question nobody asked:  “Wouldn’t it be cool to have a car that floats?” Schwing!

The Amphicar is the only amphibious civilian vehicle ever put into commercial production. The machines trace their ancestry to the Wehrmacht’s Schwimmwagens, Ferdinand Porsche’s VW-based creation for Hitler’s Third Reich. After the war, a company backed by the Quandt family (which also owned a controlling share of a then-tiny German car company called BMW) produced a civilian amphibious vehicle that took up where the stark military motorfowl left off. During seven years of operation, Amphicar built 3878 Model 770’s. At a stroke, U.S. emissions regulations ended the company’s viability. About half of the vehicles produced survive. Somewhere between 300 and 600 are still “swimmers”– the Amphiphile’s term for ones that still float.

With a bespoke land-and-water transmission, Amphicarians can use either the machine’s wheelsor its twin props. As detailed by amphicar.com, the platypussian beast’s "land transmission" is a four-speed-plus-reverse unit similar to those found in the old Volkswagen Beetle. The "water transmission" is a two-speed transfer case, offering only forward and reverse gears.  The Amphicar’s one major innovation in an admittedly limited genre: the front wheels double as rudders.

So what’s this tremendously odd creation of a normally sane people like to drive?  Novice seaplane pilots will tell you that your first reaction to an obstacle in the water is to step on the brakes. I’m sure that many new Amphicar drivers have discovered that this approach isn’t any more effective in an amphibious car than it is in a Cessna 185 on floats. In fact, piloting an Amphicar in the water requires no more skill than steering a small boat. But there are unique “challenges.” For example, to launch an Amphicar into the water, you must either enter very slowly or very fast. Anything in between and you risk turning a 2300-pound lump of German steel into a submarine.  And after you’ve driven ashore, remember that the Amphi’s brakes don’t work; the drums and shoes are totally aslosh.

Drivers/helmsmen engage the Amphicar’s twin screws (no pun intended) via the two-speed transfer case. Unlike wooden or fiberglass boats, Amphicars have no natural buoyancy. If the convertible top and windows are down, an errant wake or sudden waves can turn a swimmer into a drowner. And heaven help the passengers who forget where they are and open a door. No wonder Amphicars have a secondary door-snugging handle to guard against this distinctly unnautical behavior.

The Amphicar’s 1950’s Triumph Herald pushrod four has a carburetor the size of a can of orange-juice concentrate and produces 43 hp. The Amphi’s zero-to-60 time is 43 seconds. (No, not 4.3 seconds, forty-three.) Maximum speed on water is seven miles per hour, while 70 mph on land (allegedly) is all you get. To paraphrase car reviewers in the day, the Amphicar “was a lousy car and a worse boat.” Or, as a lost-in-the-mists-of-history Car and Driver writer put it, “As a car, it handled like a boat.”

Yes, but– Mechanix Illustrated’s Tom McCahill understood the utter meaningless of the model’s on-road performance. He knew that owning an Amphicar made you the instant king of the lake. “Hey babe, wanta ride?”  Think about it.  Hot sun, summer vacation, beach, beer, bathing suits, a cool little car that turns into a boat with a back seat…what more do you need?

Once you pointed that puppy down the boat ramp and hit the water runnin’, no summertime honey would care about the Amphicar’s skid pad numbers or whether it could out-accelerate a Crosley Hotshot. Hell, you’re already halfway home. You’re in shorts trying to hide your wood and she’s wearing one of those new two-pieces called a bikini. You’re engaging the twin props and revving that suddenly throaty Triumph, she’s already what might as well be 80 percent undressed and is squealing that your cute little car is “far out.” That’s what we said in the‘60s.  It was the Age of Aquarius, and the Amphicar should have been its ride.

Most moderately restored Amphis go for $20k to $35k. The occasional garage queen pulls down $50k. When an Amphicar sold for just over $124k at last winter’s big Barrett-Jackson auction, it served as a prime example of what can happen when bidding fever overwhelms common sense.  Admittedly, the john did buy 12 other cars that day as well, so perhaps he thought he was bidding on an Amilcar.

When the Toyota Prius first came out, I drove one around West Virginia.  When I pulled into a gas station, the owner sauntered out, all curious-like.  “What’s that?” he demanded.  “I never seen one of them before.”  It’s a hybrid, I explained.  You can run it on either the electric motor or the gas engine, or both of them together.  “They ought to have a switch,” he said. “So you can run it only on electricity.”  So much for my Harvard degree.  The guy was way ahead of me.

Toyota should be all over the plug-in hybrid electric vehicle (PHEV) concept like stink on bumwad.  Perhaps their unintentionally non-commercial experience with the all-electric RAV4 EV put them off the concept.  They probably figured that a mainstream motor requiring nightly recharging would be as popular as a compact Cadillac diesel with 8-4-0 cylinder deactivation.  Still, Toyota’s beginning to get with the program— as are Ford, DaimlerChrysler, George Bush and every green-leaning op-ed columnist.  Appropriately enough, the change of heart’s down to a small group of Californians long derided as rich hippies with too much time on their hands. 

These much-maligned Left Coasters are engineers and entrepreneurs rallying around an e-banner called CalCars.org .  They’ve been known to spend an extra $10k to $12k per car to add plug-in capability to their hybrid transportation.  They plug in their Prius at night, charge a special set of drive batteries, roll out of bed and commute and/or run errands entirely on amps.  Their modified Prius won’t fire up its internal combustion (IC) engine until they’re doing 35, provided they stay light on the throttle. 

Obviously, a PHEV isn’t going to help drivers with an 80-mile, 80-mph commute.  But it works for me.  Once every weekday, I loop around the local post office, gym, hardware store, Radio Shack, dentist or whatever.  Give me a range of 35 in-town electric miles and I’m there.  If I deplete my plug-in hybrid’s batteries, I’ll simply go to gas and carry on.

The PHEV eliminates the fatal flaw of electric cars: limited range.  If your commute is reasonably short, plug the puppy in at work and motor back home with a full tank of volts.  You probably won’t need to fire up the IC engine until the weekend trip to Vegas. Based on the American driver’s typical daily runs (they average seven miles each), a PHEV could deliver 100 mpg or more.  People who ride Vespas do half as well.

Toyota’s standard it-won’t-work whine: the Prius’ nickel-metal hydride (NiMH) battery puts out lots of power for a short time.  It wouldn’t survive daily deep discharge/recharge cycles.  In fact, Japanese and Euro-spec Prii have an electric-only switch, so owners can move their hybrid to the other side of the street [in accordance with local parking laws] without having to start them up, apparently.  That said, a Prius won’t even travel a mile on its standard internal battery.  Bottom line: a useful plug-in hybrid requires a lead acid “energy battery,” which are notoriously heavy and short-lived. 

At first, CalCars’ hackers circumvented this limitation by installing a secondary set of lightweight lead-acid batteries, originally intended for electrical bicycles.  They’ve since moved on to lighter, longer lasting (and more expensive) lithium-ion batteries.  The secondary batteries don’t put out a whole lot of power, but it’s enough to chug a light car along for an hour or two.  Of course, you need controllers and wiring to make it all work.  But as they say, if it was easy, everybody would be doing it.

Spare batteries in the trunk, homemade wiring, thousands of dollars per car for electronics, a week’s DIY work… of course the PHEV makes no sense.  But I suspect Toyota, Mercedes or even GM could make it a lot more sensible.  Hey, don’t tell me a society that can develop the Ionic Breeze air purifier and sell expensive pills to reduce stress-induced belly fat can’t invent better batteries…

Yes, I know: electricity comes from “somewhere" and arrives complete with its own environmental costs.  But one huge factor in electricity’s favor— and why it will supplant both gasoline and hydrogen as the power source for future cars— is that amps and volts already have a perfectly good transportation and supply infrastructure: power lines, household wiring and extension cords.  No other source of alternative energy starts with such an obvious advantage.

Best of all, electricity comes from a wide variety of existing, plentiful, independent, domestic sources: coal, nuclear, natural gas, hydro, garbage, even solar and wind power.  Worse comes to worst, I could even recharge my plug-in hybrid vehicle’s batteries by hooking it to my Exercycle, since it’s actually an alternator that provides variable resistance when I pedal.  Try that with diesel, fuel cells, hydrogen, fusion or Kryptonite.  Clearly, the PHEV is a shockingly good idea.

All cars should have a V8.  For one thing, the modern eight cylinder engine is inherently balanced; it has completely overlapping power impulses.  In other words, one cylinder fires before the previous cylinder has finished contributing, creating a much smoother power delivery with fewer impulses. That’s why a V8 can use the same drivetrain components as a much smaller four cylinder engine with half the displacement.  There is no need for secondary balance shafts, and no unpleasant vibrations to annoy the passengers and reduce the life of the exhaust system and other accessories.  It’s the smoothest engine configuration money can buy.

In contrast, inline four cylinder engines are inherently unbalanced.  Because of the geometry of the crankshaft and rods within the engine, fours shake in both the horizontal and vertical planes.  There’s only one way to mitigate the effect: add unbalanced shafts to create counter-vibrations. This “fix” adds weight, complexity and cost.  Even so, the inherent vibrations from a four cylinder engine wreak havoc on accessories and require extra mass in all the mounting brackets and related parts.  In fact, by the time a four cylinder engine is tamed, it weighs and costs almost as much as a V8.  And the customer still suffers the noise and vibration penalties that come from skimping on cylinders. 

V6’s also have inherent imbalances, though not nearly as severe as a four. Depending on the block angle, V6 engine operation creates vertical or horizontal forces.  The most sophisticated V6 engines also have balance shafts, again adding to complexity, cost and weight.  Fives, threes and twos have even worse vibrations, some beyond simple analysis.  V10’s add the vibrations of two five cylinder engines together, which is better at some speeds, worse at others.  Turbocharging or supercharging four or six cylinder engines to get to V8 power levels simply adds more complexity and weight to an already challenged engine design, and sacrifices the low end torque of a naturally aspirated powerplant.  (Just ask Mercedes’ AMG division, who’ve recently switched from supercharged eights and sixes normally aspirated 6.3-liter V8's.)

Odd numbers of cylinders, like three or five, are inevitably the result of cost-cutting.  Sometimes there’s no time or money to tool for a smaller engine, so a few cylinders are lopped off an existing engine.  That’s why GM’s lackluster small pickup trucks and the Hummer H3 sport a five cylinder engine. Ten cylinder engines, currently deployed in Vipers and some Dodge and Ford trucks, are another cost-cutting move.  Engine not powerful enough?  Add two more similar cylinders and call it good.

The provision of V12 engines in luxury cars is even more perverse.  V12’s are no smoother than a V8 and add (you guessed it) weight, complication and cost.  While that may be the manufacturer’s intent, it still makes little engineering sense. Jaguar gave up on V12’s a while ago.  Aston Martin passed on their V12 to offer a V8 in their latest car.  In fact, thanks to the V8’s relatively light weight, good power output and compact packaging, the engine configuration is, belatedly, making gains in the European market.  BMW, Mercedes, Volvo and Audi all offer Euro-spec V8 passenger cars. 

Once you’ve committed to a V8, there are a lot of reasons for making it a pushrod.  A single camshaft simplifies a lot of things, and the narrow heads associated with pushrod engines allow greater flexibility in vehicle packaging. Thus smaller cars can enjoy a V8 engine.  Before the outraged techno-comments start dropping at the feet of this post, it should be noted that the most powerful racing engines in the world are pushrod V8s, with two valve heads to boot. Some of the fastest cars you can buy in America have pushrod, two valve V8’s. The Chevrolet Corvette is only the most prominent example.

So why don’t all cars have V8’s?  The answer lies in marketing, rather than engineering.  Marketing has declared that V8 engines are best suited to high-end, high performance cars, while the masses should get by with “economical” fours and sixes.  The public now believes that V8 means bad mileage.  The opposite is true– at least potentially. Mileage depends on two factors: the weight of the car and how fast you go.  Engine size and cylinder count have little to do with it.  Of course, bigger engines encourage people to accelerate and drive faster, but that’s not the engine’s fault.  And new technology is mooting the V8 as gas-guzzler argument.  Multi-displacement systems (a fancy way of saying that four cylinders go on vacation when not needed) have the potential to dramatically increase V8 mileage under light load conditions.

In short, for pistonheads at least, the five saddest words in the English language are still “I could’ve had a V8”.

There has been a little throw-down among the TTAC writers of late regarding the benefits of the DSG paddle shift transmission vis-à-vis the gold-standard fully synchronized five, and six-speed marvels of metallurgy, casting and machining.  I have to conclude that some folks just can’t master the manual shift manipulations to the point of self-satisfaction.  Well, I can’t play guitar by ear, so I like those electronic effects that help cover up my musical shortcomings.  But Chet Atkins and Van Halen like straight axes.  So what’s up with all the happy talk about automatics?  

So neophytes can’t shift or clutch properly, but they can flick those little shifter paddles– letting the computers match all the moving parts– and feel manly and proud.  Well those who have spent a lifetime distilling the purity of driveline harmonics will always enjoy more of the real essence of driving. Computerized shifts all feel and sound synthetically perfect and uniform.  But a maestro working the loud pedal, clutch and shifter does more than drive; he expresses individuality and emotion.  Think electronic drum machine vs. Buddy Rich.   

If you don’t quite get the value of this automotive self-expression thing, let’s start with the typical launch.  All that is required is a good clutch, accurate throttle and some decent hardened steel pipes.  OK; feeling a little down?  Go for a low-rev clutch-drop. The engine bogs down slightly until it catches and runs up to the first shift point.  A longish idling pause while snatching second continues the melancholy mood.  The slow second gear climb-out extends the dark, minor-chord.  All who hear intuitively understand the underlying color, whether or not they realize it.

Excited?  Hurried?  Joyful?  Then it’s a high-revving slip-clutch launch for you.  Spin the clutch facings a bit, then the [hopefully rear] tires.  When the traction finally locks-in at a few thousand revs, quick shift to second and upwards.  You have just performed the rapidamente movement of a concerto.  Light, frolicking, and gleeful. O happy day!  The fortissimo roll out, on the other hand… We’re talking a hammer-down, barking and staccato assault; an unmistakable musical notation that leads the listener to expect a crescendo of speed and fury.   

Then there are the shift nuances.  Remember: computers don’t have emotions.  Their mission is perfection in all things.  But this aria is human.  Are the shifts over-revving, clutch stabbing locked-down-throttle wailings?  Or are they blipped, measured and even?  Maybe there are uneven runs– long in second, short in third, matched in fourth and fifth—signifying indecision and doubt.  You are weaving an aural story as you drive, synchronizing man and machine, reacting to the environment, mastering Mother Nature through your own unique animal nature.

Finally, the downshifts. Does a slow turn end in a boggy fade-away or a two-gear drop and run? Insight?  You bet!  Coming to a stop, and nothing until a second or first gear catch… a little bored maybe?  Or is there a focused grouping all the way down through each gear?  Even some double clutching and blipping?  That’s a high energy player there.  And when everything tightens up with higher and higher pitch at the end of a gearing-down halt, it’s simply voicing the angst felt at the end of speed and forward progress.  But sometimes there is the sound of total surrender: the clutch-in coast-down to a full stop.  Maybe you’ll feel better tomorrow.  

The modern car is more than its parts.  It’s an instrument.  The designers and engineers create the musical score.  The suspension comprises the percussion section.  The aero is the woodwinds.  The exhaust the brass.  The engine plays the melody while you conduct.  The steering wheel is your baton.  The clutch and shifter set the tempo, while your throttling raises and lowers the orchestral dynamics.  Hushed here, hell raising there, you throw your head back and celebrate all that is sound, vibration and movement like a true conductor.  

My point is this: when you want to DRIVE, when you want to fully experience all that hurling large amounts of shaking and slamming metal and shape-shifting rubber encompasses, if you want to stand in front of the orchestra and feel it respond to your every whim, you have to take the baton and lead with your soul.  Commuter cars not withstanding,  when you get your Cayman S, your Corvette Z06,  Stradivarius Lotus Elise, or any really drivey road rocket, if you check the automatic box on the spec sheet you are robbing yourself of the thrill of being master, commander, large and in charge.  Your Song will not Remain the Same (apologies to Led Zeppelin).

So suffer a bad shift.  Kill the motor (preferably at a busy intersection).  Miss a gear. Hit the limiter.  Laugh at your foibles.  Have fun.  Modern love is not automatic.

As I’ve aged, I’ve begun to notice that certain carmakers are determined to enrich chiropractors and practitioners of restorative dentistry.  When driving my Nissan 350Z, I found myself avoiding pockmarked roads for fear of ceiling-related spinal compression.  Even on smooth roads, I couldn’t quaff carbonated beverages.  Since then, I’ve created a checklist of cars my increasingly fragile skeletal system cannot abide. This includes the aforementioned Z, the Acura TL, pretty much any Infiniti or Porsche product, the S4 and S6 Audis and the Lexus SC430.  There is a special sub-category— torture– reserved for the vehicles made by BMW equipped with run-flat tires.

I understand the concept behind run-flat tires. Changing a flat on the side of the highway is only slightly less dangerous than marshalling at an Estonian track day.  Since most people pull over at the first whup-whup, run-flat tires could be a life saver.  Drivers can reach service without the need to sit on the side of the road and pray that drunk, fatigued and inattentive drivers have already found a safe place to crash.  And then there’s the complexity and the mess.  I personally have no problem jacking my own car (it’s getting the jack re-stowed that puzzles me), but there’s no way to change a tire without ending up with the tire stats imprinted on your clothing.

Run-flat tires are fine in theory.  In practice, at least as applied by the Bavarians, it destroys all hope of a luxurious ride. I’ve sampled the BMW 645, 545, 650 IC and 330 with run-flat tires.  Every single one was harsh riding: introducing an unacceptable amount of impact-related violence to otherwise stable suspension and solid chassis.  And that’s without discussing the stiff sidewalls’ numbing effect on BMW’s formerly sublime steering, on top of the automotive Novocain BMW calls Active Steering.  In any case, compound run-flat fatigue with nineteen inch wheels (sport package) and there you have it: the ultimate punishing machine.  

German car lovers often shake their heads knowingly and point out that Bimmer’s backyard is also the original home of the billiard table road.  I’ve been to Germany often.  And it’s true; find a twisting two-lane road in the Bavarian countryside and you’ll be traversing a surface as smooth as a supermodel’s epidermis.  But it’s also true that the roads in and around Munich, and throughout the formerly communist eastern part of the country, are marred by potholes and bumps.  No; I think it’s down to age-related snobbery.

Perhaps BMW believes that once a potential customer turns 50, the tipping point where enthusiasts are suddenly willing to trade razor-sharp handling for long-distance commuter comfort, they should be earning enough money to afford their more expensive models.  This would explain why Bimmer’s most costly cars– the 750, M5 and M6– don’t sport run-flats.  Of course, that theory wouldn’t explain the fact that the 7-Series was the first BMW model to include the pre-Boomer’s worst nightmare: the iDrive mouse-driven multi-infuriating controller.  But it’s possible that BMW’s left hand doesn’t know what the right hand is doing— which is about as good a description of iDrive as I can provide. 

This run-flat torment is not the roundel’s exclusive domain, but they have certainly perfected the torture.  RF tells me that tire technology is evolving; that the 325i is not so bad, and that the comfort – handling nexus will eventually be sorted.  For the time being, nothing beats installing a couple of pairs of proper summer and winter shoes.  But I’m not happy buying a brand new car only to throw out (or wait out) the OEM tires for something that should have been installed from the git-go.

Meanwhile, I’m struggling to understand why we need wheels larger than 17” for street use.  As I drive down the highway next to a youngish person driving a Chrysler 300 with double dubs, I notice how the driver looks bobble headed as their car impacts abruptly over the slightest road imperfections. What is the point of this?  At the risk of pissing off at least three separate demographic groups, I blame women for both trends.

My wife loves the idea of run-flat tires.  In fact, she thinks all tires are run-flat capable (which explains why every flat tire in my house is accompanied by the need for both a new tire and a new wheel).  In addition, my wife doesn’t complain about the deterioration in ride quality from run-flat tires.  I suspect her tolerance for auto-related physical abuse is related to her reasoning for wearing shoes (especially high heels) that “look fantastic” but eventually, inevitably, hurt like Hell.  So let’s make those twenty two inch run-flat tires standard equipment on all the chick cars and let me have my seventeens and some Michelin Pilots and call it a day.

I'm always amazed at how easily automotive PR folk slip into jargon-laden sound bites. I guess when your work involves something that doesn't appear on civilian radar– "my wife works with tires"– rattling off cool stats and technical terms to a pistonhead journalist must be the default option.  Still, I consider it my responsibility to try to get these technological flackmeisters to connect with their product, and us, on a more emotional level.  Of course, that only works if they do.  Dunlop's Janice Consolacion does.   

One afternoon, while watching a radar-controlled German ubersedan drive itself, the fading sun struck my eyes. Surrounded by microprocessors, solenoids, relays, pumps, controllers, fans, sensors, circuit boards and endlessly coursing electrons, I did what every driver must do: I reached up for a vinyl-covered board and pivoted it down to cover a small patch of windshield through which I now could no longer see. Excuse me? The $105k four-door was crowded with technology, all of it entertaining, much of it only occasionally useful. Yet no one had thought to correct, improve, replace, redesign or reconceptualize a device as primitive as the Budweiser Clydesdales’ blinders. What’s that all about?

In an era when even ordinary sunglasses readily change their opacity, and upmarket carmakers play pointless electroluminescent tricks with sunroofs, we still lower plastic panels in front of our face to block the sun on the windshield. You can't see through sunvisors. They cover only limited areas of the windshield. And because they pivot on a mechanical device as sophisticated as a drawer-pull, you can move them through, at best, two axes. In short, the sunvisor is a low-tech nightmare that needs immediate attention. In this it is not alone.

My first car was a 1936 Ford Phaeton. The vehicle had rubber strips on metal sticks that flapped back and forth to sort of clear the water off the windshield. The aforementioned 2007 supersedan has rubber strips on metal sticks that flap back and forth to sort of clear the water off the windshield glass. I've piloted Learjets that didn't have windshield wipers; they use artfully directed hot air. On final approach in the rain– the only time you're bothering to clear the windshield in a jet– the Lear wasn't going any faster than any big Mercedes, BMW or Audi.

How about jacks? Aren’t they the work of a genius? Actually they are. If you have to change a tire, you use a mechanical screw device invented during the Renaissance by Leonardo da Vinci. In fact, only da Vinci would still bother trying to use one. The rest of us call Roadside Assistance, since tires and wheels are too heavy to lift anyway. No, don’t bother telling me how much you and Pat Robertson can bench-press. The point is that the whole tire-changing ritual– jack, lug wrench, multiple nuts and studs– is still performed exactly as it was for a 1932 DeSoto.

Fuelling our cars also hasn’t changed since the Hoover administration. You unscrew a cap and stick a crude spigot into a filler pipe. Of course, this assumes you can find the artfully hidden switch that unlocks the little door covering the cap. I almost abandoned [an owner’s manual-less] Ferrari when it proved virtually impossible to locate the damn gas-flap toggle. The only part of refueling that’s improved since World War I is the gas pump itself, which now requires credit card activation.

True, there are ancient devices on/in cars that work wonderfully. A $1.29 hardware-store ignition key springs to mind. So how is it that car keys have grown in both complexity and size– to the point where I keep expecting the women in my life to ask, “Is that a luxury car key fob transponder in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?” Heaven help you if you lose your lump in Mae’s couch; a new key now sets you back $400.

Consider hood latches. How many times have you fished around in that damn one-inch gap between hood and fan shroud, tearing gouges in your knuckles in the fruitless search for a latch release designed by a moron hewing to 100 years of tradition established by idiots? Who wrote the law that hood latches have to be accessible only by the flattened fingers of a concert pianist? Why do we need to go through the same hood-latch exercise our grandfathers did when everything else in the world can be made to answer to a remote? (The key!)

Understand that it’s the latch that pisses me off, not the opening system. To wit: Porsche has long since abandoned its perfectly good mechanical-cable hood-popping system for an electric release. So when you run the battery dead in a Porsche Boxster– easy enough to do when you raise the roof and forget to turn the ignition off– there’s no way to reach the battery. It sits quite happily underneath the electrically operated, now-immobile front hood. You have to get on your knees outside the driver's door, reach under the dashboard and use jumper cables to pop the switch that opens the front hood. Needless to say, you then have to repeat the exercise to jump the battery.

I guess we should be careful what we wish for.

Imagine the world's best car salesman. He knows your name, buying history, automotive likes and dislikes. He knows your car: its age, condition and service history. He knows your budget and preferred finance method. He knows what car-related purchases you like: stereo upgrades, driving instruction, branded merchandise, etc. He knows when to approach you, and when to back off. He's friendly yet authoritative, completely informed about ALL automotive products and scrupulously honest. And best of all, he's a computer.

Oh sure, in an ideal world, it'd be a real person. But we live in a world where consumers can summon a new car's dealer invoice with a click of a mouse. Where anyone can buy and sell a used car over vast distances at the push of a button, for less than the cost of a classified ad in their local paper. And that means that today's car salesmen make a couple of hundred dollars per sale. For that kind of money, you get an order taker. At best. At worst, you get someone who doesn't know anything about anything who tries to hide the fact that there's only one person he hates more than himself: you.

Again, automation is the answer. To wit: I once asked a Renault exec how his employer had morphed from sad manufacturer of pathetic rust buckets to steadfast supplier of quality cars. "Robots," he replied. Once the French automaker removed as many humans as possible from the production process and replaced them with computerized assembly workers, the company could consistently create reliable vehicles. So if automation has transformed cars into paragons of mechanical virtue, why is the sales process still run by Neanderthals playing with flint axes?

To some extent, the car sales cro-magnonification has begun. Dealerships are splashing-out on "customer resource management" (CRM) software. These automated programs process sales and service data to track and stimulate the sales process. For example, when a potential customer walks into a dealership to test drive a new car, the salesman grabs his email address. When the customer walks, the salesman hands the email info to the CRM team. The dealer's computer then bombards the escapee's in-box with inappropriate come-ons– until the program eventually decides it's time for the spam to stop. OK, that's not the ideal. But it is the actual: the precise sequence of events following my last visit to a Toyota and Ford dealership.

More sophisticated CRM systems analyze service department data– mostly mileage over time– to figure out when customers might be ready for their next whip. The box flags the info for a salesman's phone call, email or direct mail pitch. Some systems also alert the salesman when their customer is in for service, to stimulate a co-incidental new car chin wag. All of them send birthday cards. Clearly, obviously, these systems suck. Current CRM software doesn't gather the right data, doesn't gather enough data, processes the data badly, responds inappropriately and, ultimately, asks lazy, unmotivated, inefficient humans to capitalize on its algorithmic efforts.

If it wasn't so ludicrous, it wouldn't be so funny. All a CRM programmer really needs to do is find the world's best car salesman (or woman), figure out exactly how they sell a car, and then get a computer to do it. Obviously, you don't want a computerized voice calling you up and asking you the same sorts of questions as your local car dealer's real-life "main man." Or do you? I get on just fine with my automated Virgin phone top-up babe. Study after study shows that automotive consumers feel that their car dealer doesn't contact them enough. No, really. They feel neglected. You never call. You never write…

Gold-plated CRM systems practice what their programmers call "data mining." The software digs through extensive customer data to find the nuggets the computer's human masters consider useful or relevant. It's an entirely inappropriate process. What's needed is "data schmoozing." CRM systems should engage customers in an endless series of interactions that allow the computer to create a precise and contemporaneous portrait of the potential customer's exact needs. They should respond to the customer's (not the salesman's) input with interesting, informative, entertaining and relevant information. That kind of CRM process would bond the customer to the computer– I mean dealer.

On the other hand, maybe automobile manufacturers should be the ones pursuing "third wave" CRM automation. After all, any dealer who engages their customers in such a lively, ongoing and information-rich conversation would have an enormous advantage over the company providing the product. In fact, the race to create an automated sales system will determine the future of the car industry. The question is: who will own the customer? As always, it will be the company with the best product– AND the best salesman.

German filmmaking giant Werner Herzog speaks often about our culture suffering from a 'lack of adequate imagery.' This means that you walk into the dentist's office and there's that same damn picture of the Grand Canyon or a Moulin Rouge poster. Since Herzog now lives where I do, I'll take his theory a step further and proclaim that we are really suffering from a lack of adequate sound imagery. If I ever hear the Beatles again, I'll slit my throat. Gwen Stefani? Your throat. Thankfully, Steve Jobs solved this problem by developing the iPod.

Mind you, I can't stand Apple. Their computers are too expensive, nothing runs on them and it took the company twenty-five years to figure out what a right-click button is. However, the iPod is the greatest invention of the last decade. Sure, there are other MP3 players out there (quick, name two) but there is also Betamax, Laserdisc and for Americans, Diesel. Plus, all my friends have iPods so not only can we swap music, but at the weekly poker game we can fight over what gets played in the iBoom-box. Mine holds 60 gigabytes of music (which I think is 92 trillion songs) so now I have an entire lifetime's worth of music that I enjoy in my pocket. Stuck in line at the post office? Great. Even long plane trips are ten times more enjoyable than they once were. And seeing as how the average American spends five years of their life cocooned inside an automobile, all the better.

Except that carmakers are stupid. Apple's iPod has been around for five-years. I own a brand new car and I can't plug my iPod into it. Stupid. And not just my car, but nearly all cars lack the ability to let me listen to what I want to listen to. Big stupid. Especially when you consider that big Autobahn-stormers and wanna-be Autobahn-stormers routinely offer $5,000 stereo options. Some might argue that these cars have multi-disc in-dash changers. So? I don't want 1/10th of one percent of my music collection; this isn't 1995. And I especially don't want to change CDs while going 80 mph around a bend. But satellite radio offers dozens of commercial free music stations to keep your ears happy. Hogwash. You know the cliché about 500 channels of cable yet there isn't ever a damn thing on TV? Ditto. Worse. Besides, everything I could ever possibly want to hear is in my pocket, you bastards!

This means that I have to spend an additional $90 on a radio transmitter for my iPod. On paper it makes sense. Plug the thingy into the cigarette lighter, tune to a predefined station and voila, your music is served. But not so fast. It sounds shitty, as you are still listening to FM radio and not digital music. More infuriating is when you are listening to that really sublime part of your favorite song and you happen to pass under power lines. If you are lucky you get static; if you are me you get dreaded Mexican polka. Moreover, even if you are out in the desert where there are no power lines or errant stations to gunk up your transmitter, you still have a three-foot cable hanging out of your dash, usually resting right where you row the gears. And it still sounds lousy.

There are a few cars out there, namely those aimed at the XBOX generation, that have input jacks and AUX buttons for your iPod. But would you be caught dead in a Scion Xb? Didn't think so. A few cars adults might enjoy driving have iPod inputs, but like Saab's 9-3 that has the jack inside the center armrest, clearly they are afterthoughts. And as the Xb's website states, 'You must use your MP3 player's interface to navigate and play your collection.' Which, in the age of Bluetooth and voice recognition is not only stupid, it's dangerous. Moreover, with 92 trillion songs at the ready, in shuffle mode I am constantly curious as to what I'm listening to.

There is a solution. Remember 8-Tracks? You know: the big boxy tapes that you stuffed into a hole in the dash. The original plug'n play. Carmakers — do that with iPods! Let me insert my iPod into a dedicated slot. Then, let me use your controls to pick what I want to hear and let me see which song is playing. When I exit the vehicle, I'll yank it out and go. VW recently demontrated a similar system– with software that talks to your chest freezer. It will will either never see the light of day or arrive on dealer lots five minutes before the next killer app renders the iPod obsolete. Music lovers need a simple and reliable iPod interface. And we need it now.

Automotive pundits in these parts have lauded the new Audi DSG (Direct Shift Gearbox) as if it was the Second Coming of Dr. Ferry Porsche himself. In reality, the "dual clutch" design has long been discredited amongst most modern automobile engineers. Don't get me wrong. BorgWarner and The Volkswagen Group have created a truly impressive version of a 50-year-old concept. But the dual clutch transmission is still nothing more than a wonderful toy, a mechanically elaborate dead end.

Like many other European carmakers, VW is still trying to make a manual transmission shift for itself. Their method: use two clutches, allow the unused gear to overrun (or freewheel), then switch between the two clutches to engage the various gears. It's certainly clever, and modern electronic controls should make it both reliable and user-friendly. But what's the point? The whole concept of a changing gears– whether by hand, solenoid, piston or rubber band– is a concept that should have died with the carburetor.

Paddle shifters– and all the other excuses for avoiding a true automatic transmission– remain a simple matter of stirring gears around in a box, like cars did nearly a century ago. The only difference between DSG and ye olde stick shift is how the gears are stirred. Hudson, Cord, Reo and others tried to make a manual gearbox shift by itself. None of these ideas were successful because the basic gearbox just didn't lend itself to the task. In fact, Audi's DSG traces its roots to the 60-year-old Chrysler transmission: the M-6. Chrysler developed the concept of overrunning gears, and almost made it work.

The Chrysler M-6 was essentially a four-speed manual box with some of the gears mounted on overrunning clutches, so that they were free to rotate on their shafts in one direction. The M-6 allowed a second gear to be engaged without disengaging the previous gear. Chrysler used a combination of electrical solenoids to move the gears, controlled by a simple hydraulic system. Linkages to the carburetor told the transmission how hard the engine was working, so that the transmission could time its shifts accordingly. But without electronic controls, the M-6's gear changes were usually accompanied by a resounding 'clunk.' It didn't help that Chrysler used an odd gear selection schedule inside the transmission, with low gear seldom used.

The moment the super-smooth Hydra-matic transmission debuted, the M-6 was dead in the water. By 1954, Chrysler came out with their own version of a modern automatic transmission, using a torque converter and a set of planetary gears. Shortly afterward, Chrysler used the overrunning gear principle in their legendary Torqueflite transmission, which engaged second gear without releasing first. Engagement could be precisely timed and calibrated. Drag racers loved it; with a little tinkering, Chryslers would chirp their rear tires on the 1-2 shift. In 1964, the Turbo Hydra-matic 400 used the overrunning gear principle on all three gears. Freed of the problems of timing multiple gear change operations, the transmission was calibrated to the engine, car and driver rather than its own internal needs.

Again, it's this 50-year-old overrunning gear principle that allows the Audi transmission to work as well as it does. Given the level of engineering ability at The Volkswagen Group, why didn't they apply it to the development of a truly modern automatic transmission? Ideally, an improved automatic transmission would keep the engine close to an ideal rpm range for the speed, load and performance of the car. It would accomplish this task with as little lost power as possible and not interfere with the driver's ability to drive. At the risk of reigniting the flame campaign against automatics, the world's best paddle shift system is still a distraction, asking drivers to worry about gear selection when monitoring direction, traffic, available grip and speed should be their paramount priority.

There are still many ways transmission design could be improved. Modern engineering tools allow better analysis of geartrains than ever before, and offer the opportunity to reduce friction and noise, as well as hydraulic pumping losses inside the gearbox. Electronic operating controls could be more adaptive; making the transmission fit the driver rather than the other way 'round. The possibility of using more than one stator in the torque converter could tailor the converter's torque multiplication more closely to the vehicle characteristics. And, now that every maker has their own transmission fluid, perhaps VW/Audi could develop an innovative new compound that would reduce hydraulic losses inside a torque converter.

Any of the above would impress me more than a perfect paddle shift, and change the lives of millions of 'average' motorists. Hashing over an outdated and discredited concept just to avoid a true automatic transmission is still, when the day is over, a waste of time.

In Ford's latest ads, Mr. Bill touts The Blue Oval as a tireless automotive innovator. In reality, Ford has seldom, if ever, taken the technological lead. The Model T's accomplishments owe more to its production process than any mechanical advance. Later successes– like the original Mustang and the first Explorers– broke new ground in marketing and style, not engineering. And lest we forget, Ford still relies on relatively unsophisticated engines to propel its products, ceding both fuel efficiency and powertrain refinement to their competitors. Fortunately for Ford's new focus, the company is a real leader in at least one key engineering discipline…

Ask an old-timer about air suspension and they'll regale you with tales of the ill-fated air springs that bedeviled GM, Ford and American Motors cars in the late 50s; springs that left many a model listing like a 17th century sailing ship in a howling gale. But there was a good reason automakers pursued the technology: it held forth the promise of a constant ride height and frequency. In other words, a properly air-suspended vehicle's ride doesn't degrade with a full load of passengers and luggage; the tail won't drag and the headlights won't point at the sky. Air springs can also be precisely tuned, giving chassis designers a greater opportunity to balance ride and handling.

Of the mass manufacturers, Ford alone stepped up, again, later, still, to the challenge. In '84, Ford finally felt confident enough in their technological prowess to [re]introduce a car that glided on air: the Lincoln Mark VII. Ford's luxury division's new model featured air springs at all four corners, a sophisticated electric air pump and dryer system, leak-proof hose connections, and electronic controls to monitor the system and maintain vehicle height. Although the Mark VII was a clear sales winner, its remarkable air suspension was hardly ever mentioned in its advertising, or any other Ford promotion.

In '88, Ford added elements of the Mark VII system to the Continental's underpinnings. The redesigned Lincoln Continental had a full air system, like the Mark, with electronically controlled variable damping and steering effort to boot. In '93, the Mark VIII's air spring system lowered the car's ride height at speed. While a few clever TV ads showed off the benefits for ride comfort and car control, the air suspension technology that made it possible was never mentioned. Ford eventually spread the technology to more mundane cars like the Lincoln Town Car and Mercury Grand Marquis. Every day, thousands of criminals ride to the slammer atop a pair of air springs in a Crown Vic.

Ford's air spring technology also made its way into the company's vast array of SUVs, where it has greater theoretical advantages. These vehicles, designed to carry large loads and tow heavy objects, need the advantages of constant height and ride frequency even more than a luxury coupe. The Lincoln Navigator, for example, can tow up to 8600 lbs. without the slightest degradation of ride height or ride comfort– AND it kneels for easier entry. Other Ford SUVs now have partial air spring systems, from the Expedition to the new Ford Explorer. All benefit from greatly from this advanced technology.

If Ford's looking for a quick and relatively inexpensive way to enhance its reputation for technological proficiency, The Blue Oval could extend their air suspension systems to their light trucks. Although a light truck's rear leaf suspension gives it tremendous load-bearing capabilities, the genre typically rides and handles extremely poorly when empty. Since that's the way most F150s are used most of the time, their drivers end-up constantly shaken and stirred by road irregularities. Air springs, especially at the rear, would allow Ford trucks to maintain a comfortable ride and a level stance, whether fully loaded or completely empty.

Maybe Ford's afraid that pickup drivers enjoying a smooth ride won't think that their truck is 'Ford Tough'. But heavy truck manufacturers rely on air suspension extensively; those 18-wheelers you see cruising the interstate have been riding on air for almost half a century. (In fact, it's rare to find a heavy truck without air springs.) Ford's advertising and marketing departments could capitalize on the heavy-duty and long distance trucker's reliance on air suspension to infuse their air-sprung pickups' image with appropriate machismo.

Perhaps the best proof of Ford's leadership in air suspension is the fact that many of Europe's finest now deploy their own versions of Ford's ground-breaking technology. Jaguar and Land Rover ride on air for the home team, while Mercedes' S-Class has [finally] returned to the air-suspended glory of their '68 300 SEL 6.3. The Volkswagen Audi Group touts the value of their adaptive air suspension for the A8, Bentley GT and Bentley Flying Spur. It's not often that Ford can honestly claim to be at the forefront of an important automotive technology used by the prestige players. It's about time they did.

If The Big Three are really serious about paring their production costs to the bone, it's time for them to take a good hard look at the basics. Some of the "standard" features on today's automobiles are either unnecessary or antiquated. While removing or re-engineering these items may sound like a trivial pursuit, American automakers simply can't to afford to ignore the potential savings. They should be ready, willing and able to click, drag, highlight and delete.

Very few motorists regularly check their engine oil. Even fewer monitor their oil pressure gauge, or have the slightest idea what it indicates (much less whether or not the needle is pointing to a safe or a dangerous position). Even if a driver happened to be staring at the oil gauge when a catastrophic loss of pressure occurred, the engine would probably be trashed before the needle sank to the bottom of the red zone.

The same principle holds true for the voltmeter. How many motorists know their car's proper voltage, or what to do if it's not where it should be? A simple warning light would suffice. In fact, every car that has an oil pressure gauge and/or voltmeter also has lamps to monitor low oil pressure and alternator output. The lamps respond a lot faster than gauges, and drivers respond a lot faster to lights than needles. Many new cars dispense with these gauges (e.g. Pontiac Solstice), but many don't (e.g. Chevrolet Tahoe). It's time for them to disappear.

Spare tires have also outworn their welcome. Thanks to superior rubber technology, better roadway surfaces and improved maintenance, flat tires are now almost as rare as cell phones are common. Company car administrators have already moved to eliminate spare tires from their fleets, saving their employers fuel as well as money. Lose the spare tire and you can deep-six the jack, lug wrench, tire hold downs and jacking instructions (and associated legal costs). Most motorists are incapable of using the jack and the lug wrench, so why burden the car with the additional weight and complexity? Extra-cautious (and/or rural) drivers could opt for run-flat tires or a more extensive tire repair kit.

The accelerator cable should also go. Replacing a mechanical cable linkage with an electric motor and a rheostat may not sound like the best way to generate cost savings, but losing the archaic mechanical technology would decrease the cost of other, related systems. For example, an electronically controlled throttle eliminates the need for an idle air control mechanism. A drive-by-wire also makes cruise control less complex; electronically matching engine speed to vehicle speed removes the need for additional cables and mechanisms.

A drive-by-wire throttle also simplifies traction control and stability systems. A computerized system has the ability to change throttle openings independent of driver input, instantly and precisely altering throttle position to limit wheel spin. In some cases, the entire brake-application part of the traction control system can be eliminated. Many high-end cars have switched from a mechanical throttle cable to drive-by-wire throttle control. All of GM's diesel trucks have used this type of system for years. It's time for the rest of cardom to follow suit.

These deletions may sound inconsequential– especially to a multinational automaker locked in a death spiral of rising costs and shrinking profits. But consider the numbers. At a rough estimate, the changes outlined above could save GM some $150 per car. This year GM will make/hopes to make about four million cars and trucks. The total savings would be about a billion dollars– the precise amount GM says it wrested from the UAW to reduce it health care tab.

The Blue Oval Boys have a unique opportunity to make even greater savings. Ford– and only Ford– equips every Ford, Lincoln and Mercury car and truck with an operator-controlled fuel system reset button. If a Ford driver is unlucky enough to crash over the wrong sort of pothole or experience a slow-speed shunt, the fuel system may automatically shut off. Unless the driver is mechanically aware (or has read this editorial), he or she must read the owner's manual, get out of the car, open the trunk, locate the button and press it. It's a dangerous and unncessary procedure.

Ford's electronic engine control systems have all the sensors they need to incorporate an automatic reset system, just like everyone else. If Ford can't figure out how to engineer an automatic reset into their current cars, perhaps their engineers could disassemble a Volvo for inspiration. Lose the $25 fuel reset button, and Ford could save $50 million next year, and increase customer satisfaction to boot.

Fifty million dollars isn't exactly chump change. Nor is it a great deal of money in the Ford scheme of things. Still, 50 million here, a billion there, and soon you're talking about real money.