I am in rural Sonoma County, a land of forests, farms, and hills. For the last few weeks, I’ve been exploring the area in my Ford Focus RS, and I’ve found the RS to be much better suited to country living than city duty. The roads up here are beat to smithereens, but they follow old logging routes and run along creek sides and thus are full of crooks and curves. The regular servings of turns let me savor what the RS does best—torque-vector its way through a corner—even if its wooden suspension continues to beat me up daily.
My brother Sam is up in Sonoma County too. With him is the 2006 Mazda MX-5 Miata that he recently acquired, but I have yet to see. It felt like such a find when we spotted the Miata on Craigslist eight months ago: $7,900 for a clean one-owner NC (Mazda-speak for the model’s third generation) with 80k miles. Sam was the first of many potential buyers to respond and snapped it up for the asking price. The romantic vision of a Hwy 1 commute may have helped Sam’s case with the original owner.
That romantic vision was something that I bought into too when Sam was considering his car options. Here in the “flesh” is the object of our desires. I can easily look past the fact that it is dirty and dusty; I just see the promise of fun on the road.
The Miata is a car for dreamers of many types. It’s for the woman who leaves the house to calmly cruise a beautiful road with the sun warming her face and the wind in her hair. And it’s for the guy who smiles at the smell of hot brakes and cranks over the engine with the goal of honing his racecraft. I am at a point in my life where I appreciate both dreams.
Sam offers me the driver’s seat but doesn’t give me the keys. He isn’t mean; the Mazda has a first-generation smart key that is generous enough to start the car even when the fob is in the passenger’s pocket. (Apparently, the idea of a start button hadn’t occurred to Mazda in 2006; a plastic switch on the steering column turns like a real key would if it had been inserted in a regular car.) I power up the four-cylinder engine. Miatas aren’t known for their musicality, and the 2.0L 170 hp lump under the hood doesn’t break the mold. The engine sounds a little gravelly, but at least we can trust that it is as tough as rocks too.
I put the six-speed manual into gear, trundle down the driveway and onto the country lane. Montgomery Road must be one of the lumpiest roads in Sonoma County; a few recent blows to the Focus RS’s chin have taught me to slow my roll over its washboard pavement. The Miata does not need the same kid gloves. It rides higher, and its suspension is significantly softer, so the shocks dance with the bumps rather than fight with them. Its ride is comfortably appropriate for country life.
The convertible with which I have the most experience is my dad’s 1963 Porsche 356. I am finding unexpected similarities in the Miata. Surprisingly the Mazda and Porsche smell similar. I didn’t think the two cars shared many materials that could smell the same. The Miata’s cabin is plastic, while the 356’s is made of leather, wood and metal. Is it the sun-toasted canvas top that is familiar to my nose?
Copious cowl shake is another shared trait between the Porsche and the Mazda. A loosey-goosey ride is expected out of a 55-year-old 356 with its top chopped off. The comparably young Miata was designed as a convertible from the get-go, so I thought it would be shimmy-free; sadly was wrong.
In a few minutes, we are on Occidental Road, a writhing serpent whose body stretches from valley vines to mountain conifers. Occidental’s curves are stacked one upon another, preventing me from building much speed. I find myself mostly switching back and forth between second and third gears. The gearbox is a joy to use; its throws are short—even for 2017—and snickety too. The stick is full of mechanical feel and engine vibration. What a pleasure!
The road winds through tunnels of trees, and the dappled sunlight streams across the Miata’s bonnet, over the windscreen and over our faces. The Miata ebbs and flows through the corners. I am still feeling out the car’s balance, testing to see how the laterally loaded chassis moves when I adjust the throttle. The small, four-cylinder engine doesn’t have oodles of torque or engine braking, but the Miata leaps when the gas is prodded and rotates when it’s lifted. As promised, textbook RWD dynamics live in this car.
The Miata’s reactions aren’t instantaneous, but I don’t mind; I am happy to work with the car. The hard-rimmed steering wheel has classic heft, pace, and precision. When I initiate a turn, I have to wait for the high-profile tires to flex and the soft suspension to load. The Miata is giving me constant feedback through the steering and seat. It’s not the most garrulous steering I’ve held in my hands; the car comes across as more of a thoughtful conversationalist, carefully considering its words and keeping me engaged in the dialog rather than spewing every random thought in my direction.
We fly along the hedges. At our seven-tenths pace, the body is nicely controlled, and the car corners levelly. I expected worse, given the way the soft suspension sops up the bumps.
I consider the Miata’s stature. I’m not bumping shoulders with Sam, and the car doesn’t strike me as unusually small. With the top down, I can comfortably see out of the car in all directions. The seat adjusts to my 6’ 2” frame. Even though the steering column lacks telescoping, the wheel’s position is acceptable. While a second-generation NB Miata is too small for me, I fit fine in the NC.
As I mentioned before, the engine song is coarse. I am reminded of the Subaru BRZ and how I always wanted to zip past its mid-range so that the bad noises would stop. The Miata doesn’t hurt my ears as much in the middle, but it’s not a singer either.
We drive into the village of Occidental, then turn left for Freestone. I turn up the wick, and the world blurs around us. Topping out third gear, I glance down at the speedometer, 70 mph; two-thirds of what the Focus RS might hit in the same gear. The Miata is truly a slow sports car that feels fast.
I wring out the car through a corner and finally get the tires to squeal; the limits are approaching. Trying to make the rear end twitch, I pounce on the throttle. The car stays planted, but the dash flashes orange as the dynamic stability control waggles its electronic finger. Power is cut well before any slip is encountered.
Pulled over in a parking lot in Freestone, I look around the cabin to find the stability control button. A single short press turns off DSC. (This shows the Miata’s age: most new cars require you to hold the button for five seconds before the DSC is defeated.) I use a little drift-novice flourish—first gear, add steering, pound throttle—as we get back onto the road, and the Miata wags its tail with joy. We erupt with laughter; the Miata isn’t underpowered at all! It’s as playful as I’d ever want, with the engine harmoniously in balance with chassis and tires.
The car stays neutral as I drive harder through the corners. Clearly, the Miata has more to give than the DSC allows. Whether my brother will allow any more hooliganism is another question. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see him clutching the oh-shit handle. That’s alright, I’ve had my fun.
Before I know it, the drive is over, and I’m back at my cottage in the woods. Sam and I have plans to eat dinner at his place tonight, so I toss him the keys to my Focus RS so that he can try out my new ride. I’ll drive the Miata all by myself.
We take back roads, passing vineyards, orchards, and redwood stands. I start looking forward to the new smells around each bend. Will eucalyptus scent fill the air? Yes. How does the pigsty at the bottom of the mountain actually smell? Like an uncleaned zoo cage. Are the blackberries ripe yet? They need a few more days. The drive becomes as much about the world around as it is about the road and car. In this way, a convertible is the best imaginable car for rural Sonoma County. I now understand the appeal of open-air motoring.
When we arrive at Sam’s place, I ask him what he thinks of the Focus RS. He pauses and then says, “Next to the Miata, the Focus is like wearing a condom during intercourse.” The analogy is crude, but I have to agree. The Miata delivers raw driving pleasure.
Mike's Steering Column 