Yahoo Autos How the Mustang Shelby GT500 Saved the Fourth of July
South Carolina is loosey-goosey when it comes to rules. You can ride a motorcycle without a helmet. Unregistered golf carts ply the streets. And fireworks are not just legal but extremely legal. Roman candles, mortars, M-80s—what's your pleasure? Marquees outside the fireworks stores brag about who offers the biggest booms. Want a seven-inch artillery shell? Step right in!
As a resident of (relatively) sane North Carolina, I don't typically pay much attention to the gunpowder bonanza south of the border. This year, though, South Carolina's fireworks policies, or lack thereof, have assumed greater import. That's because all the public shows here are canceled. My normal Independence Day routine—setting up some folding chairs and gazing skyward while regularly asking, "Think that was the finale?" isn't happening. And, in most parts of the country, neither is anyone else's. I decided to rectify the situation by road tripping to South Carolina, buying a barge-worth of fireworks, and staging my own show. Given everything else going on, 2020 will not deny me my sky explosions.
What kind of car do you select for this kind of a mission? I figure one with 760 horsepower, four exhaust-loudness modes, and a hood vent that measures six square feet. Enter the Ford Mustang Shelby GT500, drenched in Grabber Lime green paint, the "1812 Overture" on wheels. I'm gonna point that prow toward South Carolina and put on a show for anyone who loves colorful, outrageously loud spectacles. And then I'll buy some fireworks.
Normally, a North Carolinian looking for fireworks would go to South of the Border, a Mexico-themed resort and fireworks emporium that gleefully plays up South Carolina's anything-goes attitude relative to its neighbor to the north. South of the Border could only be more on the nose if it offered long-distance desert racing and discount butt implants.
Problem is, I have no idea where you can light fireworks anywhere near South of the Border. Accommodating as South Carolina's state laws may be, local municipalities have their own ideas. Some of them allow fireworks but only on July 4. Others—like Myrtle Beach—impose a total ban, punishable by stiff fines. Garden City Beach, however, just south of Myrtle, is totally in sync with the state policy, in that there is no policy. I've been there a few times in the summer, and every night is Independence Day. Since that's nearly two hours deep into S.C., I figure I'll buy my arsenal somewhere closer to the light-off locale. No point in driving further than necessary with a trunk full of gunpowder.
The GT500 can serve as a surprisingly amiable road-trip companion. Leave the Tremec seven-speed dual-clutch transmission in drive, put the active exhaust in quiet mode and the MagneRide dampers in their cushiest setting, and the stacked Shelby can convincingly imitate a mellow Mustang rental, optimized for schlepping around Orlando. Of course, I never, ever drive it that way. Pretty much the first thing I do every time I fire it up is put the exhaust in Sport mode (loud) or Track (seemingly louder than the old Boss 302 with its side-pipe caps removed). Then I push the "M" button in the center of the shifter, activating manual mode, so I can enjoy excessive rpm or the bass thrum of high-gear lugging as I choose. Maybe you'd like to tell me that's obnoxious, but I can't hear you because the stereo is also very loud and I'm blasting Fergie's "My Humps." Nobody knows what it means, but it's provocative! It gets the people going!
As does the GT500. I stop for gas, and a woman and her teenage son approach. She says, "Excuse me, but what model is this?" I reply that it's the Shelby GT500, and the kid blurts, "Holy shit!" Later, in Dillon, S.C., I pull into an empty parking lot because the GPS system is apparently offline; neither my phone nor the car's navi knows where we are. A guy in a black Mustang GT pulls in alongside, rolls down his window, and does the Wayne's World "we're not worthy" bowing gesture. Even out on the road, I see fingers point and thumbs raised from two lanes over. Mustang drivers recognize their sovereign ruler and genuflect accordingly.
When I pull into the parking lot at Phantom Fireworks just outside Myrtle, the GT500 isn't lonely for long. Almost immediately, a red Camaro in Lightning McQueen livery (white BFGoodrich stickers on the sidewalls, vanity plate reading "IMSPEED") parks alongside. Then a black Challenger Hellcat (vanity plate: "PURRGTRY") pulls in next to him. If this were a movie, we'd be accused of typecasting. Hey, not everyone who buys fireworks drives a V-8–powered American muscle car. Oh, I see. They actually do. Carry on.
Inside, I summon my powers of restraint to keep walking past the $1,500 "Grounds For Divorce" assortment. When it comes to fireworks, I know what I like, and what I like is the multiple-shot cubes and big fountains. I used to buy mortars until I realized that mortars tend to tip over. If you think a toppled mortar ever ends up pointing in a harmless direction then you're a stranger to the fuse, my friend. I also skip the M-80s—your straight-up explosives—for reasons that should be obvious but, for too many citizens, evidently aren't.
Once I'm in the proper aisle, I choose my ordinance mostly according to which products have the funniest names. Wizard of AHHHS goes in the cart, as does PoPo Magnet, Big N Bad and Triton's Tempest, along with sundry other eye-catchers. While I don't approach the store high-score for profligacy, recorded on a Big Spender board up front (Grice, $4,524.87), I do fill the trunk of the Mustang with enough ammo to ensure a great show for whoever cares to watch.
On the way from Phantom to Garden City beach, I see two guys riding Hayabusas wearing face masks but no helmets, expressing an admirable commitment to public, if not personal, health. Running through the gears, windows down, it occurs to me that the GT500 reminds me a lot of the Mustang GT4 race car I drove last year—basically the same thundering soundtrack, same paddle shift up and down through a sequential gearbox. Except, of course, the street car is way more powerful than the race car, with way less grip. The new Michelin Pilot Sport 4S is a great tire, but you must be mindful of the throttle when you've got 760 horsepower no matter what tire you're running.
When I reach the beach, twilight falling, I back up to the edge of the sand and begin unloading. There are a few beachgoers in the vicinity, so I take a walk around and give fair warning of my pyrotechnic intentions. Nobody seems to care. Yet, I'm so conditioned to think of fireworks as illegal and a nuisance that I'm still apprehensive when I light the first fuse. Really? This is cool?
Oh yeah, it is. Within a few minutes I'm like a fuse-crazed conductor, orchestrating fountains of fire on the ground and blossoms of color in the sky. PoPo Magnet, Party Foul, Polar Vortex, Pyro Pulverizer—those are just the P's. The lame-sounding Willow Among the Palms fountain is so good I wish I bought two more. Meanwhile, down the beach, someone begins lighting off mortars, the shells commingling with my display to create a damn fine public spectacle. Have some of that, 2020! Is it too much to say this is a life-affirming experience? Because it is. When I've exhausted my cache, I drag the spent boxes down to the water for a dousing, and a woman approaches through the tendrils of dissipating smoke. "Thank you for doing that!" she says. "I'm so glad we got to see that."
And that's how the Mustang Shelby GT500 saved the Fourth of July. Now let's not make this an annual thing.
You Might Also Like
