Across America in the Ford Focus ST
It's one of TG magazine's greatest ever adventures: coast to coast across the US in the hot Ford. In five days...
Posted: 10 Oct 2013
Gone midnight, somewhere near Pikes Peak, Webb searched his satnav for the nearest accommodation. It pointed us to a motel a few miles away, swiftly directing us off the road and onto a dirt lane. The track got worse. And worse. For 20 minutes we bounced up steep slopes, ominous paths leading off left and right, zigzagging ever deeper into the woods, satnav jumping helplessly from one track to another, unable to lock onto our location.
Somehow we stumbled upon the motel, a great, Gothic-fronted mansion undoubtedly containing murderers and ghosts. It was closed, apparently uninhabited for years. A rusting ute sat in front, its doors open, abandoned. “Want to go in and check if they’ve got any vacancies?” I asked, hesitantly. Webb shook his head. Death lay in that motel.
A rustle. Out of a clump of trees leered a ghoulish, lank-haired man, bellowing incomprehensibly and shaking his fists. We both leapt in our bucket seats. “What do I do?” I squeaked at Webb.
“I dunno, kill the lights?”
“Turn the lights off? Really?”