Guilty Pleasure - Ford Crown Victoria Police Interceptor

Allow me to grasp, for a second, your imagination. In your mind's eye, picture yourself in the drivers seat of your own car, the sun sinks just below the horizon as the blanket of night begins to engulf all that surrounds you. The lights and neon of the city hums to life, and the street comes alive with abundant vitality. You are hurrying home, hungry, tired, just waiting to find that second wind that will carry you through the fatigue of the day and into the unrevealed excitement of the night. Then it hits you, you are jolted from your daydream just as you blow through a red light. Sure enough, in your rear view mirror you see the disparaging sneer of a Ford Crown Victoria right on your tail... however there are no flashing lights this time, just a cab. That was close.

Arguably the most feared car in America, the Crown Victoria is not only a symbol of the ever imposing man but also, in my mind, the last REAL American muscle car. It's a harken back to a time cars were the size of small moons, engines had horsepower equivalent to at least quadruple the IQ of the average driver, suspensions were made from discarded carnival prizes, a steering wheel was a suggestion, and a nights entertainment came from a mysterious machine called a "Wurlitzer" at a place referred to as the "Roller Palace." The Crown Vic embraces every single one of these uniquely American pastimes, not to mention it has perpetually been chosen to be the workhorse that protects our cities and towns, our politicians, and even gets us home safely after a night on the town. It regularly beasts past 300,000 hard miles while simultaneously keeping the Porsche driving joyriders in check on our beloved interstates.









The most recent generation of the Crown Vic Interceptor boasts a 4.6L V8 mated to none other than a 4 speed automatic tranny, because you wouldn't want any more than 4. It reaches over 17 feet long, and is nearly 7 feet across. Bathe it in jet black, black steel wheels, and a grill guarde, you have the ability to drive as fast as you want, through anyone's yard you want, run as many lights as you want and all without raising a single suspicion from anyone. Once inside, you will be adorned with only the most lavish of accompaniments... a bench in the front, more leg room in the back than all the bleachers in Yankee Stadium combined, an AM/FM radio (WITH tape deck), and power windows (STANDARD!) Did I also mention the seats are a wonderful selection of urine and vomit resistant grey vinyl?!

Take all the brilliance into consideration and we have met every stipulation of the last great American muscle car. No frills, just a 'roid raging rhino that will gladly steal your girlfriend and destroy your home with a smile cracked just under its Burt Reynolds mustache. Because in the end, what is a muscle car? It's a big engine with wheels attached, it goes fast in a straight line, its tough, and it doesn't take sh** from anyone. After the golden years of the muscle car in the 60's and 70's, they largely disappeared and were deemed inefficient and antiquated in a world of exponentially advancing technology. I am hard-pressed to find many examples of a true muscle car as we leave the early 70's, but since the Crown Vic emerged from the dark in 1992 it has been carrying the dimly lit torch hoping to one day again light a flame of excitement under the American auto industry.


Next year the Crown Vic celebrates its 20 year anniversary, and I say here's to many more years of unabashed, unsympathetic, unconcerned ass kicking.


IA, out.


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