Does anyone remember Franco Harris? He of four Super Bowl rings, numerous Pro Bowl appearances and a running style best described as lumbering. Where someone more fleet of foot — like the incomparable Walter Payton — might use their speed to elude tacklers, Harris just ran right at them, his theory seemingly that the defensive line would eventually tire of getting their bodies slammed by a 245-pound, black-and-gold-liveried rhino.
I don’t know why I am thinking of Harris — even less why I am using him for an automotive analogy. I barely watch football, the Pittsburgh Steelers was never my favourite team and running backs who grind out 100 yards a game 4.1 yards at a time are hardly exciting to watch. Yet, every time I matt the throttle of Mercedes’ incredible SLR McLaren, there’s big Franco, third and goal, charging straight at the line.
I blame the SLR’s unique exhaust. Most European supercars — any Ferrari you care to mention, Porsche’s Carrera GT, even the glorious sounding Aston Martin DBS — sound somewhat effete, all high revs and neat, precise explosions inside pristine combustion chambers. The $495,000 Mercedes, despite its British and Teutonic heritage, is traditionally American by comparison. Every power pulse — and you can seemingly count them when accelerating at low revs — sounds positively concussive, as if each of the supercharged 5.5-litre’s eight pistons is determined to spin those huge P295/30ZR19 rear tires all by its badass self. A Ferrari at full chat sounds like it’s defying the laws of physics; the McLaren sounds as if it wants to pound them into submission.
That aural delight is made all the more apparent in this, the roadster version of Mercedes’ superest of cars. With no roof to insulate and its trademark sidepipes poking out just aft of the front wheels, passengers are front row and centre in the concert hall that is the SLR McLaren. Depending on your level of devotion to the combustion of fossil fuels, this can be either Wagner at his finest or the Beastie Boys in their worst scratch-and-scream phase. The one common denominator is that, ensconced in all that red-and-black leather, you will not be ignoring the big thundering herd of horsepower ahead of you.
Of course, if the supercharged V8 is making big noise, it’s also making big horsepower — 617 of them when the throttle is matted and the revs climb above 6,000. Things start flying by in a big hurry as the SLR pounds its way to 100 kilometres an hour in just 3.8 seconds. Its top speed, given enough headway and a raft of lawyers to fend off the OPP’s attentions, is a whopping 334 km/h. I can attest to at least the first 300 of those, as that was what the speedometer read when my courage ran out during a test of the coupe version in Spain a few years back.
Despite those jaw-dropping numbers, they actually could have been better. The SLR’s performance limitations — and, yes, it’s absolutely ridiculous to speak of a car that hits 334 km/h as limited — are its transmission and a some latent lardness compared with some of its competition.
Not only is the SLR’s tranny an automatic, but, unlike more modern Mercedes seven-speed slushboxes, it only sports five forward gears. At the time of the SLR’s development, it was the only transmission in Benz’s stable that could handle the 5.5L’s 13 psi of boost and 575 pound-feet of torque. No doubt a more modern gearbox would shave a few more ticks off that already stunning acceleration time.
The other limiting factor is the SLR’s weight — 1,768 kilograms — hefty numbers by sports car standards. What makes this ironic is that, constructed by Formula One legend McLaren, the underlying chassis is the epitome of futuristic and lightweight engineering. The entire chassis and body aft of the firewall is one gigantic but lightweight carbon-fibre tub, while the suspension and engine frames are almost-as-light aluminum extrusions. According to lore, the problem was that Mercedes added many of its traditional accoutrement and electronic safety devices, raising the SLR’s curb weight far above what McLaren originally envisaged.
As much as this creates a performance penalty (again, cue the stupidity of decrying a 3.8-second zero-to-100-km/h-acceleration time), there is much benefit as well. The SLR may accelerate like an F-14 Tomcat on afterburner and corner as if the laws of gravity do not exist, but its interior is (almost) as comfortable and comprehensively appointed as the company’s more sedate SL roadster. Indeed, Mercedes aficionados will recognize most of the switchgear and audio componentry in the SLR’s dashboard.
The almost in the previous paragraph concerns the SLR’s seat comfort. Finely crafted they may be in carbon fibre, they offer precious little adjustment. They move fore and aft and there is some slight tilt ability, but you can’t — as back-pain sufferers demand — adjust the seat back for increased rake. Though the driver’s seat is available in five different sizes, once chosen you will have to live with it for the life of the car. Woe be the L4/L5 lumbars that don’t like the seat angle chosen.
Enforced seat accommodations aside, though, the SLR is the rational supercar, if such a beast does exist. Yes, it goes a trillion kilometres an hour and makes the most delicious of vroom noises, but it will also carry two sets of golf bags in its trunk and it’s possible to hold a conversation at 100 km/h without shouting one’s self hoarse. Try that in your Porsche Carrera GT.
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