I will build up the pace, aware that even the slightest lift of the throttle sends the nose darting toward the inside of the corner and that the gentlest squeeze of the gas pedal pushes the car immediately toward the double yellows. If the steering were any quicker or more sensitive, the car might be undrivable, such is its eagerness to rotate. It pivots joyously just below your ass, and treated improperly, it will snap. The Stratos is, after all, a rally machine meant to be driven sideways. You can build a rhythm in the car and creep nearer and nearer to the edge. At speed, it all sort of comes together. The gas pedal doesn’t feel so stiff, the shifts rip by, the engine roars, and everything is much more cohesive. The Stratos simply doesn’t make any concessions to going slow. It wants only to go fast.
The Stratos doesn’t make it easy on you, but it does provide all the tools you need. It’s not accommodating, comfortable, or foolproof. It’s all extrovert. All character. It’s a riot. And it rewards you when you get it right in a way a modern car doesn’t.
I finish my day exhausted and fulfilled. I want to yell at surrounding commuters, “Do you have any idea what this thing is?! Do you understand what I’ve just done?!” They don’t. I’m pretty sure most passersby assume it’s some sort of VW-based kit car. So I keep my joy within the cabin. It’s probably for the best since the low roof has compressed my hair into a Gumby-like angle.
The Stratos is every bit as weird and good as I’d hoped. Which is great, because it’s too late for a new lifelong crush.
