GM is justifiably proud of the convertible Camaro's stiffness. Instead of lopping the top off the coupe and calling it a day, the engineering team designed the chassis as a separate entity, with special emphasis on structural rigidity. Thanks to extra reinforced steel and under-body bracing, there's little frame flex and no discernible cowl shake. Though the convertible is almost 250 lbs heavier than the coupe, it doesn't really seem to affect the overall driving impression – to me they felt remarkably similar.
The steering feel is good, and has apparently been upgraded for improved turn-in – but I still really dislike the wheel itself. Its dish-like shape and oddly placed spokes make it nearly impossible to maintain the ideal ten and three position – so I concede defeat and rest one arm on the window the way muscle cars have been driven since time immemorial. It probably goes well with the bright, red-neck burn I'm developing from all this al-fresco exposure.
It seems almost fitting that our drive took us past my childhood home in the tiny village of Bethany, since the Camaro was partially responsible for my baptism into the world of automotive obsession. My much-worshipped older brother often dragged home the worn-out carcasses of various muscle cars with the intention of returning them to former glory. At last, I was allowed to "help" with the restoration of a battle-scarred 69 Camaro RS – armed with a toothbrush I scrubbed various greasy bits with great fervour. My apprenticeship was short-lived however, after I'd dropped the carburetor, smashing my foot, I was banished from the garage. But the seed was sown - nicknamed the "Carburetor Kid", I earned a certain cachet among the boys at school– not to mention chocolate bars and nickels for drawing muscle cars on the back pages of their notebooks.
We lunched on the water's edge in Bobcaygeon – the town made famous by The Tragically Hip. We didn't see the constellations though, the day was bright and clear – perfect for topless cruising. Here we exchanged keys and acquired a screaming yellow 'vert with black rally stripes. Once again, we're lucky to score the husky V8-endowed SS, not so lucky was the choice of automatic gearbox. Behind the wheel, I immediately notice a change in character, this car is far more the relaxed boulevard cruiser than snorting beast. Not only is the transmission geared for smooth comfort, instead of the LS3, there's a 400 hp L99 underhood. We immediately noticed that the glorious exhaust note so admired in the previous car was mysteriously absent in this one, only by nailing the throttle hard were we able to reproduce its sound.
The steering feel is good, and has apparently been upgraded for improved turn-in – but I still really dislike the wheel itself. Its dish-like shape and oddly placed spokes make it nearly impossible to maintain the ideal ten and three position – so I concede defeat and rest one arm on the window the way muscle cars have been driven since time immemorial. It probably goes well with the bright, red-neck burn I'm developing from all this al-fresco exposure.
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| Though the convertible is almost 250 lbs heavier than the coupe, it doesn't really seem to affect the overall driving impression – to me they felt remarkably similar. (Photo: Lesley Wimbush/Auto123.com) |
It seems almost fitting that our drive took us past my childhood home in the tiny village of Bethany, since the Camaro was partially responsible for my baptism into the world of automotive obsession. My much-worshipped older brother often dragged home the worn-out carcasses of various muscle cars with the intention of returning them to former glory. At last, I was allowed to "help" with the restoration of a battle-scarred 69 Camaro RS – armed with a toothbrush I scrubbed various greasy bits with great fervour. My apprenticeship was short-lived however, after I'd dropped the carburetor, smashing my foot, I was banished from the garage. But the seed was sown - nicknamed the "Carburetor Kid", I earned a certain cachet among the boys at school– not to mention chocolate bars and nickels for drawing muscle cars on the back pages of their notebooks.
We lunched on the water's edge in Bobcaygeon – the town made famous by The Tragically Hip. We didn't see the constellations though, the day was bright and clear – perfect for topless cruising. Here we exchanged keys and acquired a screaming yellow 'vert with black rally stripes. Once again, we're lucky to score the husky V8-endowed SS, not so lucky was the choice of automatic gearbox. Behind the wheel, I immediately notice a change in character, this car is far more the relaxed boulevard cruiser than snorting beast. Not only is the transmission geared for smooth comfort, instead of the LS3, there's a 400 hp L99 underhood. We immediately noticed that the glorious exhaust note so admired in the previous car was mysteriously absent in this one, only by nailing the throttle hard were we able to reproduce its sound.
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| We exchanged keys and acquired a screaming yellow 'vert with black rally stripes with the transmission geared for smooth comfort, instead of the LS3, there's a 400 hp L99 underhood. (Photo: Matthieu Lambert/Auto123.com) |