New Ford Focus: the only way is Essex

Wednesday, 4.19pm
“Where do you two plan to visit?” asks the Canadian border guard. She’s friendlier than the US immigration patrol we cleared in Detroit airport an hour ago. She only has two guns in clear view.

“Essex,” I reply. Only 20 miles down the road.

“Oh, it’s nice there,” she smiles. “That all?”

“And then Essex,” deadpans photographer Daniel from the passenger seat. “Followed by Essex, Essex, and Essex.”

The officer fixes us with an icy stare.

Words: Sam Philip
Photos: Daniel Byrne

This feature was originally published in the May issue of Top Gear magazine

Essex, Essex, Essex, Essex and Essex. That's the plan. Detroit to New York in a shiny new Ford Focus, clocking a quintet of towns called Essex on the way. There's a vague semblance of logic somewhere here: the third-generation Focus is Ford's first-ever true ‘world car', to be built in identical form in eight factories around the globe and sold in 80 countries. So, barring engine variants, this Detroit-built Focus is the same one that'll be driven in Thailand, Brazil and China and, of course, Ford's spiritual British homeland of Essex. Ich bin ein Essexer, as JFK never said.

This spurious premise for a road trip will, we hope, give us a chance to bond with the new Focus, a car that left us unexpectedly lukewarm on first impressions. Best crack on. We've two days to cover 1,400 miles.

"Spring has come!" flashes the LED board outside the Holy Name of Jesus church. Not to Essex it hasn't. Though it'll be April in a couple of days, winter clings to the lifeless, low-rise town, patches of grubby snow loitering apologetically in the verges. Essex's biggest claim to fame is a large and devoted population of crows, a population that apparently refuses to venture beyond the town's boundaries. Local crows for local people.

Standard automotive fare here is big, American and ugly: Pontiac Azteks, Chevrolet Monte Carlos, Oldsmobile Cutlasses. What happened to American car design in the Nineties? The new Focus has attracted a bit of flak for its looks but, amidst these lumbering behemoths, it looks tautly surfaced and sharp, a reef shark among blubbery manatees. True, the first-gen Focus maintained a more elegant simplicity, and - especially without a numberplate to break up that huge mouth - the MkIII's front end is a bit gappy, but in the gun-metal grey of our test car, it's the handsomest thing in this crowzone. One Essex down, four to go.

Ontario is flatter than week-old roadkill. A hundred miles, not an inch of elevation in any direction: a perfectly straight highway rolling across a perfectly straight landscape under a perfectly straight grey sky. Not the place to explore the gummy edge of the Focus's handling envelope, but a fine chance to see how it deals with the interstate.

6.55pm
Superbly. On the optional sports suspension, the Focus is stiffer-sprung than most hatches but never jarring: the damping feels reassuringly expensive, expertly softening the harsh edges off the killer potholes that dot this grey highway. The steering has a strong self-centering action, adding to the stable, planted feel. The cabin is whisper-quiet at speed. A fine motorway cruiser.

"That's the twenny-eleven model, right? How's it go?"

I make some positive, noncommittal noises, as one does when making chit-chat with a heavily armed American border guard, a man who looks like he wrestles grizzlies for sport.

"I was gonna get down to my dealer and take a drive in one of them."

Really? "I thought you guys drove pick-ups?"

He laughs. "Yeah, we did. But petrol's over four dollars a gallon now. Need something more economic..."

Four dollars a gallon is 65 pence per litre.

450 miles down. Focus running beautifully, devouring miles like a hungry trucker devours greasy fries. Time for sleep. The motel owner tells us we'll find "lots of nice scenics and Amish people" tomorrow. Can't wait.

Thursday, 6.27am
Not a lot of scenics at the moment. Or Amish. Just drizzle, more straight road and an awful lot of time to fiddle with the Focus's new infotainment system.

7.49am
At any given moment, more than 17,000 radio stations are playing classic rock in New York State alone.

Corners! Corners! We have swung north off the interstate and into the Adirondack Mountains. The road is rising, the snow on the ground sitting thicker now. The scrubby roadside towns fade away, replaced by thick, white pine forests. Finally, a chance to have some fun...

10.36am
What a road. Writhing through the woods, snaking the verges of snow-covered, frozen lakes. Tight corners, wide sweepers, potholes and scrabbly surface changes to keep you honest. Miles and miles of perfection.

Hmmm. On a - how to put this? - scientific analysis, the Focus is brilliant: no body roll, quick steering, plentiful grip, everything going where it should. But it is, palpably, missing those few degrees of dynamic fizz so present in previous generations. Part of the problem is the 'box on this car, Ford's double-clutch PowerShift transmission. In full auto guise, it's slick enough, but lethargic in manual mode. To compound the problem, there are no paddle-shifters, just a daft little rocker switch by your thumb on the gearlever. The engine - a US-spec, 160bhp, 2.0-litre petrol which, thankfully, we won't see in the UK - always feels hesitant, unwilling to deliver its full slug of power.

But even ignoring the drivetrain deficiencies, there's still something missing here: a soupçon of inertia, disconnectedness, where even the most basic of old Focuses dialled you into the mainframe. Not much, but it's there. Maybe more commitment is required... 

12.25pm
Flashing lights, blue and red. Police. Pulling us over. This is definitely bad.

12.26pm
The trooper strides over to the car. He looks p****d. American p****d. Many guns. I grab passport, papers, licence, anything, and hand them to him. He leafs slowly through.

"When are yew heading back to the Yew-Nighted Kingdom?" he asks.

"Tomorrow night."

"Not if I haul you before the judge." Fair enough. "This is a clearly demarked 55 miles per hour road. Know how fast yew were going?"

I shake my head. Definitely faster than 55mph.

"I clocked yew at 88."

Two thoughts. One: if this was Doc Brown's De Lorean, we'd be in 1955 right now. Two: 30mph over means up to 30 days in jail.

"Don't move. Hands on the wheel." He marches back to his truck. I am going to spend a month in a cell with a violent homosexual called Bubba.

12.32pm
No jail for me. Not even a fine. That upstanding, fragrant officer lets me off with a lengthy lecture, less a verbal clip round the ear than a verbal uppercut to the jaw. I depart chastened, vowing never to exceed the limit again.

At 55mph, America is very large.

3.14pm: Essex, New York
This place isn't so much sleepy as clinically narcoleptic. There's an abandoned gas station on Essex's main road, preserved in Seventies stasis. It's the most modern-looking place in town. Still, we've ticked off our second Essex, and the third will follow soon: Essex, Vermont, is just 10 miles away, straight across Lake Champlain. An easy ferry ride.

We idle down to the jetty. The ferry is not running. Bad weather, says the sign on the closed kiosk. The weather, for the first time on our trip, is clement, high clouds and still and peaceful. Those giant, pointy icebergs drifting down the lake are the more likely culprits. A notice advises us to head to Plattsburg and catch the ferry from there. Plattsburg is 40 miles north. Frustrating.

"Gosh, is that not going yet?" A stout, stumpy woman appears from nowhere. Seems an odd remark: there's not much else going on in Essex. "Don't worry yourselves," she continues. "Hang around a bit, they're getting running real soon."

"How soon? Half four?"

"Hell, no!" She hoots, literally hoots, as if I've cracked a killer one-liner. "Two weeks. Maybe four. Depends on the ice."

I ask how long it'll take to reach Plattsburgh.

"Plattsburgh? Why'd y'wanna go there?" she snorts. "That'll take you two hours. And the ferry ain't even running. You wanna turn your butt around and go south 26 miles, over the bridge."

Before we escape, I ask her opinion of our car.

"Well, I'm more of a Vee-Dubya fan," she says. "But I can get down with the Blue Oval. Matt Hesketh drives Ford."

"Matt who?"

"You serious?" she looks as me incredulously. "Number 17. Matt Hesketh! Baby, that's NASCAR!" She says it with all the capitals.

The Good Lord of Over-Ambitious Road Trips is not smiling on us. The Crown Point bridge is closed.

4.36pm
The Good Lord cracks a half-smile. There is a replacement ferry service running. The ferry's cargo mainly consists of large trucks, large truckers and their large Alsatians. The Focus looks a bit fey in this company.

6.41pm: Essex, Vermont
Essex doesn't rank high on Vermont's list of tourist attractions. After three laps of the centre, I would posit that the only reason to visit is if you're attempting to tick off all the places called ‘Essex' in the US. That's a limited tourist market. Onwards, to the mountains.

A weather warning crackles through the radio. Eighteen inches of snow are forecast for the White Mountains. That's where we're heading.

11.02pm
Good car for a bad road, the Focus. It breathes effortlessly over the ice-worn tarmac, quick to changing direction when a badly lit truck looms out of the darkness, a little beacon of security in an ominous, icy night...

Friday, 6.10am
Morning. Snow. A lot of snow. Maybe a foot of the stuff, still falling fast. We hastily abandon plans for a scenic detour through the mountain backroads, and head straight for the interstate because, well, at least they'll have cleared that. Won't they?

6.21am
No.

This is the most scared I've ever been in a car. These are no conditions for a piste-basher, let alone a front-wheel-drive hatch. The road is frozen solid, capped by a three-inch layer of snow. The Focus slews from side to side, traction control light blinking incessantly. I can't slow down on the uphill sections because I'll start sliding backwards, and I can't slow down on the downhill sections because... well, I physically can't. Friction is at a level commonly experienced by deep-space astronauts.

I'm counting down the seconds until the Focus flips ends and sends us spinning towards the barrier and our grizzly death. Wish we had winter tyres on this thing. Our fault for not telling Ford we'd be taking it to the mountains. The sensible decision, of course, would be to stop driving, to sit it out in a diner until the snow ceases and the gritters get to work. But we must make New York by evening, and still have two Essexes and 500 miles to cover. 

8.33am
What’s the plural of Essex? Essii? Essices? Essum?

And we are sliding and sliding, quicker and quicker. The ABS graunches and judders, but this one is beyond rescue. No grip. No chance. 30mph. The hill is sheet ice, and we can do nothing. 40mph. I can see the coroner's report now: "Cause of death: inexplicable obsession with Essex." 50mph. Bye bye, cruel world...

9.22am
Not dead. Ploughed the Focus into the roadside snowbank which, miraculously, slowed us to a safe stop without the occurrence of death. My heart is pounding like a gratuitous Rush solo. Unpleasant warmth is spreading through my upper trouser region.

9.24am
Turns out Daniel had surreptitiously turned on my seat heater.

Our penultimate Essex has the windlashed mien of a town that's spent 300 years braving Atlantic storms. The town is built around a shipyard established in the 17th century. They still build ships in the traditional fashion from salvaged wood. Reminds me a bit of the Morgan factory. Our Focus has developed a tumour in its front-right tyre after a run-in with a craterous pothole. No time to fix it. It's the last push. The final Essex beckons.

The Focus's white-on-black contrast leather interior is starting to grate. Looks like someone's skinned a killer whale. Or a very leathery panda. The stitching is beautiful, though, neater than certain Italian luxury cars of five times the price. In fact, the overall quality of finish and refinement is absolutely stellar on this car. Can't wait to get it face-to-face with a Golf: it'll run the VW very, very close on interior quality. It'll beat it in a few other departments.

Made it. 1,402 miles, two countries, seven states, six tanks of petrol, one angry police officer and five towns called Essex. We've saved the poshest until last: Essex reeks of long-established money: clapboard mansions, manicured lawns, more law firms than coffee shops. It's one of few US towns ever to be invaded by a foreign power: in 1814, English troops stormed Essex's harbour, burning 28 ships and laying waste to the high street's spray tan emporiums. Sure the modern Essexians bear no ill will towards the looting limeys, but best keep our voices down, just in case.

We park up the Focus on the slipway, seagulls scudding across the fat, slow Connecticut river. It begins to drizzle. This oddly British vista seems a fitting place to reflect on what we've learned about the Focus. First and foremost, it's a brilliant car for covering big miles: quiet, comfortable, long-legged. The cabin, both in design and technology, is a huge leap forward for Ford, and - with a manual gearbox and the boosty 1.6-litre turbo engine at least - the Focus is still at the very top of the handling class. But, in pursuit of global appeal, it seems Ford has sanded off the sharpest edges of the Focus's character, compromised its traditional dynamic sparkle a little. For most, that'll be an acceptable trade-off for all that extra gadgetry and refinement. We'd love a little more fizz, but hey, there's always next year's ST. Right now, how can we speak ill of the car that has set a new world record for Most Essexes Visted in a 48 Hour Period?

A text from the office. Apparently there's an Essex in Iowa, 950 miles west. Bring it on, little Focus.