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Big drive

Wheels Magazine
June, 2008

Coober Pedy is a surreal outback outpost populated by troglodyte-types dynamiting and digging their way through sandstone in search of precious opal. It's a tough town, full of salt-of-the-earth Aussies, but also a place where anything out of the ordinary is viewed with suspicion. In Coober Pedy, 843 kilometres northwest of Adelaide and in the middle of nowhere, a Smart is definitely suspicious.

It may look like it belongs in a sandpit with a bunch of Tonka toys, but the Smart is a proper car, albeit one of the smallest on the road. But a bloke (we presume) in the bar of the Desert Cave Hotel must have thought it looked like a Euro urinal through his beer goggles, because we awoke to find someone had emptied their bladder on the passenger door and written 'penis' in the dust of the driver's side. Thank God they're plastic.

Snapper Brunelli thinks it's funny until he has to actually touch the passenger-side doorhandle. But the mystery piddling incident is the first sign of anyone really deriding the Smart since we left Adelaide the day before on our near 1600-kilometre trek to Alice Springs.

A Smart isn't the car most normal people would choose for such a journey, which is what made it ideal for us. The tiny two-seater is perfect for European metropolises, where parking spots are precious and fuel prices frightening. But how would one fare in a wide brown land ruled by road trains? And how would Wheels' two physically largest contributors handle three days shoulder-to-shoulder in a two-seater that's 1300mm shorter and 200mm narrower than an MX-5? Would there be mutiny in the desert with big Brunelli storming off into the saltbush because his legs were up around his ears for three days? Or would your chunky author end up malnourished because of a lack of room for high-salt snacks? These thoughts preoccupied my mind as we jostled for the armrest on the bomber to Adelaide. If the Smart is as cramped as Qantas cattle class, this is going to be an uncomfortable trip to Alice.

We'd both brought minimum luggage but I'm still berated by Brunelli for having one bag too many; guess he doesn't relish the idea of nursing it for three days. But the Smart's 340-litre boot fits two camera cases, a tripod bag and two overnight bags, leaving a few square centimetres of rear window to see through. Actually, the all-new for 2008 second-gen Smart is 195mm longer and 43mm wider than its predecessor. Viewed through the windscreen, though, the cabin appears fuller than a fat girl's sock, with Brunelli and I crammed shoulder to shoulder.

Despite this, Brunelli (1.9 metres/100kg) has plenty of legroom, while my frame (1.7 metres/115kg) has adequate elbowroom. That's helped by the fact that the passenger's seat is cleverly set back 150mm farther than the driver's. Qantas should try that. It's still a tiny car but the clear polycarbonate roof adds to the sense of spaciousness, even if you can reach the back window from the seats.

The Fortwo is in its element in Adelaide's morning peak hour, eagerly dashing from red light to red light and slipping into shopping-trolley-sized gaps as bleary-eyed commuters stop mid-yawn to gawk.

It doesn't take long to figure out that there's a knack to driving it smoothly, though. The three-cylinder engine drives the rear wheels through a new five-speed 'automated manual' gearbox (one less cog than the first-gen model, which is claimed, curiously, to improve consumption). Shifting manually is preferable; if you lift briefly as you pull the next gear, you can achieve a relatively smooth shift, while holding the taller gears saves fuel. The Smart's combined city/country economy is reckoned to be a hybrid-like 4.7 litres/100km, a figure we're unlikely to get near with two big lads to lug and the pedal to the plastic on the open road.

We leave Adelaide on Highway One for the 308km run to Port Augusta where we'll join the Stuart Highway, the infamous playground of so many V-max runs featured in this and other magazines over the years. But high-speed heroics are best left to Porsches and HSVs; our thoughts are on just getting to Alice in one piece.

While the two-lane Stuart is in good nick and the trip would be a cruise in a larger vehicle, the perils for us are likely to come in the form of large fauna - slamming into a big red or a stray Brahman at over 100km/h-plus would be disastrous, despite the Smarts Tridion safety cell and four airbags. Then there are the behemoths of the highway, the 53-metre-long road trains, which are an even scarier thought.

The Smart casually winds up to the 100km/h limit and copes surprisingly well with ambient temperatures of around 36 degrees celcius. The air-con is set to full cold but the fan is only on '1' and inside the airy cabin it's cool for cats. We're impressed. It's also relatively quiet.

Most noticeable, though, is the way crosswinds rattle the Smart's composure. It's almost as tall as it is wide, and wobbles like jelly when hit by strong gusts. Constant correction of the steering is required to keep it in the lane. The 175/55R15 front tyres (the rears are 195/50R15s) tend to tramline, too. Brunelli has a stint behind the wheel and reckons it steers as vaguely as his '70s Kombi.

When the first 120-tonne B-triple road train bears down on us at 90km/h, I brace for the aerodynamic onslaught. It's a David and Goliath encounter as the car first is battered by the initial wall of wind shoved along by the truck, then starts to be sucked towards the wheels of the trailers. You have to fight the steering to avoid a nasty rubber burn ... or worse.

We roll into Port Pirie on the Spencer Gulf, 225 kays from Adelaide, and the Smart's 33-litre tank (with a five-litre reserve tank) swallows 22.6 litres of 95 RON. Back on the highway, we're enveloped by a dust storm. Visibility drops dramatically and road trains suddenly loom out of the gloom, putting the frighteners on us. I'm having visualisations of us becoming a bonnet emblem on a Kenworth. Once in the clear again, it's still windy and overtaking becomes a very carefully judged flat-stick manoeuvre.

Our car is the atmo Fortwo Pulse, which has a 999cc three-cylinder engine under the boot that makes just 52kW/92Nm. Laconic touring-car legend Dick Johnson would probably say it hasn't got enough grunt to "pull the skin off custard" but the little donk features variable valve timing and feels zippy because of the car's light weight; just don't put a stopwatch on it.

The turbo model packs another 10kW/28Nm and that extra zip knocks 2.4 seconds off our atmo model's claimed 13.3-second 0-100km/h time. According to the specs, our Fortwo will top out at 145km/h, which is fine, given that the formerly 'unlimited' Territory now allows just 130km/h. Still, it will be interesting to see if this 750kg plastic-panelled midget can hit that mark with an extra 240kg on board, given its maximum payload is 270kg.

The no-frills cabin is a mix of funky and functional. The seats are thin but supportive; the driving position upright and the dash dominated by a large speedo. Two swivelling bug-eyed gauges (tacho and clock) protrude from atop the dash. Annoyingly, Brunelli keeps turning them to face the passenger seat.

The chunky steering wheel feels right but the unassisted steering is heavy and lacks on-centre feel. The floor-mounted brake pedal has a long travel and barely any initial bite before little mountain-bike-sized front discs are abruptly clamped. Braking is not easy to modulate but the car does stop on a penny.

North of Port Augusta and now on the Stuart Highway, low grey-green saltbush dots the windswept desert landscape. We pass old weather-beaten houses with the obligatory graveyards of dead cars and wonder how their inhabitants earn a living. You couldn't do much more than farm dust out here.

Glendambo (Pop: 30, sheep: 22,500) is where we pull in for the night. It's little more than a truckstop with two fuel stations and the Glendambo Outback Resort. 'Resort' is overstating things just a little - if you're thinking palm trees, restaurants and room service, forget it - but there's a friendly pub decorated like a shearing shed that's empty except for us and two blokes with mullets and a penchant for astonishingly bad jukebox music. The Smart has logged over 600 kilometres without a hitch, but I'm as stiff as a board. Brunelli seems to be holding up okay, although he's not a man given to vivid descriptions of his personal wellbeing.

"What's up ahead?" I ask the woman at the servo on the morning of day two as we prepare for the short 252km haul to Coober Pedy. "Nothin'," she deadpans. We soon realise she's right, but there's beauty in the nothingness. In the distance, clouds of red dust kicked up by trucks on intersecting roads look like the trailing plumes from a land-speed-record car.

Inspired, I wind the Smart up to an indicated 155km/h in fifth at 4500rpm. That's 10km/h faster than the manufacturer claims, so either the speedo is out or we've got a handy tailwind. Probably both. At this speed the Fortwo feels unstable so I throttle back to 120, but it still smashes over cattle grids and bumps you would barely notice in a larger car. There's so little suspension compliance, it's like driving a go-kart over cobblestones. Big impacts go straight through the flimsy seat and up your spine.

The closer we get to the opal capital of the world, or 'CP' as the locals call it, the more barren the terrain becomes, which tends to highlight things like roadside signs. Where else but in outback Australia would you see a hoarding boasting that it's 'only 370km to the mini market'? Then there are warnings about abandoned mine shafts lurking amid the thousands of conical mullock heaps. They're 80 metres deep, apparently, so if you fell in, your clothes would be out of fashion before you were found.

Every time we venture off the bitumen, the Smart's suspension and our butts are punished. It rattles and bounces over corrugations but the rear refuses to step out of line, kept in check by non-switchable ESP. Back on the smooth stuff, the rattles stop and, impressively, not a grain of dust has entered the cabin.

If the outskirts of Coober Pedy look strange to a city slicker, then the Smart must seem positively alien to the locals. The tiny blue outsider is greeted with bewilderment, although the Aboriginal kids at the skate park love it.

At Bulls Garage we meet two young couples from Germany and Holland respectively whose old Magna wagon is having gearbox trouble. The girls happily decorate the Smart's dusty duco with hippy signs and emblazon "Made in Stuttgart" on the driver's door. Um, it's actually made in Hambach, France, but I guess it's preferable to having 'penis' penned in the dust.

The next morning, we're about 390km from the NT border and cracking along at 120 when the air-conditioning packs up. Alice is still 500-odd kays away and the thought of sweating all the way raises my blood pressure. Thinking the compressor might be tired, we switch the air off for 20 kays then fire it up again. Eureka - cool makes a comeback.

Over the border and about 50 kays from Kulgera, the fuel light comes on. Brunelli is driving and doesn't lift; we've learnt to trust the Smart and easily make it on the reserve. In fact, the Lilliputian fuel miser uses only 30.8 litres for 413kms, which is 7.5 litres/100km. Not bad considering the wind, some lead footing and the heavy load.

Back on the road, we pass a 130km/h speed limit sign at 120km/h and it occurs to me that this is the first time I've ever deliberately driven under a highway speed limit. We're just 275 kays from Alice now. Outside our chilled compartment, willy-willys chase each other across the arid landscape. When one comes too close, its centrifugal force tugs at the tiny car.

We arrive in Alice Springs before dusk, beating the roos. The Alice may be an oasis in the Red Centre, but they clearly don't see many Smarts here, judging by the heads that swivel as we burble by.

Prior to our departure, one sceptic disparagingly asked if Mercedes was sending a man in overalls with a big key to wind up the Smart's spring every 100km. Well, aside from the temporary air-con glitch, the Fortwo didn't need a mechanic. We covered nearly 1600km without requiring chiropractic intervention, the Smart sipping premium at an average of 8.6L/100km. Not quite the 4.7L/100km touted, but acceptable given our ballast and largely wide-open throttle.

Despite withstanding willy-willys, dust, road trains and beer-based graffiti, the Smart is probably not going to take over from the Landcruiser trayback as the outback's preferred means of transport. It remains an urban oddity, but one which is less one-dimensional than you may have imagined.

Sippin' and a slurpin'
Clearly this wasn't an economy run. Consumption was affected by high winds, a heavy load, and plenty of lead footing. The Glendambo leg is a more realistic 'touring consumption' figure, although we suspect it's easily bettered...

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