COAL: 2010 Mazda 3 Hatchback Sport – In the Eye of the Beholder

Along with other news of the day we were confronted this past week by our Fearless Leader’s post about ChatGTP, an AI platform that strikes fear in the heart of scribblers everywhere, automotive or otherwise.  Here is the ghostliest of ghostwriters, one who is not a wretch chained to an ink-stained desk, but exists only in a great swarm of 0’s and 1’s within the Cloud.  It requires no salary, no coffeemaker (or coffee breaks), no sandwich at lunch time, no ego-stoking, and is immune from drink as well as detractors in the comments section.  It feels no need for hyperbole, reports only the facts, ma’am, at least to the limits of its programming.  It likely has no prejudices save those lingering in code written by disgruntled hackers.  In other words, it would seem to be the best of most worlds, except for the fact that it may be doomed to regurgitate errors (of which there are legion upon legion) that it combs from internet databases, just like its fleshy counterparts; plus there is the small matter of ChatGTP threatening to deprive thousands of the aforementioned ink-stained scribblers of their livelihood.

Given that I’m reaching the limits of my Curbside Classic tenure (as, barring a winning lottery ticket, I’m running out of COALs to write about), the AI threat is likely not imminent in my own case, but its implications still light a fire within this writers imagination to the point where he’s already plotting the ways and means to forestall approaching doom.  Two solutions come to mind:  first, bribery.  Award a weekly prize drawing to readers of my adventures in consumerism, or if that fails hope for the Singularity within the next few days, an occasion to mind-meld with an AI, a classic illustration of if you can’t beat ’em, join ’em.

No matter the appeal of either of these possibilities, some problems present themselves . . . number one, I don’t have the financial means to run a weekly lottery unless I were to scrounge the attic for old mementos like my Hemi Power t-shirt from the sixties, which at this point is likely to be moth-eaten to the point of non-existence.  Number two, the Singularity, according to experts, is unlikely to occur with the next two weeks.  I suppose this is good news, but on the other hand a resident AI patch in the brain could come in handy when it comes time to find my car keys.

All that aside, I fear I’m left to my own devices in writing this week’s edition of the Scribbler’s Peril, in which we leave the days of yore and venture into the vicinity of the near past, practically contemporary history, although we must recognize that we seem doomed to see the near past in terms of BC (Before Covid) and AC (after Covid).  Today’s report only goes back to the decade recently completed, which in this old codger’s view took place only a few weeks ago.  We will, in any case, set the wayback machine to 2010, back to the halcyon days before we felt threatened by all Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse on a daily basis.

Constant readers will recall that in our last episode my 2002 Mazda Protégé had fallen victim to the hazard of the uninsured driver.  It stands to reason that your friendly insurance company is not particularly thrilled with the news that it gets to replace your car even though in the eyes of the law you, as the insured, are deemed as an unspotted lamb.  Needless to say the first item to be skimmed off the top of the payout would be the $500 deductible as the policy fine print dictates when your treasured automobile is T-boned into the embrace of a wrecking yard by an insolvent driver, the ironbound Insurer’s Code (not guidelines) must apply .   On the other hand, the aforementioned agency was courteous and prompt enough and soon the check was, as they say, in the mail.

Did we rush out in search of a replacement?  We did not, for the simple fact that there was no need as the less-than-stalwart Civic remained in the garage and Linda had accepted short term employment out of the country, so why did we need two cars?  Linda’s adventure deserves its own chapter, but that is outside of the parameters of this essay.  Suffice to say she spent a good part of a year traveling the world and at times I was permitted to join in.  The rest of the time I was driving–and adding oil to–the Civic, collecting more miles than should have been the case, which meant that the CEL would be flashing sooner than expected, the result being an inevitable trip to Tony’s Garage for de-carbonization, per tradition.

Eventually, the time would come when two cars were once again required and so I girded myself up to face the slings and arrows of car buyer’s fortune, only this time I had an ace in the hole.  Thinking back to my untrammeled encounter with the staff of the local Mazda dealer during my previous car search, it occurred to me that maybe there was no pressing need to subject myself to the traditional task of slogging across the wastelands of the dealer lots and placing myself at their mercy.

No Guy Smiley from this angle.

Did I perform dedicated and focused research as I had done on my last car-buying spree?  I did not. The Protégé had proven itself so reliable and enjoyable, why should I look elsewhere?  And so I didn’t.  Of course, our old Protégé was now passé as we were already well into the second generation of its successor, the ‘3’.  Now, obviously no one at Mazda was paying overtime to its model-naming office, located with its desk and single light bulb somewhere in a Hiroshima broom closet.  From then on, Mazda chose to forsake actual names in favor of alphanumeric monikers, a Teutonic-derived affectation that much of the industry followed for a time and many still do.  You might blame BMW, Mercedes, and Audi (I certainly do).  In any event, the perfectly serviceable nomenclature, ‘Protégé’, was tossed into the dustbin of history, but no one paid much mind as the ‘3’ that came after it was a memorable and competent machine that drew raves from the wretched scribblers (ahem) of the automotive press. They sold like hotcakes and remain popular to this day.  As a matter of fact one sits in a driveway across the street as we speak.

All good things must come to an end, though, and by 2010 automotive tradition demanded the introduction of something better and brighter:  the result was a face-lifted ‘3’, and I mean literally face-lifted as the Mazda designers drew a happy face on the front clip of the stoic former model, then pretty much called it a day.  This simple action resulted in caustic remarks from many of the ink-stained crowd, who fell over themselves to make fun of the result.  It looked much too happy, was their consensus.  Of course relatively few bothered to notice or comment, then or now, on the proliferation of angry car faces, from pickup trucks to luxury cars, that glower at us from our rear-view mirrors.  Was Mazda making a statement by pasting a smile on the kisser of their compact car?  Was it a crime to introduce a smiley face into the roid-rage milieu?  You would have thought so given the laughter echoing down the halls of the automotive press club.

https://www.caranddriver.com/reviews/a16581021/2010-mazda-3-s-5-door-sport-instrumented-test/

Car and Driver piled on with the linked review, but even the ISW (Ink-stained Wretch) writing the article had to admit that once he overlooked the 3’s cheerful countenance, he discovered a very good car.  I confess I sneaked a peak at their review even though my mind by that point was essentially made up.  Being a certified and bonded iconoclast from way back, I was ready to defy conventional wisdom in any case; to me the car looked just fine, and depending on the angle, very handsome indeed.  Mazda was working toward the grill shape that would come to adorn its entire line, and though the final aesthetic balance had not been reached, at least it didn’t look like the automotive equivalent of Grumpy Cat . . . and let’s face it, any cheerfulness at this point of time should not be summarily dismissed.

A fearsome Mazdaspeed 3, with an even more exaggerated grin.

 

In any event, I soon e-mailed my connection at the Mazda store, explaining the model I wanted and intimated that I knew the invoice numbers.  He quickly responded with a quote $200 over that baseline, which seemed like a reasonable offer, one that didn’t require a further duel to the death for marginal gain.  I hitched a ride down to the U District, signed the paperwork, received the tutorial on how to connect to the Mazda’s HAL via Bluetooth, and was soon on my way as the sales staff bid me a fond farewell.

This view became familiar.

The car I drove off the lot was a silver Hatchback Sport, mid-position in the 3 pecking order, although even the base Hatchback remained a few levels above the equivalent base sedan, with 17-inch alloy wheels and 205/50 tires, all the power goodies, air, cruise, driving lights (which I never found a good use for), stereo with CD (remember those?) and assorted other bonuses together with a 2.5 liter, 167 horsepower DOHC four and a (count them!) six-speed manual gearbox.  If the Protégé had been a sporting sedan, the 3 Hatchback encroached on sports car territory, a flirtation that would become a full-blown romance once the Mazdaspeed 3 was unleashed on an unsuspecting public.  As it was, the 3 had good bones, with all the ingredients that made a VW GTI a thing to covet:  precise handling, good steering, wheels at the corners, plenty of grunt when coupled to the six-speed gearbox, together with a soupçon of hatchback-centered practical utility.

No leather in my Sport edition, and better for it.

I quickly found that the luggage compartment was adept at swallowing all kinds of cargo, with the real revelation being that once the rear seats were folded you could stow all manner of Fender amps, speaker cabs, and git-tars, which tended to make gigging life easier, even though the band still had to pack a trailer with the ridiculous amount of equipment it takes to go on stage.  My old Willys ambulance (see my COAL #1) often came to mind when I recalled that we could pack all the band’s gear inside, including drooms, with space to spare, including human beings. Gear proliferation makes fools of us all.

The Twin Reverb fits, now can we squeeze in the AC-30?

The overwhelming question at this point must be:  what was it like to live with?  Initially, the notion of six-speeds tended to be intimidating.  After all, I grew up on the farm driving trucks with a three-on-the-tree.  What do you need all those gears for, anyway?  The simple answer was that you drove the Mazda like you would a normal five-speed equipped car–it’s just that once you merged onto the freeway, you dropped it into sixth, which I treated pretty much as an overdrive.  Even then, the 3 was geared pretty low so in sixth you were turning a fairly high 3500 rpms at 75 mph.  A higher geared sixth may have been in order, but as it was the gearbox ratios were nicely spaced to take advantage of the available horsepower and torque, plus the gearbox itself was great to use with short throws and nice detents.

A gear for every occasion, no waiting.

The Mazda’s motor was no one’s idea of high-winding rotary, and after all, 2.5 liters is pretty big displacement for a four, but the design had provided for any shortcomings of vibration and the like with a set of balance shafts, the result being a reasonably smooth and tractable engine.  And compared to our humble 1.6 Civic, it felt like a Can Am car.  The little Mazda scooted along just fine, thank you.  Fuel mileage wasn’t stellar, but it wasn’t far off that off our Protégé, and on long trips on the interstate it could return 40 mpg pretty consistently.  Average for in-town driving was in the 25 mpg range.

I know the motor is in there somewhere…

Whoever designed the interior may have grown up with an Alfa fetish as the two binnacles containing the speedometer and tachometer seemed to be the work of an Italophile with a penchant for old GTV’s.  I couldn’t complain about the featured instruments’ visibility or appearance–at night they featured the old BMW orange lighting–but the only remaining gauge was for fuel level.  Call me old fashioned, but I would like to have an idea of what my water temps are before an idiot light tells me it’s too late to do anything about it.  And is it too much to ask that an oil pressure gauge be included?  Otherwise, I had no issues with the dash and its controls, aside from the usual puzzlement of my g-g-g-generation when faced with new tech:  what were all those buttons on the stereo for?  I soon learned to ignore them.

Son of Alfa.

As the man said who died while dressing: too many buttons

All first impression tend to be ephemeral, though . . . what was the car like once the new car scent wears off?  It turned out that it was very easy to live with, which was a good thing as it would remain with us for nine years and 175,000 miles.  The 3 revealed itself as something of a jack of all trades, willing and able to take on many roles, from band truck to urban runabout, from canyon carver to long distance cruiser.  The Mazda’s sole shortcoming, as we came to find, turned out to be its limited repertoire when asked to be a trailcrawler.  Low aspect ratio tires do not take kindly to forest service roads with their accompanying pot holes whose depths have never been sounded, jagged stones freshly fallen from crumbling rock faces, and tree debris of various dimensions often barring the way.  The 3 was willing, but the ground clearance was weak.  This problem was addressed by finding friends with rugged AWD’s.  Problem solve-ed.

Looks fine, but I never sat back there.

And maintenance costs?  They were astoundingly low.  I had the oil changed religiously and other fluids topped up as needed, but the years went by and the work invoices remained boringly the same.  Nothing else was needed, with the exception of a new set of tires every 45 to 50,000 miles.  The engine mounts were replaced around the 100,000 mark, but an extended engine compartment warranty paid for those.  The original brakes lasted for . . . I am not making this up . . . 140,000 miles.  I know I will be challenged on this figure, but it is god’s honest truth.  I do tend to be easy on brakes as I belong to the wee Jackie Stewart School of Careful Driver Input; I took to heart the former World Champ’s advice to keep the driving smooth, plus many of the miles on the 3 turned out to be of the freeway variety due to my daily commute.  Still, 140,000 miles on a set of brake pads?  Inconceivable, as Vizzini would say.

Anything else?  Clutch?  Nope.  Burning oil?  Never added a drop between oil changes. Exhaust system?  Nary a spot of corrosion there or anywhere else that I could see.  Mazda had ditched timing belts in favor of chains on their latest engine line-up, so belt replacement was off the service menu.  I believe the serpentine belt was changed at some point after 125,000 miles, but I’d have to look at the receipts to make sure.  At some point the rear spoiler on the hatch started to rattle, but I pulled out a rubber plug, tightened up a bolt, and that was that.  The rest of the car stayed tight for nine years.  Struts, CV boots, nothing else ever gave up the ghost.

Essentially, the 3’s service record, combined with the Protégé’s, put all the other cars I have owned to shame.  I’m quite prepared to hear stories of Mazda owners who have had nothing but pain and woe from their cars, and I accept that a sample of two doesn’t amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world, but my experience may be more than mere anecdotal evidence given that Consumer Reports tends to agree in detail that Mazdas are largely reliable, usually more reliable than many of the marques whose reputations are built on dependability.  I am not interested in starting a war of words over which car is blameless and without spot.  I do note that my two Mazdas were exceptional cars as far as reliability and durability go.

Those attributes alone would probably be enough to make most car owners into long-term Mazda advocates and I don’t discount that.  But for me, there’s another component to my Mazda boosterism:  I like the cut of their jib, meaning, I like their corporate sensibility, or in this case, aesthetics.  I tend to be a right-brained sort of bloke, i.e. I put a lot of stock in the way things look and feel, whether it be painting, sculpture, architecture, guitars, or the subject before us now, automobiles.  Cars are not alone in having a styling component; many consumer objects rely on visual appeal.  The automobile does tend to be in class of its own when it comes to harnessing style to sell the goods and this has been the case almost from the beginning.  Detroit, in particular, turned styling into an idée fixe, something used to manipulate the consumer.  Longer, lower, wider became something of a religion and for a time stylists captured the national imagination.  The Italians also took the idea and ran with it, and given their innate sense of style often turned out works stunning in their execution and functionality.  Detroit, on the other hand, adopted the idea of annual model change to fill the showrooms.  In retrospect, this seemed like a cynical move, but then somehow in the Sixties it resulted in a kind of renaissance, producing timeless designs as beautiful as any in the world.

Of course, it eventually all went to sh*t, and not only for Detroit.  Styling seems to go in cycles, and certainly those cycles often depend on the latest fashion.  Fashion, though, can be anathema to styling, as was certainly the case during Brougham Era; in less than a decade Detroit styling went from world-class to parochial laughing stock.  No other stylists in the world had the least bit of interest in following such nonsense.  The Germans, at that point, made an appeal to form-follows-function and you might say eventually righted the ship worldwide before themselves falling victim to fashion in our day.  Still, depending on the prevailing winds of style and–let’s face it–fashion, the automotive houses rise and fall, and none seem to be immune.  Take Honda, for instance:  once the world leader in form-follows-function, they regressed into style-for-style’s sake.  Check the 2010 Mazda’s contemporary, the much derided Acura TL, for example, with its can opener beak, bulbous sides and bunker greenhouse.  Not to pick on Honda in general or Acura in particular, as even Homer nods, but how did we get from the third and fourth generation Civics to this?  However, that is the story writ large in the automotive industry as companies rise and fall on the vision of their stylists.

Aaaack!

What does this have to do with Mazda?  Compared to their Japanese brethren Mazdas are, at the moment, the soul of styling restraint and beauty.  Toyota has produced some truly horrendous designs in the past decade, some banal, some baroque.  They may be coming out of a dark place with products like the latest Prius and Venza, but when you look at the current best-selling RAV-4, you can’t help but feel troubled.  Lexus:  we won’t even go there.  Honda seems to have pulled back from the grotesque as embodied by the previous generation Civic and the woebegotten Clarity, but have retreated into bland and anonymous.  Nissans definitely look better than they did (how could they have looked worse?), but we will have to wait for a little consistency.  Subaru never seemed interested in styling at all; why else would they have unloaded their curiously homely products on us for decades?

Mazda, on the other hand, seems to care very much about aesthetics–hell, they even actually mention ‘beauty’ in their website paean to their stylists.  They seem dead serious about their Kodo design language, and the proof is in the pudding, as they say.  Mazdas of the past half decade have been attractive, some have been beautiful; even the CX-5 is more elegant than any mere compact SUV has a right to be.  All this could disappear in a fortnight of course, given the unpredictability of the corporate world, but when you combine aesthetics with reliability on the scale of the two Mazdas I’ve described, then I am going to pay attention. And become a loyal member of the Zoom-zoom tribe.  But we will continue that tale next week.

In the meantime, check this space for prizes!  I’m headed to the attic to find my old Hemi Power t-shirt!