No more questions.) For this urban-hopping business, the Trax is quite good. And it costs 99 cents, which might not seem much, but still smacks of nitpicky hidden fees: “I already paid for the car, now I gotta pay for this?”īy 8am I was in Carroll Gardens, getting a coffee and a sandwich with whitefish and smoked salmon, which shall all go on the record, Your Honor. This is a problem, because Chevy’s MyLink runs navigation from a smartphone app.
There’s no good place to put your phone where you can see it. Rowing your own is so passé.įor smartphone obsessives, there is one USB port tucked away in the upper glovebox. The Hydra-Matic 6T40 automatic moves slowly through six gears, via a dorky button on the side of the shifter: all the power and control, in your thumb! GM loves that, for some reason, in the Trax’s only transmission. You can shift your own gears, but you wouldn’t want to. So too is the ride, nicely controlled and cushy.
#2016 chevrolet trax miles per gallon full
The Trax’s steering is full of feedback, building resistance evenly, a pleasant surprise. And small side mirrors are strangely shaped, and 18-wheelers to disappear in the Trax’s blind spots-somewhere out there is one such truck, headed to Massachusetts, who helped remake Duel within the span of an on-ramp. But the headlights, for some reason, are painfully dim. There’s an expansive view out of the windshield, coupled with an absurdly upright seating position where your legs will form perfect 90-degree angles, just the way your Catholic schoolteachers intended. And in the waning hours before the snowplows, every invisible chunk of ice explodes in the wheelwells like a landmine, ka-pinging across the cabin… But there’s precious little sound deadening from below. The engine doesn’t speak unless spoken to, and its 1.4-liter turbocharged four-banger musters 138 slightly frazzled horses. The Trax is a quiet little thing, for the most part. The world was aglow in amber, and the air was crisp yet warm, and I was landing with probably two hours of sleep-but there was to be no sleep til Brooklyn, so I climbed into the bright orange Trax LTZ AWD and set off. The sort of thing East Coasters just shrug off underneath our Burlington Coat Factory peacoats. By the time our flight landed, the mercury had risen to a positively balmy 35 degrees-any impending doom snow had conveniently turned itself to rain.
People were freaking out about the impending blizzard that I was flying into: twenty feet of snow, roads clogged with snowdrifts, cars abandoned in the street, New Yorkers huddled around barrels for warmth. Land at some ungodly terrible hour, thereby earning my jet-set stripes: from the Best Coast to the Beast Coast, sneering at flyover country the entire way. The wedding, my buddy Jay’s, with whom I grew up in Boy Scouts, started that evening. Fly into New York City at some ungodly hour, a time when only drunks and degenerates are still awake.
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