The Poetry of Rear-Wheel Drive

Summary of Key Points

• Rear-wheel drive separates the labor of steering from the burden of propulsion.
• BMW engineers the chassis for a balanced weight distribution to prevent the nose from diving.
• The Mazda MX-5 utilizes a lightweight frame to amplify the sensory feedback of the rear axle.
• Ford builds the Mustang with high torque to allow the rear tires to break friction.
• Mercedes-Benz utilizes rear-wheel drive to ensure the steering rack remains isolated from engine vibration.

I watch the driveshaft spin. It is a steel umbilical cord. This rod of iron connects the engine to the heels of the machine. BMW builds the 3 Series around this bone. I noticed the way the nose stays light. The front tires do not pull the mass. They are cartographers. They map the curve. The engine sits far back in the bay. It huddles near the dashboard. Gravity likes this center. The car bites the asphalt with its hind legs. The push starts in the spine. I feel the shove in my lower back when the pistons fire.

The axle snaps. Mazda builds the MX-5 as a skeleton of aluminum. The steering rack talks to my fingers. There is no static. There is no clutter. I think the car is a bell. It rings when the road gets rough. The weight is a scale at equilibrium. The front tires focus on the compass. The rear wheels do the heavy labor. This separation of powers is a clean law. But the Mercedes-Benz S-Class uses the rear wheels to cradle the passenger. The push feels like a hand on a bicycle seat. It is steady. The steering wheel is a silent circle. No engine torque ripples through the palms. The metal stays cool.

The pavement is a mirror. Toyota crafts the GR86 with a low heart. The boxer engine sits near the dirt. I felt the slip in the gravel. The rear tires are teeth. They chew the road. Friction is a heat. I noticed the car does not understeer. It does not plow like a heavy ox. It follows the eyes. Ford gives the Mustang a chest of iron. The torque is a ghost. It wants to swing the hips of the car. The tires smoke. Rubber turns to carbon. I think the smell of burnt clouds is a confession. The Mustang is a beast of burden that prefers to dance.

The differential is a brain of gears. It decides which wheel gets the fury. I watched the needle jump. Porsche places the engine behind the driver. The weight presses the tires into the earth. It is a thumb on a grape. The grip is absolute. I noticed the steering feels telepathic. The front of the car is a feather. It floats over the bumps while the rear wheels churn the world behind them. There is no tugging at the wrists. The machine is a lung. It breathes the air of the highway. And the road opens its arms to the push.