On the Road and the Course With Chrysler’s Four-Door Cruise Missile.
If you’re reading this review, chances are you’re interested in owning Chrysler’s majestically maniacal 300C SRT8.
Start saving for a speeding ticket now.
The twisted engineers at SRT have done their thing, resulting in a sedan that’s luxurious enough to drive your grandparents to church, fast enough to haul you around a racetrack, and anything in between.
Hardcore Hardware
Under the hood is a 6.1 litre HEMI engine attacking the rear wheels. Brembo brakes are fitted to add “woah” to the “go”, and bolstered seats are included that hug you in ways you thought you couldn’t be hugged. The gigantic 20? rims are wrapped in performance tires, and there are 425 horsepower to tear them to shreds whenever you so much as sneeze on the gas pedal. There’s more aggression in this SRT8 than the locker-room before a UFC grudge match.
Don’t think for a moment that it’s some lethargic overweight American sedan that can’t handle- because the SRT8 has enough grip to rearrange your internal organs.
Understated Visuals
Wrap all of the above in what amounts to one of the sexiest sedans to roll out of Chrysler, and you’ve got yourself a recipe for some serious action. The styling differences are subtle at best- though sufficient to gain attention from those looking closely.
Case in point- while driving in the lane next to and slightly behind a school bus full of young people in military gear, one of them pointed out the SRT to his pals from the rear seat. Within seconds, every window on the busses drivers’ side was in its open position, and several arms waved me to pass quickly. I did.
The Drive and Performance
There aren’t many words that can describe the merciless ferocity of the 6.1 HEMI at full blast. It snorts like a ticked-off rhinoceros and delivers face-peeling acceleration whenever requested. It winds out to 6500 revs, and really starts to breathe over about 4500. You’ll invent new swear words every time you press the throttle.
Right down to the initial grumble when the HEMI achieves ignition, every testosterone-laced decibel from the tailpipes seems to enter your ears as if it’s been echoed back off the boulevards of Motown on a hot, muggy night.
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