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People need to stop letting me drive cars that are actually fast because it makes me feel bad about the circumstances of my own life.

This is one of those cars, a mostly-2015 Volkswagen Golf track weapon with 370 horsepower to prove it, an SCCA street touring amalgamation bolted together from various parts of its latter generations. This is the sole pillar of Hobgoblin Motorsports, the tartan terror, the bank account Bejnamin burner, the big red egg, the infamous, and foul tempered Tomato GTI.

That particular day was not meant to culminate in a car review, but merely a rescue from one of a million issues that plagues a daily driver-turned track car. We toiled about in the afternoon sun in attempt to retrofit an Audi S3 PCV system onto this Mk7 hatch. It is common knowledge that The Germansᵀᴹ love creating unique and complicated plastic connectors with the structural rigidity of a spider web, but, even in the face of this adversity, we succeeded.

And for some reason, while we were taking on some 93 octane at the local Walmart, I was handed the keys to this contraption. Linkin Park was playing via Bluetooth, and I do not like Linkin Park despite my attorney’s recommendation to hide such opinions from the public sphere. I suppose it set a tone for whatever conflict was to follow.

The Insides and Outsides – Spoiled Once More

As mentioned, this particular GTI is adorned with the tartan plaid pattern seats, one of my core weaknesses as a designer which I would shell out obscene amounts of money to have as a universal option. Buck up, VW. No balls.

At this point it is a recurring theme in my life for mundane modern features to astound me with the technological progress over what I am accustomed to. Despite its genuine racecar status, the Tomato retains a full factory interior. It all feels too good for me which is pure fuel for whatever biases I may hold for it. The bolstering of the cloth-vinyl combo seats is very unobtrusive, almost unnoticeable until you get into rougher corners. Very nice. The dashboard is adorned with various screens, as decreed by John Q. Public to be the norm in every car ever for the rest of time. These ones? Not so bad, a semi-flush mounted screen above the physical HVAC controls and a small display between the analog gauges. Haptics reign over digital gimmicks, as they should.

Under the hood is an – allegedly – stock 2.0L EA888 4-cylinder. Is it safe from harm at this power level? Probably not, but doesn’t every engine play a waiting game of sorts? The power level is managed by a tuned ECU, Injen cold air intake, open downpipe, and various other supporting mods. The modification state of the 6-speed transmission is unknown but, yeah, that thing sure does transmit.

Driving Impressions – You Gon Learn, Son

“When the clutch burns it smells like garlic for some reason. So basically if we smell that I’m kicking your ass”

“That is fair”, I said.

As a daily manual driver, the largest adjustment to driving this car was, somehow, its manual gearbox. Notably the South Bend race clutch that dictates your motion through the commercial hellscape of suburban America. The third pedal in this car is a full-leg workout situation, as is often said about the older Lamborghinis, and requires some careful moderation to avoid looking any more like a total asshole. From my perspective of deep-rooted laziness, driving this every day would be an utterly demoralizing experience, but everything’s worth a try once, isn’t it?

This clutch calls the shots on where you’re going and how fast you’re getting there, it’s just your job as the driver to cope with it and keep slamming gears until some road structure halts your progress. Or in this case, an 8th gen Honda Civic NO, TWO 8TH GEN HONDA CIVICS.

CIVICS GOING 35 ON A 40 ROAD.

TWO SEPARATE ROADS. COROLLA GUY? YOU’RE NO BETTER, ANOTHER BRICK IN THE WALL, BUD. I HAVE ENOUGH POWER TO JUMP THE NEAREST RIVER IN THIS GOD FORSAKEN TOMATO AND YOU ARE DRIVING LIKE IT’S 1929. I WILL SCRAMBLE YOUR GENETIC CODE LIKE A FUCKING OMELETTE.

GET OUT OF MY WAY.

On the note of gear changes, my 5-speed Subaru needs approximately 4-6 business days to settle itself into the right RPM for an upshift, but this car will punch you in the gut for showing it such courtesy. Leave your palm on that golf ball shift knob and just fucking shove it whenever a new gear is in order. The motion is tough to throw, but short and always finds its place. Power delivery from 2,500 RPM is an exponential equation. Turbo lag is a major consideration in powering through corners as the engine musters up 28 PSI of boost pressure.

The wide, slick tires, and the Konig wheels they are mounted on, are more than stout enough to hold power through wider corners, and once this machine is on song it will wind out to 7,400 RPM. Fascinating, to drive something where the tach redline is truly a mere suggestion. The matters of rev limits and to “stop braking for corners”, I was willing to take the owner’s word for out of self preservation. Throwing the car into an asphalt oval of sorts, I braced my seat, pointed in the clearest direction I had, and rode the air of collective hysteria as the lateral forces threatened to throw Mr. SwedishDiesel free from the back seat. He was not allowed to drive the Golf, and I’m still surprised that I was.