2004 Dodge Ram SRT-10 Is a Viper with a Pickup Bed

From the February 2004 issue of Car and Driver.

Memo to: Csaba Csere
From: John Phillips
Csaba, I’m not sure I should be the guy writing about this truck. Remember my Viper review (November 2002)? I recall a lot of hissing, some dark threats, a blanket apology or two. Didn’t you have to mail out pricey Xmas gifts to smooth that one over?

Memo to: John Phillips
From: Csaba Csere
Editors who are assigned a road test are expected to complete that road test. It’s not a difficult concept. If you didn’t get enough seat time, talk to Yates. I saw him driving the SRT-10, and I think he liked it. Don’t get me into trouble over this, okay?

Memo to: Brock Yates
From: John Phillips
Hey, Brock, did you drive this brute? Moses in a muumuu, man. There’s a whole Viper driveline in there, did you know that? That’s insane. Don’t get me wrong, it’s a fabulous engine. Who’d complain about 500 horses, right? But why attach it to a 5139-pound rear-drive truck with the traction of a gravy boat? You know, a Saturn booster rocket is powerful and fast, too, but it’s not particularly useful in rush-hour traffic. I’m willing to accept the concept of a 153-mph hot-rod truck the day I see it carrying a load of drywall to a job site, you know? If a guy wants a two-seater that costs $45,795 and runs like a Corvette, why not buy a Corvette?

John, you trembling liberal weenie. Actually, it has three seats, just like a McLaren F1. And let’s get this straight. I don’t like the SRT-10. I love the SRT-10. Any pickup that’ll suck the headlights out of your beloved tea-bagger roadsters is all right by me and the rest of us beer-drinking, smoke-’em-if-you-got-’em real Americans. The only thing the SRT-10 needs is a big “No. 3” on the back window and a gun rack inside. If that offends you and your weepy pals, I suggest you go back to Canada where your real roots are planted.

Brock, you Heston-hugging hunk of hubris. I’ve warned you about calling me a weenie. My grandmother called me that. Also my mother. My girlfriend, too.

Listen, I’ll admit to liking the SRT-10’s steering—accurate, even light, which is amazing, because those 22-inch Pirellis (what’s that, a “dub plus two”?) must each weigh about as much as Orson Welles. And the clutch is lighter than I expected, although I still can’t depress the pedal through an entire red light. The trick seats are fine, too—aggressive bolsters that aren’t intrusive. So, see, there’s that.

But don’t tell me you enjoyed the spindly foot-long Hurst shift lever. You’d replace the knob with an eight ball, right? You ever try to find reverse in this thing at night? I’ll bet you even liked the pushbutton starter. Probably reminds you of the Eliminator. Well, pal, does the Eliminator also make 83 decibels of racket at wide-open whack? Shouldn’t we be considering a pair of OSHA-approved ear protectors, here?

HIGHS
Brock: Smoky burnouts on demand, intimidating styling, annoys Phillips.
John: Zero to 60 mph in 4.9 seconds.

John, you Twinkie-eating teat. The second-gen Eliminator is also Viper-powered, so, unlike you, I’m accustomed to the big-decibel sound of success. I’m almost deaf to prove it. Actually, I wish Dodge had sexed up the exhaust pipes, as Ford did with the SVT F-150 Lightning. You know, side pipes like a NASCAR Craftsman truck’s? Either that, or four straight exhausts out the back.

Brock, you Limbaugh-loving lackey. Maybe you were drunk and didn’t notice that this truck rides like a truck. I don’t want to hyperbolize, but those mono-tube Bilsteins are so unyielding as to blur my vision. The bed shakes and shimmies like a wet hunting dog, and I noticed a nice collection of trim bits vibrating in a paint-shaker dance that’s sure to end in tears. You’ll need a caulking gun at every service interval. Don’t believe me? Take Pam for a ride and see if she makes it as far as the Cannonball Run Pub before she bails on you. You’ll wind up having to date women who first ask for a Visa imprint.

John, you pathetic, punctilious pedant. I’ll admit that the shift lever rattles under hard acceleration but, hell, pumping out enough torque to overturn an M1A1 Abrams main battle tank doesn’t come without penalties. Try to be a man about it, okay?

Brock, you beetle-brained, trough-feeding bloviator. Zero to 60 mph in 4.9 seconds is not the be-all and end-all, okay? Although, I’ll grant you, it did get my attention because it’s three-tenths quicker than the SVT Lightning. Still, it’s the same acceleration you could achieve by, say, jumping out your bedroom window some night. You should try it.

All I’m saying is that the Chrysler guys got it right when they created the little Dodge SRT-4. Six fewer cylinders, an actual back seat, 2219 pounds more eco-friendly. The SRT-4 goes 153 mph, too, you know, and it stops 17 feet sooner. Nearly the same skidpad grip. Only 3 mph slower through the quarter-mile. Costs $25,800 less. See? What I’m suggesting is that we all try using a dentist’s pick instead of a jackhammer.

With this truck, what are you supposed to do after you leave the drag strip?

Do you know how much torque this V-10 makes? Well, okay, me either. But it’s probably enough to qualify as wasteful, okay? Shouldn’t we be using that energy to fund national health care?

LOWS
Brock: Shifty shifter, sticker price of a triple-axle double-wide.
John: Cement-truck ride, cement-truck noise, fuel mileage worse than a cement truck’s.

John, you granola-gutted gelatinous git. The only two important components of Newtonian physics are torque and recoil. Shifting the SRT-10 under power is like firing a Barrett M82 .50-caliber sniper rifle. As for the choppy ride, you need some stiffness in the rear springs if you’re gonna haul enough Bud for a full evening of demo-derby thrills. You city types pack a bottle of Chablis and some Brie—well, that ain’t the SRT-10’s mission, Mister Ballet-Butt.

Brock, you bilious bard of bombast. In the rain, you can spin the SRT-10’s rear tires all the way through first and second gears, assuming you can keep the thing on the portion of highway that’s actually paved. What are you gonna do, write your initials in Pirelli script all over America? I bet this thing’s a real treat in the snow. Holy smokes, I used to think Sam Kinison was the definition of crudeness.

John, you hand-wringing, bed-wetting hysteric. Some say Kinison died the true American way—driving like a maniac in an overpowered Pontiac Trans Am. Which is better than the fate you face—crashing your Segway scooter while heading for a Gordon Lightfoot concert. Get some starch in your shorts before Jimmy Spencer knocks you into next Thursday.

Brock, you conservative-clucking crock of cottage cheese. Like the Opel Speedster and the original Hummer, this truck is a nice thing to drive as long as you don’t have to get anywhere. I have just two words for you, and one’s not “buzz” and the other’s not “off.” Fuel mileage, Brock. Fuel mileage. I’m warning you, Brock, this is the sort of thing that causes the French to hate us.

John, you Francophile. Of course the French hate us! What better endorsement for the SRT-10? Maybe we can use one to batter down their embassy and run them off to the perfumed Parisian brothels where they belong. Fuel mileage? With high-test still less than $2 per gallon and OPEC on the ropes, who the hell cares? It’s reactionaries like you who keep screeching, “Power to the people.” Well, here it is, pal.

Brock, you subcutaneous canker on the chapped lip of humanity. You notice the SRT-10 has a real hood scoop that isn’t attached to anything? Remind you of something? Your brain, perhaps?

I’ll give you this: Hot-rod trucks are capable of transporting me to a simpler era. Last night, this one made me want to jam cherry bombs into my neighbor’s mailbox and enter a college fart-lighting contest.

John, you simpering softie. I’ve got a good notion where else you might want to jam those cherry bombs. You have Spencer’s number? I’m calling him right now.

Brock, you pretentious pile of genetically engineered pork. Your defense of hulking trucks reminds me of Fay Wray when she said, “King Kong sure had nice fur for a giant stinking ape.” I’ll give you this: After you blow the clutch out of this baby while towing your speedboat up to the islands, you can always use the twin exhausts as eaves troughing. One other good thing about the SRT-10: It’s got a built-in compass so you shouldn’t have so much trouble finding your ass.

John, you whiny, wet-eared wheat eater. If you love the French so much and have spent so much time in Canada, you already know where your ass is. All I can say is that the SRT-10 rocks. Of course, it could use an extra 100 horses for hauling my Donzi and towing the Eliminator and helping me run my new drywall business now that you probably got me fired. In the meantime, go back to Toronto with your draft-dodging buddies where I hope you overdose on Tim Hortons apple fritters. They’ll bury you in a vat of maple syrup beside Margaret Trudeau.

VERDICT
Brock: A Viper that hauls drywall. Plus, it annoys Phillips.
John: Rude and crude, but it’s the current king of hot-rod trucks.

Know what, Brock? Your breath stinks.
Maybe so, but I’m not the guy knitting sweaters for Perry Como.

You shave your legs before swimming.
Your floral arrangements suck.

Your lawn’s in poor repair.
Your Haggars droop in the butt.

Memo to: Csaba Csere
From: John Phillips
Csaba, I think Yates fell into the Chivas again. He’s not talking to me anymore. You should fire him. Replace him with Norm Schwarzkopf, maybe. That’s my advice.

Memo to: Csaba Csere
From: Brock Yates
Csaba, I think Phillips has been grazing too long inside NPR’s members-for-life lounge. His brain has turned to spätzle. You should fire him. Replace him with Arianna Huffington, maybe. That’s my advice.

Source: Reviews - aranddriver.com