Short Take Road Test
Readers of continuing immersion in this journal over the past 40-some years will say, "Yup, that's what it is, all right," when we describe this Lexus as a "shooting brake." Affluent Brits of yore occasionally had a sporting coupe, something from Aston maybe, cut and welded into a wagonlike conveyance for those afternoons of grousing around with the pointers and the Purdys. Or pheasanting around.
At least that's the way American scribes portrayed the cars. Slaves to accuracy will note that British writers use "shooting brake" pretty much synonymously with station wagon.
Anyway, this IS300 SportCross is a shooting brake of the fabled sort, a quick and rakish-looking runabout with moves remarkably like those of the zingy sedan from which it's derived, and with minimal concessions for hauling kids and hounds and large-screen TVs. That nails the legend dead-on because the "brakes" of those old pages were carrozzeria creations meticulously trimmed in luggage leather. No muddy boots allowed! These were special cars. That's the only reason we cared about them.
The SportCross plays the special-car role so convincingly it should be an Oscar nominee. No one serious about creating a hauler would taper the roof so low and narrow in back, or fill the wheel openings out flush to the flanks with 45-series neck-wrecker tires, or tuck and fold the fine-grain, cut-pile carpeting so painstakingly around the load area. The details are gorgeous, from the subtly contrasting café au lait piping on the vanilla leather seats to the lustrous metal grip on the smooth-pulling blind that unrolls to cover your cargo. Where to pack madame's backup Rolex and pearls? No problem. Lift a hinged panel in the load floor, and you'll see hidden compartments of varying sizes down in what amounts to a basement. Surprise! There's even a round, basin-shaped receptacle just perfect for an angel-food birthday cake, with candles already installed and awaiting ignition.
All the normal station-wagon tricks are present here, although on a small scale. What can you expect from a car three inches shorter than a Corvette? The rear seats fold flat, leading back to a small ramp in the floor down to the load area behind. The front-passenger bucket folds forward, making a table of at least theoretical value. The greatest benefit of tabling the seat may be that it opens a space for long objects, all the way from the tailgate to the dash. Say your nine-foot boa locks into the unconstricted position and you need to schlep him off to the chiropractor. Just poke him in through the tailgate. If you need a fraction more, uh, headroom, pop the glove-box door.
Mechanically, the SportCross is little changed from the sedan. Same silky 215-hp in-line six up front, same five-speed automatic with the shifter buttons on the steering-wheel spokes (no manual in the wagon), same lean padding on the snug-fitting buckets. On the go, wind roars a bit around the posts of this squarish windshield shape. Ride motions are crispy, or sporty, if you prefer. This is a spunky, nimble machine.
Lexus admits to 125 pounds gained in the transformation to wagon. Length increases less than a half-inch, aero drag increases to 0.31 from 0.29, and occupant space both front and back changes not at all.
Still, there is that special-car flavor. Where the four-door has 7.0-inch rims all around, the SportCross has 7.5s in back with one-size-up 225/45ZR-17 tires. Very unwagonlike, that arrangement. A different car we drove had shiny gray "graphite polished" alloy wheels ($400), giving a look of exotic metallurgy. Unwagonlike, too, is the effortless closing of the tailgate, and the remarkable illumination of the HID headlights on a dark country road.
Decades ago, everybody knew a "brake" was special, according to those old pages at least. Would anyone get it today? At, say, the Home Depot's loading zone? Three men with orange aprons gathered when the mid-40s housewife pulled up for her potting soil and softener salt. They gave it the slow walk-around. One ventured a sticker price of $60,000 at least. And the youngest one asked what she was doing on the weekend. For the record, she denied giving out those signals, so it must be the car.
