To Love or Not Love Cars

I have a dear friend who likes cars more than I do, but hardly knows a thing about them. This friend knows all the necessary truths: (1) Ferraris and Lamborghinis are hot Italians, (2) Aston Martins and Rolls-Royces are sub-zero cool, and (3) the McLaren Technology Centre really is the earthbound home of the Galactic Empire.  But when I make an effort to explain intricacies of the car industry other than the above points, my friend is hopelessly drowned in the puke of automotive gobbledygook that fountains out of my mouth like Mr. Creosote’s stomach contents.

And it’s all my bloody fault, because if I would only keep my festering journalist gob shut, my friend could blissfully enjoy the semi-ignorance of knowing such basic facts about cars. There’s simply no need for the average person to know that Saabs are GMs and that car nerds the world over are climaxing over the fact that Audi is putting a V10 in the R8.

“Nothing is less pleasant than going to dinner and having to listen to a petrolhead spout off all night about the brilliance of the Nissan GT-R.”

This puts me into a bit of a tight spot, since I know more than I should about cars, and this brings one dangerously close to becoming a remarkably dull, fully-rigged, grade-A pillock that has no chance at ever having a wife and children that love him.  Why such strong language? Well, in my opinion, nothing is less pleasant than going to dinner and having to listen to some petrolhead spout off all night about the brilliance of the Nissan GT-R.  It’s like dining with a Porsche mechanic.  The massive dearth of personality there is so great that black holes usually form in such people.  No, not those black holes, you pervert. Astrological black holes.  Great pinpoints of nothingness.  Such is the personality of a petrolhead.

The desire to have friends and be a normal person is a constant reminder that if I value my life, I better not bite off more car culture than I can chew.  But then I get all misty-eyed whenever I watch Top Gear or read Peter Egan, and remember how fun being a car nerd is.  Do I sacrifice my personality to the autogods and become a willing slave to Things On Four Wheels? Or do I remain distant and loose my childhood sense of wonder whenever a Lamborghini drives by?

I see the discovery of middle ground in this war as my own personal quest for the Holy Grail.  How do I remain an honorable, intelligent fellow who appreciates automobiles without turning into a hopeless nimrod who mumbles all day about spanners and sequential gearboxes?

This quest has all sorts of grand and epic obstacles, yet the greatest one currently is my age.  For those of you who don’t know, most of the stuff I ‘blog’ about is all outrageous, pretentious fiction about my mild-mannered alter-ego, a world-weary globe-trotting motoring journalist who lives a glamorous, solid-gold existence in the south of California.  In real life, I’m a hopelessly pedantic student living in Florida, America’s graveyard with palmetto-lined boulevards.  Yes, it’s true.  Sorry to shatter your grandiose images of the Great Tarmac Philosopher.

“If only I wrote educated columns on politics, literature, poetry, and medicine rather than bootless gushings about Lamborghinis and Aston Martins, I might actually be able to call myself a success story of modern education.  But alas, it’s no use.”

The Tarmac Philosopher is, in essence, my online barf bag where I hurl my automotive nerdgasms so my friends and family don’t have to suffer.  Instead, I suffer silently, along with you, my beloved 3 readers, who suffer with me as I belly-flop into my petrol-filled imaginarium on a semi-weekly basis.  Okay, I don’t really suffer.  I actually enjoy spewing out The Tarmac Philosopher.  But at the same time, I have that nagging feeling in the back of my bulbous brain that what I write is as respectable as being the Greatest Paladin Ever in the World of Warcraft.  If only I wrote educated columns on politics, literature, poetry, and medicine rather than bootless gushings about Lamborghinis and Aston Martins, I might actually be able to call myself a success story of modern education.  But alas, it’s no use.

My mum is a perfect anecdotal example of why The Tarmac Philosopher is necessary for my well-being, even if it is a sorry method.  Driving in the car with her and having the first Jaguar XF I have ever seen drive by us is infuriatingly frustrating.  I point it out with all the youthful exuberance of a professional adolescent car-spotter, only to receive a lovingly supercilious and slightly perplexed expression of “so what?”

“So what? Jaguar’s revolutionary, messianic sedan just drove by, that’s what!”
“Oh.”

It doesn’t end there.  Most of my friends have the same innocent obliviousness towards cars, and the ones I know for certain find cars interesting are closet cases.  How can I tell? If I point out a particularly superb vehicle, they will glance at it for approximately 5 seconds longer than the disinterested friends.  Ah, good people! I understand your dilemma.

Ultimately, I have decided to remain cool and collected about my love for cars. I have decided to utilize it for the good of my future and my education, and hone my writing skills by continuing this futile blog.  As The Tarmac Philosopher evolves, I hope to expand my horizons a bit and apply what textbooks and teachers have taught me to the medium which I have chosen.  Personally, I don’t believe in the theory of evolution, but I do believe I can work a little intelligent design on my writing and my ability to convey ideas and emotions to my readers.  Stick with me, fellow car nerds!  Into the bright future we shall walk united and content, while speaking softly and carrying a big key fob.

The Great Lamborghini Thrash of 2008

As a lowly creator of letters and words that appear on a printed page, I have been greatly blessed with the absence of my bewildered face in any sort of the gossip media which is currently molesting the world. In other words, I am not a celebrity, and thank the good Lord.

Many naive bumpkins come to Southern California seeking the Hollywood dream: the dream of being on the cover of Esquire and Rolling Stone, acting glamorous on the small and silver screen, living beside swimming pools and movie stars, and coming in contact with millions of square feet of red carpet on a daily basis. Unfortunately, the cold reality is that life in Hollywood is all about constantly controlling what others think of you while being chased by parasitic life-forms toting cameras with big flash bulbs. Being a celebrity is down-and-dirty, uncomfortable, filthy, rotten, stinking, unpleasant, hideous work.

I know this because ever since I’ve had the only Lamborghini Gallardo LP560-4 in all of North America (at least I think so), the picture of me driving it is on every cameraphone’s SIM card from San Diego to Santa Barbara. To someone who enjoys anonymity, this is a terrifying prospect. The only consolation is that the people who took the pictures are hopefully all card nerds who could care less about the person driving it. They wouldn’t possibly be interest in me. *Sigh of Relief*

I still had to get out of town. I needed to escape in spectacular fashion. So I made an appointment at a top-secret undisclosed location in order to discover the new Gallardo’s darkest secrets under the safeguard of anonymity. Willow Springs International Raceway, a 2.5 mile circuit in the God-forsaken desert, is just a stone’s throw away from Edwards Air Force Base, where the Space Shuttle lands if it doesn’t fancy the humidity at Cape Canaveral. It’s the self-proclaimed “fastest road in the west,” and features a couple different road courses for variety, and also a large skid pad for heavy right feet. So it sounded like the prime location for some automotive violence, particularly a petrol-drenched version of the Running of the Bulls.

Enroute, I forced myself to think technical, and remembered some facts explained to me by Franz. One of the LP560-4’s many technical baubles the good German monologued about was the new fuel injection system, the Italian name of which I will not try to pronounce for my readers’ sakes. All I know is that it stands for an FSI direct injection system, and that meant more power. The new engine is also more powerful. There is more torque, which means more power. It has 32 more bhp, which means it has more power. Shall I go on?

As you can probably see, the LP560-4 is more powerful than previous Gallardos, and rightly so. This update should be more than just a facelift of a previous car; it should be a fresh, contemporary reflection of Lamborghini’s current nuclear shockwave of an expansion. To put it bluntly, it bloody well needs a few extra muskles.

It also needs to be better on the handling front. Sure, the old Gallardo did have four-wheel drive, but it still was monumentally distant from the revolutionary brilliance of the Ferrari F430. The Fezza had that unmistakably light, poised, ballet-slipper feel, which made it a joyous romp in the park to turn corners with. The Gallardo, by comparison, had chunky, less elegant manoeuvres, and was less fun to slide around corners. I liked the Gallardo a lot better because it was less serious than the Ferrari, and so I desperately wanted the new one to (1) still be a laugh, and (2) really give the serious Ferrari a run for its money. I was a man on a mission: to shatter Ferrari’s renown as the great drivers’ car of the world. I also wanted to have a das frikken’ blast.

I arrived at Willow Springs shocked at how rural the place was: some jet-black strips of asphalt winding around the desert. Absolute motoring nirvana. I started out on the main road course to gauge the power: the first thing I cared about. With launch control set, I compressed the right pedal with determination, and out came a symphonic roar that made Pavarotti suddenly sound like sneezing rodent. Yes, it is essentially audiological sex. Ferraris may emit a melodious acoustical riff, but the Gallardo pounds out a heavy-metal thrash suitable for soundtrack-ing Iron Man’s suit-up.

Its acceleration was also obscene: a convincing catapult that got me to 60 mph in 3.7 seconds. And then it kept on going and going, with seemingly no resistance from air, friction, or the laws of physics, thanks to the 31% more-efficient aerodynamics. This thing is a fish. A torpedo. An F22 Raptor. It is the undisputed king of the wind tunnel.

Sooner than expected, I encountered the first corner, and attempted to make power slide fun. But I suddenly realized this bloody thing had loads of grip. Midway through turning around the corner, I still had yet to hear tyres squealing. No tyre squeal in a Lamborghini? Bizarre. Must be that four wheel drive. Right after the apex, I was able to kick the tail out a bit with buttery ease. The car arrived safely on the other side of the corner with little to no drama at all. It was spectacularly tractable.

Accelerating out of the corner was wonderfully mellifluous, thanks to Lambo’s worthwhile tinkering with the previously-problematic E-Gear system. Now there’s not an excuse to settle for the manual. You would only get one if you were a stuck-up, snobbish “purist” who demanded a stick.

Perhaps the car as a whole still lacks the perfection of the F430, but it is noticeably better than the last Gallardo. Not that you’re going to be thoughtfully cogitating about such mind-fat while behind the wheel, because you will more likely have dinner-plate eyes, a mortally wounded self-confidence, and a mahogany-colored streak on the underside of your trousers. The LP560-4 is bone-crushingly fast, and nothing is better than discovering this on a super-long stretch of barren Death Valley tarmac. The Lambo was born for such thrashes. It was a very pleasant moment.

Grocery Shopping in a Lamborghini

It was a moment of sheer jubilation: I put the key into the brand-spankin’ new Lamborghini Gallardo LP560-4, the starter motor whirred, but failed to produce engine life. It was a lovely sound: the sound of a sputtering Lamborghini. An almost nostalgic sound, the sound of Lamborghinis past, the sound of Italian crapicity. This is Lamborghini as I remembered it. I almost teared on account of this surge of nostalgic happiness.

Suddenly, all that joyous love I suddenly had for the poor little Lambo left as the V10 suddenly sprang into healthy life. The engine was just cold and fresh; there was no problem at all. One thousand frown lines melted over the top of my sunglasses like batter overflowing out of a waffle maker. Damn Audi quality control. The trip to the grocery store would not be as fun as it seemed a couple minutes ago.

As if a non-broken Lamborghini wasn’t enough, another problem presented itself on the way to the local Wal-Mart, where yours truly is forced to buy bargain goods because he is a journalist. When I drove into the Wal-Mart parking lot, I was greeted with the usual crowd of old American sedans, minivans, and the myriad of Japanese compacts. These were my people. I felt at home here. However, the Gallardo looked as comfortable among these plebeians as a Baptist in St. Peter’s Basilica. It’s a car made for people who are paid more than money is worth, so I rethought my choice of shopping center and decided to throw down for once, and shop where all the jet-setters shop the short time they’re on the ground.

Whole Foods Market is the chic place to shop if you don’t mind paying pounds and pence for food that normally costs pence. Also, Whole Foods unfortunately makes a big deal out of being an environmentally friendly company, so driving into their parking lot with a Lamborghini sort of felt like driving a Hummer into the Coachella Music Festival with bullhorns on the roof playing “Hail to the Chief.” It felt dangerous. I was responsible for this extremely rare car, and could not afford to have celery and pink paint thrown at it. This called for stratēgery.

I parked next to an island so one side of the car would be facing a tree, which I hoped would not suddenly become a hostile environmentalist and set fire to the car. The other parking space was empty, so I positioned a couple empty grocery carts in it to discourage people from parking next to the holy Lambo. I nervously walked backwards into Whole Foods, not wanting to turn my back on the brand-new, first-in-the-US test car that Franz had entrusted me with.

A few minutes later, I exited Whole Foods, and almost dropped all my expensive victuals in horror. Some ponce had moved the carts and spitefully parked a filthy, greasy, rusted Volvo 240 station wagon in Fungus Green Metallic right next to my shimmering Lamborghini. Thankfully, after close inspection, not a spot of Volvo stink had blemished the Italian beauty’s skin. I then examined the Volvo, and discovered that its finish had a substantial outer layer of bumper stickers advertising for Greenpeace, PETA, Humane Society, the Earth Liberation Front and few other vegetabalist and ecotage organizations. Not surprisingly, I also received a friendly brochure under the Lambo’s windscreen wiper condemning me forever to Hades for symbolically clubbing baby whales to death by driving an earth-warming beast-car that ran on The Man’s oilish excrement, also known as gasoline. I would have kept interestedly reading, but the whiff of cannabis wafting from the shit-Volvo’s open window started to irritate my nose, so I neatly crumbled up the brochure, and left the parking lot in a billow of CO2 emissions.

Life in the Lamborghini had been a pleasant dawdle so far, and I decided that a celebration was in order. The local ice cream shop was open, and around this time of day, it would most certainly be crowded. It was another opportunity to brighten peoples’ days with the Gallardo’s crazy looks. As I pulled in as discreetly as possible, heads turned like motion-sensing CCTV cameras toward the razor-sharp profile of the Gallardo. I got out, answered a good volley of questions, signed autographs and made dates with several beautiful women. I made those last two up. What I really did was spend the time revving the engine and opening the doors to let curious eyes poke around the interior

I truly enjoy making these impromptu car shows. It feels like I’m bringing supercars to the masses, to people who can truly appreciate them for what they are: amazing machines that inspire, excite, and enthrall. Personally, I have never believed supercars belonged only to those who can afford them. Rather, supercars belong to the little 5 year old with the big grin on his face. They belong to the impish, sophomoric teenage skater blokes who think they are “totally rad.” They belong to the amateur auto enthusiasts who pine and geek out when they see an exotic car that actually works, unlike their Jag E-type project car which is in need of a new clutch which they can’t afford to replace. These are the true car connoisseurs. They are like the difference between those who drink posh wines because their posh friends are watching to those who sample posh wines in a appreciative manner, in order to grasp the emotional sensations that fine wine has to offer. God, that’s a rubbish analogy, but you know what I mean.

I had to get all this living-with-a-Lambo stuff out of the way, because tomorrow, I will have to get into harsh critic mode and take it out to a test track to do some serious driving. Stay tuned for my next report if I’m still alive by then.

The Pros and Cons of a Reliable Lamborghini

The guy from Lamborghini was as German as Spaten Optimator. As German as a gasthaus. As German as a Kunstmuseum. But he was also a diplomatic, sleek, polite European-Unionized German. His name was Franz, and he reminded me a bit of Captain Von Trapp from the Sound of Music, but sans the whistle, the British accent, and Austrian sentiment. Franz was incredibly smug about his job and his product, but never crossed the line into rudeness like a Frenchman would. He made every w sound like a v, and was astoundingly methodical in his choice of words. He gesticulated very little, and if he did, it was usually pointing to something on or in the Lambo. This had me stratospherically uncomfortable.

I remember the first time I drove a Lamborghini, and it was at a Lamborghini press event back in the days when Lambos were made 100% by chaps named Vittorio and Antonio who drank olive oil for lunch and wine for dinner. The Lamborghini was a machine built with (cliche alert) passion and soul rather than engineering and precision. The fact that old Lamborghinis were, in essence, beautifully-constructed buckets of brittle, breakable bolts didn’t mean a thing. What mattered was that when you saw one, you would wildly gesture in an Italian way that meant, “Bello! Fantastico!” Old Lamborghinis were senseless, mindless, insane pieces of metallic magnificence.

When I first tried to drive a Countach at the press event, all I remembered was that the clutch pedal felt like I was attempting to manually pile drive a pylon into solid granite with my left leg. The brakes also felt as useful as a lawn mower in Antarctica. It was one of the hardest, most uncomfortable cars I had ever driven, yet I loved every ridiculous minute of it. The press liaison at that event was an ecstatic man named Chazz, who did not once talk about gearboxes, brake discs, or aerodynamics. All he talked about was “power,” “beautiful,” and “Automobili Lamborghini.”

If Chazz was at the north pole, Franz was at the south. I was standing in front of an anthracite-grey Gallardo LP560-4, and all ze German could talk zabout was za new fuel injection system that he attempted to say in Italian- “Iniezione Diretta Stratificata.” He also tried to pronounce the name of the engine position, but it ended up sounding like he was trying to clear his sinuses. Franz said not a word about the incredible, radical design of the new Gallardo, or anything related to aesthetics.

Maybe that’s because there was frankly not much to talk about. The LP560-4 was styled by a non-Italian under the watchful eye of the Audi mothership. The engine is also a direct derivative of the V10 Audi put in the new RS6, and all the interior fixtures come straight from the A8 sedan. The interior actually feels like you are in a car. A working, reliable car. It’s complete BS.

Franz could not see me waving the BS flag as he described the new, quicker E-Gear system, and I guess that’s a good thing. That’s because I had just agreed to take in hand this particular LP560-4 for an entire week to see if, in fact, Volkswagen Group have turned Lamborghinis into cars you can actually drive every day. I would be living with a Lamborghini. My esteemed Editor, out of pure, unbridled spite, commandeered my own car, and left my garage at home empty. I would be restricted from any other sort of transportation other than the LP560-4. It would be the only way to move about.

So the idea that Audi has turned Lamborghini into workable vehicles was a bittersweet thought. Sure, I would need air conditioning, because air con is one automotive luxury I require. But I hoped to God it would break in spectacular fashion, just so I could laugh in Franz’s face and say, “Ah-HA! You have not taken away Lamborghini’s soul! They still break! They still don’t work! You’ve FAILED, good German! Your precision engineering and totalitarian quality control is no match for zesty Italian disorganization!”

When I drove away from the dealership, all hopes of uttering those epic lines vanished completely. I felt like I was in the R8, but with a little more noise. I had too much visibility, too much ride comfort, and the air conditioner was too cold. It felt stratospherically comfortable on the motorway, and I felt myself wanting to cruise on past my exit- cruise in a Lamborghini? Since when do you want to go on a long-distance driving holiday in a fire-breathing, mid-engined Italian stallion?! Nothing makes sense anymore!

This practicality dampened what should have been a monstrously inconsistent, difficult, uncomfortably stiff experience. Yet I secretly thanked Audi for what they had done to Lamborghini. You see, it’s the 21st century, and technology is expected to make life easier. If you are a hedge-fund manager who has sausages for hands and could care less about the 4 in LP560-4, yet needs a car that makes you look like your gross income personified (or in the Gallardo’s case a Bond villain), Lambo’s got a car for you. Gone are the days when Lamborghini made cars that could only be appreciated by childish petrolheads. Today, you can buy a Lamborghini and have that wild, crazy noise and aggressive styling without paying the price of practicality. In theory, it’s brilliant.

The new Gallardo LP560-4 is a perfect example of this brilliance. The designers took a few juicy chunks of Reventon and applied them to the bargain Lambo, making it look less car and more stealth fighter. That’s perfect if you’re 8 years old at heart, like me. Sure, it’s not as outlandish and mad as the Reventon, but the minimalist overtones and faintly-arched lines pleasantly distinguish the Gallardo from its mad, angular million-Euro big brother. However, this car is not “minimalist” in the ABC-Art sense. It is minimalist in that there are no excess lines or creases, and every inch of its surface is refined to German-calibre perfection. It’s sweeping, aeronautical Italian Futurism and Ludwig Mies van der Rohe all at the same time. This unholy union of German refinement and Italian mania is fantastically odd.

The interior is a completely different story. It’s nearly identical to the old Gallardo, which is rather disappointing when you think about it. Lamborghini gave it such a refreshing facelift, but on the inside, it’s still as sensible and boring as a Zurich bus terminal. I wanted to see something shining that was not carbon fibre. Maybe some neon lights, or glow-in-the-dark paddle shifters, or that fantastic LCD panel from the Reventon that makes your speedometer and tachometer look like gauges from some top-secret Skunkworks concept craft. At least something other than a fuzzy foam steering wheel and a satnav from an A8.

I thought about all of this as I (cringe)…. cruised along, and decided to stop by an In-and-Out to measure some public reaction to the car. That’s usually the most reliable test as to any supercar’s goodness. This particular burger joint had a very steep rise at the end of its driveway, so I employed the stupidly practical hydraulic front-end lift and avoided the kerb. Honestly, how drivable can this thing get?

At once, several saucer-eyed 8-year old Ridleys and Madisons and bewildered soccer moms came up to the car to take a look. The kids loved the headlamps; the mums asked how much space the boot had. Suddenly, I discovered one last bit of impracticality, because the boot in the front end was big enough for about a single sock. A-HA! Yes, the Germans couldn’t fix that! The kids were not impressed by the size of the boot, so I revved the engine, and severe cases of permagrin suddenly flared up. The soccer moms reacted by frowning and putting an arm across their children’s chests, motioning them to stand back. ….As if the Gallardo would spawn a teeth-filled maw and gobble them up. Hey, there’s enough Decepticon in this thing to scare anybody.

American Motorist Stereotypeing 101

One of the infinite number of major issues facing the candidates in this 2008 election year is that of satisfying octogenarians who (1) vote and (2) demand pensions to pay for their monthly Metamucil bill. Like it or not, chaps named “Bill” and “Merv” and gals named “Myrtle” and “Marge” represent a massive voting block that the candidates better not ignore if they fear for their lives. Forget the African-American vote, forget the woman’s vote, forget any other vote: the senior citizen vote really counts.

Maybe I’m saying this because I live in the international hub of Perkin’s restaurants and funeral homes. I live in central Florida, famously known around the world as “Where America Goes To Die.” Sprawling 55+ housing developments with bocce courts and bowling alleys are a dime a dozen. If you have ever seen that Ron Howard movie Cocoon, then you know exactly which demographic I live amongst.

This has its perks and its cons. One of the perks is the superb network of authentic, shave-and-a-haircut barber shops where a man can talk about sports and politics with a guy named “Bob,” and not talk about hair products with a bloke named “Marcus” who likes to unbutton his shirt more than once. Another perk is the vast network of superb Italian eateries helmed by fast-talkin’ guys from New Jersey who pronounced New York as “New Yohrk”.

Yet the downsides of living here in AARPville generally outnumber the perks. The greatest downside by a mile is driving around here. Driving in Central Florida makes driving through the center of New Dehli look like a track day at Silverstone. No Floridian asphalt is sacred. Why is it so bad?

It is bad because, as a result of octogenarian motorists, traffic moves at a catastrophically slow and uneven pace. This conflicts violently with normal motorists who actually attempt to go the limit, and these radical differences in speed are incredibly dangerous. When one is attempting to merge onto a 70mph highway behind an early 90’s Buick Park Avenue doing 40mph, you immediately envision yourself neatly compressed on the front grill of a Peterbilt.

Frankly, if the people who consider themselves responsible for the safety of American motorists really wanted to cut down on the number of traffic fatalities, they should revoke the licenses of all those over the age of 80. Japan has already taken a less straightforward approach by offering the elderly cash incentives if they hand over their licenses. Unfortunately, Florida is light-years behind the current watershed of societal evolution, so such a brilliant idea would materialize down here as quickly as a mountain range.

Before I go anything further, I think it would be prudent to say I have enormous respect for those who have been on the planet longer than me. Some of the wittiest sound bites in the history of the spoken word have been told to me by old geezers. A classic was said after I questioned a chap about his broken headlamp. His response: “Well, this idiot in front of me wasn’t moving, so I gave him a push…” I know numerous retirees who are as sharp as tacks, and actually understand me when I talk. They actually drive Audis and Ford Edges, and realize that Gregory Peck has been dead for some time. But even they have no way of lightening the mood on a Floridian boulevard.

All this stink about hellish driving got me thinking about the different demographics of American motorist. Down here in the Sunshine State, there are mainly two groups that really stand out on the roads. There are the senior citizens trundling along in their Mercury Grand Marquis, and then there are Latinos pounding and bashing about in their matte-black Honda Civics with tinted windows and rims the size of a ferris wheel. This makes for a brutal combination. Sometimes you will get into a wreck on account of someone listening to Perry Como, and the next time it would be on account of Oye Coma Va. It’s unsavory.

Up north, in jolly olde New England, the drivers are maniacal, bastardly, and extraordinarily talented at being dexterously reckless. If I might use a nerd’s term: You can get easily “pwned” driving in places like Boston. Yet it is a fun and refreshing place to drive, because even though the motoring is dangerous and insane, you can succeed at it by just staying alert and waving a Patriots or Red Sox flag out your window. Apparently, Massachusetts is one of the few states that actually teaches driving students to give the middle finger as part of a complete driver’s education.

Next, it’s the deep fried South, where the main danger of motoring comes from gentlemen in early 80’s Ford and Chevy pickups with about 45 feet of ground clearance and a proud decal of the Stars and Bars on the rear window. These drivers will ignore your existence, except if you are driving something other than a pickup truck. In that case, you will probably have your first experience at seeing the Second Amendment in practice. If you ever happen to find yourself trapped in Georgia in a pink Toyota Yaris with a rainbow bumper sticker, I would suggest you purchase some Kevlar and then use as much of the trio of cylinders as possible to get to a major metropolitan area.

Then there’s California, where the traffic jam usually compensates for any high-speed danger that might be present. Of course, the only high-speed danger really ever present in California is the possibility of being in the path of a hijacked Cutlass or Escalade which has suddenly become the land rocket of choice for machine-gun toting joy-riders. In fact, most local television stations have specific time slots in the mornings and evenings which are dedicated to broadcasting the latest live car chase happening in the south of California at that moment. They are never wanton for content.

While most of these regions are particularly famous for certain aspects of dangerous motoring, the dangers of American tarmac can be summed up in the fact that America is a spicy and rich melting pot full of the best and worst of world motorists. We really do not have a definite driving style; the American motorist can be anybody. The Land of Opportunity is also the Land Where Anyone Can Drive. While this is obviously not a very comforting thought, it does mean that driving in this glorious country of ours is never ever boring. God Bless America.

Bangalore and Air Conditioning: A Ferrari Across India, Part III

Driving a Ferrari in India is a somewhat obtuse experience. Normally, the average petrolhead would fantasize about thrashing a Ferrari on curvy corniches overlooking Monte Carlo in the morning, then spending the afternoon daftly cruising down shiny streets lined with stores with weird, two-syllable names like “Gucci” and “Prada.” However, I have been doing something the last few days that is virtually the opposite.

I’ve been chucking around a Ferrari 612 Scaglietti in the hills and on the coasts of southeastern India, on the way to Bangalore, in Ferrari’s Magic India Discovery PR event. As I’ve elaborated in the last couple posts, I have a love-hate relationship with Ferrari at the moment. Their car is amazing, yet their choice for a destination had stumped me for quite some time. India?

Nevertheless, after a good many hours behind the wheel trekking across, around, through, over and under all aspects of Indian landscape, I can say with confidence this has been a nice holiday. Any long-distance journey in a Ferrari is, by law, to be considered a “nice holiday.” It would be an act of unspeakable ingratitude to call a road trip in a Ferrari “boring” or “stupid.” In fact, anybody who does should be forced to sit on a bed of nails.

Yet I have enjoyed my journey for one strange reason that, under sane circumstances, should have been completely irrelevant. Ever since I took the wheel of the 612, I have been enamored with the absolute brilliance of…..the air conditioning. All the technological and futuristic wonders of the 612 are subtly eclipsed by its ability to keep the cabin at a comfortable, dry 20 degrees. By the simple fact its air con worked perfectly the entire trip should make any Ferrari marketing boffin beam with pride. I’m being dreadfully honest when I say that 540 horsepower, the F1 flappy-paddle gearbox, and all the supposed technological superiority Enrique the Mechanic had been babbling on to me about really made no impact on me. What made a definite impact on my squishy journalist brain was the fantastic cooler.

This really took me off guard. I sincerely expected the air con to blip ‘n fritz at least once on the trip. Ferrari air conditioners have traditionally been as useful as kitchen appliances with names like “The Magic Oven,” and about as reliable as a war run by Lyndon Johnson. But the 612’s unit never skipped a degree. It was as if it were pulled from a German saloon.

I just thought that deserved some attention. Of course, my enjoyment was definitely helped along by that classic Ferrari magic where everything that makes a Ferrari distinctive comes together and gives you a slightly orgasmic experience.

When we finally reached Bangalore, I was shocked at the rough modernity of the city, and how technologic advancement and regression were in violent collision. This city is often called the “Silicon Valley of India,” however, one drive down a secondary street reveals more rickshaws than cars, and sometimes curbs and sidewalks are still made of dirt and gravel. Our convoy seemed blissfully unaware of such phenomenon as we zipped from fresh, new Shell petrol stations to scenic temples which resembled overly-detailed wedding cakes. That sort of seemed like the routine throughout the whole trip. Apparently, part of magically discovering India is to magically discover its growing chain of curiously clean and modern Shell stations.

The Ferrari grandees who were running the event insisted that us nervous, culture-shocked journalists engage in hands-on, cultural experiences, such as Hindu ceremonies, dressing in Hindu garb, and getting that red dot put on your forehead. I decided to retain the air of Phileas Fogg and simply, respectfully observe these cultural proceedings with politeness, a button-up shirt, and a notepad. On no account of any sort of xenophobia, I made the conscious decision to focus my assignment on the car instead of the culture. The culture did help the trip stay colorful and adventurous, but my job was to write about complicated differentials and ride comfort, not saris and sitars.

When we reached Bangalore, and had to bid farewell to the 612 and my Ferrari friends, I received a communicade from my respectable Editor saying he had made a contact in the city whom I was to meet for dinner. A major executive of one of the many information technology companies in Bangalore had agreed to be my guide in strange places. Personally, I always enjoy meeting a local; it helps my journalistic integrity when covering a foreign country. Yes, it’s true: I care.

My contact was a gentleman who shall remain nameless. For now, we shall call him R. R was a modern Indian businessman: middle-aged, in an authentic Italian suit, perfectly-trimmed hair, high forehead sans the red dot, and comfortably reposed in his maroon Mercedes S-Class. He ran a company in Bangalore which manufactured computer parts for a surprisingly large number of US and European companies. He also had a significant share in Kingfisher Airlines, the infamous company whose boss currently owns a less-than-stellar Formula One racing team, plus a few more billion-dollar baubles. R, however, is not a billionaire. Unfortunately, he has only reached the unflattering title of “millionaire,” the likes of which take up only 10,000 of Bangalore’s population. He has only a couple homes abroad, compared to some of his compadres, who have a few dozen. Nevertheless, R considers himself prosperous, and exemplary of India’s economic boom. He gets no argument from me.

Dinner was at a small, fine-dining Italian restaurant that served Italian food rivaling the best Italian food in bluddy Italy itself. After victuals, R took me around the boomtown district, with its architectural wonders of glass, concrete, and communication antennas. He explained that the appeal of India to growing IT corporations is not just its cheap production costs but its people, who are more open to international business than, say, the communist Chinese (a debatable statement), and the mullahs of the Middle East who still sanction business in order for it to align with their religious beliefs. In India, no such ridiculous scruples exist, said R. India greets international business with open arms.

And once again, I was way over my head. Must I remind you that my sorry excuse for a journalistic brain is only programmed to digest information associated with the words “car” and “cars”?

On my way home, I wrangled with all the stimulus I had received in the last week. It was monumental. Yet after the dust settled, I could only truly remember one thing: the 612 Scaglietti. The car, the car, the car. The reason why I made the journey to begin with. It had been my friend and companion, the only sense of familiarity in a beautiful if strange country. It had developed a personality, and we became like Laurel and Hardy. Maverick and Iceman. Hillary and Norgay. Fogg and Passepartout. It was brilliant; a transcendental experience. Cheers to you, Ferrari, for making such an extraordinary machine.

Uncomfortably Comfortable: A Ferrari Across India, Day 1

I’m often skeptical of car manufacturers when they treat journalists real well. It seems they are buying good words by putting us press boneheads up in a really nice hotel that we don’t even come close to deserving. If Ferrari would have put me up in Trivandrum, India’s version of the Motel 6, with a few cockroaches, a king cobra under the covers, and coffee-brown tap water, I think I would have more respect for their Magic India Discovery event.

On Sunday, I was in a clean, chic 4 (or 5) star hotel in Trivandrum, and started to have my Car-Company-Is-Kissing-My-Buttinsky Radar go off as I saw a very ornate and not-so-rugged-looking convoy pull up to the entrance. A neat array of Tata vans and trucks boxed in two surprisingly clean, impeccably-badged 612 Scagliettis. The bumf given to me by Ferrari contained a lot of names, one of which was ‘Enrique’, the chief expedition leader guy that was sort of directing this difficult road trip. I found Enrique among the crowd, and he and I got acquainted as the journalists who had finished their leg of the trip tramped wearily into the hotel, with what I suspected was a collective case of indigestion. Immediately, the 612s were whisked away to the car park, which suddenly became a grand, make-shift Ferrari pit garage as numerous little Italian men went to work on freshening up the Scags.

Early yesterday, I crawled into the comfortable cab of Scaglietti No. 2, which I affectionately christened ‘Vasco’ in honor of European free trade pioneer, Vasco de Gama. It was the most comfortable position I had been in since I arrived on Indian soil, possibly because it felt very familiar. The sensation of getting behind the wheel of a Ferrari is a very intimate, touching moment. It’s like running into an old mate and going to the pub to drunkenly laugh at jokes that only the two of you ever thought were funny. That sense of almost brotherly familiarity was a chillingly comforting sensation in this Ye Exotic Land of Curry and Psychotically Ornate Temples. Me and Vasco were best buddies lookin’ out for each other in this strange country.

With this image in mind, the convoy set off…..at a spectacularly brisk 5 kilometers per hour. Driving in Trivandrum is a bit like driving through the mosh pit at Woodstock Festival. The roads seem to be more sidewalk than road, and anything with four wheels is massively outnumbered by the swarm of mopeds, rickshaws, bicycles, and other forms of transportation that Tata Motors hopes will so be replaced by the Nano. Wonderful: now the square footage of road taken up by a moped will be multiplied five times over. That should help India’s traffic problem, for sure!

My cynicism was not short-lived, however, because the traffic lasted for hours. We probably made about 5 miles that entire morning. Finally, right when I was contently having my lunch courtesy of another traffic jam, the convoy made a turn onto a big road which was free of traffic. With a submarine sandwich slowly falling apart in my lap, I had to give the big V12 a kick in the seat to keep up. In a way, I was unbelievably jubilant at finally reaching 3rd gear. It meant that I could finally drive the 612 the way it was meant to be: at swift cruising speed on a scenic motorway.

Not so. On the “NH-7,” as it was called, Enrique limited our speed to a measly 70 kilometers per hour. As I miserably watched 30-year old hatchbacks and ugly lorries overtake me in a 540 horsepower Ferrari, I began to dislike Ferrari’s Magic India Discovery quite a lot. I understand that Enrique had to make the cars last for a lot of mileage, but still: I could be magically discovering India in a Volkswagen Minibus at this rate. Why am I driving a Ferrari if I can’t drive the way a Ferrari should be driven? And here’s another thing: Ferrari is always touting their cars’ reliability and ruggedness on these trips, but the fact of the matter is that any brand new car would last this long if you baby it in such a way.

I was so uncomfortably buggered that I began to rebel. I slowed down at times to make room between me and the other 612, and then for a brief moment, I floored it, squeezing a few moments of pleasure out of what was beginning to be a very drab trip.

I guess what I was supposed to be doing, according to Ferrari, was “magically discovering India” and its scenery, culture, people, etc. But I was in a bloody 612 Scaglietti on an asphalt motorway! Why do they expect me to ignore the car so? It was the most interesting thing in my entire life at that moment.

But then, thankfully, around the time the sun began to set, Enrique gave us a green light to split from the convoy and stretch the Fezzas’ camshafts for a while. It was a most liberating sensation, putting the 612 into top gear. At 150 kph, I finally began to enjoy discovering India. The 612 seemed happy, too, as all that idling and puttering about can definitely have a demoralizing effect on a high-performance supercar. It just responded with typical Italian eagerness every time I blipped the throttle; meanwhile I watched the convoy of Tatas go backwards in my rearview mirror. Happiness is a Ferrari at full beans. The adventuresome kid in me finally got out.

When we reached our first checkpoint in some little Indian town, my malcontent had begun to wear off. I had reached my speed quota for the day, and skipping the Ferrari PR event in the evening, went up to my room to sleep in a bed graciously provided by Ferrari. What a day.

Magic India Discovery, and Other Ferrari Weirdnesses

When I decided to become a journalist who drove cars for a living, I did it for a number of reasons. First, I would not have to cover politics, a job I considered closely similar to being the manager of a Victoria’s Secret in downtown Tehran. I would also not have to journey to areas where road testing a car meant making sure its exhaust manifold was free of chunks of C4 before turning the ignition. To be free of these troubles and still be able to call myself a journalist was something I could live by.

Nevertheless, when I joined the roster of writers for the Publication, I never knew what I would be in for. So far, I’ve driven a Pagani Zonda around the Arc d’Triomphe, raced an Emir up a windy mountain road in the UAE, driven an Aston Martin up the Big Sur, become lost in the Atlas Mountains in a Range Rover, and have a serious case of the runs on account of dinner in Marrakech. Whether all of this has “built character,” made me “seasoned,” or given me “profound journalistic experience,” I really don’t know. All I know is that where I am right now might top all my previous experiences.

I’m currently in the town of Trivandrum, a coastal city near the southern tip of India. That’s right, India: the home country of your neighborhood cardiologist. My respectable Editor has secured me a seat in one of two Ferrari 612 Scagliettis magically discovering India in Ferrari’s “Magic India Discovery,” a rally-like PR event where smarmy journalists are given an opportunity to drive a Ferrari in India for no apparent reason. Today, the Fezzas arrive in Trivandrum with their cortege of Tata trucks, and on Tuesday, it’s my turn to fumble around with the paddle shifters and trek for 5 days to Bangalore.

If I’m brutally honest, India is sort of the last place on earth I want to visit, second only to Paris. Unlike many Westerners who are fascinated by free trade, curry, sitar music, and airlines named after fish-catching birds, I just simply do not find the Indian culture endlessly fascinating. Maybe it’s because curry turns my esophagus into a nuclear fuel rod and my stomach into Chernobyl. But the idea of magically discovering India in an Italian GT car makes as much sense to me as oatmeal pizza.

The biggest problem I have with Ferrari’s latest endurance/PR stunt is the connotations it has with Indian big businesses, which are, let’s face it, taking over the world. Tata Motors, a major sponsor of this event, just bought two of the most respected British auto manufacturers in the world: Jaguar and Land Rover. It just happens that Mammary Gland Motors also makes the Nano, a $2500 car destined to make the streets of New Dehli look like the assembly line of an Aspirin factory. This is just a disgrace to Jag and L-Rover. We all know that they raided Ford’s parts bin for fixtures and what-nots; now they’ll have to share a parts bin with people building that four-wheeled moped. Doesn’t Jaguar and Land Rover already have enough quality control problems?

What I’m most stratospherically nervous about is a Tata purchase of Ferrari. I swear, if Ferrari lets itself be bought by Tata Motors, I will tearfully but staunchly boycott the Prancing Horse forever. No, wait: by that time, it will be the Prancing Elephant. And then there’s Spyker’s Formula One team, which has been transmogrified into “Team Force India,” helmed by that really rich guy who runs some India-only airline. F1 television commentators’ comments will be priceless.

Now I don’t mean to sound too anti-India. I have nothing against India itself. Since I’ve been here, it has been exactly like what I expected: hot, sweaty, odorous, with lots of taxicabs. Trivandrum is rather nice, though, since it’s a coastal town, so you do get some relief in the form of a cool, oceanic breeze. The scenery is decent, to say the least; and any opportunity to drive a Ferrari is an opportunity wisely taken. The Scag has always been a favorite of mine, and I wouldn’t put it past its gangly little face to make me actually enjoy myself.

I’ll check back in a couple days from now at the first checkpoint of my stage.

The Misinterpretation of Smart

A couple days ago, I had the privilege of stumbling across a dealership that sold the Smart car. Yes, that’s right, that toaster-sized German import that is loved by all sorts of Euro environmentalists who wear socks with their sandals, eat leaves, and hate Bush.

Needless to say, I’ve always been a skeptic of the Smart car, and of small, “cute” city cars in general. They seem like gimmicks, little toys built half-way for people who travel less than twelve feet a day. The Smart car just doesn’t seem like a car. Tourists like them, for crying out loud: when in Rome, they take pictures of Smarts like they’re part of the quaintness of Europe. If anything saps the life out of car, it’s being associated with geography in a bad way. The Yugo was a famous example of this effect: rather than being a normal European import, it was a souvenir you could buy from ex-Commies following the fall of Gorbochev’s birthmark. It was absolute rubbish.

Now I’m not explicitly comparing the Smart to the Yugo. The Smart does have a slightly larger and more muscular gerbil under the hood. It also has a working transmission, compared with the Yugo’s baseball bat in a bucket of coconuts. So does the Smart succeed where the Yugo failed in the field of quirky, cheap Euro imports?

I didn’t have the opportunity to drive the Smart, but I did have the opportunity to peruse the chic, oddly 70’s-styled showroom which had 3 models on display. The size of the cars made my butt cheeks cramp ahead of time. I’m almost as tall as they are long, and definitely taller than they are wide. Sure, they would be easy to park, but keep in mind the American parking space is still tailored for normal sized cars. The Smarts are built for the streets of Rome, Paris, and other EU metropolises where parking spaces are as common as Nascar fans and where the cops could care less if you parked on your own grandmother. Thus, the practical purpose of the Smart’s size falls flat on its face here in the US.

The second supposedly-brilliant aspect of the Smart is its fantastic gas mileage. 41 miles per gallon on the highway and 33 miles to the gallon in the city according to 2008 EPA standards. Frankly, that’s not stratospherically impressive as the marketing eggheads would like us to believe. The Honda Fit, with a much larger and more exciting engine, accomplishes 27 mpg in the city, which is not that far off from the Smart. And then there’s a devious duo of Smart secrets: the Smart takes premium fuel and has a mere 8.7 gallon fuel tank. The Fit takes regular fuel and has an 11 gallon tank.  Then, of course, Honda has to stick it in the Smart’s strabismic little face even further with the best-kept secret in all of fuel efficiency: the Civic Hybrid.  A brilliant, comfortable, and reasonably priced car, the Civic Hybrid gets 40/45 mpg.  The gimmickry of Le Smart is beginning to show its mischievous little face.

Then, of course, there’s the environmental competition given by Toyota’s own ugly little gimmick, the Prius. It’s electro-petrol heart gets 46 miles to the filthy, rotten, polar bear killing petroleum-child gallon. I’m sorry, Daimler, but even the Prius has you beat when it comes to fuel economy. Yet another pockmark on the Smart’s all-recyclable body.

So if the size is irrelevant in the US, and the fuel economy is beaten by the Holy Prius, what advantages does the Smart have left? Price? Nah, the base MSRP, for the almost laughably basic ForTwo “Pure”, is around $12,000. Not massively impressive, considering it has as many bells and whistles as the Tata Nano. Looks and personality? Wait a second…

Let me first say I don’t think the Smart is good looking in the least. It looks like a cheap toaster on wheels, and its nose is ridiculous. I would be less embarrassed to drive down Pennsylvania Avenue in a pink dune buggy in Superman briefs than drive the Smart car around where I live. But to the Smart’s target consumer, it looks absolutely brilliant. You see, people today are in love with gimmickry. They love their multi-colored cell phones, their fuzzy dice, their Ikea furniture, their James Blunt records, and their Cafe Mocha Grandes. Thus it follows that they would love the Smart car, and that’s exactly what’s happened. Every car at that dealership was sold already.

So the end result of Mercedes’ huge marketing campaign is that people are buying the Smart car not because of its merits as an efficient, cheap, small car, but for the kitschy experience it offers. In my opinion, that’s no way to buy a car. Therefore, the Tarmac Philosopher gives it a thumbs-down.

Lost in Generic Moroccan Hills

Author’s note: I apologize for the rather long, surprise sabbatical I’ve been taking the last month. My alter ego will now continue his story.

When all things are finally considered, the Range Rover Sport saved my life.

An example: I’m lost in the Atlas mountains having somehow strayed from the pre-determined ‘path’ created by a 4×4 tour guide agency that really didn’t exist. It seemed that a couple of Marrakech cab drivers decided to set up shop and call themselves “Moroccan Mountain Adventure Guides.” The Publication, using their myriad of local contacts that are somewhat like MI-6 station heads from old Bond films, had arranged to have these two chaps guide me through the mountains on some of the best off-roading in the world. It would not be a full-fledged adventure, just an afternoon jaunt in the abandoned, rocky, dusty hills behind Marrakech.

Every single part of the plan went to hell in a little hand-woven, fair-trade souvenir basket. I was practically abandoned by my guides. The air conditioner on the Range Rover started to fritz. The sat nav became practically useless. The sun was lower in the sky than it was 20 minutes ago. Things were not keen.

I decided to retrace my steps by doing a U-turn and head back to Marrakech and to the safe haven of my hotel’s swimming pool terrace. I could see the Marrakech marker on my sat nav; it was only a matter of getting there. Yet as soon as I started heading in the direction of urban sanctuary, a massive, impassable wall of rock and boulder stood before me, like some big Tatooine space monster slowly engulfing me into a more intense feeling of disorientation. My only option was to head in the wrong direction and traverse the base of the wall until I found somewhere for my Range Rover to climb over, so I could finally head towards the city.

If only the rocks in the Atlas mountains were color-coded based on geographic location…. I swear that every single inch of terrain looks the same up here. There’s no such thing as a landmark in this wilderness. Instead, eastern Morocco follows the painfully tedious, seemingly computer-arranged pattern of rock, boulder, hill, rock, boulder, hill. Therefore, getting lost is about as easy as blinking.

Thankfully, I found a very coarse road that went somewhere; where it went I didn’t know. All I knew is that someone built it to some place worth going to, so it must be worth my time following it. The other option was to keep heading towards the horizon and run the risk of getting T-boned by Luke Skywalker in his landspeeder. Health and safety ruled, and I took the road.

The road led me away from Marrakesh and deeper into the generic rocky hills. But suddenly, the generic hills opened up into a massive city-like structure that seemed to have been carved right out of solid rock. It was a Berber village, and much to my dismay, it was not Marrakesh. As I drove into the village in my dusty, greenish-tan Range Rover, I felt like a hippie naturist at a Mennonite picnic. A big, lumbering British SUV in that village was as commonplace as a Dillard’s. Nobody did not look at it.

Needless to say, I caught a little bit more attention then I had hoped for, and I saw a couple young Berbers reach for their AK-47s. No, please. I gingerly pulled into a rudimentary general store (which, I’ll admit, looked violently out of place in this ancient wonder of residential zoning), and got gesticulated directions on how to get back to Marrakesh. As soon as the route was made clear, I dashed into the Rover, and gave the mighty turbodiesel the beans. Time to see how this thing handles itself on the craggy, axle-shredding mountain roads of Morocco.

My conclusion: Tis’ a grand way to travel Morocco’s dirt paths, in a Range Rover Sport. There I was with the air con struggling but succeeding at 20 degrees, with some Thievery Corporation piping from the sound system, and a bottle of chilled Fiji in the console fridge. The suspension was set to soft, and I just sort of settled into the rhythm of buttery undulations that was like floating in a vat of agitating pig fat. It was an incredibly luxurious experience, made better by the fact that I was no longer lost.

Later that evening, I suddenly realized what a brilliant car the Ranger Rover Sport was. I was sitting at an outdoor restaurant, and the RR was parked on the street about 6 feet away. My, it’s a handsome off-roader; full of dignity and power. Forget about Land Cruisers and Isuzu Troopers; you’ll look like a UN Peacekeeper. How uncool is that? Don’t emasculate yourself. Get a Range Rover.