The Alps, a Zonda, and a Writer
Part II


I have had my knuckles whitened by the Pagani Zonda F for about 5 days now, and I am still on the honeymoon. I’ve driven from Modena, Italy, through Milan, into the Swiss Alps, into France, through Dijon, all the way to Paris, the City of Headlights. I must say it has been a defining week in my career, not to mention my life. Driving a car like the Zonda is a primal thrill for the human spirit and soul. To create a machine out of the basest of elements and create something that can extract such sterling adrenaline is an admirable feat.

The million-euro question, though, is this: what makes the Zonda so special? What makes any supercar special? What makes cars special at all? Are not cars simply made to get you from point A to point B?

As an illustrious, world-renowned philosopher specializing in man’s metaphysical relationship with the automobile, I do believe cars mean something. In their century-long evolution, they have secured an important place in civilization. They have become less and less as dull modes of transportation, and have become a daily part of our lives on the road and off. We become “attached” to certain cars. My mom, for instance, swears up and down on the quality of Japanese brands, and will not touch the keys of any other make. My grandfathers swear up and down upon any American make. My grandmother absolutely adores her base-MSRP 2005 Toyota Camry. Once, I drove past an 80-year old woman who looked like she belonged in a nursing home, and yet she was happily driving a brand-new Mustang GT like some crazed teenage kid. Cars are an incredible statement to how the driver lives his life.

So there I was, living life in the driver’s seat of one of the most powerful, exotic cars in the world, and I was all by myself. It’s a pity, then, that I entered a highly populated area, namely Paris. It seemed like all the spirit me and my Zonda possessed was dissolved in less than three seconds after making a revolution around the Arc d’Triomphe. I don’t really remember a time where I was more nervous about other drivers around me. They seemed to half-acknowledge the fact that I was driving a Pagani Zonda, and half-forget the fact that it was a wee bit pricier than their ‘96 Renault Clio. I quickly came to the conclusion that drivers in Paris simply do not take their safety seriously, not to mention other drivers’ safety. Cue the William Tell Overture for mood music.

Thus I was relieved and dripping with sweat when I reached my hotel. This particular lodge at which I stayed claimed it had a very thorough, complex procedure for guests’ expensive cars. It turned out this “procedure” was handing the keys of the Zonda over to a hyperactive, pimply 17-year old attendant smoking a putrid cigarette. After weighing the options, I gracefully declined their valet service, and stored the car myself in their pleasantly-spacious indoor car park.

After a surprisingly good night’s sleep in the noisiest city on earth, I made my way down to the garage where my Zonda was supposedly resting comfortably. To my horror, what I thought was a parking space the night before turned out to be a specific tract of car park that residents tried to purposely encircle on a daily basis. The Zonda was buried under an unruly combination of parked Renaults, Audis, and Smart cars. I was completely boxed in, and I came to wondering how on God’s green earth these people were able to stack so many cars so close to each other in such a small space. Obviously, I was worried that the Zonda had taken a few nips from these close-quartered machines, but I was relieved again (for the 70th time since the I met the Zonda) that it had not a scratch on its shimmering surface. Later, I pondered on the incident, and deduced that these cars were simply the Pagani’s adoring fans, and wanted to get close to their idol.

After alerting hotel management, the grumbling owners somehow untied the knot of cars that had boxed in the stiff American journalist and his crazy silver sportscar.

I was back on the road, and after leaving Paris as fast as the gendarmes would allow, I was carving asphalt in northern France, also known as The Best Place In The World For Driving A Crazy Supercar. Driving the Zonda here was twice better than in car-wary Switzerland, or even Italy. It was simply fantastic.

The Zonda, FYI, does 0-60 in 3.7 seconds, roughly the speed of a hydraulic roller coaster; and on roads with good grip, it feels better than a roller coaster. When I gave it the beans on one particular straightaway in Normandy, I almost had to slow down simply to avoid losing feeling in my arms. I says to myself, “Holy Mother of Acceleration, that is fast!”

At this rate, your cheeks will probably flatten against your ears, but that doesn’t stop you from hearing the Pagani Symphony Orchestra performing behind you. I don’t think I’ve ever heard a better-sounding car. The exhaust pipes themselves resemble a trompette from a church pipe organ. Pagani truly mastered the art of sonic automobiles.

But these accolades wouldn’t be complete without tragedy. I was cruising through a French village (at 50 kph, so I wouldn’t mow down any school children crossing the road), and I came up to an intersection where the pavement was uneven. I would have to drive over a shallow curb of sorts to access the next road. I knew there was not much air between the road and the Zonda’s underbelly, so I took it very slow. I put the car in first, and slowly let off the clutch, with my right foot firmly on the brake. Being the unpredictable car it was, the clutch caught too fast, and the car lurched forward and over the edge of the uneven pavement. I heard a grand “crunch”, and with reflexes rivaling that of an astronaut, I jammed the car into reverse. Never before had I heard a more unpleasant sound. The carbon-fiber front spoiler had scraped the ground like a fork across a chalkboard. After some damage assessment, I was glad to find it caused no more than a dusty coating of sand on the hard carbon fiber; I could simply brush it off. More relief! But my predicament was still there: how was I to get across this obstacle? Apparently, a local had been watching my troubles, and resourcefully produced some long 2x4s to help my Pagani climb down this 2-inch bluff. It worked beautifully, and after an appreciative “merci”, I was off.

Yet the best event of my journey was yet to come: my next stop was Germany, home of the Autobahn.

DISCLAIMER: THE ABOVE EVENTS ARE 100% FICTIONAL; A COMPLETE PRODUCT OF THE AUTHOR'S WILD IMAGINATION. DON'T SUE.