Drive It for the Sake of Driving

The Philosopher takes a closer look at the world of supercar sacrilege.

In my spare time, which God knows is very limited, I like to browse Ebay Motors for some laughs and drools; to peruse the myriad of vehicles available to buy simply by the click of a mouse. I find it immensely disturbing that one can purchase a $250,000 Lamborghini Gallardo simply by staring at his computer screen, entering a PayPal number, and clicking “Submit Payment.” Seems rather impersonal, does it not?



I liked it better in the old days, when one would go to the certified Lamborghini dealership (not Don “Slick” Lindee’s Exotic Car Sales). You would sit down with a certified Lamborghini specialist, and talk about the automobile you wish to buy. Maybe you would peruse over some brochures, discuss the merits of an E-Gear versus clutch, talk about the options list, and have a laugh at a guy you know who’s already bored to death with his Ferrari F430.

Maybe a week would go by as you carefully chose your options; and customized the car until it was your own. You may take one of the Gallardos on the lot for a spin around the block, as the specialist taught you the various intricacies of driving the baby Lambo. Finally, you would sign numerous pieces of paper with your glorious John Hancock, and hear the specialist say those thrilling words, “Congratulations! You now own a Lamborghini.”

So it comes to mind that buying such a prestigious driving machine off the internet without touching, seeing, or hearing it seems like absolute insanity. And, frankly, it is.

But the internet’s insolence for automotive art doesn’t stop there. When you go online and “shop” for Lamborghinis, you begin to realize how disrespectful and loony people who have money really are. I discovered one Lamborghini, a beautiful 2005 black Murcielago, which was, for lack of a better term, “Pimped.” Some goon had substituted the Lambo’s engineered alloy 19-inch wheels for some bloody-awful glittery, spinning “rims”. He then put what appeared to be a 200-lb amplifier and subwoofer in the trunk, obviously adding weight to the front camber and destroying the Lambo’s balance. But he didn’t stop there. He had removed the Lambo’s headlights and taillights and replaced them with overly-chromed jewel lamps that appeared to be pieces of clear plastic picked up at the local Pep Boys. Imagine, if you please, somebody pinned the cheesiest piece of plasticized costume jewelry on the most beautiful supermodel in the world. The picture is clear.

Such desecrations bring to mind how some members of the human race seem to care more about how their cars make them look instead of how the cars look. Your average movie star, for example, does not likely drive a Bugatti Veyron because it is the most stunning, powerful and brilliantly engineered machine in the world. On the contrary: he owns it because it yells: “I’m a BIG movie star. This thingy I’m steering around cost one-point-two million dollars.”

Tom Cruise, famous movie star, was arriving at the premiere of Mission: Impossible III with his significant other. He arrived driving a scintillating Bugatti Veyron W16. It was a difficult process for Tom to park this car, since it appeared to only take about 600 gear changes. But Mr. Cruise was about to park his Bugatti and remove himself from the driver’s seat. After a series of “I’m Mr. Awesome” waves to the media and crowd, he went around to the other side of the car to open the passenger door for his significant other. Mr. Cruise reached for the door handle, pulled it, but it would not open. He pulled it again, and pulled it a little more. After 7 seconds of pulling on the door handle, a revolutionary thought came to the mind of Tom Cruise: “It’s locked.” After this thought passed through his mind, it took another 7 seconds for his significant other to realize she had to be the one to open the door. On average, it took about 2 minutes for Tom Cruise and his significant other to drive the car onto the red carpet, open the car doors, and get out of the car; all because they did not know how in bloody hell to operate it.



What lesson is there to learn from this story? Unlocking Tom Cruise’s Veyron is a true Mission: Impossible? No. The lesson is that most of the people who own these cars do not own them for the right reason.

Materialism matters to this class of humans. Instead of buying a Gallardo as an appreciation for Lamborghini’s achievement of an automotive masterpiece, the rich person buys a Gallardo so he can cruise down Rodeo Drive and have tourists stare at him, pink-faced with envy. Some rich personas go farther and not even drive the car, having it around just for showoff. What an atrocity. What a despicable atrocity.

I applaud any owner of a supercar who owns it for the thrill of the drive and who owns it for the appreciation of automotive art. Shame on those who use these cars like another piece of “bling”.

If I was a maker of cars like the Lambo, the Ferrari, the Bugatti, or the Pagani, I would want to interview the person who expresses interest in purchasing one of my products. I would sit him down in my office and ask him questions. Why do you want my product? What makes you interested in my product? What is your net worth? Have you driven a car such as this before? What are your other vehicles? What is your driving experience? When I have made enough analysis, I would decide whether he would be worthy of driving one of my cars.

Exotic carmakers should have a litmus test for buyers. The exotic car market should not be so indiscriminate, selling these beautiful machines to any pimp profiteer or yuppie mephistopheles who simply wants a status symbol to transport him to the latest swank party.

Now that I’ve got that off my chest, I think I will go jump into the seat of the new Lambo Murcielago LP640 sitting in the garage at the magazine offices and take it for a spin. (On a real test track, not on Rodeo *bleep*ing Drive.)

The Alps, a Zonda, and a Writer
Part III

Contrary to popular belief, driving fast cars does not make you feel richer or more important. Driving a fast car does not make your testosterone levels increase by leaps and bounds. Driving a fast car also does not make you rise up the macho-meter very quickly.

On the contrary. Driving a fast, expensive car such as the Pagani Zonda F makes you feel like a green, immature, overconfident, I-Can-Kick-Ass-and-Live-Forever teenager who’s just been mugged on the street with a gun to his head and is suddenly calling for his mommy. You feel like your Mr. Cool confidence has somehow been cruelly and abruptly violated by a machine.

Such is how I felt on a daily basis whenever I engaged the Pagani’s insanely bipolar gearbox. I’d sit down, feeling good and ready to wrestle with this beast of a car. Then I’d put it into first. The complete and instant suckage of my personal aplomb from my rear end’s cavity was one of simply epic proportions. In more precise terms, the car cleaned its spark plugs with my confidence.

This may lead people to think, “Wow! Sounds exciting! I want to drive an exotic car like the Zonda!” Curb your enthusiasm, laddies. It’s quite the opposite. Driving the Zonda, especially on public roads, is a nerve-wracking experience that rivals giving the State of the Union address in your underwear. I doubt any driving exploit can compare to the sheer fright and bloody anxiety as driving a car such as the Zonda.

How come? Is it the power at your disposal? Is it the sheer opulence of the car, inside and out? Is it because it is a colorful and in-your-face status symbol? Is it because it costs more than your net worth four times over? Personally, I believe it is a combination of the first and last. It’s almost too uncontrollably powerful; and it costs more than your left leg would net on Ebay.

So there I was, getting a nasty case of IBS, as I waited for some guy named Oskar to give me a green flag on my lap of the Hockenheimring. I had donned (for the first time in my life) a racing suit and a racing helmet. It was strangely comfy, and I felt really snazzy and professional as I prepared to throw my pet Italian thoroughbred into gear.

Bang! Roar! My teeth unceremoniously chomped down on my tongue, and with my cry of pain mingled with the roar of a Mercedes V12, the Zonda went from 0-60 in 3.6 seconds. Barely was I able to call my senses to order before I had to prepare for my first turn, Nordkurve, an easy 100-degree right. I was about a hundred yards from the apex when I glanced at the speedo. 98 miles per hour. Crikey. Better slow down. I slammed on the brakes and decided to down shift for good measure. The safety belt straps administered some deep chest compressions, and I was able to make the corner with minimal slide. I could almost hear the traction control giving me the wagging finger of shame for being so imprudent around the corner.

The next mission objective was the combination of turn 2 and 3, which consisted of a healthily-sharp right followed by an easy left. Some of my senses returned, and I was able to conservatively take turn 2 with no slide at all. After I completed that turn, I felt a surge of confidence, and decided to give it a few beans into turn 3. However, the laws of physics, as written by Sir Isaac Newton, claims that for each action there is an equal and opposite reaction. Therefore, for each good turn I made, I would make a miserable one. I committed a mortal sin of oversteer on turn 3, and my tach was telling me I needed to shift up to get some traction. So, like the brilliant racing driver I was, I shifted during a powerslide. The Zonda suddenly found traction, and I was violently jerked back to a straight line.

After this botchment of turn 3, I attempted to recover on the Parabolika, a long, sweeping straight. I eased open the Zonda with oily fluidity, and it gladly accepted this as a token of apology for my former doltishness.

Parabolika was brilliant, and I felt a newfound courage to attack the big cheese: Hairpin, turn 4. Since I was finally getting around to figuring out the Zonda’s quirks, I laid out my plan of attack. I would go in wide, and take the turn easy, and then as soon as I passed the apex, give it oomph to the next turn. Sounded good on mental paper.

I neared the Hairpin, and followed my plan like clockwork; however, I was not really expecting the Hairpin to be as sharp as it looked on the circuit’s map. Duh. I crossed the apex, but once again had too much torque and not enough track to keep it out of the weeds. The Zonda’s rear swung left, and before I could utter a German expletive, I was bumping along on the lawn. Correcting it as fast as possible, I was back on hard tarmac in no time; and I was eager to show these Germans that I could at least come out of this dogpile of a lap smelling like roses.

Turn 5 was a simple easy right, and the Zonda handled it brilliantly and with a certain amount of forgiveness. The same went for turns 6 and 7: I took them slow and carefully, and believe it or not, that method worked. The Zonda spurted out of turn 7 like El Toro Loco, and it was on to the stadium section.

Now it just happened that I was driving on a Thursday, and the weekend was booked for some kind of European motorcycle racing series. Thus, the stadium girding turns 8-12 were already bustling with motorsports fans saving seats, and I was quite flustered by the fact that I would have an audience for the final moments of my very cold lap. But, alas, being flustered was a skill I had earned in blood during my week with the Zonda, so I grit my teeth and headed for the final turns.

The Zonda always makes a grand entrance, and its entrance into the stadium was no exception. Mobil 1 was probably my best turn on the lap. The Zonda came out smelling like roses, and it worked some type of magic on my driving instincts, because Sachs was my second best turn of the lap. I finally was getting the hang of it. The Force was with me. The Stig Within was beginning to emerge.

But then it was suddenly over. Across the finish line I came, in a swirling cloud of tire smoke and brake dust. I made a U-turn (which I later found out was incorrect SOP) into the pits and complained bitterly that my editor had only arranged one lap. I desired more. I desired perfection. I desired to race late into the night, to beat the record books, to make history with the Zonda. Unfortunately, I had to turn in. Hokenheimring was too famous a circuit for some obscure car journalist to own for 24 hours. When I asked for my lap time, the track marshals simply exchanged smug grins among themselves. Har har. You’re all just jealous, I says to myself.

Despite the fact it was over too quickly, and my performance was less than Senna-like, I can say with confidence it was the happiest moment of my life. Never before had I experienced anything so thrilling and brilliant. Excuse my unimaginative language, but the breathlessness with which I speak may give you a sense of my enthusiasm. It was nerve-wracking, difficult, thrilling, delightful, and downright horrifying all at the same time.

When I finally drove the Zonda back onto the factory lot in Modena, I succumbed to another one of my lengthy soliloquies. This week had been, without a doubt, a crown jewel in my life, not to mention my career as an automotive journalist. One day, when I’m old and senile, and my 2005 Mini Cooper is considered an antique collector’s car, I will be sitting around the fireplace with my grandchildren. One of them will ask about the picture of me standing next to the crazy-looking old roadster. From there I will tell them the exciting tale of the Alps, the Zonda, and a Writer.

DISCLAIMER: THE ABOVE EVENTS ARE PURELY FICTIONAL PRODUCTS OF THE AUTHOR'S WILD IMAGINATION. NONE OF IT ACTUALLY HAPPENED. DON'T SUE.

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.

The Alps, a Zonda, and a Writer
Part I




I wake up and smell dirty soap. It’s the kind of soap you find at a roadside “all natural” boutique, wrapped in brown paper, and smells of sage, lemongrass, passionfruit, and a whole lot of paraffin. It’s a bittersweet smell, a smell that stinks only if you want it to.

Yet it’s a welcome smell, because I am currently holed up in a quaint little roadway B&B smack in the middle of Swiss countryside. I took a detour off the main motorway between Luzern and Milan, to give the Pagani Zonda a little time to just play. I’m on assignment from a car journal, yet I feel like I’m writing up a feature for National Geographic. My assignment is to drive a metallic-grey Pagani Zonda F around for a few days in the Alps around central Europe. Sounds like fun? I guess it is, but with great cars come great responsibilities. I probably need not explain that declaration.

The day before, I had found a little ma-and-pop mechanic’s shop run by a wizened Swiss senior by the name of Werner, who euphorically agreed to board the Zonda for the night. Imagine, please, that the Pope wishes to stay the night at your Catholic-Italian grandmother’s house in her retirement community trailer park in Florida. Such was the situation between Werner and the Zonda. I felt like Santa Claus handing out presents when I asked Werner if he would take care of the car for the night. He immediately took it upon himself to pamper this divine automobile as if it were his own child. He grabbed his cleanest rag and began to clean around the tailpipes with the precision and care of a master jeweler. He then took a bottle of some sort of cleaning liquid and began to hand-wash the wheels covered in brake dust. I now knew how to woo the locals in rural Switzerland.

By this time, the entire village had made a semicircle around Werner’s garage to admire and worship the Car. Little children were crouching to look deep inside the front intakes. Women were standing with their arms akimbo, wondering what the heck it was. The men were laughing and pointing to all the amusing details about the Zonda’s crazy appearence. I t was a scene worthy of the cover of LIFE magazine.

Needless to say, I had become an afterthought to the people of this town. It was strange, since if I were driving the Zonda, let’s say, on Rodeo Drive, the person in the driver’s seat would warrant more stares than the car itself. Yet out here in the small world of Swiss villagers, people are all equal, one person is not greater by what they drive. Even though the town’s amenities and atmosphere was modern, the people were still pretty much rooted in tradition.

I asked Werner where the best inn was, and without looking away from the car, he said,
“Tuba”.
“Tuba?” says I.
“Tuba. Tuba Haus.”
“Oh, Das Gasthaus wird Tuba gennant.”
“Ja.”
“Okay. Danke.”
“Ja.”

I smiled, advised him against people touching and messing with the Car, and strolled down the short street with my bags to the Tuba Gasthaus.

So there I was the next morning, awakened by the smell of Switzerland. I ate a fantastic breakfast served by a very heavy, red-faced, panting frauline, and then went out to see how the Zonda spent the night. Werner had just opened the garage up, and was taking what appeared to be a flannel cover off the Car. He began to fuss over it again, touching it up with his buffer, shining the headlamps, cleaning the windshield. I felt almost sorry that I had to wrench away his new pride and joy, but alas, the car wasn’t mine or his, so we were both sort of bittersweet about having the Zonda under our care. Werner took it upon himself to teach me all about powerful cars before I set off, giving all sorts of advice about how to handle the transmission. To top it off, I was duly grateful when he gave me some of his “prize handmade lube” that happened to come in a recycled Feldschlosschen bottle. A fantastic souvenir from some fantastic people.

Werner insisted on pushing the Zonda outside his garage before I started it. To Werner, starting this car would be equivalent to firing off a nuclear warhead. You just have to make a big production out of it. So we pushed the weighty Zonda out of his garage and on to the Swiss asphalt Werner was very proud of. I lowered my head into the ridiculously frilly interior, set my behind into the six-feet-under bucket seats, and prepared to turn the main ignition. I had been doing this for 5 days now, but the excited shivering still had yet to leave my hand. In went the key, the turn was made, and the most electrifying, sumptuous sound erupted over my shoulder. It’s an odd sound, an audio aberration you will never hear the likes of again. Few sounds are able to flesh out raw adrenaline like the first breaths of a supercar.

Thus, with the ignition of the Zonda, it was time to say goodbye to my good friend, Werner. He even began to tear up, but not at my departure. I could only guess his joy at hosting such a masterpiece of automotive art, and to see it go must have been more emotional than attending a family member's funeral. MUCH more emotional. We exchanged formalities, and with a wave of his only clean rag, he watched his significant other thud into gear and roar away.

I was back on the road, and the Zonda apparently liked her accommodations and got a good night’s sleep. Within seconds of leaving the town, she was roaring through the tight Alpian roads with deft ability. However, I was already having my steering skills dramatically tested. The Zonda is not a featherlight kitten like the Ferrari F430, mind you. I felt like Han Solo attempting to steer the Millenium Falcon through the asteroid field in The Empire Strikes Back. The Zonda is a big bulk of precision engineering; nevertheless, it’s fast, powerful, beautiful, and can take you from point A to point B in a flash of brusque style.

And really, if you think about it, that’s sort of the whole point of acquiring a Zonda. It’s not built for the 24 Hours of Le Mans. It’s built for the 6 Hours of the E35, and it does not let you down. When I was breezing along on the motorway, and urbanely overtaking Geneva bankers in their BMWs, I sighed to myself, and said out loud, “Life’s good in a Pagani.”

DISCLAIMER: THE FOLLOWING IS 100% FICTION. A PRODUCT OF THE AUTHOR'S WILD IMAGINATION. ANY RELATION TO ACTUAL PEOPLE OR EVENTS IS PURELY COINCIDENTAL.

Malcolm MacDoogle, British-Scottish Driver, Looks Ahead to Some Interesting Cars Coming in 2008


Aye, a Lamborogeeni. The true Italian stallion: untamed, brutish, sleek, mean. (And fast). I half-like half-hate this car. It mighty looks like Lambo hired one of them fine chaps who designed starships for that film Star Wars. Where's the hyperspace button, me asks?


As Americans would say, "Now we're talking!" Another Brit beauty from my good friends at Jaguar. Smooth lines! Unmatched craftsmanship! Aye, it's fine....it's just fine.


Now here's a wee surprise: a Chrysler! Looks fascinating, but would work better as a roadster. Ye, that's it! With a bit of woodie trim along the sideboards? Brilliant!