42 journalists who had the honor of being invited by Porsche to what was called a “Plug-In Hybrid Technology Workshop” found themselves used as lab rats, and to produce a mileage rating that supports Porsche’s published results for the hybrid Panamera. It didn’t quite work out that way. Says a Porsche press release:

”On the occasion of an international press event – in which over 42 test drives were conducted with journalists in the Panamera S E-Hybrid covering a total distance of over 1,200  kilometers – the model consumed just 4.4 l/100 km (53.5 mpg) averaged over all drives. The top value recorded on the circuit course for the world’s first plug-in hybrid in the luxury class was a low 2.8 l/100 km  (84 mpg). These results illustrate that in real everyday operation, it is entirely possible to attain fuel consumption values of the same magnitude as the value determined in NEDC testing, which is 3.1 l/100 km.”

On a strictly non-EPA  conversion,  the average 4.4 l/100 km would equate 53.5 mpg. The top value of  2.8 l/100 km converts to 84 mpg. Porsche’s published 3.1 l/100 km rating would convert to 75.9 mpg. For the unwashed, NEDC refers to the New European Driving Cycle, which supposedly mimics the typical usage of a car in Europe, which it gloriously doesn’t.

The circuit, and the usage profile also were slightly atypical. According to Porsche, “the test circuit, which had a total length of 28.7 km, followed a course through and around the city of Hockenheim and comprised 6.5 km city driving, 9.2 km of country roads and 13 km of German Autobahn – some without speed limits. A prerequisite for attaining such values is systematically exploiting opportunities for charging the 9.4 kWh lithium-ion battery on the electrical grid.”

Great, in the meantime, we exploit opportunities to show pictures of the Panamera in a Stau, in a picturesque village, and in use. We also ask our Porsche-insider Doug Demuro for an inside view.

Yesterday, the astute Derek Kreindler added to his already excellent body of work on TTAC another installment of his “Generation Why” series in which he explored Land Rover’s resistance to the current trend of marketing lower cost vehicles to young people. In the body of the article a couple of sentences in particular jumped out at me –

While the parents of today’s college-age consumers still associate Mercedes-Benz and BMW with stratospheric price tags and unique dynamic qualities, the next generation seems them as cars that can be leased by any $30k millionaire because they’re too proud to drive a Honda Accord. If you drive a BMW 320i, girls won’t think you’re rich; they’ll think you’re a try-hard.

Naturally, that got me to thinking and I was hoping that we might discuss it a little further. Tell me oh best-and-brightest of TTAC, what car (new or used) can we 30K millionaires buy on a budget that will convey the sense of wealth and success that we so earnestly seek?

The best movie so far this summer is not really a film. Jaguar just revealed its new platform to promote the new Jaguar F Type. A 13-minute short film called Desire. It’s not original but it’s still better than GI Joe: Retaliation.

Should you see this new film? Hell yeah you should; it’s awesome. As if you were do something important today. HD version here. If you REALLY don’t know what to do today, here are a few more car movies worth watching.

I know right? Better than Oblivion at least, and it was free. Admit it, you want a Jag now don’t you. No? Let’s try the stunning and seductive music video from Lena Del Ray.

But Jaguar isn’t the first to do this. Back in the early part of this century, BMW released a series of brilliant films starring a then unknown Clive Owens as the ubiquitous “Driver”. The films were simply amazing. Yes, they were shameless promotion devices to sell their products but they featured big name stars, most notably Madonna.

As directed by her then husband Guy Ritchie, and it showed all three of them had a sense of humor. At least two of them still do.

Which brings me to the second brilliance behind the BMW “The Hire” films were high powered directors. My favorite of the series being this masterpiece from Kar Wai Wong, not because it’s a great car chase but because it is visually stunning and the story is sensual.

As you have no doubt guessed I am huge fan of the series. Originally it was released on the internet only. After the hype, the BMW Owners circle would send you a free DVD simply by typing in the VIN of your BMW.

Mine was en route the first week it was available and I subjected many a house-guest to the finer points of Clive’s chase scene in “Chosen’ via Dolby 5.1 surround.

The second “season” was centered exclusively on the newly released BMW Z4. I loved this one directed by Joe Carnahan called “Ticker” with Don Cheadle.

Later, Joe would bring us “The A-Team” and “Smokin Aces.”

This second series was produced by Ridley Scott, and he even directed a few. Which wraps this bit into a nice package, because this new short film, Desire, is also a Ridley Scott Associates Film. So original idea? Not at all. Entertaining? Certainly.

“There is always something waiting at the end of the road, if you’re not willing to see what it is, you probably shouldn’t be out there in the first place.”

The California state DMV is offering motorists the chance to step back in time and order new license plates in historic color combinations.

Your choices are black letters on a yellow background, yellow letters on a black background (the famous original black plates often found on California barn finds) and, my favorite – the color combination synonymous with the 1970s, Disco, leisure suits and “CHiPs,” – yellow letters on a blue background.

The program requires a minimum of 7500 paid pre-orders prior to January 1, 2015, but the DMV’s information states that, once that magic number of has been hit, the program will begin immediately so the wait for your new plates may be substantially less than it first appears. The best news is that you don’t have to own a classic car to get that classic look. But it helps!

http://www.dmv.ca.gov/legacyplates/index.htm

An alert REDDIT reader (manuelv 19) spotted the Seattle Police Museum’s 1970 Plymouth Satellite patrol car responding to calls on the coffee scented streets of dowtown Seattle earlier this week. According to the Seattle Police Museum website, only 53 Special Order Police Satellites were produced in 1970 and 21 of those were purchased by the Seattle Police Department. The cars were mid-size police vehicles and featured the 383 Super Commando engine package complete with 4 bbl carburetors. They were reputed top be quite fast at the time.

This particular vehicle, known as Unit #521, was wrecked with only 9000 miles on the clock and sold at public auction eventually ending up in Los Angeles. The Seattle Police Museum located and purchased the vehicle in 2006 and spent a year returning the car to its former glory. More information on this vehicle is available at the Seattle Police Museum website of by calling (206) 748-9991.

http://www.seametropolicemuseum.org/

http://www.seametropolicemuseum.org/docs/Seattle_Police_Car.pdf

The salesman must have thought I was nuts. I could hear the incredulous tone in his voice, “Some guy calling from Okinawa wants to buy a used car that we put on Craigslist? When does he want to come and look at it? He doesn’t? How’s he going to pick it up? He isn’t?” Fortunately for the both of us, money talks.

By the spring of 2010 I had spent six straight years in Japan and I was worn out. Although I wasn’t exactly eager to return to the United States, whether I wanted to believe it or not, it really was time for a change of scenery and the closer my departure came, the more comfortable I became with the idea. A return to the United States meant a lot of good things, I realized. My wife would get to experience life in the land of the free and my kids would get to hear someone other than their dad speak English for a change. It would also be a return to live football games on TV, real bologna sandwiches and, best of all, I might even get the chance to own a cool car again.

As soon as the thought entered my mind, I knew what I wanted, a great American sedan. I spent a lot of time hemming and hawing about the various ones on the market but, when the time came for me to put my money where my mouth was, reality reasserted itself and took control of the situation. As an auto enthusiast, I’d like to say that I refused to settle, but the truth is a couple of my dream cars went out the window, foremost among them the Pontiac Bonneville GXP I had long dreamed about. Then an old memory tickled the back of my skull, what about the 300M?

From the days of the Eagle Vision, I have been a sucker for the LHS cars. Now, of course, I know that some of them have transmission issues, but from the day photos of the Eagle Vision hit the magazine stand those cars have featured large in my own personal vision of the future. Each iteration of the design, the New Yorker, the LHS and eventually the 300M represented another step towards a better, brighter tomorrow. So the 300M really didn’t have 300 horsepower? It looked so good to me that it didn’t matter.

With my departure from Japan just a month away, there was no time to be lost. After reading as many old road tests as I could, I set down a list of requirements so thorough it resembled the build sheet for a brand new car. I chose the 300M Special, a slightly sporty variant of the already good-looking 300M that featured a few more horsepower, fake carbon fiber interior trim, special body work, lower stance and special wheels. I decided too that I wanted the white/grey two-tone interior, a sun roof and all the other options. Finally, I decided that it had to have less than 70K miles and be in perfect condition.

Thanks to the internet, I had a whole world of 300Ms at my finger tips. Thanks to my list of demands, I had very few choices. I found a nice black one in Salt Lake City that looked like it met the criteria, but it was sold when I called. A gorgeous blue one in Sandusky Ohio was long gone, too. Eventually, thanks to a Craigslist search aggregator, I found a dark grey 300M in Tucson, AZ. This time when I called it was still there.
The salesman was shocked, but when I told him I was a cash buyer he jumped at the chance to sell a car. He sent me dozens of pictures and promised me, under threat of a major beat down, that the car was in great condition. From half a world away I held my breath, took the plunge and bought the car sight unseen. Then I had to get it up to Seattle.

Fortunately, I am from a big family and my older sister Connie needed a vacation. For the price of a one-way ticket to Tucson and a few dollars pocket money I was able to solve that problem. I watched her progress via Facebook as she picked-up the car and then headed across the high deserts of the American Southwest, then Northward through California, with a stop to visit the wine country, Oregon and finally Washington state. When I arrived at the airport two weeks later, Connie was there to meet me and the big Chrysler was waiting for me in the airport garage. It was a thrill to step right off an airplane and slide right behind the wheel.

The car was and still is immaculate. I used it to travel from my home north of Seattle across the country to my new assignment in Buffalo. Later I used it for a trip to New Hampshire and another trip to Washington DC. It has, thanks to the birth of my third child and the subsequent purchase of a mini-van for my wife, slipped from daily driver status but considering the winter road conditions here in Buffalo, that isn’t a bad thing. Even now it sits hunkered down safe and snug under its cover and a layer of early spring snow in my driveway. I may have had to move heaven and Earth to get it, but it was worth coming home for.

Thomas M Kreutzer currently lives in Buffalo, New York with his wife and three children but has spent most of his adult life overseas. He has lived in Japan for 9 years, Jamaica for 2 and spent almost 5 years as a US Merchant Mariner serving primarily in the Pacific. A long time auto and motorcycle enthusiast he has pursued his hobbies whenever possible. He also enjoys writing and public speaking where, according to his wife, his favorite subject is himself.

Hard to believe someone like me would need a rich fantasy life, isn’t it?

If you haven’t guessed it by now, I love cars and like a lot of people I spend a lot of time thinking about the ones I might like to own. My daydreams live in an odd place, they don’t run towards the higher plane of pure fantasy where the Ferrari and Lamborghini live, and, despite the fact I expect to be buying a new minivan or SUV in the next couple of years, they don’t run to the purely practical, either. No, my fantasies live in that middle place. A place where the cars are interesting and, as unlikely as a purchase may be, still attainable.

I am forever perusing Craigslist and the other on-line classifieds for likely subjects and it has become something of a game with me. Naturally, I wondered if you might like to play along.

The rules of the game are simple. You have a total budget of $5000. You must purchase the car, get it to home and roadworthy for under that amount. Expenses include basic repairs and rebuilds, but just the essentials to get the car roadworthy no new paint jobs or total restorations necessary. If the car is further away than 250 miles (500 miles round trip) then the cost of an overnight motel stay and/or truck transport must be covered in your budget. Because they vary from state to state and would give some players an unfair advantage, don’t worry about fixed costs like tax, licensing or basic inspection fees unless the ad specifically states that the car will need special repairs in order to pass an inspection.

You can find your car from any public source, and links will be appreciated by everyone, I am sure. In the interest of fair play don’t tell us about cars that only you can buy. So if your grandma isn’t willing to make everyone a killer deal on her 1986 Grand National, then you can’t use it here. Also, just to keep things fresh and attainable, let’s not consider ads older than 30 days.

Finally, please also give us some insight into your thoughts. We would all like to understand your logic so we can better make fun of your odd predilections.

I’ll go first. Here are three that I have chosen to start the conversation. They appear in no special order.

1994 Subaru SVX Coupe – $2,850 OBO (Hamburg, NY)

AWD Coupe LSI model. Boxer 3.3 6 cyl 230 horsepower Approx 120,900miles

Automatic, Moon-roof, Dual exhaust, Power windows/locks/mirrors/power driver seat, Leather seats good condition. Also has new battery, breaks, power steering, timing belt, axel shafts, motor is phenomenal/very reliable vehicle all the way around! Some rust on doors as can be expected with its age. Starts right up.

This Subaru sits less than 30 miles from my house. It is well under my budget and it is a model I have been interested in since I saw one on the street in Japan back when they were new. They look cool and the performance numbers seem decent. The downside is that I don’t know much about them and I am not really all that excited about a sporty car with an automatic transmission.

I understand that Subarus have a tendency to be complex and fragile. This car is an odd ball and I am sure parts would be tough to get. Still, the price seems right and I have never been inside of one. I would, at least, go look at it.

1987 Dodge Daytona Shelby Z – $4500 (Pittsburgh, PA)

Clean Daytona Shelby Z. Turbo, 4 cyl, 5 speed, AC, 71k miles, perfect seats, good tires, fires right up, etc. NO rust! Just needs a battery and inspection.

It’s no secret that I am a sucker for Turbo Dodges, but the truth is that the Daytona rarely makes it onto my short list. To be honest, I have always thought they were a little overwrought and tried too hard to look like the Chevrolet Camaro of that era. This little car, however, jumped right out at me as a killer deal. If it is as clean as it looks in the pictures, I am confident that I could travel the 180 miles to Pittsburgh, drop in a battery and drive it right home.

Bonus points that this is a real live turbo Dodge with the manual transmission. There are more pics on the ad, including several interior shots, of which I have added just one, below. The inside looks just as pretty as the outside, don’t you think? I always wonder about cars like this, it’s 26 years old, why wasn’t it used? If it was here in town, I would be over there like a shot.

The only downside to this car that I can see is that it was right about 75K miles that the head gasket in my Turbo Shadow let loose. I would be worried that I could be stuck doing one on this car before too long as well. That said, I have a lot of experience working on these cars and I know that I could do the work by myself. Still, at $4500 this is close enough to my ceiling that I would be a little worried about my budget. Also, I would almost be ashamed to bring it up to Buffalo and expose it to the elements.

1981 DATSUN 280ZX 5 SPEED – $4300 (Ogden, NY)

1981 DATSUN 280ZX. 5 SPEED, 6 CYL, One Owner, 98,300 Original Miles, No Winters, Great Condition ~ $4300.00 ~ OFFERS WELCOME ~

Wow! No, seriously, Wow! This is a drop dead gorgeous little Datsun. It looks pretty nice in the photos and other than a cracked arm rest I don’t see a single problem here. Sure, it’s not a 240Z and it isn’t a turbo or a Special Anniversary Edition, but it is a head turner in a stunning color I haven’t seen in a long, long time. I love the fact it’s a stick.

This little girl sits less than 60 miles from me right now. If it was closer, I’d go over to take photos and maybe finagle a test drive. Man, my wife would be mad at me if that came home. It would be hard to tell the seller “no” though.

OK, you’ve seen my three choices. I could sit here a lot longer looking for obscure deals but if I did that I would never get to see what you come up with. Let’s have some fun!

Thomas Kreutzer currently lives in Buffalo, New York with his wife and three children but has spent most of his adult life overseas. He has lived in Japan for 9 years, Jamaica for 2 and spent almost 5 years as a US Merchant Mariner serving primarily in the Pacific. A long time auto and motorcycle enthusiast he has pursued his hobbies whenever possible. He also enjoys writing and public speaking where, according to his wife, his favorite subject is himself.

The Seattle area traffic was light. A few hours earlier, at the peak of the Friday night rush hour, Interstate 405 had been bumper to bumper. Now, just after 7 PM, the road was crowded but moving freely. I had a killer commute, 40 miles each way, and I was thankful I had missed the worst of it. I spent a lot of time on the road and I understood how traffic ebbed and flowed in that same intuitive way that way someone who works on a river understands how a ripple on the otherwise smooth surface betrays the roiling currents in the depths below. On a Friday night like this, for example, I knew I was behind the great outward rush from the urban centers and into suburbs and just ahead of the second, smaller rush of people from the suburbs heading back into the city for an evening of food, fun and friends. To the west, the sun was sinking slowly into the Pacific while on the Earth, the hunt was on…

It was a good time to be out and about, the night was young and full of untapped excitement. I knew anything could happen as I headed south out of Kirkland, through the city of Bellevue and made the gentle ascent through the tunnel and up towards the I-90 interchange just south of the city. Once past the interchange, I had a good view of Lake Washington and the exclusive properties on Mercer Island on my right, and I began to slowly work my way down the hill towards Renton, still some miles to the south.

With Bellevue and the last big freeway interchange behind me, traffic was moving faster and spreading out. I was in the fast lane and my little red Dodge Shadow was running effortlessly along in 5th gear at just above the posted limit when a motion in my rearview mirror caught my eye. I read the scene with a practiced eye: A big Jaguar sedan weaving quickly through the already fast-moving traffic, overtaking car after car, its dark shape slipping stealthily up behind me. The driver was obviously having fun among the other, lesser cars and as he pulled alongside I glanced over to size him up.

He was a handsome man in his early thirties, clear-eyed, perfect hair and with jaw carved out of pure granite set with, I was certain, perfect, white teeth. Beside him sat a woman of equal beauty perhaps a year or two younger while another equally handsome couple occupied the back seats. They were all well dressed, both men in expensive looking suits and the women in fancy dresses with carefully coiffed hair. The car itself was a black XJ sedan and it showed a 6 liter V8 emblem on its back. It was a big, powerful and classy car, the perfect choice for the perfect man with the perfect life.

I pulled the Shadow out of 5th gear, zapped the throttle and stuffed the shifter straight into 3rd . The little engine roared in instant anger and the boost gauge swung hard right burying itself against the pin. The Shadow leapt forward, slamming me into the seat, and in a split second I was back alongside the big sedan. Surprised, the handsome, perfect man behind the wheel of the Jag glanced over at me and then tossed back his head and smiled as he said something to the others in the car. The lovely woman in the passenger seat tittered airily as she brought her hand up to her lips. I had seen enough, I mashed the gas.

The Shadow jumped forward and opened a lead of about two car lengths as its 2.2 liter 4 cylinder raced towards the red line. I quick shifted into fourth and pegged the throttle again as the Jag shot forward and made up the gap while my boost momentarily dropped with my RPMs. The road wound out in front of us, the two lanes of the interstate twisting as they made their way past the Coal Creek Parkway and down towards the May Creek exit at the bottom of the hill. We stayed there, stuck to one another, door handle to door handle as our speed climbed quickly into triple digits. Onward we went, the little 2.2 liter engine in my Shadow revving hard as I pushed the car for all it was worth. Red line came, then passed as I held it in 4th gear knowing that 5th was a big jump that would drop my revs too much and mean my defeat.

The big Jaguar and my little Shadow were still neck and neck as we hit the bottom of the hill, ran across a brief flat and then began to work our way up the long, steep slope of the Kennydale hill. Beyond the hill lay the city of Renton and its infamous S curves and already I could see traffic slowing as the typical back up on the approach to the city was beginning to build. There was still time to make my competitor stand down, I thought, but with the little car firmly in the red zone I knew it was past time to shift up or blow up. There was no choice and as I made the switch the Jaguar slipped smoothly away from me and up the hill.

I let off the gas and, thanks to the steep slope, my little car began to slow quickly. Traffic was still open enough for me to weave and dodge my way through at a decent clip as I continued to burn off speed without using my brakes while the big Jag had an easier time coasting back down to legal speeds in the car pool lane. We crested the hill and, as we made our way down towards the S curves, I could see a river of ruby-red brake lights growing ever nearer. Traffic slowed to a crawl and then ground to a halt. At the Renton city limits the carpool lane ended and the Jaguar was forced back into the crowded lanes. As luck would have it, we found ourselves stopped next to one another.

The handsome man’s perfect composure was wrecked and he sat there glaring out the windshield, both hands gripping the big car’s wheel so tightly the knuckles were white. A vein on his temple pounded, and the muscles of his magnificent, granite jaw bulged and pulsed as his perfect white teeth ground away at one another. The vision of loveliness in the passenger seat sat stiffly beside the man, arms crossed and her face turned away from him as she stared out the passenger window. The couple in the back seat were a different story altogether. They woman was smiling and laughing with real knee-slapping gusto while her man sat looking at me and my little turbo, the awe plain on his face as he tried to understand just what the hell happened.

Technically, I knew, I had lost the race when I the big Jag had finally used its superior muscle to pull away on the Kennydale hill, but he didn’t know that. To the perfect man, with the perfect girl and the perfect friends in the big, beautiful Jaguar I was the winner. Sometimes, that’s how it goes.

Thomas Kreutzer currently lives in Buffalo, New York with his wife and three children but has spent most of his adult life overseas. He has lived in Japan for 9 years, Jamaica for 2 and spent almost 5 years as a US Merchant Mariner serving primarily in the Pacific. A long time auto and motorcycle enthusiast he has pursued his hobbies whenever possible. He also enjoys writing and public speaking where, according to his wife, his favorite subject is himself.

Going to Barrett-Jackson to buy a classic car is for sissies, says the Wall Street Journal. Real men collect tanks. Not Hummers. Tanks.

The number of private tank collectors in the U.S. is estimated to be between several hundred and 1,000. It’s a growing hobby, says the paper.

They have everything in their at-home armory, from WW2 Shermans to more recent vintage 1966 MY British Chieftain tanks.

Parts and MPG? Don’t ask:

“A set of rubber tracks for a Chaffee goes for about $6,000. A Chieftain gets about 250 miles on 200 gallons of diesel. Mechanics say vintage tanks require an hour or more of maintenance for every hour of operation. A turret-to-tracks restoration can require 2,000 man-hours or more of labor, at $50 or more an hour. That’s not including the cost of hard-to-find tank parts.”

As for the chick magnet: Tank collectors usually get a divorce, says the WSJ.

For decades, big corporate profits were blasted as a sign of greed, especially by unions. GM changed all that. When a sheep dipped GM, free of legacy finance costs, and not paying taxes due to losses a normal company would not have been able to carry over after a bankruptcy, declared a record $7.6 billion profit in 2011, chests of GM boosters swelled with pride, as if the profits had been theirs. A year later, there is $2.7 billion less to be proud of. GM’s European millstone, Opel, continues to drag the company down. Opel’s operative losses more than doubled to $1.8 billion for all of 2012.

GM reported as $4.9 billion profit for 2012, and “a weaker-than-expected fourth-quarter profit on Thursday, citing wider losses in Europe and lower vehicle prices in its core North American market,” says Reuters. Analysts had hoped GM would do better.

The situation in Europe is expected to be getting worse. CFO Dan Ammann told Reuters that “GM still sees industry sales in Europe declining in 2013 and is “not betting on” a pickup later in the year.”

GM wrote down $5.2 billion worth of assets in Europe. GM’s $423 million investment for a 7 percent stake in Peugeot, is now carried at half price on GM’s books. Ammann said that GM has “no intention of putting more cash into Peugeot.”

John Belushi infamously died of an overdose in a bungalow of the Chateau. In 2004, photographer Helmut Newton had a fatal heart attack upon leaving the hotel, and crashed his Cadillac.

Should you ever stay at the Chateau, also don’t miss the attractions in its vicinity, such as the body shop across the street. You can walk to your hotel if you’ve been at the shop for service, I’ve done it many times.

We use this opportunity as an excuse to show a few partygoers.  Abbie Cornish sends Derek, who is still in great pain after his tonsil removal, a get well.

Some gentlemen don’t like blondes, for those, a Dita Von Teese.

And for good measure, a Kimbra.

For the perverts who like redheads or no hair, the Iconapops.

Today must be International Backpedaling Day. Volkswagen said “Never mind beat Toyota by 2018.”  Obama says: “Never mind a million EVs by 2015.”

Under a new strategy announced today, the Department of Energy promised to support research into new battery technologies and manufacturing methods that would lower the cost of lightweight materials and improve vehicles’ fuel-efficiency, Reuters reports.

But the DOE backpedales furiously from a goal set out in a 2011 State of the Union speech, where President Barack Obama announced what he called “Apollo projects of our times.” One of them was the goal for the United States to be “the first country to have a million electric vehicles on the road by 2015.”

“Whether we meet that goal in 2015 or 2016, that’s less important than that we’re on the right path to get many millions of these vehicles on the road,” an unnamed Energy Department official told Reuters.

Reuters notes that “demand for hybrids and electric vehicles has been weaker than expected.” Government money was poured into black holes. Says Reuters:

“Poor demand has hurt lithium-ion battery makers, pushing two DOE grant recipients, A123 Systems Inc and EnerDel, to file for bankruptcy protection. Dow Chemical Co took a $1.1 billion charge last year, related in part to a writedown of its lithium-ion battery business, Dow-Kokam LLC.”

Consumer Reports tested the latest offerings of Detroit automakers, did not like the Dodge Dart, was frustrated by the Cadillac XTS, was underwhelmed by the Lincoln MKS,  and put off by the Chevrolet Spark. CR ended up recommending a Japanese Lexus ES instead.

The Dodge Dart, the first all-new model to emerge from the Fiat-Chrysler alliance, “feels underpowered” with its standard 2.0-liter four, says Consumer Report. The optional 1.4-liter turbocharged four-cylinder did not impress either. The magazine grouches that the engine “is raspy and has drivability issues when mated with the optional dual-clutch automated manual transmission.”

Disappointed by the Dart, CR tried to find solace in big American iron, the Cadillac XTS and the Lincoln MKS, but found them lacking. According to CR, “both cars underwhelmed in a class dominated by German, Japanese, and Korean models.” Consumer Reports found the Cadillac to be “wonderfully luxurious,” but was put off by the CUE infotainment system, which CR calls “convoluted and frustrating.”

The Lincoln MKS left a negative impression on CR with its “cramped driving position, ungainly handling, uncomposed ride, and limited visibility.”

Nor could Detroit redeem itself in the discount segment. The Chevrolet Spark scored points with its “excellent fuel economy”, with “a surprisingly useable rear seat,” and “a comprehensive assortment of features.” However, “sluggish acceleration, stiff and jittery ride and very noisy cabin” caused CR’s enthusiasm to evaporate.

None of the Detroit cars were deemed as recommendable by Consumer Reports. Only when CR tested the Lexus ES, smiles returned to the testers’ faces. Consumer Reports likes the “comfy, quiet interior, impressive hybrid and V6 drivetrains, and excellent fuel economy.” CR tut-tutted that the “redesign took a step back in ride and interior refinement” and that the “handling didn’t impress,” but ended up recommending the Lexus and putting it on the list of CR’s higher-rated upscale sedans.

Yesterday, we told you about that miracle battery, Toyota allegedly has developed. The Nikkei [sub] said it will double the range of an EV. The Tokyo wire quoted  researchers as saying that they “may also be able to achieve a driving range of between 500km and 1,000km” (310 to 620 miles), You possibly noticed the skeptical tone when we reported on the report . As it turns out, the Nikkei was a bit – exuberant.

Checking in with Toyota this morning, we learn that Toyota’s researchers indeed have a new Sodium-Ion  battery technology. However, research into this technology is in its very, very early stages.

A group of Toyota researchers (M. Nose, H. Nakayama, K. Nobuhara, S. Nakanishi, and H. Iba) presented a paper titled “Novel Cathode Materials of Sodium-Containing Metal Phosphates as Highly Voltage Sodium-Ion Batteries” at a symposium in Honolulu. After two of the researchers,  Nakanishi-san, and Iba-san were interviewed by the Nikkei, some finer, but crucial points were either misunderstood or lost in translation.

Instead of targeting 2020 as the date of  commercial release of the battery, the researchers think that commercialization can take anywhere between 10 to 20 years – if commercialization indeed turns out to be viable.

The researchers confirm  that the new battery has the potential to extend driving range. However, they did not say, “We may also be able to achieve a driving range of between 500km and 1,000km.” What they said was that to be commercially viable, a next-generation battery should give an EV that range or one exceeding it. With that in mind, they are pushing forward with their research.

Bottom line: Take that sodium story with a big grain of salt.

In September, click-hungry Kelley Blue Book celebrated its “10 coolest cars under $12,000” (With click-triggering gallery!) Two months later, rampant inflation sets in. Now, it’s the “10 coolest cars under $25,000.” Necessarily, the September choices were a bit low rent. Let’s see what you get when you double your budget. All 10 of them. With pictures. And then, we’ll take revenge on Kelley and crown our own super cool car.

10^th Place: 2013 Dodge Dart

The car sitting on the tried & true Alfa Romeo Giulietta platform can be made even cooler with a 160-horsepower MultiAir turbocharged engine. In SXT trim, the car was test driven and reviewed by Michael Karesh.

9^th Place: 2012 Prius c

For people who think gas stations are not cool, Toyota’s hybrid gives city fuel economy of 53 mpg, for (not much) less than $20,000. The Prius c was fussed over by Bertel even before the car was born, it was driven through Tokyo, and reviewed by Alex Dykes.

8^th Place: 2013 Miata MX-5

Topic of a lot of smack talk, and heated debates. Cool, especially when red. The car made first place in TTAC’s Boomerang Basement Bolides triple crown.

7^th Place: 2013 Chevrolet Camaro

The $25K budget barely is enough to buy the base version. We have not reviewed the 2013 Camaro yet, but here is Michael Karesh’s take on the 2010 model, along with leafy pictures of repossessed mansions.

6^th Place: 2013 Ford Mustang

Maybe not in mint green, but half of the adolescent to semi-retired population will call this the epitome of cool, whereas the other half has to read on. Car TTAC track tested.

5^th Place: 2013 Volkswagen GTI

In America, they dropped the Golf name and they only call it GTI. We have a review of the 2010 model. 2013, not yet.

4^th Place: 2013 Jeep Wrangler

Come to the cool outdoors (especially in that one)! Alex Dykes took to the woods in the 2012 model.

3^rd Place: 2013 MINI Cooper Coupe

Now we are getting to the creme de la cool. Two seater. No inlaws in the back. Aerodynamic roof! 6-speed GETRAG transmission! Tested for you by Alex Dykes.

2^nd Place: 2013 Ford Focus ST

Finally, here in America, one of those high-powered hot hatches we saw on websites written in strange languages. Michael Karesh tested the 252-horsepower Ford Focus ST for TTAC.

1^st Place: 2013 Scion FR-S

Kelley thinks what we call the hachi-roku is über-cool, or totemo cool, for that matter. We have followed the car long before it was produced. Tests? Each person on TTAC’s masthead must have tested the hachi-roku, at least twice. Here, Murilee Martin’s rendition. And what the heck, I am in Tokyo, it’s Indian Summer in Japan, maybe we’ll take the hachi-roku into the mountains over the weekend. For my signature (ouch) “from the back seat” review.

Vote your own!

Who are we to let allegedly expert Kelley Blue Book editors tell us what’s cool? Cool is what we decide. Please do vote. This time, it’s fun. No lines, no regrets.

Nissan’s chief operating officer Toshiyuki Shiga said he was “disappointed and frustrated” by the lackluster sales of electric vehicles in general and the Leaf in particular. Speaking at the mid-term results press conference at the Nissan HQ in Yokohama, his emotional appeal to recognize Nissan’s pioneering efforts in the field of zero emissions had undertones of an eulogy on the electric vehicle:

“Somewhere in the history of mankind, people will have to switch from fossil fuels to renewable energy, and Nissan is assuming the risk to do it now. We were the first volume maker deploy EVs globally. Please don’t forget that we have this passion and a sense of mission.”

Not giving up on EVs, Shiga personally heads a task force to accelerate the sales of EVs. So far, Shiga did not have more to report than mining the data harvested from the connected Leafs, and giving the data to companies that will install quick chargers.

Next month, it will be two years that Nissan launched the Leaf pure EV. According to Shiga, it saw global sales of 42,700 units since introduction, 19,000 of them in Japan.

Hey there, autocrossers! Aren’t you tired of explaining to that stacked little “administrative assistant” down the hall that you race on a parking lot, not a racetrack? Would you like to change that in a way that preserves your car and your own scaly hide? Would you like to face off against TTAC’s only most feared racers? Of course you would.

This has to be one of the better ideas the SCCA’s had in a while. It’s called the Road Course Tour and it’s a National-Solo-style event held on the reopened Gateway Road Course smack-dab in the middle of the Midwest. Price is a modest $102. As with every SCCA Solo event, safety will be paramount; this is probably an order of magnitude less dangerous than the average HPDE 1 event — which, itself, is probably as safe as the drive you take to get there.

This is the second year for the Road Course Tour. Last year’s event, held in Nashville, was a total success, and this year should be the same. Top speeds won’t be high enough to cause serious concern, so anybody who isn’t a complete moron should be able to safely enter their street car the same way they would at a normal Solo event.

Your humble author, along with his brother in autocross combat “Bark M”, will be entering, so feel free to show up and give us a thrashing. In fact, we’ll probably bring along some sort of minor gift for any TTACer who enters in any class. What are we driving? Possibly Bark’s Boss 302, possibly the BSP Honda S2000 that he drives with Changed Mon Motorsports, possibly my Boxster S on my last set of A3S05 sticker tires from the Ketel-One-Fueled Online Sixteen-Comp-Tire-Purchase-Binge Of 2007. Who knows? Come on out and compete. It’s what separates the men from the women. Actually, that’s not true. There are women in SCCA Solo who are competing while you sit on your ass in Mom’s basement watching Top Gear and telling the Vortex Car Lounge you can’t wait to pay cash for a diesel stick-shift wagon. Let’s do this!

According to Porsche, “the lap time of the Porsche 918 Spyder prototype is one of the best ever clocked for street-legal vehicles with standard production tires. The course was only available to the development team from Weissach for one lap, and it had to be started from a standstill. The plug-in hybrid super sports car with over 795 hp was equipped with production tires from development partner Michelin as well as the optional “Weissach” package, which integrates modifications that boost driving performance.”

These lines appear to be written with at least a sideway glance at Wikipedia, where the List of Nürburgring Nordschleife lap times is being kept. The list demands that OEM tires are being used, and that a video is submitted. At the time of this typing, the 918 had not been added.

We asked Porsche about the video, and one was promised for September. With the lap time of the Lexus LFA standing at 7:14:64, we also inquired about the exact time. Porsche spokesman Holger Eckhardt says the 7:14 was “timed by hand, therefore, we only publish an approximation, generously rounded up.” With such inexact and ungerman  readings, a place on the list might be a bit shaky – until the proper timing gear arrives.

Currently, the fastest street-legal production car around the Nordschleife is the Dodge Viper ACR  (some claim it wasn’t street legal) with 7:12:13, followed by the Lexus LFA. Unless, of course, you believe that a car that needs a 45 minute start up procedure involving a laptop plugged into the ECU, and that needs an engine rebuild every 30 hours is a production car. In that case, the Radical SR8 (which would not get a license plate in Germany) is the top car.

PS: Some blogs that use other blogs to blog claim that veteran race driver Walter Röhrl (65) was behind the wheel of the ring-rounding 918. Not true, says Holger Eckhardt, “it wasn’t Walter Röhrl, it was a test driver.” The man in the picture isn’t Walter Röhrl either. It is Dr. Frank Walliser, project chief of the 918, and a proud man.

On the other hand, I wouldn’t care if he was a semi-reformed axe-murderer with a peacock-sanctuary in the backyard and a penchant for three a.m. amateur bagpipe practice – he’s got a pickup truck.

Greater love hath no man than this; that he lendeth his pickup truck unto me. Yea, may his days be filled with the light of grace, just as I have surely filled the bed with this old couch, and some lawn trimmings, and these two dead cedars, and assorted.

As many of you know all too well, home-ownership is a never-ending stream of minor improvement schemes, referred to as “projects”, or the “honey-do list”, or, in my case, “Oh What The Hell’s Broken Now?”

However, a fumble-fingered DIYist such as myself has little need for full-time pickup truck ownership. Much will fit in the capacious boosted-lego-wagon, and really, anything too big for a Subaru wagon shouldn’t really be attempted by Yours Clumsy. At least, not without help.

Once in a while though, I find myself faced with a heap of debris that can’t be simply flung over the back railing carefully placed into our well-managed compost heap. And, at the same time, there are those slightly more ambitious projects that require materiel too ungainly to strap to the roof of a compact car.

In such times as these, I have but to wander next door and find out when Eric doesn’t have a golf game to go to. He’s only to happy to hand over the keys and, for a few hours, suddenly I’m possessed of an honest-to-goodness truck.

When I’m driving my car, I’m usually race-prepped: seat bolt upright, elbows at my sides, looking through the corner, eyes always shifting, rev-matching on the downshift and generally pretending I look like a rally car driver and not an enormous toolbag. Climbing into Eric’s truck has an entirely opposite effect.

There’s no cool to be had here: the damn thing’s full of bears! The bench seats are spongy and redline’s at 4 grand. The interior is an unrelenting sea of greyish plastic with panel gaps you could lose a schnauzer in, and the air-conditioning ran away to join the circus about four years ago. Stick the column-shifter in D and off we toddle, windows down and crackly tunes coming through the feeble stereo.

Avian editorializing aside, this thing is great: such an honest, unpretentious machine. It’s Sheriff Andy Griffith in two-tone teal-on-grey. Just ease back in the seat, stick your arm out the window and try to stay out of the way. I wonder why all these folks are in such a hurry. Must be something real important.

Me? Well, I’ll get there when I get there. We’re moving fast enough to have a little breeze going on this hot July afternoon, and the dump’s just down the road a-ways. Just watch out for those who want to dive in front – these brakes aren’t exactly about to stand the Chev’ on her nose – and keep on truckin’.

Yard clippings get shovelled off into the green-waste pile and that old couch (a bit of a college relic) gets bunged into the general refuse pile. A few other folks are unloading trucks or utility trailers while big, steel-spiked front-end loaders wait impassively to crush and compact everything up for transport to some far-off land-fill. No time to muse on the unsightly byproducts of consumerism – off to the hardware store.

As you’d expect, the Silverado’s got the turning circle of a bulk cargo freighter, but leave it a little further out in the parking lot and you won’t have a problem. Home Depot’s the usual Sunday-afternoon zoo, but we’re in-and-out in about ten minutes (pretty well a record) with 8-foot sheets of corrugated roofing secured for the upper balcony.

Back in the saddle and homeward, with a brief stop to put a few bucks in the tank as is only common courtesy. My father and I have been at this project since early this morning, so we’re both comfortably dirty, and I can feel a bit of that coming tiredness that leads to a genuine, untroubled sleep.

I’m no working man, and this isn’t my truck, but as I grasp the wheel with callus-free hands, it’s like feeling the well-worn handle of a spade, or some other blunt-purposed tool. Somewhere, far off in my genes, stir the shades of men who once laboured in the Irish bog, slicing turf with quick, curt cuts.

Tonight, I’ll dine well, out in the backyard where I can see the fruits of the day’s labour. I’ll have hung my hammer back up in the shed, stacked the leftover lumber neatly against the wall, gathered up wayward nails into an old plastic peanut-butter container.

And, with a hand-shake and a murmured word of thanks, the keys to Eric’s pickup will be handed back and once more hang upon their peg. Until the next time.

The dream is always the same.

The day is ending. Cool evening breezes riffle across the sun-scorched furze and set dried leaves a-rustling in the trees, their sibilant hiss like the restless fluttering of a thousand small birds. Long and dappled shadows stretch flickering fingers across the hot tarmac of the final corner.

There is a crowd and they are silent, expectant and indistinct: faces like the smudged soft-focus colours of an impressionist oil-painting amongst the flapping flags. Insects hop and buzz in the long grasses; gradually, slowly, their hum is blended, enhanced, and finally supplanted by a rising crescendo.

The pack is coming, and Kaida is leading them.

She awakes to heavy rain drumming on her roof and splashing muck up onto her flanks. It’s barely dawn, the sky dull and sullen. Today it will clear, but brighten only to the dingy grey of an old bedsheet and no further.

Kaida feels her age. Shocks blown, bushings cracked, headliner sagging, once-beige paint fading and blistered. A crack bisects her grimy windshield, her headlights are yellowed and an inexpertly repaired wound is now an obvious and unsightly scar. Her heart is clogged with the plaque of neglect and she is shamed to see that where the water flows beneath her, it shimmers with a rainbow of dropped oil.

Soon, her current owner will call upon her and, with a single cough, she’ll rise gamely to battle the mid-morning traffic. Until then, she rests.

Chapter One – A Journey

Kaida was born in the way of all mechanical things. One moment a pile of assorted components, the next a whole. An unsmiling salaryman examines her, checking his notepad, oblivious to her questions.

“Where am I?”

“Who are you?”

These and other soundless queries go unanswered as she joins the long queue exiting the factory’s womb and makes her way into the holding yard. There are others here, like her and yet not; their vacant, placid stares indicating a will to wait ’til the end of the world if need be.

Kaida is different, eager and antsy. Perhaps a fragment from a long-forgotten warrior’s katana has found its way into the steel that makes her chassis. Perhaps the factory worker that assembled her powerplant momentarily felt his fingers dance with the genetic tug of an ancestry of craftsmen; a family born and raised beside the heat of some hillside forge.

Whatever the case, she feels like a horse in a herd of cattle – packed tightly in the immense rectangular Ro-Ro vessel that will take her East to the West. In the damp gloom belowdecks, cars shift unhappily on their suspensions as the carrier shatters the Pacific with its bluff, broad prow. Kaida sleeps, and dreams.

California is sunny and bright with the raucous calls of circling gulls. They shit on the gathered rows of cars like endless squadrons of grey-on-white B-17s, layering guano on every imaginable shade of dirty, once-bright paintwork. Most don’t notice. Kaida hates it.

Then the railway. Endless swaying from depot to depot as the train snakes its way deep into the heartland. Shunting, rattling, delays and dust: the suffocating heat of a Texas rail-spur; the industrial despair of a rustbelt ghost town. And then, one day, the train moves on, but Kaida stays behind.

Loaded up front in a truck transporter, the driver figures her gold colour will hide any rock chips, tucking a black-on-black MR-2 safely underneath. They pull out on the interstate and Kaida gets her first glimpse of the American road.

It’s broad and smooth, an unbroken line stretching out to the horizon, and beyond. It speaks of freedom, sings of adventures to be had, whispers promises that are only the more enticing for all their vagueness.

She sits up high, watching cars stream past, loaded up with people and things. A lone motorcycle blurts its baritone raspberry. A dog barks at her from the open bed of a pickup truck. Endless fields spread out on either side as the traffic thins. A big country, wide open with potential.

At the dealership, a crowd gathers. Not for Kaida, or her other hum-drum travelling companions, but for the MR-2. Salesmen squabble over who will be first to try out the mid-engined car, right up until a florid manager arrives.

The law is laid down: no joy rides. Cleaned up and rolled right into the showroom for the weekend. The MR2, a green Camry, and – he points at Kaida – that one.

The lot boy – with his usual careless hurry – scrapes her belly while careening over a speed-bump, jams her transmission into park from a roll, and then proceeds to drop the wash-mitt on the ground and not bother to rinse it off. By five o’clock she’s backed into the far corner of the show-room, scarified and somewhat non-plussed by the rough treatment.

A small showroom, in a small dealership, in a small town, but it does have a crown jewel: a bright red twin-turbo Supra. It squats smack-dab in the middle of the showroom, reducing everything that surrounds it to mere background noise. Even the MR-2 shrinks by comparison; a minor noble in the presence of the king.

That night, Kaida neither sleeps nor dreams. She is in the company of greatness; titans with whom she will soon be sharing the road. She awaits the dawn anxiously, patiently, nervously, quietly.

Saturday is sunny, and the sales staff come trooping spiritedly out of the morning meeting, amped on caffeine and spiffed with cash, ready to greet, grin and grapple, shake hands and cajole. By eleven, four names are scrawled on the board in bright marker, and a jocular, festive mood fills the air. It’s going to be a good day.

Richard Hedley buys Kaida at 11:30, without test-driving. She is the last car to sell that weekend – he has that effect.

Chapter 2 – Richard

He comes in a cab on the Monday morning. No trade-in, his previous car has died on the hoist and been sent off for scrap without a twinge of regret at anything other than the expense of the tow-truck. The salesman flattens out his old license plates, bolts them on, and off Richard goes, without even adjusting his mirrors.

Mr. Hedley teaches, or rather, he lectures. Every day, he looks out at a herd of upturned, bovine faces and quietly despairs. His tone is dry, his tie knotted carelessly, his endless sports-coats frayed not by poverty, but ennui.

Like all kids, his students are no fools. They feel the waves of contempt radiating off this disheveled man and reflect it right back to him with surly unruliness. In the very first week, Kaida is awakened from a pleasant afternoon nap in the teacher’s parking lot by the cold sharpness of a key scoring a jagged line down her flank.

When he sees the damage, “Dickheadly” doesn’t utter a single staccato curse, nor clench his fist or jaw, nor harbour sudden red-tinged fantasies of revenge. He just sighs: in a sea of disappointments that laps at the shore of his life, this is but a minor wave.

The years pass and Kaida trundles back and forth from high school to home via the liquor store and the library. Her unpatched wound turns orange with iron oxide and her corners collect the scuffs and scrapes of an incautious parker: the kind who doesn’t leave notes.

The miles mount slowly, both in tally and in the speed at which they’re traveled. Mr. Hedley is as bumbling a driver as he is a wooer, cautious to a fault, yet not without a certain self-centered recklessness. Her tires wear and crack, her brakes began to squeak, but she is yet in her prime. Tucked away in the driveway at night, she dreams of hot tarmac and the sprint for the finish line.

For Richard, the same can not be said. He has swollen noticeably around the middle and sagged everywhere else. His life has become a sea of beige: beige textbooks, beige folders, beige papers, beige desk, beige trousers, beige meals, beige car. The only colour left in his life is the red to be found in his glass on a Friday, Saturday and Sunday evening. But then, she comes.

She is an English import, but not in an unapproachable, prim-and-proper sense. Miss (definitely not Ms.) Simmons is a South Counties maid, dark-haired, red-cheeked, plump in all the best places and merry-eyed. She teaches well. She likes a laugh. She likes a drink. She touches his arm when she talks, and laughs, and winks, and swirls away in a cloud of vanilla scent.

It takes a month to rouse himself from his long-habitual stupor. He drives faster to work and slower away from it – Kaida notices and is glad.

He becomes gradually less rumpled, less weathered. His shoes shine and his shuffle becomes a stride. His colleagues notice, and they smirk behind their hands– Miss Simmons touches everyone’s arm when she talks.

The road home leads past a little corner lot, coloured triangular flags fluttering in the breeze like the twinkling of a fish-lure above the hook. He’s passed this way for years, never noticing, but on this day a gleam of red catches his eye, and before he realizes it, he is turning in.

The red turns out to be a BMW 3-series cabriolet – “a real pussy-magnet” the salesman leers, with the sort of offensive manner that he knows is expected of him. A deal is struck. Papers signed.

Richard rolls out of the lot in a fog, out past the school, past the mill, past the liquor store, on past his house, out and down to the main drag where milling crowds fill the sidewalks in the warm air of the coming summer holidays. He sees her there, and she is with another.

To his credit, Richard doesn’t just sigh. He curses, and pounds the steering wheel, and speeds off into the night, eventually slinking home in the early hours of the morning to open a cupboard, crack a seal and pour himself out a cup of oblivion. In her new home, Kaida sleeps beneath the fluttering pennants, and dreams of apexes.

Chapter 3 – Michelle

Michelle Montgomery has made a mistake. His name is William (never Bill or Willy) and he is three. He is a bright boy, bright like his father and occasionally possessed of the same saturnine temperament.

Of course, William’s father has other qualities as well: narcissism, promiscuity, and violence. All of these dangerous little facets once seemed attractive to Michelle, and just because a hard truth has finally been exposed to her does not mean she’s learned anything from the experience. The pair of them are alone, except when she is not.

She has a job, which is something. It pays less than you’d expect, but it’d be enough if the money was well-managed, which it isn’t.

If this was another sort of story, Michelle would be a kind of heroine, struggling and sacrificing. As it is, she is only half as bad as William’s deadbeat father: deeply inconsistent, one moment smothering, the next coldly distant; as apt to throw a tantrum as her child – and she pinches.

She rolls into the corner lot in a dying Chrysler Intrepid with a cash-loan from her estranged mother that is just about enough to work out a skinny deal. The same salesman that talked Richard into his new BMW walks out to greet her with a lizard’s smile and a wolfish gaze that slowly devours her still-slim, denim-clad figure.

His lascivious smile lasts through the introductions, through the test-drive, all the way right up until negotiations. As they sit down, William, who has been fairly disinterested in the proceedings up to this point, contrives to get himself stung, grabbing a wasp that has been buzzing and batting futilely against the window.

The tiny office instantly fills with a piercing howl, a screaming roar made to rattle fillings and liquefy the brain. The salesman looks at the once-pretty girl, the grimace on her lined, exasperated face. She clutches at the squalling brat, his open mouth like a red wound, and the salesman feels his testicles retract back up into his stomach.

Paperwork never happened so fast. Kaida finds herself crammed full of stroller, child seat, boxes and bags and clothes and stuffed-toys and all manner of detritus. William recovers his composure in the first mile.

Michelle drives fast but not well. She leans forward over the wheel and lurches out into traffic, stomps on the brake pedal at the last minute, chatters on her phone and never, ever, signals before turning.

William is a little boy, and that means dirt. He kicks the back of the front seats and drops crumbs from crackers and cookies, spills juice in sticky puddles everywhere. Kaida’s interior takes on a musty fug of spoiled milk and fast-food wrappers.

There are boyfriends, most worthless, all temporary. One begs the keys “for a job interview” and ends up backing Kaida into a post. Hard. He slinks back at night, tosses the keys on the dresser and is gone in the morning. Michelle doesn’t even notice the damage until weeks later: she is trying to load the groceries and the trunk won’t open.

Her parking-lot struggles do not go unnoticed; he is tall and rangy, dark-haired and loose-limbed with a dangerous confidence. Kaida receives a close-fisted thump on the rear and her trunk springs open. Michele throws her head back and laughs, baring her throat. He smiles too, a glittering, toothy grin.

William, now six, looks solemnly out at the old familiar dance and briefly locks eyes with the cold, predatory gaze of the stranger. He is a bright boy, and he can see hard years ahead. But then, steel doesn’t sharpen against cheese: eventually, he’ll be fine. Kaida will not.

Michelle’s moves in, and as her stranger snaps up every aspect of her life, it becomes evident that there is no need for her aging set of wheels. Kaida will have to go, and after three weeks on craigslist, off she does.

Chapter 4 – Michael

Michael has just turned twenty-three and is coming to the bewildering realization that the world does not, in fact, owe him a living. This state of affairs is in direct conflict with his what his parents and teachers have been telling him for years.

He works as a picker at a warehouse, packing things in boxes, up and down through the aisles. The pay is okay. The hours are good. They don’t seem to mind when he makes a mistake.

The ladies that work the returns section of the warehouse love him, and why wouldn’t they? He’s always quick with a quip, affable; long-haired and lean with a languid smile.

He wires in a sub, replaces Kaida’s stereo with a Sony Xplod. On evenings, Mike drives out to the dyke with Tim-bo in the warm summer evenings and gets high as a kite to the thump of the bass and the sounds of Kaida’s trunk rattling and buzzing away.

He has a loose plan to pay back his parents for the car, but somehow it never happens. The summer seems to stretch on forever, and by the time the leaves start changing, he’s pretty much where he’s always been: not ahead, not behind, takin’ it easy.

Winter, and a cold one. There’s a new guy on shift, olive-skinned and silent; Mike invites him out for beers but he smiles shyly and mumbles something about his family. Whatever.

Tim-bo’s already half-cut by the time Mike finds a parking spot for Kaida and stumbles into the bar, eliciting complaints from those near the door as the icy blast swirls round their feet. Catch-up time – two quick shots take the edge off, maybe a brief step outside to blaze?

He nearly slips on a patch of ice coming back out, but catches the arm of a passer-by and hauls himself back up. The stranger pivots angrily and before Mike can murmur his usual easy-going thanks, a fist lashes out. The punch does little damage, but the fall…

Mike is ok. He’s ok.

Michael, on the other hand, Michael the little boy that once built a vinegar-and-baking-soda model of all the volcanoes of Japan; the boy that kissed Susie Jensen underneath the soccer field bleachers and then ran to tell Tim what kissing girls was like; the boy that once cried himself to sleep over the injustice of a dead hamster: he’s gone. All that’s left is Mike, good old, slightly dopey Mike.

Oh, and he can’t drive any more.

Chapter 5 – Trevor

Kaida is sold to Brent. Brent is a juggalo, and I hardly need tell you what the next two years are like.

Brent finally trades her to Kym for a laptop, but Kym doesn’t drive and Kaida sits outside on deflated tires in the heavy rain. Eventually, Kym’s roommate agrees to pay for the privilege of driving across town and promises to cover the cost of any parking tickets or breakdowns. Kaida is weary, but her dreams are as vivid as ever. In them, she is something more than the fading hulk that rises daily to travel across town, battling stop and go traffic.

Then, one day, Trevor arrives. He is slim, bespectacled, his face slightly scarred by long-forgotten teenage battles with acne. Kaida is yet again on the block, this time for just seven hundred dollars. Trevor will pay five hundred and five hundred only, but not because he’s cheap.

Kaida returns his gaze and for the first time, meets someone who knows what she knows. Someone who looks past the decrepitude of years of abuse, past the once-beige paint job and her rusting quarter-panels and her automatic transmission, past her weak four-cylinder engine and her soggy suspension and her ratty interior and her decaying steering and her mushy brakes and somewhere, far off, as though at a great distance she hears him say, “I’m looking to buy a race car and I can only spend five hundred bucks.”

A race car.

Eiplogue –

In the paddock, Kaida sleeps. She is painted in full race livery: her flanks read, “Rolling Road-block Driver Training” on one side and “Team Borolla” on the other. Her sagging front seats have been replaced with salvaged Recaros out of some VW product and her once-leaking engine boasts the least-likely turbocharging setup you could ever wish to see. It looks like Frankenstein’s duodenum with a tumourous snail hanging off it.

But she is ready. Ready for tomorrow’s battle. In the morning there will be smoke and noise and fire and paint-swapping and black-flagging and wheel-to-wheel combat of a ferocity unseen since the hippodromes of Rome. Her unlikely foes lie to the right and left, E30 BMWs, hacked-up Miatas, Volvos, Buicks, Lincolns, a Citroën.

Tomorrow, the fray. Tonight, Kaida sleeps.

And dreams.

Who needs a mid-engined rice racer to drift? Latest dispatches from Russia show that with a little training, your can even drift when pulling a trailer. This creates so much enthusiasm that the camera car engages in a little sympathetic drifting as well.

In a softballed interview with Fortune, GM’s CEO Dan Akerson said that he was suddenly and surprisingly drafted to lead GM as if it was time to go to war. “This was a call to service for me,” said Akerson, as he wrapped himself in a red, white, and blue flag and regaled  interviewer Geoff Colvin with stories from the U.S. Naval Academy.  Akerson makes the CEO job sound like a hardship post:

“It was somewhat of a dislocation to me from a personal routine point of view,  I had to move. I am sixty-some years old and it’s a little late in life to try to reinvent yourself.”

Hardship or not, Dan Akerson  followed the call to duty, even if  he “wasn’t expecting it.”

He wasn’t?

The Wall Street Journal says that it was Akerson who applied for the job, and that he used personal connections to get it:

“His path to GM began about two years ago. A former Naval Academy engineering student and ship officer (he ran the ship’s power plant), he was at Carlyle in 2009 leading the global buyout unit. But he had followed GM’s troubles closely, and, hoping to get on its board, spoke to a colleague who knew the Treasury Department’s GM point person, Ron Bloom.”

The colleague, David Marchick, described Mr. Akerson to the Treasury man as a “tough-as-nails, no-B.S. conservative Republican.” To his surprise, Mr. Bloom responded: “He’s perfect.”

Well, maybe the Wall Street Journal got it wrong. Certainly, the  U.S. Navy Alumni Association must have had its story straight when it wrote:

“On a humid June day in 2009, armies of lawyers were hashing out General Motors’ recent bankruptcy filing in a courtroom without air-conditioning in lower Manhattan. In Washington, Akerson, a managing director of the Carlyle Group, confided to an associate that he’d like to serve on GM’s new board of directors.”

The associate again was David Marchick. He tried to talk Akerson out of it. The job would demand a lot of Akerson’s time.  The pay would be much less than at Carlyle. Most of all, Akerson would have to deal with Washington. But Akerson, says the article, “wouldn’t let the idea go:”

“If you’re really serious, I can give Ron a call,” offered Marchick, who had done business with Ron Bloom, the head of Obama’s auto task force. Akerson agreed.”

Also according to this story, Akerson was pitched to auto task force chief Ron Bloom. Also according to this story, Bloom responded: “He sounds perfect.”

The article was reprinted many times.  Some sites even swear they had seen the same article in the Detroit Free Press. Where it can’t be found anymore.

These stories don’t jibe with Akerson’s claim that he was called up out of the blue, and that he followed the sudden call of duty, personal inconvenience or not. If the stories don’t jibe, then someone does not tell the truth. You decide who is telling lies.

In case you did not get your tickets to the 2012 Concorso d’Eleganza Villa d’Este, held at the Lake Como in Italy, or if you did not want to trade barbecue for bietole, there is a monster gallery of the Zagato Coupe after the jump.

Zagato is the only automotive body manufacturer still in independent ownership. The car is a one-off, but it is reassuring to know that it is street-legal.

Neither motor nor money were mentioned.

If you want to know more, the press release in all its wordiness can be found here.

It is a little bit like showing breasts at a plastic surgeon congress: At the annual meeting of the JSAE, the Japanese version of the Society of Automotive Engineers, Subaru totally disrobed its BRZ and shows it to a strictly professional audience.

According to a quick image search on Google, this would be the first time that the drive train of the Hachi-Roku has been shown without disturbing sheet metal.

The professional audience was impressed. Back home at the office, the engineers work on electric motors, or hybrid drives, so seeing a boxer engine was a bit like vintage porn, professional meeting or not.

The 2012 JSAE Annual Congress began today at the Pacifico in Yokohama. It lasts through Friday, May 25. If you hop on a plane now, then you will be able to brag that you saw a naked  Hachi-Roku in the flesh.

(Want a screen saver with belts and pulleys? There are high resolution versions of the pictures in the gallery.)

In the summer of 1989, I was ten going on eleven. The fastest car I had yet ridden in was probably my dad’s 535i, clocked by the CHiP at well over the tonne, a ticket which the patriarch of the family talked himself out of with a “Not bad, right?”

It was hard to say if I really cared about cars yet: obviously they were important to my dad, and I’d already learned to drive our Series III Land Rover at walking pace on the banks of the Fraser River, but there were new Pirate sets coming from Lego, and G.I. Joe had just released a barely-disguised SR-71 Blackbird for the Cobra forces. Sean Connery had joined Harrison Ford in a quest for the Holy Grail. A friend had just gotten the new, side-scrolling Zelda Game.

The world was full of simple distractions for a young man: Transformers and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, E.T. and Ewoks, Yop bottles filled with vinegar and baking soda, Thundercats and Space Quest III.

Then, one day, in the basement of a Ladysmith home, I climbed behind the wheel of a 16-bit Porsche 959 and the whole world changed. I was exposed to the founding tenet of automotive enthusiasm.

What? The supercar? Don’t be daft, I’m talking about arguing.

These days, the realism of the racing simulator is beyond reproach. Should I wish to take up the heft of my brother’s Xbox controller, I can accurately experience everything (apart from g-forces) from a ’66 Lotus Cortina to a Pagani Zonda.

Forget chunky polygons and 8-bit pixelation, now you can get electronically close to actually owning a rare/exotic/performance car without any of the drawbacks: no depreciation, no maintenance, no risk.

Back in the day, I had previously dabbled in some top-down Spy-Hunter, but certainly nothing that felt like actual driving. Suddenly, there I was, in the cockpit of one of two supercars. Either the Porsche 959 or the Ferrari F40.

I always took the 959. Darcy always took the F40.

It’s hard to imagine a purer rivalry than the battle between the Über-Porsche and the Primo Ferrari; a bit like watching Zeus and Poseidon step into the octagon while Hades (the Countach) looks on.

The pair of twin-turbo rockets were as different as chalk and cheese: one a high-tech, AWD, all-weather point-to-point blitzkrieg that only needed a set of off-road tires to go roaring across the desert; the other a ferociously stripped-out racecar, as fast, uncompromising and dangerous as a Peregrine falcon in full stoop.

The F40, twenty-five years old this year, is obviously my favourite now. Anyone can climb behind the wheel of a 959, but to drive the F40 in anger requires balls so large you probably have your extra-roomy underpants tailor-made, and a wallet so gargantuan you’d need to hire someone to carry it around for you. In a wheelbarrow.

Even now, the things these Olympians are capable of command respect. The family cars of today are twice as fast as they were in 1987, but the cream of modern supercar royalty is perhaps only a half-step quicker.

More important though, to my mind, is the fact that the answer to the question, “What’s the best car in the world?” had just two answers, and you could make a case for either of them. This resulted in a lot of arguing over which was best and ten-year-old me preferred the 959′s superior (in-game, anyway) grip and off-the-line acceleration to the Ferrari’s top speed and mid-range advantage.

Sure, there was stuff like the RUF Yellowbird and the original ZR-1, and the Turbo Esprit and then later the Diablo would show up and further muddy the waters. But for me, it seemed like there were only two choices, two sides of the same how-fast-can-we-go coin.

I’m not sure we’ll see a rivalry like it again. There’s a whole pantheon of demi-gods vying for the laurels these days. I suppose you could make the argument that the Veyron is still king of the hill, but something about that car leaves me a bit cold.

Still, there are plenty of excellent arguments to be had at any level you choose. Which will be better, the Mini Cooper S or the Veloster Turbo? Pick your pony-car, Mustang or Camaro (or pantomime palomino like the Challenger)? Alphagetti fight: C63 or M3 or Stasis-equipped S4?

The Porsche 911 / Nissan GT-R battle seems a bit forced; a bit more of a PR move (because it is) and less organic than Corvette/911 comparisons. But it too is something that people will happily argue about for hours.

It’s quite amusing to watch how this works on Facebook, which chronicles these “discussions” quite well. Somebody posts a picture of, say, a new 991 that they’ve spotted, someone else chimes in that they’d rather have two older air-cooled models for the money, and then thirty comments in and we’ve got a vote for a Citroën SM, a Cayman R and a Cosworth-prepped Subaru (that’d be me).

Q: when did the first automotive race take place? A: after the second car was built. Were this old chestnut true, there’d probably be a group of guys arguing over which was better, the new technology of this second car, or the purer feel of the original.

You need only look at the lively discussion that erupts in the comments on Murilee’s Time Machine Dilemma posts to see what good fun this can be. And you need only log on to any brand-specific automotive forum to see how things can go horribly wrong in that good ol’ SOMEONE IS WRONG ON THE INTERNET sort of way.

So, over to you then. What’s your lottery-ticket/desert-island whip? Any time-period, any car. As the Kaiser Chiefs would say, I predict a riot.