The Smoking Tire heads to Daytona Beach, FL to follow Turner Motosports as they enter the Rolex 24 Hours of Daytona. It’s the 50th year of the legendary race and they’ve brought 2 nasty E92 BMW M3 GTs to compete. (Turn your volume up for the in-car footage; they sound incredible.)  In part 1 we meet the team and watch the drivers take the cars out for final  testing, addressing issues like tire wear, over-steer and night-time fatigue. Watch for newcomer, Michael Marsal, ripping past an Audi R8 GT on the outside of the oval. Video after the click.

A few weeks ago we were sitting around bullshitting about the future; New concepts, possible episodes, ideas, dreams, alibis, the usual stuff. Thad sat up; the cue he has an idea. Sometimes his ideas are nuts but his batting average is pretty good. “Can we get a car from someone and just try to break it? You know, see how far it’ll jump before it breaks, something like that?”

I turned, “So, you mean can we tell a company we’re going to hurl their car through the air, repeatedly, with the idea that the longer it survives the better they look?”

“Yeah.” He quickly replied, as if I had asked if he was putting on socks before his shoes?

“But we will break it? We’re going to do something until it does, in fact, break, and that will be the finish line? You want to know if we can do that?”

He smiled and shrugged, “Yeah!”

I took a beat, staring at him and giving him the opportunity to hear my answer through ESP before I said it. “No, Thad, we can’t ask to do that.”

It reminded me of Happy Gilmore’s excuse for breaking a rake, “I didn’t break it! I was testing its durability. And then I placed it in the woods, because it’s made of wood, and I thought it would want to be with its family.”
Well, I guess I’m wrong. Chevy has a video series on their website called “The 1500-Mile Drive to Survive”, where engineers took the new Sonic on a 1,500 mile road trip from Colorado to California. But not just on the freeway. That would be boring and thus never mentioned here. Their trip included snow, rain, muddy fire roads and an old, bumpy, rutted miner’s road (think rally stage). That’s a good gauge of NVH and fitment. I’m glad I couldn’t hear body panels and trim shaking off like Top Gear’s cobblestone challenge in S10E07.

Granted, these are engineers whose job is testing the car, finding problems and addressing them. And this is likely a final-assembly check turned into free advertising. Plus, the people or cars weren’t ever in any real danger. But maybe Thad is on to something. Think about it: we will save the engineer’s time, the company’s money, I’m much stupider more daring than they are so I’ll put the vehicle through tests their insurance company/spouse/instinct-to-survive wouldn’t allow them to do. Thad, you genius, you might be onto something. I can see the letter now…

“Dear Dodge. We would like to test the durability of your Ram Runner. We will jump it, increasing the distance in 15-foot increments until myself or the truck is unable to function. This will test the fasteners, u-joints, shocks, driver’s comfort and interior’s resistance to blood. When it breaks -and it will- we will tell you why. C’mon, Chevy kick-flipped a Sonic AND drove it in the mud!”

We’re getting a Chevy Sonic in January. Look for the first ever Sonic 50-50 grind.*

 - Zack K

*Just kidding Chevy.

“Did you tell anyone we were coming here today?”

“I was just going to ask you that! And…..no, I didn’t. Did you?”

“No.”

We shared a long silence, both mentally flashing forward to a broken car, freezing temperatures and no food. We were 7,000 feet above sea level on the Wheeler Pass trail in Nevada. It was snowing, so the pointy rocks- which ranged in size from grenade to tool box- were becoming hidden from view. We were wearing jeans and hoodies. The closest thing to “supplies” were a tire repair kit, 2 half-full Monster Rehabs and stomachs full of Pahrump’s finest Subway. Popping a tire on this 2011 BMW X5 diesel would surely result in cannibalism, and Thad is bigger than me.

Let me back up.

The Optima Ultimate Streetcar Invitational was coming up. We couldn’t go to SEMA so we planned to meet Matt at the track in Pahrump the night before. Modern diesel cars had caught my interest during a shoot for The Car Show when Matt tried to drive 800-mile a Mercedes E350 Bluetec from Mexico to Oregon on one tank. I wanted to further explore new diesels, so I reached out to BMW. They had an 2011 X5d for us…in San Francisco.  Oh well. A diesel SUV made perfect sense to me on paper. Thrust and efficiency with lots of space and the ever-sought which I don’t care about high seating point? I bought my ticket.

 

 

I loved the original X5 and was happy to see BMW stayed close to the original design. It’s like an old band that’s been fine-tuned for a modern audience without losing their early sound. It still looks like an SUV (SAV in this case), with short over hangs and good ground clearance  (8.7″, same as a Jeep Grand Cherokee). Aside from a tiny badge on the side and a low red line on the tach, there’s nothing advertising it’s a special X5. I actually wish it were more obvious in the hope it would convert some people. But we wouldn’t want anyone to know our car uses that dirty, different fuel, would we?

 

Hidden behind that small badge is a 3.0-liter Inline-6. With 2 turbos it brings the gift of torques; 425 of them at 1,750RPM. It has to move 5,192 lbs with 265HP so 0-60 takes just under 7 seconds. But getting on the freeway it feels much faster. No one will complain. People equate torque with speed. For proof, drive my mom around. Just bring Xanax and ear plugs. Controlling it is a 6-speed automatic and despite lacking paddles it’s responsive enough I used the stick-controlled manual mode a lot to downshift, saving fuel and brake pads.

 

The interior is the BMW style we’re familiar with, this time done in soft leather with wood accents. It feels spacious and well-equipped; Luxurious without feeling like the off limits white living room at grandma’s. It’s perfect for a car the runs and rides as smooth as this. I was happy to see the iDrive has evolved from its original pond scum to functioning helper monkey. In the X5 I had no problem synching, adjusting or NAV-ing. Did I mention the stereo BUMMMPS?!  God damn it’s like a home theater system from Beats-By-Dre. I don’t seek out nice sound but I absolutely appreciate it and any audiophile will be quite content.

 

One of few complaints goes to the seats, which don’t have enough lower back support. It was like sleeping on a bed that’s barely too firm. In 2000 miles, I wasn’t uncomfortable but it wasn’t like home. For an example of what home feels like, sit in a Mercedes.

 

Our car also came with the optional Heads Up Display. That’s good, because the steering wheel blocks the speedo from 40-120mph. I’m 5’11” but unless I wanted to drive with the wheel up high and feel like an 8 year old the speedo might as well be gone. I guess in Germany you’re either going under 40 or over 120. Bastards. But without that issue I wouldn’t have spent so much time looking at the HUD, which was excellent. With NAV arrows, cruise control status and speed it’s the perfect tool on highways and helps in canyons at night too. Even if they fix the wheel issue I’ll use display.

 

Altogether I was reminded why BMWs are expensive, and it felt worth it. My introduction to the X5 came with a 5-hour drive down to Los Angeles, and despite my mom’s best efforts (she rode with me) I found a way to enjoy the car.

 

 

Jump forward a week, and it’s the Friday before Optima. The plan was to drive to Spring Mountain Motorsports Ranch to meet Matt. Thad had convinced me we should leave early and “explore Pahrump.” Bullshit. I knew what he was doing. When he first heard, “X5” he suggested “exploring” Wheeler Pass, a 24-mile off-road trail that runs from Pahrump, NV to a spot just north of Vegas. He’d mentioned it almost weekly.

 

(You see, Thad is a dreamer; brilliant yet sometimes disconnected from reality. He once asked if we could get a new car by telling the manufacturer we intended to break it, calling it a “durability test.” He was serious.)

 

(A quick spin of Wheeler Pass trail via helmet cam.)

 

I said no. “It says it’s safe for production vehicles!” he said, showing a picture of an FJ Cruiser, failing to recognize the difference in the cars. “You’re always ranting about how crossovers and whatever have no spine, right? Let’s find out.” He had a point. I didn’t want to take a car I didn’t own as nice as this off-road but I love a driving adventure of any kind. I’d spent too much of my youth exposing borrowed cars to the elements to ignore the fun in his idea. Together we’re like 10 year olds: One builds the ramp; the other rides his bike at it. Well, it is Nevada. It will just be a sunny dirt road surrounded by more sun and dirt.

 

We arrived in Pahrump at 10:30AM. “Let’s just check the road out, what else are we going to do?” I felt like a guy that agreed to go to a strip club but said I wouldn’t open my eyes and given the option between spending 8 hours in Pahrump or risking press access and death I choose the latter. We agreed if it got too hairy, we’d turn around.

 

Clouds. Hm. Wonder what they're for?

 

Wheeler starts as a fire road heading directly between two small mountains. The X5 handled this with flying colors. It felt completely attached to the road, even at 60MPH. A rocky hill several hundred feet tall presented itself. Torquey engine, AWD, let’s see what you got. Without knobby tires or locking diffs or some name referring to a desert (check out my new Sudanihari!) the X5 chugged up the hill. Wheel spin was there but it it confidently clawed up with surprising composure. The torque from the turbo-diesel made the car feel like a giant chair lift. 28MPG highway (observed), and now this? I am a fan.

 

We got out to look back down. Things look steeper from the top. Like the climb, the descent was drama-free. Hit the hill descent and it takes care of things while you steer. Taking your foot off the pedals while off-roading is the definition of counter-intuitive but it works incredibly well. We arrived safely at the bottom with a new confidence. This wasn’t just a traveling movie theater for kids or a booster seat. This thing was legit. With new confidence, we headed up the road.

 

Then it started snowing.

 

 

Thad was elated. “Snow! First snow of the year! How awesome is this!” I wasn’t. I like snow driving more than sex but this wasn’t even really a road. This was a 10-foot wide off-camber minefield and each mine was wearing the nametag of BMW’s press agent. Anyone who has driven a crowned road on ice knows where your car wants to slide. In this case that would be down the big mountain into the abyss known as “You fucking idiots.” Yay snow. Another element added to his idea. Yet, amazingly the tires didn’t even notice the snow. The car just, drove. We cautiously pressed on.

 

 

The road changed from road with light rocks to rocks with light road. A rock the size of a pomegranate seed once went between my tread and popped a tire; That thought haunted me the next 6 hours. I crept forward as slow as possible in order to put the minimal amount of force on the tires. Thad and I worked as a team, spotting obstacles and deciding the best path.

 

Our primary concern was clearance. Ground clearance is to rocks what bullets are to killing zombies; you can’t have too much. But between the AWD system, careful wheel placement and hill descent, the X5 was fine. It was practically asleep. Each passing mile encouraged us, yet I was expecting something impassable around each bend.

 

We set personal records for "Holy shit." usage that day.

 

Off-roading in the snow is a very cool experience. There’s a stillness around you, making you feel more alone. The road looked like cookies and cream ice cream; a white blanket dotted with the tips of brown icebergs. Off-roading usually involves sunny drives with the windows (or top) down. This was almost submarine-like. Using the parking cameras, sensors and side mirrors, we could see everything around us. I love you, electricity.

 

The summit finally came. 7,700 feet. Halfway. We were giddy with excitement. I thanked the car. This  quiet, fuel-efficient cruiser was as steady and bored as a Sherpa on a stair-master. The question was: turn around or continue? Foolishly, my parents let me read books like Into Thin Air and Call of the Wild. Would Jack London quit half way and turn his $50k luxury truck around? Hell no!

 

The snow fell harder, with bigger flakes. Ironically, the inside was as comfortable as a 4-star hotel. Seat warmers, soft leather, SPICE radio soft Jazz. 100 years ago people risked death on this road. Now we’re doing it in a car that treats your ass like an old Italian barber treats your face before a shave. Incredible. It was here we realized we hadn’t told anyone what we were doing. We had BMW’s SOS system if we needed it, but it was more a moment of realizing how stupid impulsive we can be.

 

 

Downhill brought the challenge of momentum. I want to reiterate the skill of descent mode. Snow, wet rocks, didn’t matter. This car can react faster than your foot. I only took over when 4MPH felt too fast for particularly nasty rocks or to stop and survey our next move. Snow? Rocks? X5 no care.

 

And then suddenly, the snow lightened up, the clouds dissipated, the rocks shrank. A fence, mud, tire tracks! We were out. We had gone 24 miles over a snowy, rocky mountain in a vehicle usually reserved for trips to Whole Foods and personal training sessions. We passed an F-150 and the driver’s face mimicked our thoughts, “The hell are these boys doin’ here?”

 

 

We had come here to find out if there was any “utility” left in the world. Crossovers are the new SUV, and I was convinced they were only as capable as a passenger car. But this 2011 BMW X5 is better than previous generations. I felt confident on highways, in canyons and over rocky, snow-covered gremlins. The 3.0 liter I-6 TT is just a phenomenal motor. It’s great everywhere. With all that torque I’d even say it’s fun. On cold days, upon startup it’s barely louder than a gas engine and only near idle. Thanks to smart people diesels are now clean, quiet and even more efficient. People worry about finding diesel, but 28MPG gives you a 600 mile range and that’s plenty of time to look. V-8 torque, 4-cylinder efficiency and inline-6 smoothness; It is the perfect engine for not only this kind of car, but plenty more. Ours was priced at almost $60,000, but I could easily do without options like the cameras and sunroof. For around $50,000, you get a car that can do anything people might think of, and do it well. Top to bottom, it’s a very good car.

 

No one will take their X5 where we did, nor should they, but I’m glad I did . I like knowing a car can handle more than I ever want to, like knowing how to throw a punch.

 

- Zack K

Due to a high volume of questions about how we film, what radar detectors we like, favorite cameras, etc. we decided to create a little list of all our road trip essentials. It stretches the gamut from the life-giving beef jerky/Monster Rehab combo pack to the cameras and suction cups we use to make our videos. And rather than listing each one here and making you Google them, or worse, making me add links for each one, we’ve created a widget. It’s at the bottom of the page. Just go to the widget (at the bottom, not this picture below) and scroll through the items. When you see something you like, click on it and it will take you to the Amazon page to buy that item.

Widget located at the bottom right of our page.

For some people, a road trip is a rare adventure. They plan the trip, the route, the sites they want to see and head off into the sun in the hopes of adventure. Amateurs. For us, the road trip is as necessary as oxygen. We are constantly driving to locations, cars, tracks, events, etc. The only people who put in as much time on the road as auto journalists have jobs that lump methamphetamine, dead prostitutes and a review of a Waffle House in Utah into a single workday (Truckers. Or Guy Fieri). So we know what’s essential to make a long drive as comfortable, safe, efficient and productive as possible.

SUPPORT TST

Obviously there’s a benefit to this widget on our page. We get a small kickback when you buy a product. Don’t worry, the item costs the same amount as if you found it on Amazon yourself. But it helps us pay for gas, food and production costs. You guys always ask us why videos take so long, and the simple answer is: money. A good location shoot costs hundreds of dollars in gas. If we need to go out of town to a track, it’s over $1000. So if you want more videos and more content, just click through us to get to Amazon. The products we put in the widget are things we own and use. These are our personal essentials, and we never leave home without them. Camera mounts to make your own videos. Radar detector to keep the money in your wallet. Energy drinks so you can run from smokeys long into the night stay alert.

So if you’re going to buy a camera, or want to try mounting your iPhone to film stuff, or want to buy the best radar detector out there, stop by TheSmokingTire.com and search our widget. It helps you, it helps us, and the more people that do it, the more videos you get. Win win win. Now throw a dart at a map and pick your next destination.

-Zack K

You may or may not me familiar with my attitude towards NASCAR. Short version: don’t care for it. My disdain for the sport automatically envelopes everyone around it. You could be a 5 year old and I will stubbornly hate you with the maturity of a Bloods and Crips knife fight. Or as applies here, a driver. I don’t hate the drivers personally, just their sport. But after watching this video, Robby Gordon is the man. I’ve watched him do the Baja 1000, and he warmed my heart a bit. After seeing him in this video driving on Bullrun in his 2011 Jeep Cherokee SRT8, I am a fan. Passing a 700WHP GTR is no problem for him. This guy just likes to drive fast. Make the jump for the 12 minute video of Robby absolutely hauling ass.

Better yet, check out his passenger digging his nails into the arm wrests like he’s being electrocuted, the opposite behavior to Robby’s completely calm demeanor. Same demeanor as an 80-year old man clipping rose bushes in his back yard. Passing on a crest over a double yellow? “Hm. Interesting. Should I eat chicken tonight or fish? Well, there’s the mercury to worry about…” I also applaud him for throwing caution, laws and (probably) sponsorships to the wind in the name of adrenaline, fun and rallying. Robby, if you’re taking resumes for passengers, I can make a pretty mean bottle of water and I have an excellent palate for selecting gas station beef jerky.

- Zack K

At 9 P.M. the two girls in my back seat were still screaming and I couldn’t help but crack a smile. No fear, you Dexter-obsessed weirdos, they were having fun. With second gear about to explode, I carved the black e34 M5 into the wide, right-sweeping corner, touched the brakes, and guided it around the smooth ribbon of forest asphalt. The tach read seven grand, and I shifted to third gear. The girls were still giggling and hollering in the gray bucket seats behind me. Who knows, they may have been tickling each other in between make out sessions (pervs) but my peripheral-view guess showed otherwise. It’s almost twenty years after e34 M5 production ended, but it’s still sexy and driving strong. Plus the girls said it was “bad-ass” that I drove a stick. God damn, girls are getting easy to impress.

Let’s backtrack. This week, my friend Amy and her sorority were having their Winter Formal. It’s the kind of party that girls fantasize about, and the guys think is like Van Wilder. They’re actually cliquey and kinda suck. I should rephrase. They’re not for me. Continuing: Now usually the girls’ dates drive them, but because of some high school-esque drama, a driver was needed. Fucking Greek-life. This is where I come in. As a sucker for real-wheel-drive adventures, I didn’t mind picking up the ladies from their apartments to drive them to the local venue. Was it necessary for me to dress as a chauffeur? It was not, but I felt like a less impressive, caucasian Kato. And hailing from Caucasia  may not be as cool in the car scene as being from real Asia but I digress.

My limo of choice was a Jet Black 1991 BMW M5. The car had just been shipped from sunny California and arrived at my house in New York with 95,000 mi on the clock. Usually buying a used car this old means over 150k on the clock and a myriad of problems. Not so with this old-school autobahner.  Powered by the S38 3.6L inline-six from the Golden Age M1 supercar, the M5 pumps out 310hp at the crank. Being a driver’s car, the hand-built E34 M5 came standard with a five-speed manual transmission, revs to 7500rpm, and can accelerate to 60mph in around six seconds. That’s correct, my party would be Ronin themed.

Twenty years after the super sedan debuted, these specs may not seem that impressive, but imagine how ludicrous it must have been to drive this car when it was new. To give some perspective, if BMW used a race engine for the new M5 it would have about 700 horsepower. Hans and Wolfgang at Motorsport were bonkers in the late 1980s. Maybe they had a bit too much hefeweizen and schnapps. Or German escorts… I hear they’re mean. The only  turnoff i have with the M5 is its unbelievably German interior. If Siggy Freud was reincarnated inanimately, he would be an M5 interior. It’s very purposeful and calming, but just so damned boring and void of personality. While the four bucket seats are perfect for long journeys, the annoying absence of any cup holder is further highlighted by the six ashtrays peppered like buckshot throughout the cabin. Ze Germans do love their cigarettes.

*stock photo*

Now to the story: Outside my Penn State dormitory I park the car and head up to my room. The Lego-like curvature of the boxy E34 sticks out like a ‘90s rat-tail at a BET function. Inside my cliched-looking dorm room, I tie my bow-tie, polish my glossy black Bostonians, and put on my matching jet black hat and suit on. I shave my beard but leave my mustache unscathed, to further emphasize the 1990s theme I had going. Some people even said that I looked dapper. Those same people may also have been imaginary. I looked many things, but dapper was not one of them.

Around 8 P.M. I get a call from Amy saying that she and her girlfriend were ready to be picked up. I grab the worn key fob, lock my door, and leave for the parking lot. I twist the key in the ignition, and fire the six cylinders to life. It takes a special kind of car to drown out its exhaust with its engine rumble. Damn, I love the sound of a BMW i6. It’s just so smooth, right up until redline where it wants to go Chernobyl. Too soon? Any AMG can sound loud and menacing, but this M car was made for the man who wanted some leather in his cruise missile. Subtle, unassuming, and docile, the Dr. Jeckyl M5 is happy to be used for errands and soccer practice. However, with 300+ bhp and skinny tires out back, the car beckons to be tossed sideways. I ponder how sorority girls feel about roller coasters.

On my way to Amy’s apartment, the M5 is very comfortable in lower revs, despite its torque curve not setting in until 4k. The S38 under the hood is taking a break from its usual cougar noises to bellow monotonously on the one-way road, College Avenue. Within minutes I arrive at the apartment complex where she lives. Pulling up in front of her door, I leave the car running while I get out to ring the doorbell. Amy and her friend emerge high-heel wielding, and made-up. Classy isn’t the right word, but the girls look pretty, and are eager for me to walk them to the car. As we approach the limo, I open their doors and escort them into the backseats. It took them some time to figure out how to sit down without exposing their drunk selves, so I got in the driver’s seat and waited patiently. Note to female readers: wearing underwear does not make you unattractive when you go out, it just prevents issues with sitting down. Then again, keep doing what you’re doing, no one is complaining.

Our destination is nearby, and is easily accessible from the highway. We have plenty of time before the girls are expected at the event. Let’s hit some twisties. Looping around the picturesque collegiate village, we find my yellow-brick-road, Rt. 550. The secluded swirl of tarmac, known as Rattlesnake Pass had gone the way of Rt. 66; Its scenic beauty was sacrificed for a more direct roadway. The recently paved road is buttery and winding, has a high speed limit, and is skinny enough to allow just one lane in each direction. To be clear, 550 runs directly through the woods, on the mountainside, and then swings through the farmland at its finish line. Rednecks and hoons rejoice; this here’s a winner.

As we approach the right-hand turn onto the route’s entrance, our conversation about Black Swan is interrupted by Led Zepp’s “When the Levee Breaks” (Note: They brought up the lesbian scene, not me). Down to second gear, I rip back the gear lever in chainsaw-startup fashion. Prehistoric snarls explode from the front-hinged bonnet and evoke some yells from my pretty passengers. All four wheels grip the asphalt like sticky tack and the lateral Gs squeeze the backseat co-eds tightly. Into the first section, I terminate second gear and pull hard into the series of esses.

The Bimmer wails under full acceleration then wiggles slightly as I hit the massive brakes.  Diving forward and into the curve the M5 want’s more than I can give. Left, right, left, the landscape whirrs past and we navigate the passage with ease. At 8:45 pm, the girls start giggling -you guessed it- like school girls. As their maestro-chauffeur, I offer the girls some cool water from up front. I didn’t know if they were thirsty, but their swift response, “Watch the road!” suggested they were not.

With a steady pace, we chug briskly up a small hill, and cling like velcro in the descent. The first and only left-handed corner comes into view. The M5’s buxom rear end swings out like a ballet dancer, and prances around the bend. After a few more exciting corners, we pull over to marinate. Despite the unclean roadway and secluded environment, the car still looks clean. It has dirt on it, yes, but It’s a refreshing sign of life for a car that most other owners keep garaged garage. With only a few thousand e34 M5s imported to North America, it makes for a rare and enjoyable ride. Despite their non-existent automotive enthusiasm the girls loved it too. It was comfortable and luxurious, even 20 or so years after production ended, and made them feel special.

As we enter the old Pennsylvania city, the M5’s boxy figure meshes oddly well with the plethora of pickups and old Suburbans. We motor towards the catering hall, bouncing engine notes off the rustic, bricked buildings. I pull up to the front entrance, get out of the car, and let my passengers out. They thank me for the ride, and tell me that they almost pissed their pants a few times (their words). Mission accomplished. In 2011 the e34 M5 is still relevant, adequately powered, and hilariously fun. A pro driver I definitely am not, but the M5 makes it easy to have fun without having to go too fast. Unfortunately though, as I’m writing this story, I’m sitting in the M5 by the side of some PA B-road, broken down.

Fuck old cars.

-by Adam Totter

photos by Joe Portela

This past weekend I went to Lake Tahoe, and during the 4 days I had there a theory I have had for years was nailed down with depleted-uranium nails driven onto a board made from magnetic diamonds and covered in amber; 99% of the SUVs on the road are unnecessary.

There is no better place to witness and understand the uselessness of the SUV than Lake Tahoe in the middle of winter. You see, over the holiday weeks that span Christmas and New Years, everyone who’s ever been drawn to the snow, be it a hardcore 50-year ski veteran or a family of 4 from San Diego taking their first ski trip, is there. That means the diversity of the vehicles on Highway 80 heading over the mountains is as diverse as the LGBT support group at an international Hostel in New York. For better or worse, the highway going over the pass is a smattering of lifted trucks, pathetic chain-shodden Prius, rusting 4x4s, AWD cars and way too many idiots from the bay who put 22s on their 4wd truck, forcing them to put chains on. The equivalent of buying a tiger to look badass but having it de-clawed and it’s teeth flattened. You’re quite the pimp until someone breaks into your house and leaves with all your money and a new rug.

My vehicle for this trip was a 2006 Volvo V50 wagon with AWD and a turbo-charged inline 5-cylinder. It impressed me more every day. It had Continental All-season tires on it. No Blizzaks fitted with ninja swords like you find in CO, just a good set of tires meant to handle all conditions. And they did. The weight of the car (and it’s cargo) and a good AWD system was all we needed to go up/down our icy driveway, slalom around stranded motorists and barge through 10 inches of fresh “Sierra cement.”

It got good gas mileage, felt more stable than anything I’ve driven in the snow, and just worked wonderfully. And when you get it in the dry it drives great. And as we cruised up Highway 80, eventually coming to a stop for chain control, I took a look the cars around me, and wondered why we still buy SUVs with the idea that on our yearly trip to a snowy place, they will easily and safely transport us to our weekend chalet, making up for the added cost and bad fuel economy we deal with the other 360 days of the year.

On this trip I saw several accidents (none life-threatening), but my favorite was a brand new, virgin-white Chevrolet Suburban with it’s back wheels in a ditch on the right side of the road. This was particularly impressive because it was on a very very gentle RIGHT hand curve that followed a straight as long as Texas. This road was as hard to maneuver as the line to buy your lift ticket. But somehow Johnny Igotmesum-Fourwheeldrive spun his land-yacht the opposite direction of the turn and like an 85 year old man on the toilet, dropped his Michelin balls into the icy cold water that is a ditch. Bravo.

Aside from 2wd trucks/SUVs, I don’t have a problem with the cars themselves. I owned 3 different cars in my 9 years living in Colorado, and driven dozens of others that were borrowed from friends. Some were well-suited for the winters of that state, and some (a borrowed 1982 Chevy Citation) had no business being on the road in mild humidity, let alone snow. But what you notice is that no matter what people drive, they get where they’re going and in a timely matter. The only time the freeway came to a crawl is if a car flipped over, or there were simply too many Carhart-clad, goggle-tanned bros trying to get first tracks. You could be behind an 82 Cutlass with all-season tires and be comfortable that the driver knew what he was doing.

You think this is the same as your Crossover SUV. It isn't.

The problem in California, is everyone buys an SUV and thinks that when they sign on the dotted line Harry Potter comes down from heaven and farts into their mouth, giving them iron-clad stability on the road no matter what. So what you end up with is a bunch of idiots that have never driven on anything slipperier than a polished parking garage heading up to the mountains in their new Grand Laredo RX450 Titan with the optional Stabilitrakular system. They can sync their phone to their kid’s DVD player and have every Crate & Barrel store programmed in their GPS, ignorant to the reality nothing substitutes for knowledge and skill. I don’t care how many TV screens your new “truck” (which is likely built on a car platform) has, it doesn’t make you invincible.

You would think this would result in Joe Tahoe driving 80mph in the snow, one hand on the wheel, his figurative snow-cock growing by the mile suddenly sliding over a rail and tumbling to a chilly death in the lake below. I wish. That would provide a cautionary tale to others while opening up a lane. The problem is the second people notice it’s a little slippery, reality hits them; “I’ve never driven in the snow. Oh Jesus. Maybe there’s some valuable information in the Dora the Explorer DVD I have playing on my 4 TVs.” So people revert to a timid crawl of 5mph, putting along in fera while I sit behind them filling the car with so many curse words my Dad has to roll down the window as if we all just downed a Taco Bell Party box.

When you’re uncertain, slower is better, I get that, but when I see someone in a big truck, capable of plowing through mud and 2 foot snow drifts driving slow enough to get passed by a local 6 year old on Big Wheel, I want to turn into Michael Douglas in Fallen and shoot holes in you “Ultra-AWD” badge. If you want a good all-season car, why not choose one that gives you all the safety and grip you could want while saving you money and shutting up Green Peace?  I understand there are people that need big trucks for work, or towing; fine. I don’t, my mom doesn’t and that lady at Starbucks on her way to a HOA meeting to discuss mail box colors damn sure doesn’t.

The lesson is nothing can substitute for know-how and skill, so why try to supplement those with the letters “S-U-V”? Next time you’re shopping for a family hauler that’s snow ready, test drive a wagon. It will drive better in the dry, and handles snow fine. After all, if Ezra Dyer can take an Audi R8 grocery shopping in the snow, you’ll be fine.

-Zack k

Many, many people have been asking us about the total amount of tickets, fines, points, etc. that we accrued on this year’s Bullrun Rally from New York to Las Vegas. While it’s very difficult to total up the number of fines and points before all the actual fines have been issued, here’s an update on our ongoing battle with the Highway Patrol.

Matt’s Totals:

New Jersey:

Reckless Driving – Dropped in Court

Improper Passing – Dropped in Court

100 in a 65 – Reduced to 94 in a 65 in Court, $200 fine, 1 point.

Ohio:

80 in a 65 – Plead Guilty and paid fine, $160, no points transfer to CA.

Nevada:

66 in a 65 – Reduced to a $180 parking ticket in court, no points.

Matt’s Total Cost: $540 in fines, $2500 Lawyer in NJ, 1 point on license.

Tom’s Totals:

Arizona:

Racing on a Highway – Dropped to basic speeding in court, $185 fine, no points transfer.

Iowa:

94 in a 65 – Status Pending

New Jersey:

No Seatbelt- Status Pending

Failure to Obey Turnpike Signage – Status Pending

Filming on the Turnpike – Status Pending

The point is, to quote my friend Rob Ferretti, speeding is not a crime, it’s a business. The point of writing tickets on the highway is not to keep people safe or enforce unreasonably low speed limits, it’s to raise revenue for state and local government. How do we know this? Because if you fight out tickets in court, you’re almost immediately offered some kind of zero-points plea bargain with a bigger fine. At no point during or after the rally was I worried that my license would be in danger, because simply by showing up to my court dates, I walked away from that whole thing with just 1 point on my license. There is almost no correlation in between someone who is a habitual speeder and someone who causes accidents, and I’m living proof of that, as I’ve been driving ridiculous speeds my whole life, and never been at fault for a single accident (though I have been the victim in 3 total accidents, the result of other drivers doing some incredibly stupid things).

Tom’s New Jersey tickets are non-moving violations, the cop was just being an asshole, so even he isn’t in danger of losing his license, even after a misdemeanor racing charge.

The bottom line is: show up in court and you’ll keep your license. And if you’re really worried about it or the tickets are big enough, get a good lawyer, because the fees you pay them will more than balance themselves out with savings in fines and insurance premiums.

Special thanks to Roy Macaluso of Fusco and Macaluso in New Jersey for taking good care of me.

The 2011 Lincoln MKT seems like just about the last car we’d be reviewing on this site. After all, it’s a crossover with very little enthusiast appeal and virtually no online presence, right? Maybe so, but after 1500 miles in America’s least well-known Lincoln, we found ourselves wanting one, bad. Read on to find out why. As some of you may know, we recently competed in the 2010 Bullrun Rally from New York to Las Vegas. And if you know that, you’re well aware that we got a few shitload of tickets, many of which had similar court appearance dates. Incidentally, Tom had to appear in Phoenix, Arizona on a Monday, and I had to appear in Boulder City, Nevada the next day. Tom and I decided an epic ticket-fighting road trip was in order. The total distance covered would be about 1500 miles in 3 days, making a triangle from Redondo Beach, to Phoenix, Vegas, and back home. But we needed the right car.

Since a Ford product contributed significantly to this mess, the 2011 Shelby GT500, we figured we’d request another Ford product to get us out of this mess. The obvious solution would be my own 2010 SVT Raptor, but when covering 1500 miles, do you really want a vehicle that gets 11 mpg? Definitely not. We would need something comfortable for 8 hours of driving a day, big enough to hold all our stuff, fast enough to cruise at 100 in the middle of the desert, and efficient enough to keep the indent on our bank account minimal. And it had to have lots of toys, because when I’m not driving, I have the attention span of a crack-addicted marmot. But, most importantly, it had to be invisible to the cops. The last thing you want on a ticket-fighting expedition is to get another ticket, so this car had to be stealth.

When the Lincoln MKT arrived in our driveway, Tom was horrified. “We’re taking that?” And I don’t blame him, because at first glance, the MKT is, well, polarizing. Straight on, you’d think it was the official vehicle of Liberty Medical Supplies, here to deliver your diabetus medication. From the rear, it looks like an overturned canoe. And from the side, it doesn’t say much at all besides “station wagon.” The thing about first impressions though, is, they aren’t always right. Plus, I didn’t like the Porsche Cayenne’s looks either, until I drove one. Then I no longer cared how it looked. I suspected the MKT would have a similar effect, after Jack Baruth, my favorite writer’s review of it on The Truth About Cars.

Step inside the MKT, however, and prepare to be wowed. The seats are fantastic, and all four captains chairs are all fully adjustable and heated/cooled (my favorite option ever, especially for a desert road trip). There is a four-zone climate control system. The entire dashboard is wrapped in leather, and the small sections of the doors that aren’t leather wrapped have soft foam that does a great impression of leather. The woodgrain looks expensive. There’s a full-length center console with a refrigerator in the back, big enough for four 20-oz bottles. There’s a THX-certified multimedia system mated to the sharpest LCD screen I’ve seen in a car, and, of course, Ford’s excellent interface, which we love. The dual-sunroofs are enormous. The third row seating is fully powered, with multiple configuration options, including “Normal, Stow, 5o/50,” and  “Tailgate,” which flips the seats around completely so they face outward from the rear hatch. Very cool. There’s tons of techie gadgets too: adaptive cruise control, blind-spot detection, cross-traffic detection, collision warnings, backup camera, and more. I turned them all off except the adaptive cruise, which really helps on a road trip. And I know how to drive properly, so I didn’t need that stuff anyway. The center-stack buttons are logically laid out, and don’t require a Harvard degree to operate. Many of them have redundant counterparts on the steering wheel and within the touchscreen, not to mention the SYNC voice activation of nearly every system on the car. And it was black.

Oh yeah, this is the kind of ride I want to live in for 3 days. But how does it drive?

With a rigid chassis, all-wheel drive, and an Ecoboost V6 mated to a 6-speed automatic, it drives very well. This isn’t exactly a light vehicle, at 5,000 lbs, but the 355 hp turbocharged engine provides a surprisingly good amount of thrust, especially in the 60-100 mph zone. We’d even go so far as calling the MKT “fast.” The steering, though light, is extremely responsive, and while using the paddle shifters, can easily be hustled through corners at much higher speeds than you’d expect just by looking at it. More importantly, the MKT rides great, with just the right amount of suspension travel and damping given what kind of driving buyers will likely be doing. And it’s very, very quiet on the road. Tire noise is absolutely minimal, wind noise is virtually non-existent, and engine noise is approaching Lexus levels of quiet. Visibility is good everywhere, with large side mirrors, a backup camera, and a big greenhouse, perfect for taking in the scenery on a road trip. The MKT’s weakest point showed itself quickly: the brakes. A vehicle this heavy, that’s this easy to drive fast, should have a really good set of brakes. It doesn’t. They fade quickly after a few hard stops, and they lack last-minute bite. Mr. Baruth actually tracked his press loaner MKT and claimed that if he did a few more laps he could have literally set the brakes on fire, which, after driving it, I completely believe. Conversely, driving at the EPA’s pace, the MKT can achieve 21 mpg on the highway. We averaged 19.8 over our fast-paced road trip.

Driving the MKT is nice, but the real place to be is in the back. The MKT offers more rear space and luxury features than any of its closest competitors, in fact, you’d have to go up to an S-Class or extended wheelbase BMW 7-series to approach this level of back-seat luxury. We especially like the built-in 110-volt outlet, because on the road we are constantly charging camera batteries and computers, and it’s just one less thing to think about. Rear seat storage is also plentiful, although front-seats lack a really good spot for a cell phone besides in the cup holders. Another gripe? The gigantic sunroof doesn’t have a one-touch open or close function. You have to hold the button the entire time, which takes about 15 seconds. And the refrigerator’s opening goes the wrong way, so your front-seat passenger can’t actually get anything out; you have to be sitting in back to access it. Fortunately, Tom spent most of my driving stints in back anyway, so he got to be the bartender as well.

As we returned from our road trip, having successfully argued both our tickets down to zero-points and sub-$200 fines, I began to contemplate what place this car has in today’s market. It’s not exactly cheap, as our fully-loaded test vehicle came just $200 shy of $58,000. And it’s not exactly pretty either, though the more I looked at it, the more I saw styling cues from the Maybach Excelero concept, and the more it grew on me. Some people absolutely loved it, Tom still hated it. And the MKT has tough competition. Not on paper, mind you, because the MKT is the best value in luxury on the market today, but in brand heritage and public perception. The Audi Q7, Mercedes G-Class, even the platform-shared Ford Flex pretty much have the market cornered right now.

Lincoln, like Buick, is in a tough spot. They have a brand that is widely known for catering to old people. Their logo and grill designs, to me, say “old man driving,” which is part of the reason I wanted the MKT for this particular trip. And the MKT hasn’t been marketed particularly well, as even car guys asked me when the MKT would be out, surprised to learn that it’s been on the market for over a year.

The bottom line: The MKT is a wonderful car, and probably the best American made luxury car of the last 25 years. It has everything you could ever reasonably want a luxury car to do. If you have a family, or, better yet, a chauffeur, and want to whisk or be whisked around invisibly  in quiet, comfortable luxury with all the gadgets in the world, this is the perfect car for you.

The Woodward Dream Cruise, now in its 16th year, is the largest single-day car show in the US. Literally millions of people, and tens of thousands of cars gather on Woodward Avenue and cruise up and down the 8 mile stretch of road for hours upon hours. Spectators can pick a spot along Woodward and just watch the whole show cruise on by, or hop in their rides and be a part of it. Of course, The Smoking Tire isn’t the type to sit on the sidelines, so we got ourselves an ass-kicking piece of Detroit iron, the Firebreather, and hit the road.

In addition to the madness that is the Dream Cruise, we learned the story behind the Firebreather, along with the film, Jinn, that it stars in. And, in usual The Smoking Tire fashion, we throw a twist into the mix, when Matt convinces a car fan to get the Firebreather logo as a tattoo. Video after the jump.

For more information about the Firebreather, including full specs, pricing, and customization options, visit the Official Firebreather Site

As most of you know, we recently competed in the 2010 Bullrun Rally from New York to Las Vegas. We drove a brand new 2011 Shelby GT500 Convertible, and we shot way more video than we had available air time. There was so much great footage that we just couldn’t use, that we’ve decided to make just one more video, with all the best pull-overs, personalities, and driving footage from the 2010 Bullrun Rally.

In case you’ve been hiding under a rock for the past week, The Smoking Tire just finished the Bullrun Rally as Team Black Magic. The Bullrun is a cross-country checkpoint-style navigational rally with 50 other cars, some exotics, some not, and full of great personalities. We shot, edited, and uploaded a video every day from the road, documenting all our adventures and the beautiful places we’ve seen. We put nearly 6,000 miles on our 2011 Shelby GT500 Convertible, and other than a few minor tire issues, the Shelby performed admirably. Hit the jump to watch all 7 of our videos from the road in once place, and be sure to check out my photos and written blog entries at Black Magic Shine.

[Photo Credit: Bullrun]

The Bullrun Rally attracts all types of media attention, from online car shows like The Smoking Tire giving you full coverage of the event start to finish, to local newspapers and blogs. Some of them are fairly straightforward and boring, and others are absolutely comedy gold. For Instance:

This gem from online blog (if you can even call it that) TFLCar.com. This article, directed right at me, accuses me and all the Bullrunners of driving drunk (a flat-out lie) and the wording, spelling, lack of facts, and context of the article, lead me to believe this is a jealous kid who wants to do the rally but can’t. I have never met the person who wrote this article, and if I have, he didn’t dare say any of this shit to my face (no online shit-talker has ever said anything to my face). Read the article here and laugh with me. Especially read the comments at the bottom, where this kid’s readers clearly don’t agree with him.

TFLCar: Matt Farah and Bullrun Feel Free to Never Visit Boulder Again

The next article is absolutely hilarious, because our friend Rob Ferretti from Team Super Speeders completely made up a story in an interview with The Mountain Mail, about how our friend Shivam, who drove the black EVO X on the rally, has Leprosy and his arm is falling off, and we’re doing the rally to raise money for him. Well, they printed every word of it.

Bullrun Stops for Lunch In Salida

Best line of the article? “They used to have entire Leper colonies. He’s like a colony of one.”

Fucking classic.

Team Black Magic wakes up in the firey heat of Scottsdale to discover someone played a prank on their car…. We visit the Taser factory to watch Flag Girl Karen get shocked, we have a little run-in with the cops, and we have the most unique Bullrun finish of the year.

The 2010 Bullrun departs the beautiful resort town of Telluride, Colorado for Scottsdale, Arizona. On the way, we stop at Monument Valley for a little of that southwest Americana….

Day 5 begins with some high-speed kart racing at Bandimere Speedway just outside of Boulder, CO. Then the boys hit the road, snaking through the gorgeous Colorado mountains to the high-altitude paradise that is Telluride. On the way an unexpected TV crew interrupts the Ferrari’s fun, and the last car you would expect to get pulled over, does.

2010 Bullrun: Day 4 Omaha – Boulder

It’s day 4 of the Bullrun Rally. Tom takes the wheel first, hoping to continue the good fortune and success of the previous leg. The Maserati shows off it’s Bond-like gadgets, and an old friend surprises us by joining the Bullrun mid-way. You’ll understand when you see who it is.

The Bullrunners depart Chicago, in a mess of lost, for Omaha, Nebraska. There’s never a shortage of surprises on the Bullrun, and today doesn’t upset. We get lost and angry, drive the tires off our car, and finally figure out a good strategy.

The Smoking Tire heads out from Cleveleland, Ohio to Chicago, Illinois on the 2010 Bullrun Live Rally. We  get pulled over, help Ice-T change a tire on an Aston Martin (with a Lexus donut!), and drive our faces off….

Follow our Twitter Live Feed

Friend Matt on Facebook

The Smoking Tire hits the road as Team Black Magic for the 2010 Bullrun Live Rally from New York to Las Vegas. We’re uploading a video every day from the road, so be sure to check back every day to get the best Bullrun updates in near realtime. Also, friend me on Facebook, or Follow Team Black Magic on Twitter.

The Smoking Tire takes the 2010 Volkswagen Touareg TDI to El Mirage Dry Lakebed to see how it behaves on the road and off it. We also see how fast it will go in the one place we could think of with no speed limit. Video after the jump.

In this episode of The Smoking Tire, we decide to test Audi’s version of an economy car to its limits, by attempting to drive to the Grand Canyon from Redondo Beach, CA, 550 miles, on a single 14.6 gallon tank of diesel fuel. We then take the Audi to Adams Motorsports Park for a timed lap to see if it’s a sporty economy car or an economical sports car. Video after the jump.

Continuing my tradition of wasting the Earth’s precious resources, I decided not to take Ford’s free ticket to San Francisco, where I would be testing their new 40 mpg fighter, the Fiesta. Instead, I decided to burn about 90 gallons of fuel by driving myself to San Francisco and back in my loaned Ram 1500 Laramie Quad-cab, at a completely ridiculous pace. A thousand miles is more than enough time to learn a car’s ins and outs, and here’s my story.

It was 4:30 in the morning when I woke up to leave for San Francisco, still dark. Fortunately, I had packed the night before, and just had to throw my two bags into the Ram and head out. I set the optional Navigation for Hotel Vitale on Mission St., less than 100 yards from the waterfront. I have a long history with Chrysler navigation systems. The last one I used, in the 2008 Challenger, made me type out “United States Capitol” because it didn’t understand the acronym “US.” I screamed at it for a full 20 minutes, the length of time it took to spell “United States Capitol” on the 6.5” touchscreen. This time, however, my address input was accepted and we were off.

Less than a mile from my house, I stopped for fuel and coffee. Unlike most of the cars I’ve had recently, the Ram’s 5.7 Liter, 390 horsepower HEMI will happily run on 87 octane, a pleasant surprise considering the 32 gallon fuel tank would cost over $100 to fill with premium. The range indicator, part of the on-board computer in the small LCD in between the gauges, showed a range of 399 miles when full. It was 391 to Hotel Vitale. I now had a goal. As I pulled out of the gas station, the clock ticked 5:20, and I had to be there by 11. Five hours and forty minutes isn’t much time to make the drive, especially in a pickup truck when you’re going for a single-tank run, but what the hell, I love a challenge.

Los Angeles highways are surprisingly populated in the early morning, much more so than New York. And because LA drivers are complete morons who drive the same speed regardless of their lane choice, I couldn’t do more than 75 for the first hour. No matter, I scanned through the Sirius stations, realizing that the 9 speaker Alpine stereo sounds phenomenal. I’m sure it looks good on the 9.5” rear-seat monitor, but I only sat in the back for 5 seconds. It’s comfortable and has tons of legroom, like all quad-cab pickups. Opening the “vent” portion of the sunroof, along with the center portion of the rear window yields a perfect breeze, enough to keep the car full of fresh air, and right below the point where you’d have to raise your voice to have a conversation.

Because my test vehicle came with the standard 17” wheels, it rode smooth as butter. I can’t stand when manufacturers put giant wheels on their trucks and SUV’s, because it makes them do everything worse, including ride, stop, and turn. The ultimate test is the 405 freeway’s expansion joints, which do upset the long wheelbase a bit, causing a  repeated bounce. On all non-405 highways, it’s just fine. The seats are wonderful, like Lay-Z-Boys, and are heated and cooled (an industry first). There’s also a heated steering wheel, another first. Put simply, if you live in Middle-America, where Lexus’s are referred to as “Jap Bullshit,” this is the best you’re going to do.

As I merged onto the 5, which I would be staying on for over 250 miles, traffic started to build up in San Francisco. How did I know this, even though I was hours from my destination? The navigation told me, with the following phrase, which will haunt me forever.

“Your route is being changed due to traffic conditions.”

I heard this phrase no fewer than 50 times over the course of this single trip.

Note to Chrysler: I like the fact that your navigation will re-route me around traffic automatically. If that re-routing occurs more than 5 or 10 miles from my current position, do it silently. There is nothing more annoying than being told a traffic update that is more than 100 miles away, especially if you are leaving your destination before rush hour, and arriving afterwards.

We were making good time now, this Ram and I, as we steamed past Buttonwillow into California’s no-mans-land, when all of a sudden, the truck stopped pulling, momentarily, then started again. This wasn’t an ECU problem, no. Because of the Ram’s very high seating position and smooth ride, I had inadvertently bumped up against the 105 mph speed limiter without even realizing it. This happened at least 15 to 20 times during the course of my drive, and it’s rather annoying when you’re in the middle of a pass on a two-lane road when you all of a sudden lose power. It’s very disconcerting, and considering the Ram’s ride quality and gearing, I’m surprised the limiter is set so low. This thing’s got 125 in it, easy. On the other hand, driving at the limiter isn’t very good for fuel economy, and my early optimism soon gave way to fact; there was no way I could make it on one tank. I had to fill up, still more than 100 miles from San Francisco.

Most of the drive I kept the big Ram between 85 and 95 mph, a speed that is totally comfortable, and at which the brakes are quite effective. A Semi-truck cutting you off, while doing 10 mph below the speed limit, and you’re going 25 over is always a good time to find out how well the brakes work. Since I’m still breathing and the truck is in one piece, they work just fine. It’s very quiet at speed, no doubt because they have stuffed this thing with tons of insulation, because from outside, the engine is actually quite loud. At least the sound it does make is deep and throaty.

Ever heard the expression, “if you can’t Dodge it, Ram it?” Well, I couldn’t dodge a bird, and rammed it, at 90 mph. Believe it or not, I killed two animals using the Ram, on the way home I also ran over a squirrel.

About an hour outside San Francisco, I drove into a huge thunderstorm. The clouds got dark, rain came down in oceans, and wind blew trees parallel to the ground. I switched the Ram in to 4×4 Auto mode, and with a half second pause, the transition was done. Although the tall profile and relatively horrid aerodynamics aren’t exactly ideal in a strong breeze, with a firm grip on the wheel, the Ram never lost its composure.

The last ten miles of the drive, I sat in bumper-to-bumper traffic thanks to a broken down shitbox (ahem, Pontiac Sunfire convertible) in the left lane of the Bay Bridge. I didn’t hear a peep from the navigation about being re-routed. Thanks.

I pulled into the hotel with a total time of 5 hours even, including the gas stop. Moving time? 4 hours, 40 minutes. Moving average: 83.9 mph. Overall average: 78.2.

In a pickup truck.

I burned 40 gallons of fuel each way, and ten more driving around downtown. So it’s not exactly economical, but at that pace, neither is anything else (except maybe the Fiesta, which managed 26.8 mpg after 2 hours of driving at redline.) Its comfortable, well equipped, has improved fit and finish, and is genuinely a great place to be for a road trip.

I loved it.

*Chrysler provided the vehicle, insurance, and a tank of gas for this review*

There’s a reason that Top Gear has devoted so many segments to finding the “best road in the world” or the “scariest road in the world.” It’s because the quest for great roads is something every car guy can relate to. My personal favorites I’ll never film for the show, simply because I don’t want to give away their exact location to the public. But “By The Waze” (I know, never heard of it either) has calculated the list of the 19 most complex and dangerous roads in the world. It is now my life’s mission to drive these roads. We’ve all heard of the “Brazilian Death Road,” shown above, but what about the Guoliang Tunnel Road in China? Or Georgia’s mountainous Military trails? I wouldn’t cross a few of these in a Ford Raptor, let alone some of the shitboxes they build in some of these countries…..

Check it out at the Waze

The Smoking Tire takes the Infiniti QX56 to Blythe, CA for the Desert Storm Rally. Once there, we meet up with Jon Burke from Up 2 Mountains Rally Team and run ‘recce’ or reconnaissance in the Q-ship for the next day’s stage rally competition in his Open-Class Subaru WRX.

The Smoking Tire’s Matt Farah meets a weird French Chef who takes him on a road trip to Santa Barbara in the Hyundai Genesis Coupe to find fresh ingredients and wine for a meal. Then things start getting strange. Don’t play with knives in a moving car, kids.

(Parts 1 and 2 can be found here and here, respectively.)

Night was falling fast: by the time we gave on the bathroom and got on the highway, it was already dark. I gingerly tiptoed past a speed trap, all the while keeping my eye on the Suzuki Vitara that, mercifully, didn’t bother pursuing us. Just as well, too; I wouldn’t know what “do you know how fast you were goin’?” sounded like in Spanish, anyway.  Speed cameras, which the GPS system thoughtfully warned us about, were everywhere: on the tops of tunnels, in the bushes on the median, mounted secretly in the back of vans, underneath Avatar billboards (I saw 15 in one day—5 of which were at the same bus stop). I slowed down to 50kph every time the annoying beep emanated from the dashboard, but soon gave up as soon as I saw traffic flying past us. Evidently the Spanish have far less to lose when it comes to racking up traffic violations.

Eventually we were stopped by a tollbooth, and being late after a long day and not wanting to dice it up with traffic, we pulled into the first lane we saw.

There was no booth here—no tollbooth collector, no ticket dispenser or digital readout showing how much we owed. Nothing was on the machine except a small card reader, which we gawked at like it was the monolith from 2001. “What the hell is this?” My dad asked out loud to nobody in particular. “Where do you put the money in?” He fumbled through his wallet for a credit card then slowly stuck it into the slot. The LCD screen swore at us in a string of gibberish. He tried it again, magnetic reader up, to the left, to the right, and down. No reaction.

I looked behind us. Three cars had queued up behind us, part of the evening rush. Next to us, cars were whisking through their toll lanes with aplomb. In front was a solid arm barrier. It was a flimsy-looking piece, mounted by a mere two bolts, a little above hood level. Slamming on the gas and lurching forward would be quick and effortless. Couldn’t do much damage to our car, right? Sure, they might catch us on videotape, but by the time they got around to tracking down the paperwork we’d be 39,000 feet over the North Atlantic. “Go for it!” I suggested, half seriously. What other option did we have?

“Do something!” my mom yelled, leaning forward and slamming her hand on the emergency blinker. Almost instantly, the drivers’ angry faces were placated as they slowly shuffled out of the toll lane, in reverse. There was no honking or rapid-paced cursing. We joined them in backing out of the lane, then dashed across three lanes in almost perpendicular fashion, swinging the car around to another lane with an actual human being in it. In Massachusetts we would have been tarred and feathered as a warning to others.

Dramatic highway ordeal over, we stopped at a rest area that sold beer, condoms, hardcore pornography, Bacardi Breezers, and the entire Twilight series in paperback.

We bought none of those things. Instead, we drove past Barcelona and headed straight for the airport, our road tour of southeastern Spain over, away from the crowds and into the magnificent scenery that I didn’t bother photographing. Finding a gas station proved to be tricky: we circled the same roundabout 4 or 5 times, up and down a grid of rainy streets in a nondescript industrial park, underneath the massive upright tanks of the nearby Estrella Damm brewery. I didn’t even know why I was in such a rush to get rid of it. We had the car until noon the next day, evidently.

And it wasn’t a particularly bad car, either: sure, it was painfully slow, and downshifting on the notchy gearlever to wring that extra hidden burst of speed soon grew tedious, but I expected as much from a car with less displacement than a Big Gulp. It proved to be a surprisingly comfortable highway cruiser, riding smoothly and competently fending off crosswinds, 20-wheel trucks and mad Peugeots. After 350 kilometers, the fuel gauge had barely registered a dent. And since buying gasoline in Europe involves a second mortgage and a firstborn daughter, we were more than grateful for this.

And I could drive it a damn sight better than my old man.

- Blake Rong

A few months ago we told you about Tesla’s ambitious plan to drive a Tesla Roadster from Los Angeles, CA to Detroit, MI(If you missed it, click here). The goal was to address the issue of an electric car’s range, answer those concerns, and put a nail in its coffin for good. The route was a 2700 mile journey through America’s heartland, with 19 stops along the way for interviews, PR, and to re-charge. But the  Road Trip wasn’t planned for the middle of summer, along the gorgeous coast of California, where the temperature and climate vary between “partly cloudy and 80 degrees” and ” Heavenly.” No. The trip started in L.A. mid-December, went through the south and ended in Detroit in January, where the  average temperature at night is 17.8 degrees. If you live in LA, your frozen double-decaf-nonfat-cuz-I’m-on-a-diet-but-yes-extra-carmel-latte is warmer than that. This trip was going to show people that the Tesla could not only travel great distances, but be used in any condition. As of January 8th, the trip is over, and the results are in.

Tesla Roadster #750 made it without a scratch. 16 Tesla employees drove the car 2700 miles  without a break-down, power-outage, electric shock or catastrophic explosion. They stopped at diners, universities, car clubs, race tracks and even gas stations. Every stop brought a gaggle of news crews, looky loos, inquisitive adults, excited kids, and camera phone ninjas. The excitement around the car is impressive, especially when the car traveled through Texas and Oklahoma. These are the places you would think would greet the Tesla with a gas can and the burning branch of some endangered tree.  But no. Parties were thrown, questions hit the drivers in waves, and there was nothing but smiling faces and an eagerness to learn more at every turn. People everywhere are excited about this car.
In reading the blogs, one thing bugged me. In addition to the nightly charges, the team was charging the car to mid-day. It gave Tesla opportunities to meet more people, answer more questions, and show how easy it is to find a place to plug in, but I would have liked to see them do some seriously long drives without a stop.  If you only need to go 200 miles, and have all day to do it, stopping for a long lunch and some electrons is fine, but what if you want (or need) to just get there? The drive was an impressive feat, I just wish the legs had been a bit longer.

Overall, this is a huge step for electric cars. Tesla has argued since day 1 the average American drives less than 40 miles a day, a 1/6th of the Tesla’s range. Yet people still said it couldn’t go far enough. “What if I want to drive to San Diego, or Las Vegas, or Maine?” You can. Yes, if it’s far enough to require recharging, it will take longer than a gas or diesel car. But you can drive it in the desert, in the mountains, on the freeway, on a racetrack or in the snow (with snow tires and TCS on).  And as far as the infrastructure that nay-sayers, oil barons and big-3 automakers say we don’t have, we have it. As one driver said, “If you can plug in your cell phone, you can plug in your roadster.”

Electric cars are not perfect. Fuel-cars may not travel 500 miles every day, but the fact is they can if you need them to. And to keep the range up, the drivers maintained a paint-dryingly boring 65mph (although one source said the car attained 119mph). Sure, a gasoline car’s range is equally affected by your right foot but if you overdo you don’t have to sit at an RV campsite for 4 hours, fighting off coyotes, before you can head out again. But the fact remains, cars like the Tesla are a viable option for the future. They found Tesla owners in every state, and the interest in the car was universal. It’s not just hipsters in Seattle or rich tree-huggers that are drawn to this silent powerhouse. It’s moms in Texas, playboys in Monaco, and kids in Arizona. Through this trip, Tesla showed us not only the capabilities of their cars, but the interest all Americans have for them. Besides, the Tesla is way more fun than the sleeping pill known as the Prius.

One of these is a ball, and one has none.

Read about the entire journey: Roadster Road Trip

Questions about the car? Click HERE

Part 1 can be found here.

For about 90 kilometers the highway wound through the open countryside, full of sloping, featureless farmland and terrain that seem to have been transplanted from western Pennsylvania. The novelty of tooling around Europe in a funny little hatchback was starting to wear off, so I turned on Spanish radio for a while. Ever get the impression that foreign languages are spoken at a far faster clip than English? By the time an English speaker hammers out “I’ll have a coffee and an amaretto sour,” a Spanish man will have already explained the plot details of Wuthering Heights and seduced your wife in the process. I tried to decipher some of the verbal barrage machine-gunning through the cabin, and an angrily-driven Peugeot 308, lights flashing, almost plowed into the back of our glacially-accelerating Corsa at approximately half the speed of sound. So I turned the radio back off.

Eventually, we got off the motorway and onto the smaller roads. Here we were just a stone’s throw from France, 40km, a country whose language I could actually somewhat speak. At the very edge of the horizon peered the white tips of the Pyrenees. Underneath them, the rolling plains gave way to squat, squared-off industrial buildings, gas stations and big-box stores: we were driving through a Spanish strip mall. And between the highway and our little resort town, we had to traverse the entire continent’s supply of roundabouts.

“Drive, 200 metres, then enter roundabout. Take the, third, exit. Followed by, a roundabout.”

Despite the signs, Cadaqués didn’t seem to get any closer. Little white houses dotted the base of the mountains like powdered sugar on ice cream. I would build up speed in 3^rd gear, then 20 seconds later slow to 2^nd, circumnavigate half the roundabout, and upshift just in time to frustratingly slam on the brakes for the next one. A Peugeot minivan passed us in a huff, children glaring at me in the back row. This went on for about 20 minutes.

After a while, the flat, featureless highway gave way to an even narrower two-lane road, the last of the side exits disappeared, and the cars slowly thinned out.

It was the sort of driving road car enthusiasts wept over in magazines. The coastal road—the only road into Cadaqués—quickly narrowed, the space between oncoming corners fell to a few feet, rendering every oncoming car a sphincter-tightening moment.  To the right was a sheer 40-foot drop into a tree-lined valley with the guardrail missing in many places. Empty grape vines crossed the hills in neat, evenly-spaced rows, scrounging whatever heat they could extract from the crisp winter air. Beyond the mountains, the Mediterranean stretched out in front of us on the horizon—a tranquil, picture-perfect view of the Old World and the mysteries and the adventures that lay ahead. And then, we got stuck behind a cement truck.

I worked the gearbox furiously between second and third, daring to pick up extra speed, while my mom yelled angrily from the backseat. “DON’T DRIVE SO FAST!” she hollered in that tone mothers get when they insist, almost militantly, on your safety. Only I wasn’t; I was merely keeping the 1.2 liter engine above sea level and with enough power to get around the next corner.

Clearly, the locals knew every corner and could nail every apex with aplomb with the sort of experience garnered only through years and years of imitating Jacky Ickx. The cement truck pulled over at a scenic turnoff to let us pass: us and three cars behind me that had gathered. This included a bright red Volvo 240 wagon that flew up seemingly from nowhere, an inch off my rear bumper—he was goading me to move faster, only slowing to brake early and keep its massive heft in check, keeping pace right behind me in a 20-year old Swedish meatball with the handling properties of a double-wide outhouse. If I obliged, my mother would yell louder and angrier. If I didn’t, the Volvo’s gigantic metal bumper would gladly punt me off the cliff. They wouldn’t find us for days, just a couple of Yank tourists lost in the mountains.

In the end, however, I was relieved of my road-blocking duties by yet another bright red wagon: a nippy little Honda Jazz that had tore past the Volvo at breakneck speed and now had me in my sights. Had he been a less brave man he could have waited for one of the relatively few straights, but he took his chances around the outside corner of a tight right-hander. Here was a man who knew how the game worked. Oncoming traffic was bearing down on him, the corner was blind, off-camber, and pants-wettingly treacherous, but the foolhardy Spaniard could care less.  A gigantic eye-searing tomato streaking past my window, the tiny Honda passed me with a vigor that could have only come from years of practice on these very roads. After he merged back in front of me he gunned it with a shriek, and in three corners he disappeared out of sight.

Screw this. I hung it in 3^rd, leaned back, and enjoyed the scenery.

We slowly found our way into the center of the sleepy fishing town, past the narrow, stone-white buildings and the occasional brightly-colored storefront breaking the monotony. Most of them were closed for the holidays. What stroller-pushing tourists that weren’t already seated at a café were wandering the streets aimlessly. Down the hill, a line of orange-reddish terra cotta roofs dotted the coastline: small roads were cut into the hills and one-garage duplexes sprouted atop. It looked like a scaled-down version of the Los Angeles hills.

I parked the car in the first space I saw. The short strip of rock-strewn sand quickly gave way to the icy Mediterranean. The two sizeable restaurants by the water were packed—understandably—and the lone waiter hurried from table to outdoor table, packed with errant Americans and coffee-swilling fathers—no position to even notice us. Even in the dead of winter the tourists came in droves; they just didn’t stay around very long.

Picasso had stayed here for a summer when he was 29, painting The Port at Cadaques as a reflection of the harbor; though in his famous Cubist style it’s hard to tell at first glance. Marcel Duchamp, the famous French surrealist, honed his passion for chess against the local fishermen, whom he found to be formidable opponents. Salvador Dali proclaimed that he had been “quenched by light and colour” when he visited in 1920—his house today is a museum dedicated to his work.

We didn’t notice any of these things at the time, however, because we were craving seafood. So we went to a restaurant that was all out of it.

“Codfish?” I asked, pointing at the menu like I was hungover at a Denny’s.

“No.” She shook her head slowly.

“Ok, then.” Sardines it is.

“No,” she repeated, shaking her head again, as if she was comforting someone who had just lost a dog.

Surprisingly, however, the enormous plate steamed mussels coupled with gazpacho managed to be filling in a way clams usually aren’t expected to. The bartender hurried over, a lanky, frizzy-haired man who we were told understood English, and enthusiastically showed us the 2008 Don Hugo Tempranillo Rosado we had just dusted off in addition to our pitcher of sangria, diced orange chunks floating merrily on top. We finished our dessert coffees, paid the bill, and ambled about town a bit: my mother took some pictures, and my dad instructed me on the finer points of uphill clutch dumping. The town held no more secrets for us (not that we had tried to uncover any), and we soon left the way we came.

Back on the road, we took a right turn down another scenic drive and promptly ended up in La Port de Selva, a grim little seafaring town with no discernable life whatsoever. The brochure claimed that this was a charming little tourist spot during the summertime, but here in the dead of December it was a grey, lifeless ghost town. Dusty yachts sat naked on the side of the road. Construction zones popped up every 10 feet. Everything appeared a monotonous shade of grey, from the top of the roofs snaking along the mountains to the few cars strewn about the parking lot in front of the communal beach. It was also a town without a bathroom, as I learned from a stone-faced bartender and a supermarket checkout girl, the latter who gawked at me like I had crawled naked out of a storm drain.

At this point, we gave up on the lighthouse (and my bathroom) and started to head back home.

I passed the helm onto my dad, in whom I had supreme confidence in his driving abilities. Here was the man who had taught me to drive, doing loops in the high school parking lot in our 1996 Nissan Sentra XE. He hadn’t flinched when I suggested that his next car (he got bored with cars easily, switching them out every 3 or 4 years) should sprout a third pedal. So I was surprised, to say the least, when he took a wrong turn, backed the car down a slight incline, put it in 1^st and promptly lurched forward into a curbstone with a piercing CRUNCH. Some locals looked up from their Diari de Girona. “I know how to drive manual,” he explained, “I just haven’t done it in 20 years.”

“You better drive,” he then said, hurriedly stopping the car and almost forgetting to set the parking brake.

(Stay tuned for Part 3…)

- Blake Rong

They really like wine in Spain, I had noticed. Walk into any convenience store or side stand and you’ll see racks of the stuff: Rioja, Secastillo, Tinto de verano, Sangre de Toro, in full view and right by the entrance. It pours forth at restaurants with a alacrity normally reserved for Bacardi Breezers at TGI Friday’s. The Mediterranean winds that kiss the tops of the cordilleras form hot, exotic climates, perfect for the ripe varieties of Ribera del Duero, Penedès, and Garnacha grown and bottled under the strict Denominación de Origen system. And that’s before one dives into the world of sherry, porto (from neighboring Portugal) and, of course, sangria and calimocho, the latter a 50/50 split of wine and Coke that reflects the Spanish ingenuity of mixing daring wine-based concoctions.

I may have been imbibing some myself when I conceived the idea at the last possible second. Our travel guide had, tucked away on page 116, a short one-paragraph blurb about a secluded resort town on the coast of the Mediterranean, up the Costa Brava (the “wild coast”) and neatly tucked away from civilization, where the mountains would soar, the wine would flow like waterfalls, the women would be curvy olive-skinned beauties and the roads would be free of diesel Skodas. “Just a short drive north,” our Eyewitness Travel Barcelona guide proclaimed. “One of Catalonia’s trendiest beach towns,” it continued. “The picture-perfect scenery will leave you speechless!”

“It’ll be fun!” I hammered incessantly to my parents, who were busy doing touristy things like fumbling with their maps in broad daylight and scoping out the nearest McDonald’s (of which I was guilty of, but only once). The Barcelona vacation was their idea, and they controlled the checkbook. But I was in charge of the itinerary, and there’s only so much Gothic Olde Worlde streets you can wear out your Skechers on before you complain about how tiny all the cars are and that you really crave a diet Pibb.

Eventually, they capitulated.

So on the fourth day of our whirlwind Barcelona vacation, my parents and I found in our possession an Opel Corsa D with a five-speed manual and a Garmin Nuvi GPS system, courtesy of the nice woman at the Hertz of Aeropuerto de Barcelona who had thrown in the GPS for free and saved us from having to eat each other once we wandered off into the Pyrenees. We would look for Cadaqués, the resort town by the sea, a favorite vacation spot of Picasso, Dali, and Marcel Duchamp. And I had left my license back at the hotel, but no matter: the coast roads of Catalonia were simply waiting to be conquered, atop my mighty 1.2 Ecotec steed.

Midday Barcelona traffic on the AP-7 was cramped but flowing, with a steady, unaggressive stream of traffic merging at 60kph. The motorway passed through central Barcelona and winded its way up north through tunnel after tunnel. Up ahead in one some truck had eaten it and was holding up the right lane: lights, high-vis jackets, the usual roadside panic. As traffic merged, I slowed down, downshifted, and clumsily stalled the car at 40kph in the middle of the crowded tunnel. Traffic piled on behind me. I fumbled for the keys, hearing the starter motor grind itself back into life, jamming the clutch down—stalling it once again.

If this had happened back home in Massachusetts, I would have been executed by firing squad. But no, the Spanish motorists behind me were, for reasons inexplicable to my cold and misanthropic heart, understanding and sympathetic, lining up behind me with nonchalant patience. The air was still with the sound of horns not being pressed. Traffic was still moving on the left lane, and after I had finally remembered the pedal/clutch relationship, the middle lane started moving again. We were finally on our way out of Barcelona proper, and on our way to getting spectacularly lost.

(Part 2 to follow…)

- Blake Rong

For a modern, trendy city like Barcelona, it’s rare to see any old classic car still puttering the streets. And when I say “classic car,” I don’t mean beautifully restored E-Types or period-patina’d Citroen SMs; I generally mean anything non-diesel built before the SALT II talks. Most people either keep their rare exotica hidden away from the bustle of city life, or generally don’t bother holding onto something so old. And why would they? Used modern hatchbacks are cheap enough to get rid of the old clunkers.

But here, hidden among the Peugeot 306 wagons and SEAT Toledo TDIs (why they would name a car after a depressing city in Ohio is anyone’s guess) is a callback to another era, a working man’s car and today either a chic fashion statement—as all city cars eventually become—or a faithful old friend, depending on how you look at it. It’s the Renault 4, which can rightfully be considered the granddaddy to all these modern-day pretenders.

There’s not much to be said for automotive longevity these days. The unloved PT Cruiser, which can certainly call this a direct ancestor, has been around since late 1999 and is now only being chased off the market. Pah! The Renault 4 has been ferrying cheese-eating surrender monkeys (and many, many other people) virtually unchanged for almost 40 years. From 1961 to 1994, over 8 million of these baguette-ferrying 4s left the factories of 11 countries, including Spain (Valladolid). The closest thing we have is the Ford Ranger, which only feels as old.

The drab shoebox 4 was also innovative: it was famous for being one of the first hatchbacks in production, setting the standard for the modern small city car. Like any automotive first, however, it’s a matter of debate. The Citroën Traction Avant of 1934 had a top-hinged door. But they never built 8 million of those.

And parked around the corner from the Park Güell, the wonderfully dorky Renault manages to fit in with legendary architect Antoni Gaudí’s colorful Modernist vision. Both are cartoonish, weird, and all too easily written off as goofy-looking curiosities to the unitiated. But both have become minor cultural symbols in their own right. Both have been heralded for their groundbreaking quirks (the wheelbase is a few inches longer on the right than the left, due to the transverse torsion bars). And both are designed for the masses: the world car for all people, outside the park of a world-class city.

In Colombia the Renault 4 was nicknamed the amigo fiel, or “faithful friend.”And the fact that these three are still sticking around, even when their owners could have scrapped them in favor of some diesel Skoda, doesn’t make that nickname a surprise.

- Blake Rong

(All photos by the author. Renault 4 ads from allez-y.info.)

Used Cars

Not many people know this, but before I started doing Garage419, my first show, I worked at Gotham Dream Cars. Believe it or not, Rob from Super Speeders was my boss while I worked there, and we became friends and said eventually we’d work together. Now we have, on Super Speeders 5: Out of Control. Yes, it’s a DVD that you have to buy. But the trailer here is hilarious and if you use the promo code TST09, you can get free shipping on the DVD.

Tesla Motors has been slowly but surely making headway in the American auto market. Their impressive foray into the world of auto manufacturing had Everest-sized obstacles to overcome. First they had to get America to believe an electric car could work for daily life. Then they had to build the company and a car, all on a much smaller budget than their hybrid competition. The result was the Tesla roadster; a car that does 0-60 in 3.7 seconds, and looks good doing it, without the need for “dinosaur juice.” And they are still here, and still growing. Despite the economic down-turn they had 500 orders for their new Tesla S in the first week.

But the public are still wary about electric cars. They worry about practicality,notably finding charging stations and limited range. To help assuage these fears  Tesla is doing a rally from Los Angeles to Detroit. The Tesla Roadster Road Trip will begin on December 17th, with 16 different Tesla employees driving a Tesla Roadster Sport 2,700 miles. Each employee will drive a different stage, making 17 stops along the way (to re-charge and promote the brand), and finishing at the Detroit International Auto Show January 8th. They will be pushing the limits of the advertised 244 mile range. One particular leg is a ballsy 250 miles long, so that driver will be running on the electronic version of “fumes.”

But if all goess well it will give a big boost to Tesla’s credibility as a practical car. They want to show people this car is not just for city driving and short (but fast) mountain blasts, but is a fully-capable automobile. This is a good way to do it. Tesla has already shown the world “green” technology doesn’t have to limit us to boring, soap-shaped Prius clones. If this trip goes well,it will be one more trial Tesla has passed on its way to longevity.

A Tesla in Colorado. A testament to their durability.

Welcome to Bizarre Road Trip Sightings, where we share strange vehicular occurrences spotted while on road trips. This week: a Ford F-150 with an exoskeleton! This has got to be some kind of creation for a movie or something, possibly Death Race or an upcoming Mad Max remake? Or it could be the burliest of camera-carrying vehicles for the movie biz, given its flat-black treatment. Apologies for the blurry photo, it was taken by my girlfriend off the back of a motorcycle at 80mph. Know the origin of the exoskeleton F-150? Let me know, at Matt@TheSmokingTire.com

*Edit* Dan The Intern discovered that this F-150 is a hollywood camera car that was famously used in the Ferrari chase scene in Bad Boys 2. Good work, Dan.

Roll in style and comfort with Ford F150 truck accessories from AmericanTrucks.

My short list of places to visit in Germany has now dropped by two, after last week’s Audi Museum Gallery. This week, we bring to you Zuffenhausen’s newest architectural masterpiece, the Porsche Museum in Stuttgart. Not only is the building itself beyond gorgeous, the machinery inside really reminds you how Porsche has led the way in sports and racing cars over the last sixty years.

Going on a road trip across Europe in a great car, say a Porsche 997 Turbo, Audi R8, or BMW M3, would qualify in my very short list of “car guy shit” to do before I die. In fact, odds are I’ll get to do something like it before I even turn 30. Knowing myself, I’ll save it till the last minute, and end up driving a 1994 Peugeot with three plastic hubcaps and a 1-liter hamster wheel under the hood.

Like my car insurance, I just saved a whole bunch of money on that trip because The Smoking Tire viewer Edward0 Hofman took the trip for me, and sent back a ton of photos! We’ll break them up into German Car Museum Segments #1-4, one for each marque. Today, we bring you Ingolstadt’s finest work: The Audi Museum

Here’s our second viewer-submitted video. This one comes from Lukas Siewior, a viewer from New York, and features 40+ Lamborghini’s tearing up the highway. Beware: There is techno music.

It’s easy to write about cars when you’ve driven hundreds of different kinds of cars. You always have something to compare your car with. For example:

The new BMW 335i accelerates with as much force as the last-generation M3.

In the 12 years since I’ve gotten my driver’s license, I have gotten behind the wheel of over 300 different vehicles. I’m not going for some kind of a record, but it’s just a personal choice to get behind the wheel of something new any time the opportunity presents itself.

But what do you do when you’ve only ridden one motorcycle? Let me explain: I got my motorcycle license about 3 weeks ago, and upon being handed the keys to the old-looking but brand new, $14,995 Moto Guzzi California Vintage, I was nervous. Fortunately, excitement outweighed anxiety, and after a brief lap around the block to verify the ‘Guzzi’s 580 lbs wasn’t too much for a first-timer to handle at low speeds, I was off. And I may not have a memory full of comparisons, but here goes.

A bit of a history lesson: In the early 1970’s, Moto Guzzi’s V7 Special was the preferred transportation of the California Highway Patrol. The V7’s legendary 90-degree V-twin engine displaced 757cc’s of low-end grunt just perfect for a patrolman muscling his way through traffic, and the low center of gravity and compact frame made easy work of tight maneuvers compared to its American competitors, namely Harley Davidson. But we’re talking history here, and this is the 21^st century. So let’s find out how Moto Guzzi brought the V7 Special into the modern age.

While the overall look remains true to the original design, and the key styling points are all there, underneath the chrome, everything is new. The V7’s 757cc engine has been upgraded to a 1064cc unit with a 5-speed transmission, longitudinally mounted and driving the rear wheel via shaft. The beautifully ornate twin makes 72 hp at 6400 rpm, but what’s most impressive is the torque produced between 2500 and 3500 RPM, which makes the rider feel like drag-racing every red light without having to wring the life out of the engine. Engine vibration drops off considerably at around 3000 RPM, which is just about 70 mph in top gear. Magnetti Marelli fuel injection, Marzocchi suspension, and Brembo linked brakes all bring the California Vintage to the modern age seamlessly, and without compromising the throwback design.

Let me make one thing clear, that I may have skipped over. This bike is gorgeous. It’s what happens when, for lack of a better term, the Italians do Harley. Remember the Pininfarina “Rondiné” Corvette? Or the Scaglietti Corvettes? What about the Ghia’s, DeTomaso’s, and Iso Grifo’s? Well, this is the 2-wheeled equivalent of those rolling works of art. The Italians have a feel for design, detail, and fluidity that is unmatched elsewhere in the world, and it shows in the California Vintage, because, in my opinion, they did Harley better than Harley does Harley. More on that later.

Just a few minutes on the California Vintage, and I could tell that this is a bike that is ready for just about anything the rider can throw at it. The black and white leather seat is a work of art, positioned high and wide and setting the rider up for a vertical (ahem, Cop-like?) seating position, with legs hugging the tank and feet resting on the shock-absorbing floorboards. The low-slung, chrome handlebars reach back towards the rider, stopping exactly where my hands would want to fall anyway, leaving my arms to simply rest on the hand grips without having to reach. A two-hour road trip to Santa Barbara up the Pacific Coast Highway with the girlfriend revealed that the back seat is just as comfortable as the front, though an optional backrest would be welcome. The hard saddlebags are enormous. I was able to use the California Vintage instead of a car 90% of the time because of how great the saddlebags are. I fit groceries, 2-liter bottles, bags of ice, clothing for 2 people for 3 days, my riding jacket, 17” Macbook Pro’s video cameras, and all kinds of other stuff that would normally require a car. The California Vintage clearly isn’t just a bike that one would buy as a novelty showpiece; it wants to be ridden, frequently and with cargo. It wants to be your go-to bike.

The most surprising feature, and perhaps the most appreciated, is how well the bike handles. Sure, hairpin turns require a slow entry speed and frequently a downshift to first gear, but through long sweepers, canyon roads, highway bends, and 90% of SoCal’s road system, the California Vintage really shines. I found myself passing the big touring bikes, and able to keep up with bikes that should, theoretically, be out of the ‘Guzzi’s league in terms of performance. As a non-expert, I will attribute the ‘Guzzi’s much better than expected handling to the low center of gravity, compact frame, low-end grunt through the corner, and narrower, vintage-style tires. Whatever the scientific reason, the result is a touring bike that is easier for a beginner to ride.

Moto Guzzi is taking aim straight at Harley Davidson’s Heritage Softail with the California Vintage. Of course there are plenty of people out there who will only buy a Harley, and that’s fine. And like the ‘Guzzi, the Heritage Softail is an old-looking model that has been updated with new engine options and counter balancers for their rigid-mounted V-twins, to reduce vibrations. Sitting on the Heritage Softail feels like sitting in the bike, whereas on the ‘Guzzi you’re sitting on the bike. However, Harleys come with lots of optional accessories, chrome this, leather that, painted what-have-you’s, whereas the Moto Guzzi only comes one way, and at one price. A similarly-equipped Heritage Softtail retails for, give or take, $22,000. The California Vintage undercuts that price by a healthy margin at just $14,999. Include the Guzzi’s “Italian bred with American history” flavor, and you’ve got a value that’s unbeatable.

On the other hand it’s Italian, so owning one might be a bit of an adventure. I know quite a few owners of Italian bikes, and parts can be difficult to find and expensive. During my 2-week loan, two bolts one on an exhaust heat shield and another on the left floorboard, rattled themselves loose and disappeared, and the resulting rattle at idle was less than pleasant.

If what you want is to be a part of the Harley Davidson crowd, then the ‘Guzzi simply will not do, it’s made in the wrong country and has the wrong name on the gas tank. But if you want a fantastic everyday bike, capable of commuting to work, road trips, shopping, and arriving in style with some questioning (and even more approving) looks from guys on Harley’s, the California Vintage may be the perfect bike for you.

For me, it’s a great start to an ever-growing list of bikes from which to draw future comparisons. I would suggest any rider in search of a great value go try one for themselves.