Aston Martin

Yesterday it was my father's night to cook. So, we went out to dinner. Dinner was great, good conversation, a burger, some fries, and a brownie. The ride there was rather uneventful, but the ride home was excellent. I saw a silver Aston Martin parked near my town's movie theatre. Now-a-days movie tickets are much like Aston Martin: only the rich can afford them. Now the problem with Astons is that (with the exception of the One-77, the V12 Zagato, and that dreadful-looking Cygnet) most of them look the same. Now, unlike what this would mean for any other car maker, for Aston this means that every car they produce is gorgeous. I can tell you this, for the few brief moments that I saw it I concluded it was either a DBS of a Vantage.

Now, as I was just about drooling over this exquisite car, my mother was looking at something totally different. I was interested in the car in the space. She was looking at the space itself, which happened to be handicapped. 

Claire: Wow! An Aston Martin! I think that's a DBS! Look at it! It's Beautiful! Ya know I- 

Mother: It's parked in a handicapped spot. Hmm, I wonder if they actually ARE handicapped. 

Claire: Yeah, Mom, but it's an Aston Mart-

Mother: If they aren't handicapped, I hope they get a ticket.

I gave up after that. No doubt my mother was right. If they weren't handicapped they shouldn't have parked there. And I'm sure that either way people who drive Astons think they are entitled. But the experience had been ruined. I was excited to see a car that for a month now has evaded me on the road. From April to June, my commute to work yielded at least three Astons a month, but recently there had been an Aston drought so severe I had begun to pray for them much the way a farmer prays for rain.  

At that moment I wish I had been by myself in that car because I would have pulled over and reveled in its beauty. 

Eyes open, 

Claire 

Train Spotting (No, not the movie.)

And by the above title I really mean Spotting from Trains.

Two weeks ago I was asked by my boss to take the notary public exam. Not realizing that the only place for me to take it was on William Street in Manhattan, I foolishly agreed. (Well perhaps not foolishly, now if anyone needs to take an oath or sign an affidavit, I'll be ready.) Anyway, since driving to lower Manhattan isn't something I do regularly nor is it something which I would like to take up as a hobby, I took the Metro-North Commuter Rail down to Grand Central. Just as it's about 45 minute to the Bronx, it's about and hour and change to GCT. (In fact, I passed the building I work in on the train down.) I caught an early train, but not quite as early as all of the people who work on Wall Street or Midtown so, as I bumped and swayed my way down the train tracks, I was not surprised to see all of station parking lots were pretty much filled.  I saw many normal commuter cars- Toyotas, Jeeps, Chryslers, Dodges, Chevys and the like. I also saw my fair share of Porsche's, Beemers, Mercs, Audis.  Now, normally I would just focus of those cars which put a smile on my face. But this particular day, I was struck by how disappointing this view was, no matter what the car.

Now, most people will think this is insane and it is, but I can't help it. I think that the relationship between a driver and his/her car is symbiotic - both parties getting something out of the deal. I mean think about it, when you drive what do you get out of it? At the very bare minimum you get from point A to point B. At the very most, you feel the wind in your hair, good music in your ears and a special charge running through your veins and you find yourself hoping and praying that the sensation will continue long after you've reached your destination. Now, what's to say that a car can't and doesn't feel much the same thing? I know, the only thing holding you back from jumping into this idea is logic. "Inanimate objects can't feel or think, Claire. Come back to reality."  But just for the moment, as you're reading this, pretend that logic doesn't exist. Just go with the possibility that a car is a partner in this driving experience. Let me plead my case.  A car doesn't get driven for a while what happens to it? It dies. All of the important pieces, not from abuse or wear and tear but simple lack of use can no longer perform their functions. It's like a car depression, really. No, I love my car, and I firmly believe that it loves me. I treat it well, and it reciprocates. I give it a good time and it returns the favor.

So, anyway, I watched all of these cars sitting in the lots and it struck me as sad. These cars don't lead a fulfilling existence. They sit in a parking lots of hours at a time, baking the sun, with not so much as a though or a heat shield from the driver. Cars are meant to be driven, not spend most of their time in parking lots.

And you thought you couldn't get mushy about cars.

Eyes Open,

Claire

Summer Time and the Weeds in the Median are Getting too Tall to See Over

It all starts with Spring. All of the wealthy hedge fund managers, financial planners, and CEOs are almost as aware of the changes in the weather as nature is. By mid-May, the beautiful cars that have been kept under lock and key in a heated garage, those automobiles too precious for the harshness of winter and the unforgiving nature of ice, start to appear on the roads - dotting themselves along the highway much the same way as cherry blossoms along a tree branch.  Spring is a magical time for the highways and byways of New York. Those fragile parts of a well-off ego, that atrophy when not displaying its internal combustion prowess, begin to flex and stretch as the "My supercar is better than your supercar" ritualistic dance of Spring begins.

It is a New York car enthusiast's favorite time of year!  But then, by the time Spring as turned to Summer, three things begin to go terribly wrong. 

First, the yearly novelty of driving that $200,000 behemoth begins to wear off, so fewer and fewer men in suits decide to take them out for a spin. 

Second, it gets a little too hot for the convertible supercars. And we all know how much less attractive a pale, balding man of 55 looks when he is sweating to boot. 

Third, and most important, the weeds, wildflowers, and cattails get to damn high and too damn dense to see over, making it nearly impossible to get a peripheral look at cars traveling in the opposite direction. 

If any New York Department of Transportation employees are reading, break out the mowers!!

Eyes open (in spite of the weeds), 

Claire 

A Recent Trip to Maryland

A few weeks ago I spent a weekend visiting Stephanie, a good friend from college. Now, it goes without saying that I was more than excited to see her as, thanks to the distance, our visits to each other's home states are few and far between. Not only was I looking forward to spending time at my destination, I was also looking forward to the trip itself... because I was driving. A small side note here but something that you should know. I love driving. No matter what the distance, what the weather, or what the purpose, driving is one of my favorite activities. Now, I would like to say that I am a defensive driver- someone who picks a lane and sits in it for an entire trip and whose foot is about as a heavy as a marshmallow. But truth be told, I'm nothing like that.  When I pick a lane it's usually the fast one and my driving foot weighs a smidge less than a wrecking ball.  No, sir, driving is an activity. In my mind, there's nothing passive about it. You are meant to be engaged with the road and the other drivers around you. To be honest, at times it feels like a team sport. But I digress. Back to my trip.

Besides loving the drive itself, I knew that my trip would be about 10 hours or so round trip meaning that I would have ample opportunity to scour the sun-baked asphalt to glimpse some exotic rides.  I did have my doubts that I would see anything impressive because, well, most of my trip would be through New Jersey and we all know about Jersey. But for the first time ever (and perhaps the last) I am able to say that the "Garden State" delivered!

I managed to catch sight of most major exotic/semi-exotic brands: A Yellow Lamborghini Spyder (2010 Gallardo shown below),

 a Ferrari red Ferrari Spyder (Ferrari F430 Scuderia below),

one or two Lotuses (Loti?) ( Elise and Evora, respectively),

the inevitable Porsches (no pictures needed),
the odd Bentley Continental GT (and in some respects they really are quite odd),

and, if memory serves, a Maserati GranTurismo was thrown in there too. Unfortunately not a single Aston Martin was spotted, which is not unusual, but since it is one of my favorite brands I'm always on the lookout.

Now I have seen all of these V-8/V-10/ V-12 beasts at one point or another during my commute to work, in fact I see some of these quite frequently. But, there was one god-like automobile that I had never seen in person, on the move or otherwise.

 Much like a scene in a film, it rose over the crest of a hill, glistening in the rays of the noonday sun. Its red hide set it apart from the rest of the generic, neutral-toned sedans that shared its road. (I'm not sure whether it was real or just my mind playing tricks on me, but I think I heard angelic music over the whizzes and whirs of my surroundings.)  A true unicorn in these parts: An Alfa Romeo 8c Competizione.

Now, I cannot tell a lie, I have spent many a-moment on the Alfa Romeo website, trying to decide how I feel about the Mito, Giulietta and the Brera, but I have never had any doubt about the 8c (or for that matter the new 4C concept they revealed this year). These are beautiful cars. There is no doubt it.  Alfas, at least on this side of the pond, are almost mythical and any Top Gear incarnation that matters (I'm referring to the original UK version, of course) preaches the truth to its viewers when it says that you will never be a true gear head until you've owned one.

I was so excited by the dramatic appearance of this 8c that I almost felt the need to pull over and let my tremendous stroke of luck wash over me and sink in. But, I trudged on through the unpleasant petrochemical odor of Jersey hoping against hope (and reason) that I could find something that could even remotely compare to the Alfa.  (Almost needless to say, the rest of the trip was rather tame, and comparatively uneventful.)

So the moral of this story is: Even if you're in New Jersey keep your eye out for a diamond in the rough.

My thanks to Stephanie for the great weekend and the reason for the rewarding trip. My thanks to Car and Driver for providing easy access for the illustrations for this post.

Eyes open,

Claire