It was one of those glorious English days: cold, dark, windy and damp. Confidence was not high; RF had dragged me to yet another industrial building in the middle of nowhere to check out yet another piece of automotive history: the Aston Martin DB5. As a woman raised in South Africa, the whole Bond thing had passed me by. Sure, I love Aston. The Vanquish is my number one all-time favorite car. But I'd driven enough classics to know that most of them are like male models: great to look at but incapable of a quick, intelligent conversation. And yet, there she was, and my God, she was beautiful.

I walked around the car a few times admiring its presence. The strange combination of its Volvo P1800-like rear end and bulldog nose, those perfect pipes and wire wheels, that rakish roofline– it all worked a treat. I was deeply smitten with the DB5, ready to fall in love. The interior kept the flame alive with its sweet-smelling leather and aircraft-style gauges. As always, RF had the first go. His real-time report warned me of the driving difficulties to follow. I told myself that his standards were too high; I wanted to like driving the DB as much as looking at it.

First problem: I couldn't see a thing. We returned to the Aston Martin Workshop for a cushion. It's hard to describe the feeling of driving a $200k classic car down a country lane while sitting on a cushion. It's a bit like playing tennis at Wimbledon in platform shoes. In this case, with weights tied to your arms. I've wasted many hours arguing about the ideal amount of power assistance for a steering system, but I'm sure that some is better than none. The DB5's massive steering wheel is there for a reason; I practically had to climb up its wooden sides to get enough leverage to turn the beast. Everything about driving the car was difficult: brakes, gearbox, visibility, radio, the lot.

This is the point where I'm supposed to say that suddenly everything gelled. That the DB5 and I got into a groove and all was right with the world. In truth, the Aston's skinny-tyred handling scared me to death, and I was not prepared to put the time in to make friends with the world's most beautiful truck. I couldn't wait to stop driving. "If only there was a set of wheels this beautiful that drove like a modern car," I said. "Oh," RF said, grateful for our untouched insurance premium. "You want an Eagle E-Type." E-Type? Sure it was a legend in its time, but if ever a car symbolized the whole sports car as small penis compensation thing, it's the Jaguar E-Type. Austin Powers' "Shaguar." Gimme a break.

Take two, outside a shed. Henry Pearman appeared from out of nowhere, tea in hand, and showed us his "factory." And then I heard a six-cylinder engine cough into life and she came 'round the corner: an Eagle E-Type. The car looked brand-spanking new– because it was. The Eagle wasn't a restoration; it was a ground-up recreation: chassis, engine, gearbox, brakes, suspension, etc. Henry assured us that all the E-Types' "foibles"– engine cooling, electrical gremlins, etc.– had been eliminated with modern technology. You could even order your Eagle with air conditioning that worked. "It's as reliable as any current Jag," Henry said, unaware that he'd made a joke.

Of course, the Eagle E-Type was one of those "if you have to ask you can't afford it, and if you can afford it you're going to have to wait a long time to get it" deals. My favorite kind of car, really. When my turn arrived, I found the Eagle to be a pussycat. Sure, there was a bit too much nostalgia, too much authenticity to the handling for me to really get a move on, but I could drive the damn thing plenty fast without breaking a sweat. The Eagle was more chic than all but a handful of exotics, or the entire lower end of Bond Street for that matter. Yes, I'd gotten over my anti-E thing, big style. This car was me: quick, nimble, comfortable, eye-catching and, of course, wearing the right label.

And I thought, why doesn't Jaguar do this? You know, build the E-Type with modern bits. Forget retro. I want pseudo-resto (restoration). I bet there are hundreds of thousands of drivers who'd love to drive a modern version of their favorite classic. American manufacturers– who need some serious help in the design department– could bring back all the best designs: the first Buick Roadmaster, the '55 Chevy, the big Caddies all the other designs that fill a pistonhead's heart with desire. As for me, make mine a DB5, WITH machine guns.

You see, the truth is that muscle cars are the internal combustion embodiment of the people who build them and buy them. They are the bull in the china shop, the ugly American, the crass and careless houseguest. The thinking man's nothing. They are rolling thunderclaps a step out of time – unapologetic and incongruent products that answer only to passion and pavement, defying the nanny-state know-it-alls in whose face they kick sand. They're muscular (of course), loud and indulgent – the kind of machine that would feel at home on Tony Soprano's payroll.

They brook no compromises and offer little nuance. They mean business, though their business is pleasure. Muscle cars are a black and white, all or nothing proposition, with super-hero exteriors belying the Spartan comforts to be found behind the glass. They enjoy a kind of gladiator luxury – the extravagant expense buying not power windows, power seats and power steering, but power. Pure and simple.

Like a work horse kept in the barn all winter getting a first scent of spring air, stamping the ground and tossing its head; a muscle car urges itself into action. A unique kind of fuel refinery – a prime-mover transforming high-octane into high-excitement. Gas disappears from the tank faster than Gatorade on an NFL sideline; and tires melt like an ice-cream cone in August, leaving behind the snaking patches even the youngest Hot Wheels devotee instantly recognizes.

Summer conversations are cut short as men turn and crane their necks for a glimpse of the gleaming metal and chrome that's just around the corner. Muscle cars announce their arrivals and departures in no uncertain terms. From a block or two away, we recognize the burbling grumble of 8-cylinders waiting impatiently on a crowded city street like Joe Louis sitting in the blue corner waiting for the bell. Waiting for the open road. Waiting for permission to roar and fly.

Muscle cars are not an acquired taste. They're like candy or smoked pork or a fat present under the tree with your name on it. They speak to something ancient within us, drawing us near while daring us to look away. They're a guilty pleasure that overwhelms the guilt. Even the crunchiest granola hippy longs to kick off the Birkenstocks, throw down the protest sign and climb inside for the magic carpet ride. Even the stuffiest upper-crusty blue-blood understands the appeal. "Jeeves . . . the bouquet . . . it's well, a little vinyl. Maybe some oil. And gasoline, mmmm, both raw and burned. And, oh, there's just the faintest soupçon of say, winter storage mustiness, and there's a little flutter of, like a . . . like a nutty Edam cheese. Or, maybe that's paint."

A muscle car is an adult's hyperkinetic erector set – a land rocket you might build or work on yourself. A garage is more than a place to park. With hand and power tools you become the mad surgeon and it becomes the monster. And, it's a monster you love and care for like a family member. Better, even, than that. You hold its life in your hands and in turn it holds yours. Diagnostics need not include more than your own well-tuned senses and maybe a buddy's as well. Hood-up time is as enjoyable as on-road time – as long as the two don't run together very often.

A muscle car is a powerful machine, and it imparts some of that power to its driver. This is not a small part of its attraction – to both men and women alike. From the outside, the driver seems cool and composed – a king of the road – this despite often being a frantic mess on the inside as pushes his car to its limit. After all, it goes too fast and stops too slow. It turns too hard, and can he really trust that pressure gauge? It doesn't matter. What matters is that he is astride the beast and it's his own. Maybe he's compensating for something. But, so what? Who isn't? And besides, he and his car will soon be gone and you'll be left far behind. Wuss.

You see, the truth is that muscle cars aren't cars at all. Leave that mundane and mildewed word for loaded-down Taurus wagons filled with dorm-room furniture. Leave it for anemic Camry's parked outside Applebee's. Leave it for Intrepids and Jettas and Grand-Ams and Accords. Leave it for vehicles that never give anything more to their owners than transportation. The truth is that muscle cars are really pirate ships, war horses, dragons, moon rockets, roller coasters, tidal waves – all of those – and not a bit the 'cars' inhabiting most driveways. The truth is that a muscle car transcends its individual components to become a fantasy machine in which your every dream may yet come true.

[Published as originally submitted.]

Turn the ignition, and its carnal soul stirs from hibernation. The engine rumbles and burps its way to idle. Blip the throttle and unbridled power and torque stir your soul. Grab the pistol grip shifter, throw the slush box into D and let em' rip. There's no denying the truth about muscle cars, and no denying their place in the world. Known and revered globally, Japan has their R34's, Deutschland has their M's and AMG's and the US, of course with its goats, 427's and Hemi's. The muscle cars' place on this earth is to remain politically incorrect, defy the law, and spit in the face of the rebel which lies in all of us.

Some would argue that the term "muscle car" is an American term, originating during the 50's or 60's. But in actuality, the muscle car has lived, exactly, since the assemblage of automobile number 2. Over the years, muscle cars have evolved from an existence solely defined by monster displacement, to fully sorted and balanced ubermachines, equally capable of accelerating, turning and stopping within un-comprehensible and convention defying specifications. If necessity is the mother of invention, then muscle cars are the dead-beat father of innovation. Through their evolution, laws (governmental, physical or otherwise) have challenged engineers and gearheads to do more with less. Inevitably they succeed.

Considered neither supercars or pocket rockets, the muscle car lies in the sweetspot somewhere between. To further define a muscle car is futile. To place boundaries around its limits is stupid. We've all been in muscle cars, and we all remember exactly the moment we first laid eyes on one. Our first ride, our first drive- burned indelibly into the minds eye. Few days in a man's life compare to our first experience in a muscle car. Thereafter, our life is an endless pursuit to re-capture that moment, the smell of white and red-piped leather, and the feel of your cranium bouncing off the headrest as you banged through the gears. Sensory overload leads to a blur of motion, lights and noise. Few earthly possessions can satisfy like that of the orbit orange encountered in our first judge, or the exhaust note of a WOT 427. Simple words, grabber, shaker, Boss, Hurst, Cuda and Skyline elicit unspeakable boyhood fantasies, and drive irrational acquisitions of unworldly proportions.

Today, we are living on the verge of a golden age for the muscle car, the likes of which have never been seen. The effects of globalization, currency manipulation, plummeting market share and deathwatches loom overhead, yet the worlds' automakers are duking it out in a no-holds-barred ultimate cage match for hot rod supremacy. For domestic manufacturers, the gold standard of success is an incentive free sale. To that end, the current generation Mustang has been running wildly right out of the gate. Old man Shelby and Parnelli Jones are lending further credibility to the first worthy successor to the Hurst editions and TransAm racers of yore. Thankfully, everybody is piling into the battle royal. Originally unveiled as "concepts" in January, the next generation Chevy Camaro and Dodge Challenger are pedal to the floor, in a head to head race for production. Not to be left in the dust, Nissan just announced its' plan for the GTR, the successor to the legendary Skyline. Do we really need a sub-5-second 0-60 jeep Cherokee? Hell no, but why not! The go-fast treatment is being applied with reckless abandon to SRT's SVT's, M's- S's, and AMG. With the recent unveiling of the Lexus LS600hL packing 430hp, even the otherwise anemic hybrid powertrain has crawled into the ring and delivered a folding chair to the head of their competitors. Never before has the world enjoyed the selection and performance of muscle cars that we do today. And the undisputed winner in all of this? You and I.

Their place in the world is hard to justify, existing in a peripheral space alongside the mainstream market. The muscle car commands attention from the worlds' automakers like that of a red-headed step child. Because cars are commodities, amounting to nothing more than toaster ovens to the general populace, bean counters and regulators will remain the ever-present threat. But for the believers, their value is defined by forces greater than ROI and MPG. And what about the future of the muscle car? Have no fear, they will remain the omnipresent force driving vehicle sales and buzz around the worlds great brands. They will irresponsibly burn through too many gallons of gas and be responsible for too many "reckless driving" tickets along the way. And what does the muscle get in return? No respect. I wouldn't have it any other way.

Muscle car translated in any language means fast, loud and obnoxious and shall be universally celebrated for being so.

[Published as originally submitted.]

In an act of enormous generosity, a fresh-from-the-farm fraternity pledge offered to drive the Polo-clad seniors around in his car—a restored 1967 GTO with Centerline wheels. "No one in Independence (Missouri) ever beat it," he proudly declared. "Worth over 20 grand." That was in 1990. The older fraternity brothers winced. "We'll be seen in that?" Showing maturity beyond his years, he stabled the Goat and returned next semester with a beat-up Tercel. This was, ironically, the more socially acceptable choice at my upper-middle-class fraternity.

Muscle cars are cool. They're tough. They're American. But they're not for up-and-comers. Refined? Well, no. Sophisticated? Hardly. A technological tour de force? Save them words for androgynous Europeans with little glasses. If you're the type who understands opera or worries about the safety of dolphins or includes "tofu" on your grocery list, don't even try to understand.

It's about manliness. Old-fashioned, redneck manliness. The innate masculine desire to shove rivals into the dirt and to impress women by laying a really long tire mark. A muscle car must growl and purr and warm the soul of a man raised on the Wal-Mart snack aisle. Like a WWF wrestler, skill or finesse is not necessary. Cleanliness is nice, but far from essential. Attitude is. Some fat is okay, too. In fact, lean and trim is for fairies. Men have guts, and so should their cars. Make it cheap, make it fast, and give it girth. Oh yeah, and build it in America. Otherwise, don't bother.

Because, you see, the muscle car is "real" America. Not like the fabricated John Kerrys or Paris Hiltons on TV. We're talking about the people who live in that great big area between the coasts. The Bo and Luke Dukes and their chicks who live in small towns, work in menial occupations, and drive bad ass Chargers and Mustangs. Don't ask them to understand the driver-machine ethos behind BMW. I mean, the M3 has only 6 cylinders like, you know, a girl's car. No, the real America still wears mullets, eats pork rinds, and sacrifices retirement savings for V8 engines.

What is a muscle car? The definition is terribly simple, yet inexplicably easy for manufacturers to screw up. It is:

• Big engine. V8 ideal, more is tolerated.

• Rear wheel drive. Non-negotiable.

• Made in USA. Also non-negotiable.

• Badass physique. Make it mean.

• Cheap. Must be in reach of the Best Buy salesman. Halos like the Vette and Viper are for aging orthodontists. But a $1000 beat-to-shit Firebird is accessible and totally bitchen.

Ironically, Big 3 automakers continually deviate from this definition, shaming themselves and squeezing blood from the faithful. Like the jelly-bean Aussie GTO, the stupid-high-priced Chevy SSR (would have been genius if sold for $25K), or the front-drive poser Monte Carlo. On the other hand, Grandma's 1970 Nova with coffee-can exhaust and fatter-than-Oprah tires on the back, now that's a muscle car.

Who buys 'em? Chances are, it ain't your mayor and it ain't your doctor. In fact, if you graduated from an accredited university, you're not allowed to own a Camaro. But, if you're 19 and think it's appropriate to spend 50% of your take-home pay on such a car, you may be in. Or, if you're over 40 and honestly believe life was better at 19, then you, too, may be a candidate.

The truth about muscle cars is that they're embarrassing to the intellectual elite, they indicate a lack of upward mobility, and they eschew logic and finesse over simple brute force. Driven with pride during adolescence, the maturing driver eventually sells out to more sophisticated, and typically foreign, rides. It's a phenomenon admonished by the not-so-quiet majority who appreciate bold braggadocio far more than understated elegance. But, like it or not, muscle is a part of the American identity. And the automakers that whole-heartedly embrace this identity can profit from it. The new GT Mustang and upcoming Dodge Challenger are proof of that. "Innovative" and "advanced" are not the primary descriptors of these cars. But they are profound symbols that someone in Detroit does, in fact, "get it."

While muscle cars are part of our culture, they are not all of it. In this great country anyone can, if desired, put down the spit can and make efforts to advance. The fraternity pledge who hid his GTO is proof of that. Today, fifteen years later, he drives a Volvo C70, hob-nobs at country clubs, and sells nuclear parts to the government for ungodly commissions. He still dreams of the Goat, but to him it's a pleasant reminder of an earlier phase of life now long gone. And in his place, somewhere on another college campus, a young redneck-turned-freshman is scratching his head wondering, why don't these college boys like my car?

[Published as originally submitted.]

I grew up in the Muscle-Car Belt – the area between the Rockies and wherever the first Ivy League university is in the east. Problem was, my family was Not From Around Here. We were English. We spoke funny. We ate Marmite. We were scrawny and had bad teeth.

But worst of all – and this sounds like an infectious disease – we had Jags.

Thus began my life as a misfit – I grew up, got MGs (another disease), then went and got into rotaries (an indictable offence in most central states– tasting the Wankel), and then turbos.

I hit adulthood without ever owning a V8 – as unimaginable where I grew up as not having a bar mitzvah in northern New Jersey or failing to develop a respectable rap sheet in East LA. And yet I didn't feel at a loss – I went from tuning exotic V12s to eking 500 horses out of a Japanese two-liter turbo. I was a bit pretentious about it. Cubic inches? That's for sissies. Size only matters to people who can't perform.

Except I may have been wrong. These days I host a TV show about cars, and for a particular episode this year I had to buy, modify, and drag race a muscle car. So I bought a Firebird. And as muscle cars go, a 1969 Firebird with a 350 small block is not that remarkable. Not a huge engine – a measly 5.7 liters. Probably gets almost eight mpg. Not stupid valuable – it's worth maybe $15,000 on the open market. Or maybe a shade over $100,000 at Barrett-Jackson.

If Don Johnson wiggled his ass on the fender, maybe $250,000, but no more.

Working with the Firebird confirmed everything I always thought about any of the breed: it's a one-trick-pony car. The handling sucks. The steering is way over-assisted. The turn-in is appallingly bad. The axle tramp is shocking. The car floats like a German businessman at the hotel pool. You slide off the seats like the Aztek slid off Pontiac's product line.

But boy, you put some heads and a carb on that small block, headers and straight pipes, and a shot of nitrous, and you can go from here to 1320 feet from here in under 12 seconds. That's pretty important. Isn't it?

The truth about muscle cars is that they're about power, but an uniquely American type of power. They are quintessentially democratic: they put all the power in the hands of almost anyone, regardless of whether they have any of the associated abilities to handle it. Like guns. Like George Bush.

Compare and contrast: the Porsche 928 was a terrific car. And, like a muscle car, it had a big, burbling, understressed V8 engine that could torque the pants off a schoolgirl. But there was nothing democratic about it. It was technologically superior to almost every other car. As you drove that car faster – into the elite speed ranges over 130mph, it got better and better. Hunkered down and got to do what it was best at: crossing entire continents faster than everything else on the road and delivering its occupants ready to play baccarat at Monte Carlo. It was, in short, everything that a muscle car is not.

A '69 Firebird, by contrast, is good at going from your front door to the corner store, as long as the corner is exactly one quarter of a mile away, on a straight road. You can go longer distances if you want, but only if you slow right down before turning the steering wheel, and for heaven's sake don't go over any big bumps. In this way, it is also classically American – single-minded, powerful, but not so responsive to directional change or upsetting undulations in the path. Good in short spurts, but not likely to travel. America, this is your car.

So part of the charm of the New Muscle Cars is their very lack of sophistication. Kudos to Chrysler with their 300 and SRT lines for nailing the American gestalt square center: big power, big noise, aggressive, sneering looks, and total confidence that nothing else is required. Yeah, the interiors are still completely unremarkable. Sure, the suspension isn't so advanced. Okay, you probably don't want to be with it all day long.

But who cares? This is America baby! Only fairies play baccarat.

And that's what's behind the incredible auction values for muscle cars – the poor Boomers With Money yearn for a post-WWII time when it really was that simple, when power really was the answer. They want to verify that view by valuing a $15,000 car at over $100,000. Poor kids. They've been exposed to European excellence – they know that Power is Nothing Without Control. But they can't accept it.

And the best way to say that is "muscle car."

[Published as originally submitted.]

What's wrong with Ford and GM? In the face of shrinking demand for their core vehicles, The Blue Oval and The General are disgorging an endless stream of new products without rhyme or reason. This is the American market. It's supposed to be an American game. Yet time and again, Detroit's giants have misread the temper of the times, unleashing all-new products that flop, forcing them to scrap expensive models and start again. It's time for all the stopping and starting to stop.

Examples of Detroit's endless game of one-two-three red light are both bountiful and pitiful. For example, whatever happened to the bulbous Taurus? Where is America's favorite family sedan these days? It's been replaced by the Ford 500, a bland, underpowered vehicle whose customers are lined-up none deep. By the same token, the Ford Focus is a terrific little family car that could compete with the new Honda Fit, Toyota Yaris and Nissan Sentra. There's even an improved version in Europe, ready for federalization. But no, Dearborn has hung the Ford Focus out to dry, presumably in anticipation of its eventual unrelated replacement.

And what of the once-proud Lincoln brand's answer to the BMW 5-Series: the LS (Luxury Sport)? Despite the positive media buzz, despite selling over a quarter-million vehicles in six years, Ford let the model languish without major improvements– and then canned it as part of their "Way Forward" plan. In fact, there is not one single Lincoln you can look at and say, yes sir, that's a Lincoln! GM's Pontiac division is in the exact same position. Everything in their lineup is entirely new and connected to absolutely nothing in the company's past.

Detroit's corporate culture shoulders much of the blame for this automotive ADD. Long before John De Lorean hitched his wagon to the Pontiac GTO and Lee Iaccoca rode a Mustang to the top, Detroit's corporate culture rewarded execs tied to "winners" and punished anyone involved with "loser" vehicles. Improving an existing model, adding a few more percentage points to the sales charts, puts auto execs on the fast track to nowhere. Launching an exciting new hit guarantees a key to a corner office. While there's no profit in releasing an endless series of dogs, the suits are addicted to gambling their careers on quirky new models. SSR? XLR? Fusion? Freestyle? No thank you.

Contrast this with BMW's evolutionary approach. When The Roundel introduced its hideous 7-Series, complete with an unfathomable iDrive multi-media controller, even the normally subservient press slated the luxobarge. And yet BMW stood by the latest generation of its flagship and slowly, gradually, improved it. iDrive was simplified. The extreme sheetmetal was gently smoothed. At the same time, BMW maintained its program of regular engine upgrades, added features, continued a relentless, behind-the-scenes attack on quality control issues and kept on marketing the car. It's that kind of single-minded, single model dedication that keeps 7-Series sales growing, and protects BMW's from marketplace vagaries.

Clearly, the Germans "get it;" they appreciate the over-riding value of consistency. Consider the Mercedes-Benz S-Class. In the '80's, the W126 was Germany's answer to Rolls-Royce; 80% as grand and 100% more practical. There was no finer luxury sedan on the road. Subsequent decades saw an inverse developmental algorithm: as the S-Class evolved to new technological heights, it declined in quality and substance. Even so, by maintaining the model's lineage– selling the grandeur that was with the technology that is– dealerships can't keep the latest W221 S-Class long enough to sign the import papers.

Master chameleon Toyota understood the concept from the start. They knew that design evolution equals brand recognition, mechanical evolution equals customer satisfaction, and keeping a conquested customer is far cheaper and more profitable than getting a new one. In 1989, Lexus launched the LS400 as an upstart alternative to the Mercedes-Benz S-Class and BMW's 7-Series. Despite criticism for its bland design, despite German counterattack, Lexus never wavered from its commitment to its flagship. Today, most Americans consider the LS as cut from the same hide as its European competitors.

Ford and GM should face facts. They should 'realign' their corporate culture and stop chasing niches in search of "the next big thing": crossovers, convertible pickup trucks, pseudo-minivans, etc. They should plough all their resources into what they've got and get on with it. The truth is, there's no quick fix in the car business. There's only an endless pursuit of customer loyalty. The vast majority of customers want to be brand loyal. Unlike Detroit's ambitious execs, they want to chose once, choose wisely and stick with it. As long as Ford and GM continue to focus their energy on short-term product solutions, the Detroit monoliths are condemned to playing catch-up. It's a fruitless endeavor that ultimately produces nothing but mediocrity.

[Gunnar Heinrich publishes <a xhref='http://www.automobilesdeluxe.blogspot.com'>automobilesdeluxe.blogspot.com</a>]

My name is Katherine, and I've got an ultra high performance summer tire monkey on my back. I can't live without grippy tread compounds attached to the bottom of my hopped-up Volkswagen Passat. By the time I've got 15K miles on last summer's set of Kumhos, the tread compound starts mingling with the carcass, traction begins to suffer and my Amex automatically reheats. Needless to say, most drivers don't share my expensive affliction; their Wal-Mart-honed sensibilities keep high-priced rubber donuts off their automotive repair radar. In fact, the treadwear ratings on my automotive shoes of choice would make a value-driven consumer cry– should they live that long. Given the way they think about tires, there's a reasonable chance they won't.

Stop. It's not so easy if you've got "long lasting" tires. While tire and auto manufacturers don't like to talk about tires' critical impact on stopping distances, when it comes to not hitting things, the behavior of the rubber beneath your car is one of the single most important variables. If your tires aren't soft enough to stick to the road surface, all the ABS and computerized AWD trickery in the world won't put an end to your slip-n-slide nightmare; you'll go skidding off into the sunset on your rubber rocks. The best thing about driving on two sets of sticky tires is the stopping. You always can. Unless it's snowing.

Every winter, I roll along on my skinny hi-po snows, scanning the roadside for high-performance cars wearing summer sandals. I don't know anyone who's purchased a new Corvette or Crossfire who's also been instructed to purchase a winter wheel and tire package. Word up: Z-rated stickies aren't going to grip at zero C like they do at 20C. In fact, cynical-minded readers would be forgiven for thinking that car dealers are intentionally drumming-up off-season business for their auto body repair shop. And if those way cool performance tires can't grip tenaciously enough for winter traction, how do you think they grip for braking? Bottom line: I try not to be around Mustang GT's after September.

Tire companies are more than slightly responsible for this irresponsibility. In general, they sell longevity, speed and style. When it comes to traction, they sell… tread patterns. Although precious few auto enthusiasts can tell you the dynamic capabilities of a tire's tread pattern just by glancing at it, "everyone" can tell you whether it looks aggressive or not. And bad-ass looks are, of course, as important as tread life– at least when you're rolling chromie double dubs with a whopping 20 profile rubber band protecting your bling. Truth is, if a tread pattern doesn't say "get the hell out of my way, bitch," no one's going to buy it. Instead of filling their internet sites with useful traction versus temperature graphs, big tire companies feed the desire to be cool by promoting "extreme" new tread patterns and hopping-up customer adrenalin with profiles of racers and track queens.

The modern all-season tire also shoulders part of the blame (so to speak) for this dangerous, laissez-faire attitude towards tires and safety. They're a rubberized jack of all trades (adequate for most situations) and master of none (adequate for most situations). That said, the rubber buggers excel in one important category: tread life. With warranted wear ratings of 80K miles, more and more of today's drivers never see the inside of a tire shop; they trade their car long before the tires wear out. They've removed the seasonal ritual of tire changing from the liturgy of auto ownership. Ignorance is bliss, bang, boom!

If you ask the average tire guy or dealership wonk, you'll hear the urban legend: all-seasons make snow tires irrelevant and summer tires an extravagance. With that in mind, it's easy to see why nobody thought twice about that little tire pressure problem on all those Ford Explorers. Heck, I'll bet most of those owners never once checked inflation and couldn't change a flat if they had to. How many airbags are there inside the average car these days? The four contact patches on the bottom of your whip are what keep you on the road– and away from solid objects.

Sure, I'm toeing the near side of nuts when it comes to tires. But I've got myself and my kids to think about. Common sense and self-preservation suggest that it's time for the pendulum of public opinion to swing back towards a more thoughtful, more proactive approach to tire safety and performance. Meanwhile, anyone got a line on a couple of pairs of right-priced S03 Pole Positions? I believe I'm just about ready to swap out again.

[Celebrate National Tire Safety Week by visiting www.betiresmart.org]

Word up young and financially fortunate pistonheads: don't be dissing minivan man. I know it's easy. It's easy to glance over from your hot hatch, company Bimmer or precious Porsche, see Mr. Mom sitting-up at the wheel of his minivan stuffed with car seats and kids, and snigger. Poor bastard, you think, he doesn't have a clue about cool. I'd rather drive a white Ford Fairline than that bread van. But you're mistaken. A) There's nothing lower than a Ford Fairline, and B) Minivan Man doesn't deserve your cardescension. In fact, there with the grace of God go you.

Morphing from pistonhead into Minivan Man (MVM) is a process, like grieving. At first, when the kids arrive, proto-MVM goes into denial. He hangs-on to his/his partner's two-door, or trades the sports car for a hot two-plus-two. He assures his partner that everything will be OK; the baby will fit in the back, no sweat. (Silently thinking, it's a baby, it'll never remember.) When the new father feels the brunt of his hormone-crazed wife's rage as she tries to maneuver a squealing child into the back, when he sees his precious litte angel in that dark, windowless space; he knows he's been beaten. He gets angry. Then he gets over it.

Bargaining starts. Well, honey, we don't really need something THAT big do we? A large sedan would be just as good, wouldn't it? Maybe something with a sports suspension. You know you like to drive fast too– not that you would with baby on board, but every now and then… Hey, how about a Dodge Magnum SRT8 station wagon? And then, suddenly, he becomes aware of minivans. The ease of those sliding doors. The advantages of all that room: less struggling, less screaming, Mommy can go back there and pick up the damn bottle, infinite cup holders, etc. He gets it.

After depression, acceptance. Then, purchase and pleasure. Today's minivans really are great for kids: safe and comfortable, with lots of room for Happy Meal toys, juice boxes, bikes, groceries, soccer balls, backpacks, PSP's, friends and all that other stuff that makes parenting so expensive. The best ones even have God's gift to hassled adults: rear seat DVD's. The audio for these systems can be faded to the rear of the vehicle, giving MVM the rare chance to have an uninterrupted conversation with his partner. That's no bad thing; unless of course it is. In that case, there's enough room for your beloved to stretch-out in the back and watch Toy Story for the 46th time.

And guess what? Minivans aren't that bad to drive. The Honda Odyssey and Toyota Sienna can both outrun a glacier and handle like big sedans. Besides, anyone can drive a Porsche fast. Minivan Man has to thread his beast through traffic without spilling Sasha's Slurpee or Rachel's blue Gatorade, while telling Lola that if she touches Sarah one more time she's never going to Chuck E. Cheese again as long as she lives. And that's final.

Supposedly, the one thing denied Minivan Man is sex appeal. Most guys think women are attracted to a flash guy in a flash car. And they are. But those sunglass-wearing sports car types are the "bad boys"– the ones who break your heart in your twenties and/or fuck around with your alimony in your thirties and forties (and fifties and sixties). Minivan Man is sexy to the women he actually has a shot at, and tends to see more often than not: Mommies. I'm not suggesting that all housewives are desperate, but the ones that are look for three kinds of guys: someone young (not you), someone divorced and responsible, or someone who has as much to lose from an affair as they do. Minivan Man.

Anyway, there is life after minivan. Eventually, the kids grow up, get their own cars and leave. If Minivan Man has been prudent– and it goes with the territory– there'll be a nice little nest egg Mazda MX5 or 350Z to enjoy in those golden years. Unless your kid is smart enough to go to grad school. Then by the time you can afford a sports car, the grandkids will come along and you're straight back in big car territory. And anyway, a hard suspension and six-speed gradually becomes less desirable than a bit of class, a comfortable ride and… quiet.

So don't diss Minivan Van. The chances are he's just as crazy about cars as you. He might even have something hot and fast stashed in the garage. For the time being, he's just doing what he's got to do: driving the best vehicle for the job at hand. If you think about it, that's the exact same formula sports car drivers use to select their wheels. Now how about that?

In the mid-fifties, Carroll Shelby started tearing-up his local racing circuits. Within a few years, the young driver dominated every major road race in the United States: Sebring, Daytona and more. When Sir David Brown caught wind of Shelby's prowess, he figured that the good-looking Texan's charisma would help sell Brown's hand-made British supercars stateside. Brown whisked Shelby off to Europe to drive for his fledgling Aston Martin racing team. In 1959, Shelby drove a DBR1/300 to victory at Le Mans. More importantly, Aston beat Ferrari and Shelby met Enzo. A rivalry was born.

After his Le Mans win, Shelby revealed that he had a hereditary heart condition and shockingly retired from racing. Back in the States, he tried his hand selling tires and establishing a performance racing school. But in his heart of hearts, Carroll wanted to return to Europe with an American car and beat the Hell out of Enzo Ferrari's mob. He even had a plan: stuff a muscular American V8 into a nimble British roadster. The long tall Texan envisioned a hairy-chested mule clobbering Enzo's prancing thoroughbreds.

Luckily, Ford was getting ass whooped both on the track (and in the showroom) by Chevrolet and the Corvette. The Blue Oval needed a halo vehicle. The company agreed to give the famous race car driver a new, lightweight all-aluminum V8, originally designed to power Canadian pickup trucks. Shelby turned to A.C. Cars in Britain for the frame and chassis. The Cobra was born. Or, more precisely, still-born. The first Cobra wasn't slow, but the mechanicals were garbage; the axle snapped during the car's first race and the engine wasn't nearly powerful enough to take on Maranello.

Enter a bunch of young, square-jawed Santa Monica hot rodders. A complete teardown, redesign and engine implant commenced. The resulting car is generally acknowledged to be the fastest (and coolest) muscle car of all time. The Cobra was so accelerative that Carroll would stick a $100 bill on the dash. If potential customers could grab it before the Cobra hit 100 mph, they could keep it. They couldn't. The 289 Cobra could do 0-100-0 in 15 seconds flat. The 427, in less than 13– which still counts as absurdly, violently fast more than 40 years later.

That Cobra's extreme performance and relatively nimble handling helped Shelby's team dominate practically every American race during the 1963 season. With high hopes and a quick car, they headed for Europe to do battle in Enzo's backyard– only to be crushed by Ferrari at Le Mans. On the three-mile Mulsanne Straight, the convertible Cobras –- with hard tops bolted on –- topped-out at 150mph. The Ferraris went 180. If Carroll Shelby was going to show Enzo what-for, he needed a proper coupe.

In Spirit Level Films "The Cobra/Ferrari Wars," documentary filmmaker Richard Symons offers a riveting account of the simmering rivalry between the American chicken farmer's motley gang of West Coast thrill-seekers, and Europe's blue-blooded racers. Interlacing vintage racing footage and latter day interviews with most of the key players, the film chronicles a seminal moment in American automotive history: the development of Carroll Shelby's Daytona Coupe. It's a classic story of American blood and guts.

Shelby recalls how he tasked a 23-year-old engineer named Pete Brock with designing the Coupe's body. Brock started with the windscreen, holding it in place with duct tape and wood. He then built the car's shell around it and the driver. Everyone agreed that the resulting Coupe was funny-looking– in a not-so-funny-kinda way. Brock assured them it would work. Or rather, fly. Even so, Shelby brought in an aerodynamics specialist who took one look and balked. Faced with a looming deadline and no Plan B, Carroll decided to trust his unknown engineer.

With Bob Bondurant and Dan Gurney behind the wheel, the Shelby Daytona Coupe hit an astonishing 196 mph on the Mulsanne Straight, and earned Shelby's band of brothers a first place finish in the GT class at the 1964 Le Mans. On his own terms, in his own way, the lanky Texan had beaten the imperious Italian. And then he did it again, in '65. And again, helping Hank Ford II's boys build the GT40 to punish Enzo for a last-minute walkout on a Blue Oval buyout. Four straight years of GT40 dominance in LeMans helped seal Carroll's reputation for all time.

Shelby's victory is all the more poignant when compared to today's motorsports; complete with computer-aided design, manufacture and telemetry; PR flacks, chefs and personal fitness trainers. Back in Shelby's day, victory was achieved by personal determination, imagination and grit. While these characteristics will always be vital ingredients in motor racing, it's hard to imagine a time when they seemed so pure, so unadulterated by the cold-blooded demands of big business. Symon's film captures the last time a bunch of buddies got together in a small garage to take on the world's best, and won.

[Spirit Level Films provided a DVD of The Cobra Ferrari Wars for review.]

If anyone doubts that product is the key to success in the car business, just look at the new Ford Mustang– if you can find one. While The Blue Oval's US dealers watch 500's and Fusions pile up in their lots, the only signs of Mustangs are the smoking rubber streaks in the driveways leading out. And the money's not bad either. While Ford has placed huge incentives on just about every other car, truck, minivan, crossover, hybrid and SUV in their arsenal, Mustang GT's are selling within shouting distance of list price. Insiders are still amazed that a hot car like this could emerge from Ford's normally moribund new car development process. The answer is simple: Ford hired a capable, inspired product planner named Chris Theodore and set him loose.

Ford put Theodore in charge of the Mustang program, and later the GT. When Theodore punched-in, the Mustang program was in the doldrums; no one was willing to buck Ford's long-winded product development process to make a great car, instead of another example of humdrum transportation. Convinced that Ford's designers were devoid of new ideas, Theodore told the studio to make a clay model that represented a brand new interpretation of the old Mustang theme. The result is perhaps the best rendition of 'retro' on the market today. More importantly, Theodore then set to work resolving the problems of actually making the car– problems that have hamstrung Ford's creativity for decades.

When Theodore assumed control, the Mustang was due to be built upon the Lincoln LS platform. The Mustang's engineers knew it would be impossible to meet their cost and weight targets using the LS' heavy and expensive underpinnings. Theodore took one look at the program and told the engineers to forget about the Lincoln. Ditching the Lincoln's independent rear suspension and its short-long arm front suspension (upper and lower control arms of unequal length) freed-up money for a new 300hp engine. Losing the remote gas cap flap release, automatic temperature control, heated seats, navigation system, parking sensors and a host of other "luxuries" left money for big, better brakes; a suitably stout suspension and superb rack and pinion steering. And then Theodore's and his team headed into deeper, more difficult waters…

FoMoCo has a set of rules and requirements for new product development called, internally, "the cookbook'. Follow all the rules, add the right ingredients, and you move one more notch up the corporate ladder. Of course, that's not supposed to be the goal; it's supposed to lead to attractive, high-quality, cost-effective cars. But the rules certainly make it difficult for managers like Theodore who don't like to play "by the book." More specifically, the cookbook dictated standards for rear seat legroom– measurements that the short wheelbase Mustang simply couldn't meet.

The Mustang's project managers dithered for six months, trying to devise a way to meet the requirements: sufficient space for the stems of a 6'3" passenger. The seat supplier submitted design after design, but the theoretical passenger's knees still went through the passenger in front. Management seriously considered adding six more inches to the wheelbase. When Theodore got word of the impasse, he resolved the entire crisis by simply reminding the team that they were making a Mustang, not a Town Car. By bucking the system and taking the heat from top brass, Theodore kept the Mustang program on track and on target.

The result is a Mustang with, effectively, no rear seat legroom. Obviously, Mustang owners don't care. If they did, they would have bought a Fusion. In fact, I'm sure there's a ten year old boy somewhere looking at a new Mustang and saying, 'When I grow up, that's the car I want to drive!' Not "Where the Hell am I going to put my 6'3" twins?" Theodore also brought a similar focus to the Ford GT program, helping to create a budget supercar car that brought glory to both Ford and its country of origin.

So what happened to Theodore? Promoted, given new projects, made a product spokesman like GM's Bob Lutz? Theodore was, as they say, "eased out.' Making great cars, even making great cars that make money, are not qualifications for longevity in Ford's corporate community. Break the rules and you're out the door.

While there's no question that Ford is struggling under the burden of its fixed costs, creating new cars that people can't resist is still the name of the game. The Mustang's success is a reminder that Ford has the ability to do just that– if only they had the will. Put another way, if Ford could encourage and reward talented car guys like Theodore, they wouldn't have to offer customers an average of $3k off a new model. Back of the envelope? Ditch the discounts and instead of last year's two billion dollar loss, Ford could have made a billion bucks. Bottom line? Business isn't risky. People are.

Road racing is like masturbation. We all do it, but no one wants to admit it. Why? It's obvious enough. People take one look at your bulging wheel arches and think yeah, he does it. Well of course you do. Do you seriously expect anyone to believe you bought a car specifically engineered for high-speed performance so you could slavishly obey The Highway Code? That's like buying a pump-action shotgun to knock down cobwebs. It's logical, but implausible.

Talk all you like about your sports car's brand heritage and timeless design. The average man in the street doesn't see it that way. They clock your race-ready wheels and know you're just itching to humiliate some velocity-challenged Vauxhall. And they're not wrong, are they? Any Porsche driver who claims he bought his car to drive 70 miles per hour on the motorway, only using the outside lane to pass slower moving vehicles when it is safe to do so, is either in deep denial, lying or has severely injured his testicles.

C'mon, admit it. Your Subaru Impreza Turbo may corner better than Angelo Dundee at a Mohammed Ali fight, but you know it's not enough. It's a real buzz to scan the road surface for camber and cornering angle; chose the right gear, get the revs just so, and then balance throttle and grip to sashay around the corner with perfect, sublime control. But you need more. What you really want, what you really need for a proper hit of adrenalin, is to pass someone whilst doing it. It's not enough to win. Someone else must lose.

The desire to drive faster than someone else is simple human nature. It's part of our instinctive need to establish dominance and compete for scarce resources. Just because we're encased in two tons of metal hurtling through space that can kill, maim and inflate our insurance premiums doesn't mean those urges are going to go away. In other words, do we really expect people willing to tear each other apart to buy a hot Christmas toy to allow a yob in a clapped-out blandmobile to cut them up without some sort or retaliation? Put the cutee in a fast car, and by God, they'll use it.

OK, some wouldn't. Some people actually buy beige clothing out of choice, and their cars for their fuel economy. In terms of road safety, this is no bad thing. I honestly believe that the average Britons' generally quiescent nature accounts for the UK's position as the world's second safest country for motoring (after Sweden). I am constantly amazed at British drivers' civility whilst queuing at intersections. After you! No, after you! But I swear I've seen a blue rinse OAP in a Nissan Micra dice with a flat-capped elderly gentleman in a Rover 25 on the Slough bypass.

Road racing is illegal, immoral and dangerous, but it's something virtually all drivers do at some point in their lifetime– whether they're willing to admit it or not.

Not. Despite its universality, road racing is about as socially acceptable as upbraiding the Queen for serving dried-out cucumber sandwiches. Your neighbours may race each other to secure a parking space directly outside the school gates, but they still consider a TVR burbling by their window a greater threat to their children's safety than viral meningitis. To declare even a mild predilection for competing against fellow motorists on public roads is way, way out there. If speeders are baby killers, racers are baby eaters.

Armed with a hypocritical social mandate, the government and police are doing everything in their power to hunt speeders down and shoot them like dogs. They reckon if you're convinced that their efforts have saved even ONE life (preferably a small child's), you'll accept anything up to and including tagging your vehicle like a common criminal. Which is fair enough. Well, even if it isn't fair, there it is.

So why do so many enthusiasts equipped with/addicted to sports cars claim that they only drive fast on windswept Welsh twisties? Equally, why do so many speed freaks want us to believe that they regularly transform from track day devils to road going angels? I've even heard sports car owners say their mean machine's braking and handling makes it safer than the "average" car.

C'mon, it's not true, and no one's listening. Road racers who hide their behaviour behind protestations of social responsibility are not only fooling themselves, they're making all sports car owners look like liars— as well as baby eaters.

I say that it's time to stand up and be counted. It's time to declare the simple fact that you find driving fast fun. And if you're feeling especially daring, tell the opposition that your car is faster than theirs. Why not? If they hate you anyway, why conceal your true nature?

A pistonhead can no more resist a Ferrari's charms than a Labour party fundraiser can stop himself from accepting money from, um, anyone. The 360 Modena personifies the marque's appeal. The car's voluptuous curves and aggressive angles seduce pistonheads and innocent bystanders alike. When woken, the 360's flat plane crank unleashes a mechanical siren song of mythical proportions. To drive a 360, at speed, down a familiar road, is to surrender your soul to the Tifosi's embrace. Her screams still invade my sleep.

Hello, my name is Robert Farago and I'm a recovering Ferrari owner. I'd like to tell you about my first Ferrari…

I was working in Newport, Rhode Island at a nightclub called The Candy Store (as in nose). On that fateful night, I rounded the corner and practically walked straight into her: a Dino 246GT. Yes, I know. A Dino isn't a Ferrari. And Kelly Brook was never on Baywatch. So what? God made both Pammy and Kelly. Enzo made Ferrari and Dino. Anyway, the aspiring Italian rust bucket sat on the weathered dock, glowing in the fading sun. The Dino instantly re-ordered my automotive universe. I could never see another American "sports car" as anything but an enormous, clumsy barge. And boy, did I want one. A Ferrari, that is.

Of course, I couldn't afford a Ferrari back then. And I couldn't afford a Ferrari later. But that didn't stop me from buying one. Twenty years after my dockside encounter, I was still smitten. So I walked into an authorized Ferrari dealership to buy a F355B. I approached a salesman and gave him a buying signal as clear as a Tibetan gong struck on the plains of Nepal: "Hello, I'd like to buy a 355." The salesman crossed his arms and let loose the dogs of war: "And how do you set a budget?"

Translation: do you have enough money to buy a Ferrari? The salesman's tone implied that even if I could somehow wangle the readies, he reserved the right not to provide me with a car. Normally, if someone doesn't want to sell me something, I consider it reason enough not to buy it. But I wanted the 355 so bad I could smell it. Well, I could almost smell it within the cloud of Paco Rabanne swirling around Mr. Oxford Cambridge. I should have known better. I should have run straight to the nearest BMW dealer for a lesson in "residuals". But I didn't.

Flash forward to actual ownership. I'd had some fantastic drives. The car had transformed commuting to work into communing with Horsepower. But the damn thing lived at the shop; I'd started to call myself a "Ferrari visitor" rather than an "owner". Naturally enough, during these long periods of forced separation, I wanted to know when I might have a usable motorcar in exchange for my mortgage-like car payment. Did the Service Department answer my calls? No. Did they return my calls? No. Did they give me accurate information when I got through? No. Did they give me a loaner car? "Most Ferrari owners have a second car". Did they apologise when things went wrong, again? No. Do you get treated better down at the local Ford dealer? Yes.

In this I was not alone. An enthusiast who goes by the name of Bigkid told me of an owner who sent his red 355B in for repairs, only to receive a blue 355 Spider in return. His car was off with someone up North who was "uncontactable". Over a damn fine snifter of cognac, a member of the Ferrari Owners' Club casually revealed that his dealer had installed a new racing harness. When he pulled up to a traffic light, the entire mounting snapped off. Another acquaintance sent his four-week-old 360 back to the dealer for a laundry list of repairs (including faulty F1 software). After a promise of a week off-road, he received the car back two weeks later without a single job done.

Most pistonheads live in Ferrari denial. They believe that mainlining Maranello is worth anything up to and including testicular donation. I could tell them about the time the car's alarm system trapped me inside a roasting cabin in the middle of nowhere—without the slightest impact on their car-nal desires. In fact, lusting after one of these machines is a mental illness that can only be cured by buying one. If, however, you are not yet afflicted, I recommend that you avoid them at all costs, and buy some Ferrari shares when this little horsie goes to market. I mean, if you're that sensible, why not live off the weakness of others?

I can just about change a tyre, but that's it. I don't mind admitting it here, but stranded by the roadside, I'm paralysed by automotive machismo. When Spanner Man sticks his head into the engine bay, points and says 'There's your trouble!' I nod. I have no idea what he's talking about. I'd rather clip a jump lead on my right nipple than admit my ignorance. Still, I'm not in denial. Something's wrong and someone knows what it is. All that's left is the hassle, delay and a hit on my credit card that makes filling a Murcielago with Super-Unleaded seem like a bargain.

I just wish someone could have warned me, you know, before. When it comes to performance cars, an ounce of prevention is worth 1120 kgs of immovable TVR. In fact, I reckon the government should force TVR to put a warning label on their product: 'Warning: This Car Breaks'. Not that it would work. Even a sticker proclaiming 'Driving this Car Can Lead Directly to a Tree' wouldn't put off members of The Cult of Unbridled Horsepower. Once they hear a TVR's burble and roar- a sound that will one day cough, splutter and die- they have less reasoning ability than an Irish Setter on heat.

Of course, I shouldn't pick on TVR; the fact that the Chimaera tailed the last J D Power survey is neither here nor there. Every sports car has its drawbacks. Porsches are so reliable NASA is thinking about sending one to Mars. Yes, but what about the money? Drive your 'everyday supercar' faster than a speeding bullet and you'll spend £2000 a year on tyres, and five times that on depreciation. Unless you're something in The City, that's gotta hurt. If you are something in The City, you'll be spending your day making money, wishing you were in the country, blasting down on a winding Welsh road in your Porsche. Either way, you pay.

Even if you've got the time and money, you've got to face the problem of addiction. Drive your M3 enough and you'll be hooked worse than beagle on Marlboro. You won't be happy driving anything else. Happy? You'll be in Hell. You'll spend the entire trip to Legoland in the MPV trying to justify an M5, RS4 or some other car capable of inflicting three G's on your genetic progeny. Leave the country and it gets worse. You'll be pottering along, driving some disposable rental, thinking, 'If I was in my car, I'd be enjoying myself.'

Some people try to avoid trouble by owning two cars. This 'something for the weekend Sir?' approach is as strategically sound as invading Kuwait and threatening to cut off half of the world's oil supplies. Pistonheads inevitably choose a second car that's old and decrepit, or new and stupid. Thanks to the temporal demands of DIY, childcare, TV and alcohol, the spare car is used less than the EQ buttons on a car stereo. Golden oldies like a Dino or Aston need weekly running between total restorations. That means the frustrated owner spends all his time coaxing his car to life, or watching it being loaded on or off a transporter, rather than driving it, when it breaks down from neglect.

New cars like the Caterham 7 Superlight R or Ariel Atom are a far more sensible proposition- if you're the kind of person who likes to invest in lunar colonies. There's more chance of the moon lining up with Saturn, Mars, Jupiter and Uranus than a convergence of free time, perfect weather, open road and fully functional machine. Not to mention the fact that the weekend driver is jumping out of something resembling an average car into something very much like the kind of machine teenagers with lightning fast reflexes drive on closed circuits, for money. It's fun, fun, fun 'til the paramedics take the pistonhead away.

So, what's the answer? There isn't any. Identify which trouble best suits your nature, go the gym and practice shrugging your shoulders. Either that or forget about sports cars. Buy something so boring you never even think about driving. The funny thing is, when you pass some miserable bastard by the side of the road in his fancy sports car, you still won't be happy. You'll be remembering that glorious moment when Spanner Man set you back on your way, restoring your faith in cars and a merciful God. Face it: you're an incurable addict and pig-headed optimist. There's your trouble.

Strange people start cults. A science fiction writer who "discovered" that tomatoes feel pain created The Church of Scientology. A Dutch man convicted of mail fraud convinced millions that their ancestors had sex with astronauts. A talking salamander founded the Mormons. And a racetrack owner who decided to let complete amateurs onto his concrete playground created the Trakult.

Ask a Scientologist why they follow a doctrine created by man who ended his years on his own cruise ship staffed entirely by teenage girls in matching halter-tops and hot pants. You'll get a perfectly plausible explanation involving negative engrams (shouldn't it be "enmails" by now?), followed by a damn fine lawsuit. Ask a Member of the Trakult why a professional race circuit is a better place to drive fast than a public road, and you'll get an equally belligerent and self-righteous reply: safety. Trakultists argue that racetracks are the best—nay the ONLY place— for their speed-afflicted brethren to indulge their love of lateral G's.

It seems to make sense. Racetracks have no Zebra crossings, side streets, school zones, bouncing balls, ice cream trucks, or postal vans. Thanks to the Track's purity of purpose, the only people facing serious injury or death from "inappropriate speed" are the Trakultists themselves (which bolsters their James Dean Dan Dare Stirling Moss Heavy Metal self-image). And if a driver's going to crash, where better than a closed roadway with barriers, gravel traps, tow-trucks, paramedics and adoring admirers?

The Trakult's argument is little more than a bizarre attempt to make the socially unacceptable acceptable. You see? We're not bonnet-bouncing baby killers! Here, on this concrete ribbon, we prove that safe driving and balls-out, edge-of-the-envelope, adrenalin-crazed, why-the-Hell-doesn't-that-dickhead-move-over speed are completely compatible. As if. In fact, the Trakult has a secret agenda that's about as compatabile with personal safety as land mines. It's called "The Line".

As I'm sure you know (apostles are everywhere), the "racing line" is the ideal route around a race circuit for drivers seeking to complete a lap in the shortest possible time. Trakultists worship "The Line". They study it on special maps in spiral bound notebooks. They discuss it with fellow devotees, in minute detail, at trackside cafes, Internet chat rooms and country pubs. They pay professional instructors to help them perfect it. They venerate all who master it. Then they do it. Endlessly. Around and around they go, faster and faster, wearing a groove into both the racetrack and their subconscious. This creates two dangerous ideas:

1. I'm an excellent driver who knows his car's limits. A few laps with a professional driver might dispel this dangerous arrogance— if the Trakultists weren't too busy endorphin surfing. Even when a Trakultist surrenders his pride and joy to someone happy to sacrifice structural integrity on the altar of ten one-hundredths of a second, the Trakultist rationalises the discrepancy between Him and Me. He's a High Priest. But I'm still one of the Chosen. I can still drive like a real man. Safely.

2. The racing line is A Good Thing. Trakultists believe their ability to find The Line makes them inherently superior drivers to the joy-riding rabble.

Dangerous nonsense. First of all, every open track day I've ever attended ended with crumpled and/or burnt metal. I've seen two Ferraris catch on fire, three Porsches stuff it into guardrails, and an assortment of Beemers greatly enrich their local body shop. Put the survivors back on public roads, suffering from the delusion that they can drive their high performance cars at 9/10ths, and something insurance related is bound to happen. To wit: I watched a tracked-out Nissan Skyline become one with an oak tree not two miles from Brands Hatch. It wasn't pretty. Nor unpredictable.

Equally important, the racing line is an inherently dangerous idea. The Line is designed for speed, not visibility. The apex of a turn is hardly the best place to position a car when trying to avoid that pesky little thing called on-coming traffic. What happens if you blow it? Understeer or oversteer, it don't make much never-mind. You stand an excellent chance of sliding into something hard that wasn't designed to de-accelerate high-speed objects.

Sure, Trakultists know they shouldn't follow The Line on Her Majesty's Publicke Roads, but they've been brainwashed. Following The Line becomes instinctive. When they want to show off, or the red mist descends, that's where they go.

Like all religious movements, the Trakult is fine in principle, demented in practice. Their ideal of "safe hooliganism" masks the real effect of extended track driving on amateur behaviour. Yes, a small amount of supervised track time is a unique opportunity for a "normal" driver to see what happens when they drive too fast. But too much of a good thing is a bad thing. Trakultists would do well to remember an old adage: the road to Hell is paved with good intentions.