Ever since the United States began issuing safety and emission standards, regulations have led to better cars.  Emission standards forced automakers to develop electronic engine controls, creating modern cars’ power and drivability.  Safety standards– seat belts, airbags, etc.– have saved countless lives.  But there’s one standard that’s not only ineffective, but antithetical to its stated goal: the National Highway Traffic Safety Administration’s (NHTSA) roof crush standard. 

NHTSA enacted FMVSS 216 in the mid-70’s.  Before then, unbelted passengers were often ejected during a crash and killed or injured by “external factors.”  It was assumed that roof strength played an insignificant role during serious accidents.  As seat belts gained popularity, NHSTA created its new roof crush standard to ensure that vehicle roofs wouldn’t crush belted occupants during a rollover.     

FMVSS 216 requires all light vehicles sold in the United States to withstand a force equal to 1.5 times the vehicle’s unladen weight or 5000lbs. (whichever is less), with no more than five inches intrusion.  NHTSA’s technicians apply a measured force to one side of the roof’s edge, at a 25-degree angle (sideways) and a five-degree pitch angle (forwards), then measure the deflection, or failure, of the roof structure.  As a result of this requirement, car makers have strengthened their vehicles’ roof structures.  It would be easy to posit that the standard was– and is– an excellent piece of federal legislation.  A closer examination of the evidence suggests otherwise. 

The legislation’s framers knew that convertibles would never be able to meet the new roof crush standard.  So they exempted them.  At the time that the standard was created, convertibles were becoming increasingly unpopular.  NHTSA figured that extinction would make the exemption a moot point.  When convertibles made a comeback, the exemption provided valuable statistical data.  Unfortunately for the rule-makers, real world experience didn’t validate the roof crush standard’s original premise.  Passengers in convertibles during rollover accidents were not killed in any greater numbers than occupants of cars that met NHTSA’s roof crush standard.    

This empirical data has been ignored in the face of the increased lethality of rollover accidents.  Although rollover crashes constitute just three percent of all American accidents, they account for almost half of all fatalities.  That’s an estimated 26,376 deaths annually. But the assumption that a weak roof collapsed and crushed the passengers is simply not supported by the data. In 74% of cases, roof intrusion was not a factor. Rollover accidents are fatal because the occupants are usually ejected, or partially ejected, during the crash. 

The best way to meet NHTSA’s roof crush standard: increase the strength (and weight) of components at the top of the car, well above the center of gravity.  This adds significantly to an SUV’s “top-heavy” character, and contributes greatly to their propensity to roll when subjected to large lateral forces.  In other words, the requirement to make roofs stronger to withstand rollovers may well be making vehicles more likely to rollover.  NHTSA’s roof crush standard is creating a vicious circle; people may be dying because of the law– not despite it.    

Safety campaigners like “Protecting Health, Safety & Democracy” are lobbying the federal government to revise roof crush standards “upwards.”  They want roofs to be “stronger,” so they can withstand greater impacts.  Although it’s theoretically possible to find light weight materials that would withstand insult better than steel, in the real world, more stringent legislation would result in even more weight up top.  And that would mean that vehicles already more prone to rollover accidents will be made even more prone to rollover accidents by the increased stringency of the rollover protection standard.  

The past three decades have shown the basic futility of the roof crush standard. Yes, rollovers are a deadly and common factor in American road deaths.  But regulating the parts of the car that don’t tend to cause death or serious injury has little effect on real-world results.  If rollover protection is the goal, there are better ways to save lives.  Enforcing seat belt laws would have a major depressing effect on rollover fatalities.  Electronic stability systems have proven enormously effective at preventing rollovers from occurring in the first place.  Suspension systems that automatically lower the car’s center of gravity also have great potential.   

In any case, data gathered over the last three decades shows that it’s time to repeal NHTSA’s roof crush standard. The increasing trend towards taller vehicles, with a greater propensity to roll over, argues for the repeal of this standard completely, before it does even more harm.  While safety campaigners argue that the revised roof crush standards don’t go far enough, NHTSA should fully and scientifically investigate the likelihood that the exact opposite is true.  The rule-makers must admit the possibility that they’ve made a mistake, and find a new and more effective fix for a deadly problem.   

Sitting behind the wheel of a Maserati GranSport GT, cruising along at maybe 50mph (the speedo was busted). I’m waiting for one of the lights ahead to switch from green to red. I’m supposed to turn into the lane next to whichever light remains green, then back into the center lane before coming to a stop. The right light turns red. I jink left, feeding the wheel from my right hand to my left, keeping both arms positioned at nine and three. When I re-grab the wheel with my left hand, I encounter a harder-than-steel carbon fiber steering wheel. I jam my middle finger but good. Man, I hate that stuff.

Ever since the super leggere McLaren F1 debuted, pistonheads have regarded carbon fiber as the ne plus ultra material for high-end whips. The triple-scientifically complex baked resin is both lighter (faster!) and stronger (survive!) than steel. Porsche’s Carrera GT was the first car to boast a carbon fiber monocoque chassis, which is way stiffer than two coques and the F1 way of things. Of course this totally rad material has an equally outrageous price tag; the Carrera GT sold for $440k. Alternatively, you can retro-fit your 997 cabin with carbon fiber (steering wheel, transmission tunnel, doors, pull handles, cupholders, door sills, shift knob and e-brake) for around $6500. An aftermarket E36 M3 carbon fiber hood will set you back a mere $1050.

Pricey yes, but should you pull an Erikson and smash into something at 200mph, at least you’re safer with carbon fiber than steel, right? Er, no. Top Gear fans will recall that The Stig crashed an 800hp+ Koenigsegg CCX’s carbon fiber nose into some old tires. As Jezza noted, the Koenigsegg’s front was shattered, like glass. Translation: carbon fiber withstands one [massive] impact and… that’s it. If Mr. Erikson’s Enzo had struck another solid object after shearing in two on a telephone poll, he couldn’t have blamed the crash on Detrich, or anyone else.

At the moment, exotic carbon fiber monocoques simply mean dead rich guys. However, like variable-valve timing and dual clutches, carbon fiber could easily start trickling down. Reference the Maserati Coupe and Porsche Carrera, carbon fiber has already invaded sports car cabins. Will manufacturers’ ongoing struggle to raise their models’ mileage to meet federal CAFE standards lead to the mass production of carbon fiber parts, including safety-critical components like the chassis and door panels? The scary thing is that NHTSA crash ratings are based on single-strike events. Carbon could outperform steel in federal tests, and kill you dead on the road.

Carbon fiber interiors aren’t so clever either. Why would anyone want anything harder than steel so close to their skull? The switch from metal dashboards to soft, spongy ones was a major automotive safety innovation. I discovered the hard way why carbon fiber is bad. And that was only a finger. Imagine an unbelted noggin. Sure, I know: the entire dash isn’t covered in the stuff, just the steering wheel, the gear knob, the center console, a strip over the glove box and the door inserts. But even if you avoid making high-tech head-on contact, how are you going to defend yourself against a T-boning Ford Excursion pushing those carbon fiber door inserts straight through your kidney?

Meanwhile, aesthetically, it’s a nightmare. The otherwise perfect interior of the Maserati Quattroporte Sport GT has extra helpings of baked plastic all over the joint, and it looks silly. In fact, when my companion and I climbed out of the four-door and into a two-door GT, we were much more impressed by the leather dash (and could have used some alone time when we clocked the leather headliner…). Anyhow, why would any self-respecting millionaire want a car with an interior swathed in the same crap as the kid’s CRX down the street? Even Jeep’s Liberty has fake carbon fiber all over the place. Talk about post-modern irony: low-tech plastic designed to look like high-tech plastic developed to save weight in race cars in an SUV? They might as well bring back the Landau roof.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m all for automotive innovation. I generally slap my forehead whenever the “cars are too hard to work on these days” conversation starts. I want smarter computers and super lightweight stuff helping me go faster, and then faster again. But I don’t want to look at it. Carbon fiber dashes are one step removed from plastering interiors with circuit boards. Obviously, engineers are proud of this miracle material and they want the whole world to know it. As it turns out, sodium-filled exhaust valves are also something of a techno breakthrough. Why not cover a car’s interior with salt? Manufacturers should continue surrounding us in steel cages, while cabin designers should carry on stealing their interiors from Audi.

All I remember about my driver's ed class was a film (remember film?) about a nerdy mid-Westerner who performed all these ridiculous pre-flight checks ('Lights working Dad!') and still managed to kill himself and his entire family by overtaking a slow moving truck straight into an even larger truck. These days, it's the 'Red Asphalt' series, and it's all online. Makes sense to me, and Gary Tsfirin of driversed.com.

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]

The battle is joined; the safety nannies have scaled the walls of common sense to patrol the courtyard outside the castle keep. How else can you explain Euro-NCAP's (European New Car Assessment Program) pedestrian safety standards for automobiles? Apparently, it isn't enough that modern cars must coddle their occupants in hyperbaric cocoons, girded by all manner of airbags, crumple zones, seatbelt pretensioners and Silicon Valley chipset wizardry. By the look of things, it's now necessary to legislate OUTSIDE the box, to protect hapless bystanders from Death Race destruction.

Europe's new NCAP testing regime rates a car's ability to protect a pedestrian's body upon contact with the front bumper and hood. Eventually, cars that fail the test will not be allowed for sale within the Euro-Zone. It's yet more proof (if proof were needed) that Brussel's non-elected bureaucrats would have their sponsoring nations consider automobiles a curse that must be controlled, a lethal weapon ready to savage any luckless pedestrian who dares place a stray toe beyond the curb.

Back when NCAP first floated the new standards, carmakers were politely apoplectic. They denounced the new criteria as expensive, impractical and expensive, and, despite their nature as chronic heel draggers when it comes to matters legislative, they had a point. How do you create a car that can lose such a one-sided battle of mass, inertia, momentum and blunt force? Of course, government-mandated necessity being one bad mo fo, automakers playing their wares in the Euro-Zone feverishly concocted various mechanical systems to meet the new NCAP standards– but not without a frightening bill in terms of cost and complexity. A tab passed directly along to… wait for it… the consumer.

French automaker Citroen became the first to answer the dubious ring of NCAP's bell, with the organization declaring the marque's new C6 executive saloon the Jaywalker's Best Friend. In order to secure NCAP's first-ever four-star rating, Citroen fitted their range topper with a prodigious muzzle (clock that front overhang) and a labyrinth of sensors tied to under-hood pyrotechnics. When a lunkheaded pedestrian stumbles out into the roadway and the speeding C6 clips his/her maladroit legs, a network of impact and pressure sensors activate, triggering explosive charges that push the hood upwards, creating an impact buffer zone between the car's hard points and the unfortunate's soft points.

As one might imagine, this is a single-use, blow-it-and-throw-it proposition. Once detonated, one doesn't simply tamp down the hood, thumb a reset switch and get on with it. In addition to whatever cosmetic, structural and driveline damage have been wrought, there will henceforth be new sensors to source, incendiary charges to be refurbish, etc. It all adds up, especially because many of these devices are given to activating during normal front-end collisions, regardless of whether the automobile is impaling itself on another car, a centennial elm, or Angelina Jolie's inestimable stems.

Other solutions being efforted include external airbags, larger front ends with heightened space between engine and sheet metal, thinner body panels with improved give (but inferior dent resistance), and any combination thereof. For cars with abbreviated-by-design front ends (roadsters, minivans, full-size vans, etc.), it is proving particularly troublesome (if not impossible) to meet these standards without an active mechanism component. To crib a Diddyism, 'Mo' money, mo' problems.'

Why should this matter to us Yanks? Both Japan and Australia are about to establish their own pedestrian friendly safety legislation. The automakers mucking about in America's sandbox are busy craning their necks to see how this mess pans out. If the 'soft landing for peds' regs hold abroad, it won't be long before they creep Stateside. Perhaps industry lobbyists will be able to stave off federal implementation for a while, but a cabal of personal injury lawyers– the unscrupulous sort who sue municipalities for millions over potholes when their alcohol-soaked clients stagger from bars into darkened streets with their laces tied together– will eventually make it so.

It's instructive to note that, on average, U.S. footsloggers are far less likely to be smacked (never mind killed) by passing motorists than their worldwide counterparts. For example, the annual number of British pedestrian fatalities is fully seventy-five percent of America's totals, despite the fact that Blighty boasts just one-fifth of our population. Perhaps it's because limeys drive like madmen, or maybe it's attributable to differences in roadway and infrastructure design. More than likely, it's because Americans would just assume drive to their refrigerators than walk, if only their cars could apex the breakfast table.

Regardless, if the U.S. adopts criteria similar to that of the Euro-NCAP, the cost/value relationship between adopting such standards will prove to be even less compelling here than it is abroad, and another battle for personal accountability will be lost.

Automatic speed cameras have dotted European highways for well over a decade– despite the fact that there's no conclusive proof that they improve safety. In fact, an official British government report recently stated 'No significant difference was observed in the personal injury accident rate for sites with and without speed cameras.' And yet the bane of European roadways is coming to a freeway near you. By the time spring arrives, at least two US states will install photo radar cameras on their highways, issuing millions of dollars worth of fines to hapless motorists.

In October, the Scottsdale, Arizona City Council approved a plan to place photo radar cameras on Loop 101, a freeway that encompasses the Phoenix metropolitan area. It's a no-brainer for Arizona Governor Janet Napolitano; under the plan, the state takes a 46 percent cut of the estimated $22 million annual haul while Scottsdale bears all the political risk. Unsurprisingly, Napolitano views Scottsdale's scheme as a pilot program. Even before its implementation, the governor has publicly expressed her desire to expand the photo radar program throughout the state.

Meanwhile, Illinois is planning to install speed cameras on its interstates. Government officials are busy haggling over how to split the loot with the private company running the program. The state shouldn't be too bothered about the exact arrangement. Once the cameras are erected, Illinois' revenue collection effort will quickly dwarf their Arizona colleagues' relatively limited and leisurely program. No wonder: a single high-speed round-trip on an Illinois freeway could cost a motorist $1375.

The Illinois legislature authorized the ticket cameras to 'protect vulnerable highway laborers'. To that end, Illinois' unmanned speed cameras will snap all motorists who fail to observe the reduced speed limit in designated work zones, and automatically send them a $375 ticket. A second offense costs $1000. Officials admit they may place two cameras a mile or so away from each other. Those so trapped will lose their license for 90 days, receive points on their license, and pay higher insurance premiums.

Of course, the "saving workers" argument is entirely suspect. According to a study prepared by the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, automobiles caused just twelve percent of highway worker deaths nationwide. Lawmakers behind the Illinois program cooked the books by including fatalities caused by construction vehicles– such as highway workers hit by their own dump trucks. Be that as it may, Illinois and Arizona are about to experience what happens when history is ignored…

In 1986, two Texas towns, La Marque and Friendswood, began the first US implementations of photo radar. The programs didn't even last the year. 'You could say there was a good bit of unhappiness,' La Marque's former mayor Jack Nash told the Los Angeles Times. Friendswood fared no better. 'I'm certain it's a good system if you want to make money, but you're going to find that the community is going to lose its reputation very quickly,' said Galveston County Constable Paul Bess. 'It won't come back to my area.'

Every time photo radar is put to a direct popular vote, it loses. Big time. Peoria, Arizona voters ran photo radar out of town by a 2-1 margin in 1991, AND sent the police chief packing. The following year, two-thirds of eligible voters in Batavia, Illinois turned out for a referendum on speed cameras. They rejected the devices and booted the main camera proponent from the city council. Anchorage, Alaska completed the anti-camera trifecta in 1997. The state legislature canceled the photo radar program just four days before voters enacted a referendum banning cameras. Months later, Alaska's Court of Appeals found the photo radar program 'unreliable'.

Some long-term speed camera programs have been incredibly successful– in raising revenue from out-of-towners. The District of Columbia complains of 'taxation without representation' on its license plates but practices it on the residents of Virginia and Maryland. Official documents reveal that 'outsiders' received well over 75% of the $155m photo tickets issued by the federal city since 1999. Likewise, commuters traveling between Scottsdale and Phoenix receive 98% of Paradise Valley, Arizona's automated speeding tickets.

The lesson is clear: speed cameras that target local residents are the first to go. The forthcoming Arizona and Illinois programs– and their political backers– aren't likely to last long. [A Scottsdale resident has already launched a last-minute effort to put freeway cameras to a vote.] When given the opportunity, US voters consistently reject automated speed traps as both invasive and ineffective. It's a tribute to the American system of government that our representatives' not-so-hidden addiction to speed camera revenue is– and will continue to be– stymied by a combination of common sense and political will.

Why aren’t mechanical skills taught in driver’s ed anymore? Aspiring motorists learn obscure signage, passing safely (an oxymoron to any parent) and when to pay their motoring taxes. But basic automotive maintenance is a total no show. In my home state, a new driver can get a learner’s permit or driver’s license without having the slightest idea how to check their car’s oil or change a tire.

It’s a shame. Our schools teach our kids how to cook, use a laptop and avoid sexually transmitted diseases. Today's techno-savvy teens can whip-up an omelet, send batch emails from Starbucks and open a condom one-handed, but they don’t know how to keep their car running smoothly and safely. They consider automotive maintenance and repair something their hopelessly nerdy Dad does, or something that happens when their parents [arbitrarily] interrupt their freedom by sequestering the car at the local dealer.

This glaring omission can be traced back to the modern cars’ increasing reliability. Even before Cadillac’s zero-maintenance Northstar engine appeared, manufacturers had been Hell-bent on eliminating any non-cabin customer-to-car interaction. The Japanese have been particularly zealous in this regard, and successful; drivers no longer expect anything to go wrong with their cars. Ever. In fact, reliability has come to mean inviolability: hood and trunk locks are protective shields against "amateur" interference.

This mechanical dumbing down has gone over the top. For example, more and more cars are being fitted with run-flat tires. The technology completely eliminates the need to know how to fit a spare; which is just as well as there usually isn’t one, and if there is, most young drivers wouldn’t know where to find it or what to do with it when they did. Electronic oil gauges are also becoming the norm, virtually eliminating the need to be able to find or use a dipstick.

Once upon a time, automotive mechanical skills were passed from father to son, mother to daughter, friend to friend. Now, much to my amazement, I’ve yet to meet a teenager who knows anything about their car other than how to hook-up their iPod. Recommended oil? Pass. Battery location? Dunno. How to tell when the brakes are wearing out? Nope. The enthusiasts amongst them want NOS and coffee can exhausts, but they have no idea where or how to affix the parts to make them work (other than the local tuning shop). We’ve lost an entire generation to the microchip mentality: if it’s broke, replace it.

Obviously, no car is 100% reliable. Even a Toyota can fail when you least expect it. If you’re paranoid or believe in Murphy’s Law (or both), the breakdown will inevitably occur in the most dangerous place possible (e.g. a busy highway at night in the rain, or the part of town where tow trucks refuse to respond). It’s also obvious that we can no longer rely on the government, schools or the social network to impart mechanical skills to young drivers. Which means it’s down to us, the “car nerd”, to teach our genetic inheritors the basic repair and maintenance skills they need; before their ignorance kills, injures or strands them in the middle of nowhere.

So how do you broach a subject that your children find about as trendy as Herb Alpert and his Tijuana Brass? Cunning and subterfuge. Choose a day when their social schedule is either relative empty or completely full. Run the car’s battery flat, let the air out of a tire, pull a bulb from the tail lights, remove a fuse, extract a wiper blade and hide the keys under the spare. Then gently inform your hormone charged loved ones that they’re not going ANYWHERE until they learn how to take care of the car.

Start with something simple. Hand them the tire iron and ask them what it’s for. (If necessary, duck.) Then have them change that flat tire. Remember: laziness makes people clever. Don’t end up changing the tire for them. Next, move on to the engine compartment. Get them to open the hood (trickier than it sounds), check the oil, refill the windshield washer fluid, locate the battery, and so on. Then watch them replace the wiper blade, headlight bulb and fuse. Finish with the jumper cables to get the whole thing started.

Once you’re satisfied that your children can take care of family car fundamentals, you’ll sleep a little better at night. You can go back to worrying about that guy your daughter is dating, instead of worrying about that AND whether the car will make it home.

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.

On a clear day, it takes me three hours to drive back from Gatwick. I'll never forget the fateful day the journey required seven hours. Seven hours stuck in a car with the secretary from Hell. Seven hours listening to her bouncer boyfriend's [allegedly] successful battle against booze, fags, cocaine, speed, angel dust, in-bred in-laws, chronic unemployment, a nasty temper, asthma and a criminal record. The reason for this endless exploration of the existential maxim that "Hell is other people"? They closed the motorway. They closed the M25. There was an accident.

I have no idea how many people died that day, or how they met their Maker. God only knows what horrific scenes greeted the fine men and women of the police, fire department and paramedic squads on that bloody afternoon. I have nothing but respect for those who had to deal with the aftermath. And my heart goes out to all the people— mothers, fathers, daughters, sons, etc.—bereaved by this regrettable tragedy. But did they really have to close the motorway? At the risk of giving politically correct "safety campaigners" an apoplectic fit, why didn't they just shovel the wreckage to one side and let everybody else get on with it?

An accident, no matter how gruesome, should not prevent the rest of the world from going about the important business of moving about. Sure, take the bodies off the road, shroud what must be covered for privacy and decency's sake. Scrub the gas, oil and blood off the pavement. Take a few photographs for the lawyers and the boys at the lab. But for God's sake, keep things moving! While forensic experts spend hours trying to find a cause for the carnage, the economy grinds to a halt. Millions of man-hours are wasted, as stationary motorists do nothing more productive than picking their nose and listening to Chris Tarrant. Meaningless meetings are missed. Over-priced goods aren't delivered. Entire airlines are delayed more than normal. It's a waste of time and resources only a government accountant could fully comprehend.

The physical and psychological toll is staggering. Surprisingly, sitting in an endless traffic jam doesn't trigger so-called "road rage". That's an active state, giving afflicted drivers the opportunity to vent their frustration through violence (which is, after all, a type of movement). A motorway parking lot creates something entirely different: "road impotence". It's a massive stress hit caused by stifling an on-going and instinctive desire to drive in the breakdown lane, throttle your passenger or leave your vehicle and run! The long-term health effects are predictably dire. I'll bet English cardiologists already use the term "motorway closure" for a sales rep's heart disease. How long before we'll see claims for PJSD (Pre-Junction Stress Disorder)?

The only case for motorway closures is safety. Supposedly, closure gives emergency services full and unfettered access to an accident scene. It's an emotionally resonant argument that doesn't withstand serious scrutiny. For one thing, I've never seen a police car, ambulance or fire truck that couldn't fit in the breakdown lane. For another, while no one begrudges the rescue services a safe working environment, how long should it take to clear a road? I've seen a motorway close for two days, and several others that remained shut for over ten hours. How much danger is created by one lane of traffic crawling by the scene? Shouldn't that be balanced against the perils of sending miles of frustrated motorway traffic on a Magical Mystery Tour through tiny villages?

There is an answer: controlled rubbernecking. I'm serious. Push the mangled motors to one side, set-up a proper viewing lane and let my people go! An official drive-by policy would keep the wheels of commerce turning, reduce the drain on NHS resources and improve road safety. Think! about it. The government currently squanders millions on expensive TV spots depicting the aftermath of grisly accidents, or showcasing slow motion pedestrian snuff films. Supposedly, the ads shock drivers into slowing down. A simple sign at the scene of a motorway accident saying, "It could be you!" would be far more effective. And cheaper; the National Lottery could sponsor it.

Don't get me wrong. Motorway fatalities are a serious business. They're sickening and sad and can ruin someone's whole day. (And yes officer, I have seen dead bodies lying in the middle of the road. I'm an American. They don't close motorways.) But the idea that drivers should be shielded from gruesome reality, or that we should be inconvenienced because of some misguided idea of worker safety, is nonsense. This country's economic and mental health depends on a free-flowing motorway network. Everything possible should be done to keep traffic moving—no matter what. And if I should cop it on a motorway, you have my permission scrape my remains to one side and get on with it. Just don't forget to wave.

Someone at BMW decided to put ABS braking on a motorcycle. How better to showcase the capabilities of the then new Automatic Braking System? Luckily, The Boys From Bavaria had just the bike for the job: the K100, or, as it was fondly called by the biking fraternity, 'the flying brick'. One of my mates got one. At a meet, he delighted all assembled by doing full-lock stops on gravel. Wow! Later, after the machine was serviced, he discovered that the ABS hadn't been working.

Don't read that the wrong way. My friend's "all-hands-on-deck" gravel stops were a testimony to his riding ability, rather than the stupidity of ABS. It shows what a rider with real skill can do with a road machine— no matter how basic the technology. UK Petrolheads may diss their American cousins for the foul-handling beasts they call muscle cars, but there is a real skill in driving one of these ancient behemoths over 30 miles per hour. Or around a corner. It ain't pretty, but it IS impressive. In fact, many drivers actually prefer this untainted "man vs. machine" driving experience. Which brings us to the question of the day: how much electronic help does a 'true' enthusiast need?

As you're no doubt aware, no road review of a modern car would be complete without the tester switching off the drivers' aid(s) and seeing what happens at the limit. Casual references to 'a whiff of opposite lock bringing things under control' lead performance-oriented readers to think it's more than OK to switch off the car's central nervous system. It's a badge of honour! REAL men don't need DSC, PSM or ESP! When I drive down the Welsh roads favoured by UK car reviewers, I half expect to encounter a road sign showing the letters ABS in a red circle with a line crossed through it.

This is dangerous machismo. Today's driver's aids are an absolute godsend for the non-professional. They should never be switched off outside of a racetrack. Granted, early versions were passion killers. The previous shape 500 SL was one of the first cars equipped with Mercedes' ESP (Electronic Stability Program). It reacted to a potential spin by completely shutting down the engine room—at the precise moment when you needed more power. Modern driving aids are far less intrusive. The best do nothing more than stop you from killing yourself. So you can do what you love best: push hard. I challenge any amateur to drive a BMW M5 at speed without its Bavarian brain bailing them out of serious trouble.

Of course, there are limits to how much 'assistance' any driver needs, or wants. FIFA's Max Mosley's fascist fantasy of satellite controlled speed limiters is the logical endpoint of one line of thinking. His vision of the Electronic Nanny State would be about as welcome an intrusion into a car as the man himself. But there's still a lot of debate about the utility of more subtle systems. EBA (Emergency Brakes Assist) decides whether you want to stop, REALLY stop or OH MY GOD WE'RE ALL GOING TO DIE! Stop. The computer applies additional braking as and when it thinks you're not putting in enough effort into the job. Understandably, the idea rankles sporting drivers. Then saves their life.

As new ways are invented to get your sports car to do what you want it to do, despite the fact that your desire violates the laws of physics, manufacturers struggle to decide exactly when and how 'emergency' assistance is deployed. It is true that an enthusiast wants to drive on the edge the envelope, while the average punter doesn't know how to send a postcard. That's why Ferrari's system is a lot more tolerant than anything Ford's legal department would allow. Porsche Stability Management is also notable by its absence. Someday soon, fuzzy logic systems will assess your driving ability and road conditions to establish if, when and how you should be helped (and no Max, they shouldn't be programmed to call the police). Meanwhile, we have the on/off switch.

I'm a Darwinian. If people are stupid enough to kill themselves, I'm all for it. So I can't very well argue that such switches should be removed, even though I firmly believe that disenabling them on a public road makes you an automotive kamikaze. But in the interests of maintaining a viable pool of performance car buyers, and second-hand sports cars, I suggest Porsche et al should link their PSM/DSC/ESP buttons to a telephone. The car could call your insurance company when you send the nanny packing. "Do you REALLY want to do that sir?" they'd ask, adjusting your premium accordingly. Err, maybe not. Perhaps the future lies in more variable driver's aids like BMW's new 7-Series, which allows three levels of electronic assistance. Well, it works for dildos doesn't it?

The first time the lorry locked-up its wheels, I was entering the 'u' in 'Weston Super Mare' into the satellite navigation system. The second time, I was trying to switch the suspension from 'comfort' to 'sports' mode. The last time, I was splitting my attention between the 'Entertainment' screen and the road ahead. So I was free to watch the eighteen-wheeler's back end swing gracefully into the opposite lane- where it missed the front of an oncoming car by inches. God knows what would have happened if I'd been driving.

I probably would have survived. If you have to rear end an articulated lorry, you couldn't ask for a better car for the job than the new BMW 7-Series. As you'd expect, it's a bloody great vault, with enough deformable steel and high-speed airbags to protect its occupants from anything short of a SAM missile strike. But not from yourself. Thanks to its revolutionary iDrive controller and centrally mounted colour information screen, BMW's top-of-the-line motor encourages you to take your eyes off the road long enough to plough into a solid object.

The iDrive controller's intended mission was to let 7-Series' owners adjust over 700 functions. How many? Quick! Name all the things you want a car to do: accelerate, brake, turn, play the radio, play a CD, raise and lower windows, maintain a comfortable temperature, lock the doors, um, tell you how to get somewhere, tell you when the next service is due, um, um, wipe the windows and turn on the lights. That's a dozen. Which leaves 688 things you never knew you needed to do while driving that you can now do in a Seven Series by twisting and pushing the iDrive controller.

How about assigning a function-air re-circulation, satellite navigation or automatic handbrake- to a steering wheel-mounted button? Or firming up the dampers and steering? Or finding the nearest curry house in Milton Keynes? Impressive stuff. Yet common sense suggests that anything that distracts a driver from monitoring the outside environment is a bad thing. A device that requires you to take one hand off the wheel while distracting you from the road ahead is positively Darwinian. BMW's previous 'comms pack' was dangerous enough: challenging you to enter 'Cwmavon' into the sat nav on the trot. The iDrive is in a different league: challenging you to check your tyre pressure in the middle of a skid.

It seems unlikely that the Seven's target market- slightly older than middle-aged plutocrats- will be bothered about using iDrive. They're the kind of successful, techno-wary people who pay someone else to do their email. They'll just get in, curse themselves for forgetting to put their foot on the brake when pressing the start button, fiddle with the stalk mounted gearshift for a bit, curse themselves some more for not pressing the button that releases the parking brake and, finally, drive off. And that's it.

BMW knows this. They have so much faith in the iDrive system that you can operate all the car's major functions without touching the controller. Traditional rotary knobs regulate airflow and temperature. All the usual buttons operate the windows, seats, central locking, defrost, etc. If BMW believed that iDrive was the intuitive future of driver control, why did they equip the new Seven with two CD players? Maybe it's because the dash-mounted single CD can be operated manually, while the six-stack system requires iDrive.

I have no doubt that BMW will 'rectify' iDrive- if only because an army of shysters stands ready to enrich the relatives of Americans who iDrive themselves straight into a tree. BMW has already announced it will offer yet another way to control the techno feast that is the Seven Series: voice activation. Disenabling the screen when the car's in gear would have been the easier solution: iNotinDrive. A simplified 'heads-up' windscreen display would have been the better answer. But I guess BMW doesn't want to play second fiddle to a Chevrolet Corvette.

Like the customers who will eventually use it, iDrive will either adapt or die. As my review of the Seven will reveal, the actual car-the bit that all this trickery is designed to control-is a superb work of automotive engineering. By adding an uber gizmo, The Boys From Bavaria have revealed a bizarre lack of confidence in and focus on their core values. The company that builds 'The Ultimate Driving Machine' is the one company that should know an over-complicated and dangerous distraction when it sees one. The iDrive is not, as BMW claims, 'A New Way to Drive'. It is, in fact, a new way to die.