Porsche salesman Kirk Stingle calls it 'tip in'. It's those initial few seconds of acceleration, when a vehicle's engine tries to convince the stationary mass surrounding it that it's time to hit the road, Jack. A surprisingly large number of SUV's tip in like they're racing for pinks. Not so the Volvo XC90 V8. With a 311hp powerplant mated to a six-speed slushbox, the formerly slothful Swede glides off the line with all the grace and strength of an Olympic figure skater starting her routine. Even the Russian judges give it a perfect ten.

The newly-engined Volvo XC90 shows that the Ford subsidiary understands that the ideal 'soft roader' is nothing more than a luxury car on stilts. It must be comfortable enough so that none of its occupants wants to throttle a fellow passenger (always a plus for family car buyers), tall enough to impart a sense of superiority, fast enough to exercise that authority and nimble enough not to roll over and die when you do. Oh yes, and safe. It's got to be safe.

If cars were subject to truth in labeling laws, the Mercedes Benz CLS would be called the Mercedes Benz WTF. Nothing can quite prepare the casual viewer for the chop top Merc's initial impact. Whether you see the sedan as a bold and beautiful move by an adventurous carmaker, or a hideous repudiation of a famous marque's dignified brand values, the CLS' delivers the kind of aesthetic jolt normally reserved for concept cars and George Barris creations.

Quite how this show stopper infiltrated Mercedes' lineup is anybody's guess. Did Chrysler parachute 300C designer Ralph Gilles into the main corporate HQ? Did Mercedes boss Dr. Eckhard Cordes fall in love with the reveal on 'Pimp My Mini-Maybach'? In any case, the CLS accomplishes at a single stroke what BMW's Bangle failed to do with an entire model range: transform a German carmaker's image from stodgy establishment lackey to cutting-edge automotive artist. It's that wild.

I swear I've haven't clipped a curb in decades. And yet there I was, cutting in front of a line of traffic in the great Rhode Island tradition, when I heard the muffled whump of the 645Ci's rear tire cresting concrete. It's not the kind of sound you want to hear when piloting a $70k "Ultimate Driving Machine"– if only because it makes you seem a lot less than the ultimate driver. Not guilty. I blame mechanical foul play.

Firstly, the 645Ci is a hard charger. The moment your right foot touches the go pedal, every one of the coupe's 325 horses stampedes towards the horizon. That may not sound like enough horsepower to make you lose your bearings, but by God, it is. Thanks to a stepless intake manifold, double VANOS variable valve timing and other Bavarian black arts, the 3781lbs. luxobarge steams to sixty in a scarcely credible 5.5 seconds. More importantly, it strains to do so at every possible opportunity, to the point where the traction control idiot light sends out a steady stream of Morse Code.

Props to The Dodge Boys for their steadfast refusal to give up on the Neon. Its original incarnation was a googly-eyed flexible flyer, with sharp handling and a willing (if coarse) drivetrain. The sports sedan earned plenty of praise for its sensibly-priced enthusiasts' appeal and cheeky looks– at least until its predilection for rattling to bits revealed itself. Predictably, over the last couple of years, the Neon's glow has been eventually eclipsed by newer, sharper, faster, better-built competitors.

And yet, here it is, in full SRT-4 regalia, slathered in Orange Pearl Blast paint.

As I guided the revised Boxster S onto the off-ramp at a not-inconsiderable speed, I instantly concluded that Porsche's engineers have switched from coffee to amphetamines. While the previous Boxster S would have sasheed through the ½ mile curve with sure-footed ease, the updated version wanted to chew up the tarmac and spit it out. The snarls and howls bouncing off the stone walls flanking the roadway left no doubt that the more "evolved" car likes living life on the edge. There was only one thing for it: go 'round again.

The second time through the corner, I held the Boxster S in second gear and mashed the gas. The car added speed like a boulder rolling downhill; the transition from bottom end torque shove to Variocam assisted accelerative thrust was as seamless and powerful as gravity itself. The Boxster's variable-ratio steering rack and [optional] 19" wheels responded to the smallest steering input with a fencer's speed, a surgeon's precision and a Rottweiler's tenacity. The resulting line through the ramp's radius wasn't pretty, but it was very, very quick. Oh yeah, and fun.

The Lexus GX470 is a poster child for SUV haters: huge exterior, cramped interior, hippo handling and mileage figures so low they make an M1 tank look frugal. For those who care about such things, the fact that the GX470 qualifies as an Ultra-Low Emissions Vehicle doesn't alter its planet-killing profile. For those who couldn't care less, the GX470 offers at least one good reason to piss off your PC neighbors (providing that's not enough reason in and of itself): off road prowess.

The GX470 is a fantastically capable four-by-four. It sports all the structural strength and traction control doo-dads you need to trammel the road less traveled. Hill Assist Control stops the SUV from sliding backwards on steep inclines. Downhill Assist Control modulates engine and wheel braking to avoid nose-diving in the opposite direction. And if that's not enough to help you boldly go where TV ads have gone before, the GX470 also has full-time all-wheel-drive, a limited slip diff, rear air suspension and enough ground clearance to mount a MINI. I couldn't find a single hill, rut or rock that could ruffle the 470's mechanical feathers.

Subaru has remained 'willfully odd' for eons. The Japanese brand's long-held construction tenets– horizontally-opposed powerplants, all-wheel-drive and eccentric styling– have only recently been embraced by the masses. Okay, so America's roads aren't exactly awash in boxer-engines, but controversial styling is certainly making a resurgence, and we all know how that AWD car/truck thing worked out. Most manufacturers now have at least one car-based 'cute ute' in their showrooms, from Honda's CR-V to the Saturn Vue and Hyundai's roly-poly new Tucson.

With the massive success of its Outback lineup, it comes as no surprise that Subaru decided to fit some lifts and extra-tall glazing on its Impreza platform in search of a few more sales. The resulting Forester is an enigmatic little toolbox with many charms, but an unclear role in the family constellation.

The Audi A8L W12 goes like Hell. Kick the gearbox in the sides a couple of times, mash the gas and the long-wheelbase leviathan transforms itself into a car-sized guided missile, punching through the air with terrifying resolve. And so it should. The W12 in question– two V6 powerplants connected at the crankshaft in a 'W' formation– generates 450hp. That's enough power to propel Audi's flagship from zero to sixty in five seconds dead, or accelerate from any speed to its 130mph V-max with stupendous, seamless, seductive shove.

Ah, you noticed that did you? One-three-oh is plenty fast compared to say, a Toyota Corolla, but we're talking about a top-of-the-line limo from the makers of the S4 and RS6, two cars that clearly believe that life begins at 140. You'd be forgiven for assuming Audi built the W12 to mix it with big-engined Mercs and Bimmers tear-assing up and down Germany's unrestricted Autobahns, knocking on the door of the double ton. At the very least, the W12 should top-out at 155mph, in accordance with the Fatherland's so-called "gentleman's agreement".

Sciontologists are scary people. Who else would re-package a Toyota Echo and sell it to American twenty-somethings? We're talking about a Japanese sub-compact with all the edgy excitement of a five-year-old Readers' Digest (large print edition). You couldn't imagine a more cynical marketing ploy. Still, props to Toyota for having the stones to foist the "new money for old rope" routine on the world's most style critical audience.

The word "cobalt" comes from 'kobolt', variant of the old German word 'kobold', meaning 'goblin.' As the story goes, German silver miners of yore believed that goblins would come and steal their booty, leaving worthless cobalt in its place. Not exactly an auspicious choice of names for a car, then.

Still, one can hardly fault the General for wanting to distance the Cobalt from the Cavalier it replaces. What with everyone from Toyota to Hyundai producing far more interesting econoboxes than the august Cavalier, Chevrolet knew that the Cobalt had to set a new, higher standard for its low end products. It had to 'bring the noise' to capture sales from parties other than Alamo and Enterprise.

Enter the noise, or, as the ads say, Chevy's 'new commotion.' From the outside, the Cobalt's design is as novel as a snowflake in Aspen. It isn't unattractive, mind, but it lacks any hint of the brash American flair that Chrysler is currently deploying in their successful campaign against the imports. At least the Cobalt Coupe's a tastier morsel than the Saturn Ion, with which it shares its mechanical underpinnings. The Chevy's aggressively raked roofline (almost 7/8ths Mustang in execution) and characterful dual-element tail lamps add a bit of interest to an otherwise uninspiring shape.

The Cobalt's interior reflects the General's ongoing campaign against acrid cheapness; the Cobalt's plastics rank several orders above the outgoing Cavaliers' (and the Ion). Still, the cabin's overall quality won't worry VW's Golfers or Toyota's Sciontologists. As always, the devil's in the details. For example, the Cobalt's seat bottoms ratchet up and down, but the action is uncultivated, and the seat coverings themselves are more Stainmaster than stylemeister. The Cobalt's urethane steering wheel rim is suitably thick, but feels like a discount replacement part, and fails to telescope.

On the plus side, the Cobalt is a seriously quiet automobile. Noise from the drivetrain, tires, wind and traffic are all suppressed far more effectively than they are in a comparable Honda Civic or Toyota Corolla. Better still, despite the frigid temperatures and epic potholes on our test loop, the Cobalt's interior trim uttered nary a squeak or groan. Reliability freaks have every reason to be hopeful.

Over the road con brio, the Cobalt proved largely free of unwanted 'commotion'. In situations where a Cavalier would've staggered about like the oenophiles in Sideways, the Cobalt remained firmly planted to the pavement. Enthusiasts could be forgiven for wanting to pass on anything employing a twist-beam trailing arm rear suspension, but the reality is something of a pleasant surprise. (Transitional responses are sharpened by standard anti-roll bars front and rear.) Admittedly, the Cobalt doesn't inspire the same handling confidence as the Ford Focus, but it doesn't slur about like the skinny-tired Mitsubishi Lancer, either.

The Cobalt's variable-assist electric power steering lacks true precision, especially at the straight-ahead, but it's not unbearably artificial or over-boosted. The Chevy's brakes are more effective than any disc/drum setup has a right to be (you'll have to plump for the SS if you want discs all 'round), providing tremendous stopping power with minimal fuss or fade. A little more braking feel would be welcome, but the stoppers' safety is beyond reproach.

Despite a large-for-the-class 2.2L Ecotec four-cylinder with 145 horses, the Cobalt is a decidedly reluctant revver, with general smoothness being notable by its absence. Although we can only hope that Chevrolet will find some people who will, thrashing an entry-level Cobalt is both unpleasant and pointless. Doubtlessly, the shortly-promised 2.4L 175hp will improve matters, as will the 205 ponies in the force-fed 2.0L SS variant. But for now, file the Cobalt's go-power under: 'Competent, not inspiring.'

And there you have it. The Cobalt, for all its improvements in quality and engineering, is yet another boring automobile. The 'new commotion' ultimately lacks what Chevy's admen so desperately want us to believe it has– something to get excited about. Sure, GM has come up with a perfectly competent car capable of going ply-to-ply with Honda and Toyota's current (albeit dated) offerings. But the Cobalt stumbles badly next to the dynamic soul of the Mazda3, and the abrasive charisma of the Dodge Neon SRT-4.

Given GM's sliding market share, the Cobalt's lack of ambition is particularly troubling. Name change or no, the Cobalt started from the back of the pack, inheriting the Cavalier's reputation for low residuals, suspect quality, and a 'rent me/beat me' persona. Whether through novel styling, breakthrough technology, scandalously low MSRP or stupid amounts of power, the Cobalt needed something to help it stand out from its ancestor AND a field crowded with viable alternatives. To stem the tide of imported low-cost, high quality sedans, the Cobalt had to be a game-changer. What GM delivered is a solid setup man. Back to the mines boys, back to the mines.

Honda must know that "street cred" and "minivan" go together like "50 Cent" and "country club". The preliminary sketches for the updated Odyssey show a vehicle bristling with sporting intent. Unfortunately, the finished item is another boxy behemoth with no more sex appeal than a shopping cart. This time out, Honda indented the Odyssey's lower doors and creased the nose. The cinched waist fails to moderate the slab sides while the rhinoplasty makes the Odyssey look like a snake with a half-eaten Acura TL sticking out of its mouth.

When I asked Horacio Pagani how he can compete against Ferrari, Porsche and Mercedes, he said "It's better to be the head of a mouse rather than the tail of lion." It's a nice Italianate metaphor (especially for an Argentinean), but it's not strictly accurate. If the Pagani Zonda is a "mouse", then an F15 is a "plane". Plant your right foot in a C12S and the AMG-fettled Mercedes V12 barks, roars, howls and then screams like a wounded grizzly. Any lion with an ounce of self-preservation would run for his life.

And not make it ten yards. When thrashing the Zonda on the twisting two-lane highway above Modena, there was one long straight. For the first and only time, I was free to explore the mystery known as "third gear". Those of you who've driven a race car flat out might appreciate the resulting rush. I doubt it. On a track, you don't need to watch out for Italian truck drivers coming from the opposite direction (using the racing line). Flooring the Pagani Zonda on a public road hurts your brain, blows your mind AND loosens your bowels.

Bristol is one of Britain's most venerated carmakers. For over thirty-five years, Brits "in the know" have considered the obscure automaker's products to be the embodiment of English hand built quality and understated exclusivity. Unfortunately, motoring journalists need not apply. In fact, Bristol actively discourages any sort of publicity for its current cars. A test drive is "out of the question".

A few weeks before the end of my English adventure, I gave Bristol one last try. I immediately recognised the cut-glass accent on the other end of the phone: Tony Crook, former RAF pilot, racing driver and the undisputed Emperor of Bristol Motor Cars. Luckily, the octogenarian and self-professed "living legend" didn't recognise my voice. Mr. Crook agreed to a "five-minute chat".

After a foot of fresh snow fell on New England, I was ready to take the Acura RL out for an action traction thrash. Unfortunately, the RL is a keyless wonder. When you twist the ignition knob into the off position, it's not really off– it's in accessory mode. You have to depress the plastic do-hickey and twist it another notch. Who knew? OK, there was an electronic warning. But modern cars bong more than Hawaiian dope smokers. I'd checked that the RL's lights were off the previous night and called it good.

Anyway, I wasn't the only car hack to flatten the battery. And the thing is, the $50k RL can't afford such a basic misstep. Acura's "I-swear-I'm-not-a-bling-Honda" is competing deep inside Caddy, Merc, Bimmer, Audi and Lexus territory. As BMW learned with its iDrive You Nuts debacle, any luxury car that makes you think too much starts from the back of the pack. A car that won't start, well…

The Scion tC and I got off to a bad start; I had the audacity to take it grocery shopping. Hey, it's a hatchback, right? Well, most hatchbacks have cargo covers with a hinge at front and stringy-things that tie it to the hatch lid. Open the hatch and the cover swings out of your way. Not the tC. The tC's cargo cover is a cardboard, plastic and faux-dog-hair affair that has three positions: 1) In the way; 2) totally in the way; and 3) tossed angrily into the back seat.

To access the tC's hatch you must lift up the cover yourself, at which time the plastic clip detaches itself and shouts to the others, "Hey guys, you gotta try this!" The other clips jump in unison and the whole affair crashes down into the trunk faster than you can utter your expletive of choice. Good luck re-attaching it. After five attempts and two dozen expletives, I placed the cover in the aforementioned Position 3. By the time I loaded my groceries, the milk was past its sell-by date.