Cat Scratch Fever!

Prowling Houston in a 900 hp Hellcat

 

  Pirate Press         December 2020

Three years ago, I came across a website called Turo that let car owners personally rent out their vehicles. Of course, I was mortified at the mere thought of handing my car keys over to someone I’d never met before. But as a potential rentee, it opened up a whole new world of possibilities. Unfortunately, the service—at least in my area—was still in its infancy and the selection of exciting cars was virtually nonexistent. Despite that, the idea was intriguing so I put it on a mental back burner, promising to return once it had matured.

In July 2019, a venture capital company injected $250 million into Turo, and in February of this year, another $30 million in funding was received. So when we decided to visit Houston for Labor Day weekend, it seemed like the perfect time to take a closer look at Turo. Well, that and the fact that my daughter is obsessed with the singer Billie Eillish who just happens to drive a black Dodge Hellcat. So, for completely unselfish reasons, I volunteered to rent a 707-hp Hellcat so my daughter could emulate her idol. I also explained to Amanda that this was most definitely *NOT* an excuse for me to drive one of the most powerful production cars on the planet.

She didn’t believe me.

Not even for a second.

But before I could wrap my sweaty fingers around the Hellcat’s red ignition key which unlocks its full feral fury, I had to agree to the stipulations required by the renter: “Please NO Burnouts. No Racing of any kind, also tires are gauged before a trip, brakes are also checked. Be aware that this vehicle has an active tracking device, that monitors speed, driver behavior, vehicle location, and is monitored 24/7. You are responsible for any damages done to the vehicle while under your care.” Naturally, this was to weed out any immature joyriders, and I do mean that literally: “Please don’t smoke inside the car, it’s very difficult and time consuming, besides being gross. Trying to remove the smoke and weed smell from the car.” Yes, because the last thing Houston traffic needs is someone who’s high as a kite in a car that hits 60 mph in 3.6 seconds.

So prior to us arguing whether driving a Hellcat 90 mph in a 55-mph zone constitutes irreconcilable differences in a divorce, Amanda and I experienced similar marital bliss just getting to Houston. That’s because everyone who’s been quarantined for the past six months apparently all decided to flood the highways for Labor Day. And in so doing, we encountered the most holiday traffic we’ve ever seen. It was like a real-life game of Frogger, where there was an endless supply of obstacles we had to avoid on the highway. Regrettably, it was the complete opposite of our trip through deserted Florida in July. At one point in rural Louisiana, we were trapped behind someone moving a brand-new barn. After several miles, we eventually passed them only to then be blocked by a full-size tractor, which was trailing a prisoner transport bus.  

However, the absolute worst part of the entire 1,000-mile trip was near Breaux Bridge, Louisiana, specifically the Atchafalaya Basin Bridge. Colloquially called the “20 Mile Bridge” by locals, it’s a pair of parallel bridges that are the 3rd longest in the U.S. and 14th longest in the world. Truthfully, I’ve never given them much thought as I’ve crossed over in the past, but all that changed this time. I suppose we were about halfway across when I noticed everyone hitting their brakes. Initially, I wasn’t concerned as with the volume of holiday traffic, it was constant. But as we came to a standstill, and the minutes started slowly ticking by, the enormity of our predicament began to sink in. For starters, we were on a tiny, two-lane bridge just forty-feet wide, so there was no where to turn around or exit. Secondly, we were above the largest wetland in the U.S., which spans nearly 1.5 million acres, so we had no cell service.

All we could do was wait...

 

And wait...

 

And wait.

After the first hour, other motorists began getting out of their cars. Some walked to their trunks to retrieve drinks or snacks, while others restlessly paced back and forth. In the distance, we could see a helicopter hovering overhead, possibly airlifting crash victims to the closest hospital. We lost count of the emergency vehicles and police cars that passed us on the bridge’s shoulder.

And as we would later find out, the Atchafalaya Basin Bridge is one of the deadliest stretches of highway in the entire U.S. with more than 1,000 accidents and 13 fatalities since 2014. As of 2018, total accidents rose by 12% over the previous year and 30% over 2014. Serving the major corridor between Baton Rouge and Lafayette, high-speed traffic averages 55,000 cars per day which is a recipe for daily wrecks like the one we were stopped in. 

When the second hour started, I noticed some activity in the silver Accord behind us. I briefly recalled seeing this same Honda from Alabama earlier in our trip, because it was driven by a mid-20s female who recklessly passed us a couple times. Of course, my competitive nature was satisfied by the fact that despite her dangerous driving, we still ended up ahead of her in this whole mess.

  
Her car door was open, and she seemed to be performing some sort of shimmy, almost like she was trying to hula hoop. But, with the door obstructing my view, all I could see was from her shoulders up and her ankles down. Then I noticed a prodigious puddle spreading beside her car, and I realized that she had just brazenly relieved herself in the middle of the highway. I told Amanda that I had heard of The Kissing Bandit, but this was the first time I’d ever seen a Pissing Bandit! 

 

Stuck for 3 hours on a bridge? Urine trouble!

Roughly an hour later, we arrived in Lake Charles, which a week earlier had been devastated by Hurricane Laura. Just 7 mph shy of Category 5 status, Laura was the most powerful hurricane to strike Louisiana in 164 years and was responsible for 34 deaths and $8.9 billion in damages. It was eerily reminiscent of the destruction we witnessed from Hurricane Michael two years ago in Florida, and was a frightening reminder that Mississippi is long overdue for another Katrina.

Luckily, we had enough fuel to make it into Houston because there was about a 50-mile radius on either side of Lake Charles where the gas stations were either completely destroyed, had no power, or both.

Due to our three-hour bridge delay, my lunch was a carton of chocolate milk from a rest-area vending machine, so I couldn’t wait until we got to dinner at B&B Butchers Restaurant. Located on the East Side of Washington Avenue, it’s a stone’s throw from the Houston Aquarium and is a nice respite from the chaos and claustrophobia of downtown. I joked with Amanda that if there was a Steakhouse Spa, this would be it thanks to the cozy and relaxing atmosphere. Indeed, Amanda liked to point out that the high prices keep out the “Riff-Raff” and ensure that we’re able to enjoy our meal in peace and quiet.

B&B has the singular distinction of possessing the best appetizer we’ve ever eaten, two thick slices of house-smoked Lamb bacon. According to owner Benjamin Berg, being the only one to offer such a delicacy in Houston presented its own set of problems, namely the difficulty in finding lambs over 100 lbs. That was a four-month process, but was necessary so that when they’re slaughtered, they have a large enough belly to make the bacon. And unlike New York steakhouses which only offer pork bacon as a side, Berg insisted on making the Lamb Bacon a full-fledged appetizer, serving it with tangy German Mustard and Mixed Greens. Truly, the serving size would be enough for Amanda or Victoria to have as a complete entrée. Cured and smoked on the premises, it has a distinct tenderness and richness that reminds me of Japanese A5 Wagyu, but it’s a heckuva lot cheaper. Even Victoria, our budding vegetarian, raved about the Lamb Bacon. And given her proclivity for avoiding meat, I was just glad she was ingesting some animal protein. As such, I intentionally didn’t remind her of the nursery rhymes about Little Bo Peep or Mary and her little lamb that we used to sing to her.

 

After dinner, I promised Victoria that we would do some shopping at The Galleria, which at 3 million square-feet is not only billed as the largest mall in Texas, but the seventh largest in the U.S. It has basically every notable fashion brand under one roof, and even an ice rink. However, before we could get there, she excitedly spotted somewhere else that she said she’d rather go. I didn’t believe my ears, so I asked her if she was sure? I couldn’t imagine what it could be—what she saw—that had her so determined to pass up stores like Louis Vuitton, Gucci and Tiffany?

It was dark and raining, and I was afraid to take my eyes off the road for more than a split-second, but from the freeway all I could make out was glimpses of a massive yellow and blue building. Then I realized that she must be talking about Best Buy, because it has the same blue and yellow color scheme, and we just bought her a fancy camera for her birthday that she wanted some accessories for. But as we took the interstate off-ramp, and it came into full view, I realized how very wrong I was.

It was a freakin’ IKEA!

That’s right, apparently IKEA is the hot new Millennial shopping trend, having done for home accessories what Starbucks has done for coffee and Chick-Fil-A has done for sandwiches. When I confessed to her that I’d never been in an IKEA (carefully choosing to omit that I wouldn’t be caught dead in one) she expressed amazement. She said she thought since I’d been to California that naturally I’d gone in an IKEA. I wanted to burst out laughing because it was the craziest teenage logic and generalization I’d ever heard. It’s like thinking French Fries come from France!

Despite that, I dutifully pulled into the parking lot and noticed that this IKEA was busier then some airports I’ve been to. Cars were impatiently driving up and down the aisles looking for empty spaces, and people were endlessly streaming in and out. Soon, we would join the nearly 1 billion people that visited an IKEA store last year. 

    
Inside, it was like some sort of crazy European maze of rooms, and this is intentional: IKEA deliberately makes it difficult to leave so you’ll spend more time (and money) in there. The aisles even curve every 50 feet to keep customers engaged. On studying this byzantine layout, Alan Penn, a professor of architectural and urban computing at The University College of London, pronounced it “sadomasochistic.” But that hasn’t stopped IKEA from becoming the world’s largest furniture retailer, a statistic punctuated by the slightly disturbing fact that 1 in 10 Europeans are conceived in an IKEA bed. Unfortunately, there were no Swedish girls there willing to let me test that theory.

Personally, IKEA struck me as a very, very big dollar store. There were endless aisles of cheaply made items, all stuffed in overflowing bins, which absolutely captivated my daughter. Of course, the Dollar Tree doesn’t sell home furnishings, but what I saw was terribly unappealing. I don’t know if it’s correct to describe furniture as androgynous, but the basic black and white pieces were completely uninspiring. I also learned that as part of the Scandinavian culture, IKEA workers are trained not to offer help unless deliberately asked. Apparently, their work ethic of self-sufficiency frowns upon this, and I was just thinking they were lazy like our Wal-Mart employees!

Fortunately, we made it out of there with just a few knick-knacks and not only did it satisfy her curiosity about IKEA, it was a lot less expensive than going to the Galleria.

BLACK SABBATH
We got up early Sunday morning for our 30-minute drive to Pasadena where the Hellcat was located.  Once free of Houston’s gridlock, the drive was fairly calm and relaxing. Of course, a lot of this had to do with the fact that most God-fearing folks were attending Church while we were literally on the Highway to Hell.

It’s not often that the cars parked in the driveway exceed the value of the home, but that was definitely the case in this instance. Given the accumulated horsepower, I expected a mansion, but was instead greeted by a modest, 1,300 sq.-ft. house built in 1979. In a crowded neighborhood of pedestrian Fords and Toyotas, the satanic Hellcat looked ready to pounce.

 

Likewise, my Turo host, Ismael, certainly didn’t fit the stereotypical profile of someone who owns a Porsche, two Corvettes and a Hellcat. In fact, there was nothing unusual about him that would advertise his addiction to fast cars: No gold chains, flashy watch, or designer clothes. He looked, and was dressed, like any other middle-aged guy who might be running an errand to Home Depot.

Immediately, Ismael explained that the Hellcat was modified and actually produces 900 hp, not the factory amount of 707, but insurance regulations prohibit him from advertising that on Turo. I thanked him for the confession and promised him that I was fine with it. Somehow, I don’t think that disclosure has been a deal-breaker for any of his customers, because who doesn’t like to get 30% more of anything—particularly horsepower—for free? However, he cautioned that because of the record-breaking heat sitting over Texas, the actual power was “only” 865 hp. I nodded, patted him on the back, and assured him that I would make do with a mere 865. 

 

 

Prior to this moment, the most powerful car I’ve ever driven has been a 2015 Ferrari California Turbo with 552 hp. But to top the Hellcat, I would have to spend $2.5 million on a LaFerrari which has 949 horsepower. Suddenly, the Hellcat seems like a ridiculous bargain, even considering it cost almost $100K when new.

 

 

CAT OUT OF HELL

Yet as soon as we were buckled in, Amanda began the nitpicking, complaining about the noisy exhaust and pointing out the cheapness of the interior materials. In the Hellcat’s defense, the custom 3-inch exhaust and race mufflers were loud, but there was no annoying highway drone. I explained that this was indicative of an expensive, well-engineered system, and the high decibels were due to the free-flowing nature, not cheap parts. Nevertheless, she was correct that the hard, black plastic on the dash and doors didn’t belong in a six-figure car. In fact, save for the leather seats, the entire interior looked like it came directly from the $25K base model V6 Challenger. I debated Dodge’s cost-cutting measures, agreeing that most of the budget was reserved for the supercharged V8, yet it was painfully clear that corporate profits were the main priority. But in a 900 hp sports car, leave it to my wife to be most excited about the sunroof and lighted vanity mirror.

Of course, the vehicle’s raison d’etra isn’t to pamper its occupants, but rather shove them back into their seats as forcefully as a Space Shuttle launch. And it does this in spades: Ismael produced a dyno sheet showing his Hellcat generating over 600 lb-ft. of torque at just 1500 rpm. This translates to instantaneous acceleration, with roughly an inch of pedal travel equaling 100-feet of forward momentum. Like a panther lunging after it’s prey, a quick stab of the accelerator provoked the Hellcat from around 60 mph to 90 mph in the literal blink of an eye, before a certain screaming spouse shut down the fun. Even so, Texas considers 25 mph over the limit as reckless driving, no matter how easily or safely the offending vehicle accomplishes it.

 

 
Under full throttle, the roar of the loud (but legal) exhaust takes an actual backseat to the air-raid siren whine of the supercharger spinning to 15,000 rpm. I explained to Victoria that at a whopping 2.4-liters, the Hellcat’s supercharger alone is larger than the entire engine in my Saturn. And I pointed out the hollow marker light, which is missing its bulb so that massive quantities of cool air can be funneled into the enormous 92mm throttle body, the largest ever used by Dodge. With half-inch fuel lines and eight injectors spewing over 600cc of fuel per minute, Ismael’s modified Hellcat can drain its entire gas tank in 10 minutes flat. Of course, it's far from carbon neutral, but there's even an "ECO" mode to satisfy left-wing environmentalists like Greta Thunberg which dials the power back to a less-offensive 500.

 

                 
But prior to driving it, my biggest concern about the Hellcat was the extra-large nature of it. It’s a Fat Cat, and with the three of us on board, topped the scales perilously close to 5000 lbs. Coming from a 2800 lb. Saturn, that’s a tremendous difference. Yet, it’s amazing how well 900 hp can camouflage such girth and make it vanish. There was also a misconception that it might lean and sway in the curves like a land barge, yet the SRT engineers did a fantastic job of keeping it firmly planted without degrading the overall ride quality. Houston’s roads are some of the worst in the nation, but the Bilstein Active suspension soaked up all the bumps and potholes with ease, including some of the worst ones I couldn’t dodge (no pun intended).

 

 
A minor quibble I levied at the power train is with the brakes, which didn’t quite feel up to the task of erasing the inertia as rapidly as the Hellcat can achieve it.  A couple times, I felt my confidence sapped when the big Dodge refused to slow as quickly as I expected it to. Thankfully, this didn’t result in any “pucker” moments, but rather reminded me that I needed to allot the hellish feline a little more braking distance than I’m typically accustomed to in my Saturn.

For lunch, we drove the Hellcat to the new In-N-Out at The Grid in Stafford, Texas. What was once the sprawling campus of Texas Instruments has now been repurposed into a sparkling $500 million mixed-use development complex featuring dining, shopping and apartments. Parked directly in front, the Phantom Black Hellcat looked like a demonic interloper against the stark white surroundings. But while enjoyable, the burgers didn’t seem to be as good as previous In-N-Out locations, leading us to speculate that perhaps the grill needs more time for the seasoning to accumulate.

 

Leaving In-N-Out, I ran across an issue that reared its ugly head several times throughout the day: The AutoStick option for the TorqueFlite 8-Speed Automatic Transmission is all too easy to unintentionally engage. This means the car is stuck in first gear and doesn’t shift out, which can be problematic when impatient drivers are rapidly bearing down upon you. I’m certain more seat time and familiarization with the controls would have corrected that, but for first time renters, it’s very alarming in unforgiving Houston traffic.

THE PANTHER KING

Following that, we traversed back across Harris County to Webster, Texas, where NASA’s Johnson Space Center is located. It was an easy 30-minute cruise on the Sam Houston Tollway, with the monstrous V8 purring along at 1500 rpm, and the exhaust an unobtrusive thrum in the background. In commuter mode, the Hellcat becomes incognito, seamlessly blending in with all the numerous other black Dodge sedans. Impressively, the owner exercised a lot of restraint by keeping the exterior completely stock, right down to the rectangular factory exhaust tips. And with nothing to advertise its otherworldly power aside from a small badge on the front fenders, it doesn’t bring the unwanted attention that an exotic like a Ferrari does. If you can exercise the willpower to not goose it at every opportunity (which is easier said than done) it will return a respectable 20 mpg. It is—dare I say it—actually practical.

 

 
We arrived at Johnson Space Center, the location of the famous “Houston, we have a problem” quote from Apollo 13. Due to the “panic-demic” occupancy was restricted to 50%, but even at that, there were so many people I couldn’t imagine how busy it would be at full capacity. Named for Lyndon B. Johnson, our 36th President, there were plenty of pictures of him throughout the facility, along with his predecessor John F. Kennedy, who spearheaded the Space Race. I’ve always believed that Johnson was responsible for Kennedy’s assassination (as he had the means and motive) but that’s a discussion for another Pirate Press.

Inside, I learned that while our nation was in the grip of a record-setting heat wave, the high temperature on Mars was going to be a chilly 36 degrees, or roughly the same temperature as when we landed in Chicago to buy my Ferrari two years ago. Given its distance from the sun, I expected it to be much colder, although the low of -89 has been seen on Earth in Antarctica a few times. This info was courtesy of the Curiosity Rover, which is currently located in the Gale Crater area of Mars. Boasting six-wheels, weighing 3000 lbs., and powered by Plutonium, it sounds like a futuristic version of the DeLorean from Back to the Future.

 

 
THE RIGHT STUFF

Next up, was a short tram ride to the gargantuan warehouse holding the original Saturn V rocket. Here I discovered that like our Hellcat, NASA’s formula is eerily similar: it’s all about air, fuel, and explosive thrust.  Even as of 2020, the Saturn V remains the tallest, heaviest, and most powerful rocket ever brought to operational status, and holds records for the largest payload launched and biggest payload capacity.  Standing 363 feet long and weighing 6.5 million pounds, it’s quite a site to behold. And with three stages of liquid propulsion, it’s basically a giant bottle rocket. While we were there, our tour guide informed us that NASA was planning another mission to the moon in 2024. He said that it was projected to cost $28 billion and that $16 billion of that would be just for the new lunar landing module. Personally, I’m hoping for a moon base soon, because I loved watching Space:1999 and we’re already  over twenty years late!

 

We also got to tour the Space Shuttle Independence. Unlike Challenger, it never saw any action, but was rather a dedicated replica provided for tourists to witness what life aboard it was like. It’s similar in size to a Boeing 727, but after realizing how claustrophobic it is and the toilet they must use, I promised never to complain about flying commercial again!   

 

On our way out, Victoria convinced us to let her visit the gift shop, and in so doing racked up over $200 of “official” NASA memorabilia. Among the apparently irresistible items she scooped up was a $10 foil package of freeze-dried duck for our puppy, Pippen. I told her that I doubted Pippen would care that it was “Raw, Grain-Free and All-Natural.” I then did the math in my head and realized that her space dog treat averaged $100 per pound! I told her that I hoped she was happy that her puppy snacks cost as much per ounce as the USDA Prime Beef Wellington I’d eaten the night before. I don’t think she cared, but I realized that if the parts for the next trip to the moon cost anything like the souvenirs in the gift shop, I can understand why their budget is $28 billion!

 

  
 

ALL I EVER WANTED

As we were leaving, I surveyed the surroundings and realized the time was right for what I had been planning since the start of our crazy trip. There was only one way to completely wrap up our fantastic day, and that was to put Victoria behind the wheel of the Hellcat. Never mind that she didn’t even have a Learner’s Permit or was easily confused between the brake pedal and the gas pedal. A 15-year-old girl with no driving experience and a 900 hp car: What could possibly go wrong?

I learned to drive on a 1973 Toyota Corona that made 80 hp, and that amount was now required just to turn the supercharger pulley on the car she was driving. It was pretty mind-boggling, but also quite a proud moment for me. With the advent of electric vehicles on the horizon and continuously stricter pollution standards, a gas-guzzling V8 like the Hellcat is an endangered species. For me, it represents the zenith of petroleum-powered cars, as California and New Jersey have just announced that by 2035 all new passenger vehicles sold there must be electric.

I climbed out and let her slide into the driver’s seat, while Amanda remained in the passenger seat. We were in a huge, empty parking lot and I stood on the sidelines as Victoria tentatively made several, slow figure eights with Amanda coaching her. I was poised and ready to leap out of the way at the last possible second if the situation called for it, but thankfully it never did. My father fostered my love for Ferraris by taking me all over the country to see them, and I’m glad I’ve been able to indulge her passions as well.

No License. No Insurance. No Problem!

Black clouds were gathering on the horizon, and the last thing I wanted was to be caught in a thunderstorm with the Hellcat, so we decided to return it early. The Michelin Pilot Super Sports offer heroic grip on dry pavement, but I wasn’t going to chance it in the wet stuff.

In Billie Eillish’s “All I Ever Wanted” video, she is seen committing suicide by driving her Hellcat into the ocean.  Despite that cheerful and uplifting subject matter, we thankfully managed to keep our Hellcat out of Galveston Bay. It’s stressful enough driving our own car in Houston, but someone else’s 900 hp car is absolutely nerve-wracking! In fact, just a few minutes after we’d picked it up, we were nearly side-swiped by a dilapidated Ford Explorer that blew through a yield sign. Fortunately, I saw them coming and anticipated that they might not stop. Not surprising, they had Arkansas plates and a “Thank You Jesus” bumper sticker. Maybe the next time, they should let Jesus take the wheel. I laid on the horn and discovered that it was the most ineffectual part of the entire car. I suppose because the Hellcat’s persona is so ferocious, I expected the horn to be equally fearsome, but it was clearly not.     

Back at Ismael’s house, he asked if I enjoyed it and I admitted that due to the female speed-limiter in the passenger seat, I never got it above 90 mph. He laughed and recounted a tale of how one night he was awakened at 2 a.m. by a phone call from Turo because his Hellcat’s GPS had just registered a speed of 207 mph.  I didn’t doubt it, as Dodge claims a “conservative” top speed estimate of 199 for the standard 707 hp Hellcat, although it was widely known that development mules hit 202 mph in testing. As the power required to overcome aerodynamic drag increases with the cube of the speed (e.g. 20 mph requires eight times the power as 10 mph to push through the air), a Mopar forum member took the time to plot out theoretical top speeds for the Hellcat based on factors such as aerodynamics, gearing and rolling resistance. With 900 hp, Ismael’s Hellcat should be able to achieve 230+mph, though finding an empty highway in Houston to accomplish that is the real challenge.

In August 2019, Car and Driver bragged about renting a 610 hp Mustang Shelby GT-S for $267 per day through Sixt, a German agency. That’s not a bad deal, especially considering a Hellcat I looked at in New Orleans goes for $780 per day. But neither of those can touch the $198.15 I paid for our 900 hp car. The daily rate, which covers 24 hours and 150 miles is $130. However, there’s also a non-negotiable $32.50 “Minimum Protection” fee and a $36.65 “Trip Fee.” Of course, I only used it for around six hours and put 90 miles on it because I was being cautious and careful.

 

 
As expected, hopping back into the Santa Fe with roughly 600 less horsepower was quite an adjustment. But I was at least partly thankful for less drama as we battled a watery deluge heading into The Heights area of Houston. This was to expressly visit Cane Rosso, a pizza chain we’ve dined at in Dallas. I’ve been fortunate to eat Lou Malnati’s Deep Dish in Chicago and real New York thin-crust at Grimaldi’s in Brooklyn, but Cane Rosso’s Neapolitan style is still my favorite. We’re partial to the Honey Bastard, which has Bacon Marmalade, Habanero Honey, and Hot Soppressata Salami. Personally, I never would've thought of combining honey and pizza, but it works incredibly well. The location was a little seedier than I would have preferred, so a lot of their business was carry-out. That's when I saw an incredibly rare Typhoon truck pull up and a guy around my age hop out. The Black-on-Black example was just one of 1,262 built in 1992 and with a 280-hp turbocharged V6, was the progenitor of today's sport SUVs. It's sibling was the Syclone truck which I test drove waaayyy back in the second issue of Pirate Press.         

 

Proving how white-hot the crossover market still is, I spotted a Lamborghini Urus the next day in Lafayette, Louisiana. The Urus, named for the ancestor of modern domestic cattle, has so many different fathers, I wouldn't want to be spotted with the mother in public. Its DNA is a result of cross-breeding parts from Audi, Bentley, Porsche and Volkswagen. And demonstrating that wealth is not necessarily an indicator of good taste, Lamborghini recently sold the 10,000th Urus in July 2020. However, I suppose that unlike my Saturn, it's fortunate they didn't name it after another planet in our solar system like Uranus. It would definitely be the butt of endless jokes!         

 

 

We arrived home late Monday night absolutely exhausted from the breakneck pace of the weekend. Despite that, I'd definitely categorize my first rental experience with Turo as an unqualified success. In fact, it went so smoothly I already have an idea for my next Turo rental. Stay tuned!