Bad Romance

♪You know that I want you
And you know that I need you
I want it bad
Your bad romance ♬

-Lady Gaga

For better or worse (usually worse), I’ve always been fascinated with speed. My obsession began on Christmas Day 1978 when I received a brand new 1979 Tahitian Red Honda Z50R Mini Trail Bike. At the time, we lived in Moss Point at the end of a small residential street, so I never had much room to go fast. And up until that point I was solely accustomed to skateboards and bicycles that could only go as fast as my legs would carry me. So, it’s easy to imagine the addictive sensation of speed when I opened up that 49cc four-stroke engine. I was hooked from that moment on, and it only got worse when I received my driver’s license.    

Unfortunately, my love of cars is deeply interwoven with my obsession for speed, so all my life I’ve been constantly chasing that elusive top speed target. And I don’t discriminate: that burning desire compelled me to attempt the top speed of nearly every vehicle I’ve ever owned, no matter if it was my current Red Line or something as pedestrian as a 1992 Saturn SL1. Like a junkie hunting a fix, it’s always on my mind.

Regrettably, it gets harder with each passing year to flagrantly violate the posted speed limits. There’s more traffic and more police on the roads than ever before. Now, this activity isn’t something I do out of malice, or with the intent to harm anyone. Rather, it’s simply a personal desire to push the performance envelope of any given vehicle and see how it responds. I feel a lot of the people reading this have been in similar situations and can relate. I’m also of the belief that if I buy something, I should be entitled to use it however I see fit, as long as it doesn’t endanger others. Sadly, the law doesn’t recognize this and I could be arrested for driving 100 mph down a solitary road the same as I could for driving 100 mph through a school zone. Clearly, there’s a significant difference here, but I’ve yet to meet a law enforcement officer that wasn’t brainwashed into thinking all speeders should be punished the same as drug-dealers, murders and rapists.

Speed limits, it’s worth noting, are oftentimes set arbitrarily and artificially low for the sole purpose of revenue generation (i.e. speeding tickets) and simply don’t reflect the strides in automotive engineering and safety that we’ve incurred since the 55 mph speed limit was mandated in 1973. With multiple airbags, traction control, stability control and crush zones, cars are inherently safer than ever before. Yet portions of a Texas toll road (subsidized by more taxpayer dollars) are currently the fastest in the nation with a maximum speed limit of 85 mph. Unbelievably, Idaho is the next highest with sections of its highway governed to 80 mph. Even so, a relaxed drive on any local interstate is usually met with other motorists who feel comfortable driving much faster than the posted limit. Recently, I was on a trip to New Orleans and traffic was flowing between 80-85 mph, quite a bit faster than the posted limits of 65-70. Of course, you always have that one left-lane speed demon who deems 100 mph a “reasonable and prudent” speed. Personally, I feel driving that fast in heavy traffic is much more dangerous than driving 120 mph down a deserted highway. Our legislators would also be quite surprised to know that fatality rates on the speed-limit free Autobahn in Europe are a fraction of what they are here on our radar-enforced roads.

History tells us the first person to officially be recognized for hitting 100 mph in a car was a Frenchman named Louis Rigolly who accomplished the deed in 1904. Although I wasn’t there, I can undoubtedly attest that this record was broken without the accompaniment of his wife, who had she been a passenger, would surely have been screaming at him to slow down. But over 100 years later, it’s possible with just about any new car, even something as pedestrian as a Toyota Prius. And ever since I bought my Ion Red Line in 2010, I was anxious to see if I could peg out its 140 mph speedometer. On paper, it seemed to be relatively easy given that a stock 205-horsepower example tested by Car and Driver magazine achieved a top speed of 144 mph and my car was modified to 310-horsepower. But in reality, many different things such as weather, humidity, and even road surface, can affect a vehicle’s terminal velocity. Likewise, some cars such as the 662-horsepower Shelby GT500 that seem like a top-speed slam-dunk, fail to attain their magic number. Ford claimed their 2013 model had been measured at 202 mph, but Car and Driver could only coax 189 out of it.

Shortly after getting my Ion, I briefly attempted a brazen top speed run in broad daylight. It was a bright, fall day and on that particular afternoon I suddenly found myself on an empty four-lane road. I quickly downshifted and nailed the throttle. The engine responded with immediate thrust and I swiftly saw the speedometer arching past 100 mph. I was nervously peering as far ahead as possible, trying to ascertain if anything in the distance vaguely resembled a law-enforcement vehicle. Paradoxically, the faster I went, the longer it took. The tiny gap between 110 and 120 stretched out to become a yawning, transcontinental divide as I waited feverishly for the red needle to surpass it. The wind noise, nearly imperceptible at legal speeds, had now become a vicious, howling animal as I attempted to bludgeon my car though it, going ever faster. My pulse was racing and my steely resolve was wavering. There was a clear Freudian struggle emerging between the id and the superego. The id was demanding that I keep my right foot down to achieve that lofty goal, but the superego’s self-preservation instincts were pummeling me with a million questions, all derived from the consequences of my life-threatening actions. Whomever said the mind gives out before the body was right in my case, as I let off at 120 mph and aborted my momentary quest for top speed. I then spent the next fifteen minutes frantically scanning my rear-view mirror for any sign of approaching authorities.

I suppose that disappointing result shouldn’t have surprised me, as in the past it has taken some liquid courage for me to accomplish my previous top speed runs. In 1991, I was in my Mustang GT when some Louisiana yuppies in a BMW convertible thought they could bully me with their presumably superior car. I knew their Nazi six-cylinder was no match for my domestic V-8, so when they attempted to speed up and cut me off in traffic, I dropped the hammer on them. An immediate influx of testosterone and adrenaline coursing through my veins gave me the temporary determination to keep the heel to the steel and not lift until I had maxed out the speedometer at 140 mph. In retrospect, it was clear that the Mustang lacked appropriate high-speed development, and was more suited to quarter-mile passes. That fact notwithstanding, it admirably galloped up to that velocity despite considerable front-end lift and steering that became worryingly vague. I never saw the frat punks again, but I bet they didn’t soon forget the way my thoroughbred kicked sand in their Cajun faces.

Another record-setting run occurred after an evening at a downtown brewery in Mobile and involved the kind of false bravado you can only get at the bottom of an 80-proof bottle. I was piloting the del Sol and my best friend Rick was riding shotgun. My alcohol-seduced brain was bamboozled into thinking that it was an appropriate time to see how fast the Honda could go, never mind that it was past midnight and completely pitch black. I recalled reading that the del Sol’s maximum speed was 125 mph and it was geared to reach that at the 7200 rpm redline in fifth gear. If Red Bull gives you wings, apparently Jack Daniels gives you guts, because I held the accelerator down until we saw 125 mph. But the valiant VTEC valve-train continued to pull, so I stubbornly kept the throttle planted as Rick barked out the ever-increasing digits. Unbelievably, it pulled 200 rpm into the redline, and an indicated 127 mph, before I released it. Only the next day, when I had sobered up, did I realize that it had been just a few electrons shy of hitting the fuel cut-off mechanism at 7500 rpm, potentially reducing the aluminum engine to junk yard silage. I also apologized to Rick since I regretted putting him in harm’s way with two young children at home. I’m content with risking my own life doing what I love, but I shouldn’t have imperiled him. 

 

Like different girlfriends, there have been other top speed runs over the years, although they admittedly weren’t as dramatic or exciting. My 1986 Fiero had a 2.8-liter V6 that was rated at 140 hp. With the catalytic converter hollowed out, it was probably closer to 145, and Car and Driver recorded a top speed of 125 mph from it. Never mind that the speedometer only went up to 85 mph, my youthful exuberance encouraged me to see how fast I could go down a long sweeping straight near my home. With the assistance of gravity, I pegged out the speedometer pretty quickly and as I continued to accelerate, I witnessed a phenomenon I have never seen before or after. The speedometer needle began nervously bouncing off the tiny post on the end of the dial, flinging it back around to reading 40 and 50 mph. Understandably, this bizarre occurrence was enough to quickly extinguish my ardor, so I immediately slowed down. I had a similarly dull experience in a 1992 SL1, the very first Saturn we ever owned. It was powered by an anemic 1.9-liter four-cylinder that also exhaled through a catless exhaust pipe and was rated from the factory at a feeble 85 hp. Unlike the Fiero, at least the speedometer in it was mercifully scaled to 110 mph, so one Saturday night I decided to see how fast it would go. The acceleration to 100 mph and beyond was so leisurely that I might have dozed off for a few minutes. And even at 105 mph, there was no thrilling sensation of speed, just the cacophonous bellow of a motor seemingly about to blow apart into a thousand pieces. Let’s be honest, “smooth” has never been a trait used to describe Saturn’s engines, particularly the early models. Despite that, it heroically  climbed until it crashed into the speed-limiter at 107 mph with an alarming stumble. Following that, I was wide awake and didn’t have any desire to duplicate it again.               

I seldom drive my car besides commuting to work, so I rarely have the opportunity to seek out a top speed run. However, each year at Christmas my employer holds a holiday party that sees me coming home from Alabama late at night. In 2015, I again failed to break 120 mph, but this year was different: energized after a hot streak of winning $20 and a tacky ornament, I was emboldened to finally crush that elusive 140 mph objective. On the way home, and again under the cover of darkness, I reached my perennial spot and opened it up. Above 100 mph, there was a huge whistling noise that sounded akin to a major air leak around my window. As I accelerated, it got louder and vibrated more, like the automotive equivalent of my conscience. I began to worry that the glass might suddenly blow out. At 130 mph, my confidence was shattered when the noise rose to a crescendo and then suddenly stopped. I abandoned the top speed pursuit and slowed, checking the instrument cluster for any abnormal readings. Everything appeared to be fine, so I surmised that perhaps it was an exterior piece of trim or molding that had ruefully ejected itself, a martyr protesting my top speed endeavor.

Nearly home, I was resigned to the fact that I’d been unsuccessful, so I comforted myself by reciting the New Orleans Saints mantra that there’s always next year. Then I remembered that the 1.5-mile stretch where I was hit top speed in the del Sol was coming up, and I had one last-ditch effort to shoot for the stars. I reasoned if the 125 hp del Sol could hit 127 mph, surely I could go 13 mph faster in my 310 hp Saturn! As I rounded the curve before the final straightaway, I played Devil’s Advocate, negotiating a deal with myself that if no oncoming headlights were present, I’d go for it. The ambient temp was showing a very supercharger-friendly 44 degrees, so I knew the conditions were ideal. I also realized that above 120 mph is where my dedication would truly be tested.

As fate (and some dubious luck) would have it, there was no one as far as I could see, so with reckless abandon I floored it.

I reached the 120 threshold pretty rapidly, and settled in for the long climb to 140 mph with the same apprehension and dread usually reserved for roller coasters. Both hands were tightly gripping the leather-wrapped steering wheel and even though I couldn’t see them, I knew my fingers were as white and cold as icicles. All my senses were on high alert and I was furiously studying every tactile, visual, and auditory input for any sign of danger. Like incendiary tracer rounds, my brain synapses were firing off warnings to stop, but I had developed a type of Zen-like tunnel vision. The whole experience was immensely surreal, and I felt detached from reality, as if it was all just a dream. I was eerily calm and was marveling at just how stable and planted the car felt. Thankfully, I’d just bought four new Z-rated B.F. Goodrich G-Force Sport tires a month earlier which obviously helped. Otherwise, I would never have attempted such an insane run on bald, worn-out rubber.  

I quickly shifted my gaze from the road just in time to see the speedometer go diagonal and pass 140. Similarly, the tachometer was at 6000 rpm in fifth gear and climbing. At that speed, I was covering 205 feet per second, or more than the length of a football field. Ahead of me was a small convenience store that was closed, and I wistfully hoped some deputy sheriff wasn’t parked there. Not that it really mattered, since at the speed I was travelling, I would be nearly an eighth-mile down the dark road before he could even react.

With 140 attained, I lifted and let the aerodynamic drag slow the car. I didn’t want any sudden inputs upsetting the balance of the car, which at that speed, felt like it was precariously balanced on the head of a pin. The huge rear wings acts as both a stabilizing aid and an artificial air brake. At 140 mph, it produces roughly 100 pounds of downforce which helps the car stick to the pavement like bubble gum. However, that same large profile also exponentially increases the requisite time and power needed to reach top speed. Once again, I conducted a quick inspection to make sure all the vital temperatures were in their normal operating ranges, and they were. As I pulled into my garage, I halfway expected radiator coolant to be fizzing out of the overflow vent. It wasn’t, but I popped the hood anyway to help vent the excess heat caused by the sustained wide-open run. There was some high-temp ticking and a distinct burning odor present that was unlike anything I had smelled before. I couldn’t isolate the origin, but I knew it was from the tortuous top-speed test. I envisioned the engine oil and supercharger fluid boiling like hot grease in a fryer, and quite frankly, it probably wasn’t much of an exaggeration.

Upon further examination, it was also apparent that it was the plastic B-pillar cover that had surrendered itself at 130 mph. The only remaining evidence of its disappearing act was a small nick in the paint and a single, solitary grease mark. 

Since I had survived the harrowing baptism of speed, I decided to study the metrics I’d observed during the run. Something didn’t feel right, so I dug up my owner’s manual to run some calculations. Factory speedometers can be notoriously inaccurate at speed, and that’s where I started. I knew from previous experience that my speedometer was actually a bit pessimistic about my actual velocity. Using the GPS on my phone, I’d witnessed that when my cruise control was set on 70 mph, my actual speed fluctuated between 71-72 mph. This represents up to a 3% difference and I suspected it might be even more erroneous the faster I went. Using the F35 transmission’s final-drive of 4.05 and fifth gear’s 0.70 ratio, I arrived at a calculation of 25.828 mph for every 1000 rpm. That is, at 2700 rpm I would be doing 69.735 mph (or roughly 70 mph) which I verified via the tachometer. Therefore, I was stunned when I estimated the true mph generated by the engine in fifth gear at 6000 rpm which produced 154.968 or essentially 155 mph! That was a far cry from the 140 I believed I was driving and just 2 mph off the wind speed of a Category 5 hurricane! Additionally, dyno charts show that all 310 thoroughbreds aren’t accounted for until 6500 rpm at which time my pace would be 167.882 mph. Finally, my car has a theoretical top speed of 180.796 mph based on fifth gear’s 7000 rpm redline. Honestly, I doubt I could find the necessary highway or nerves to attempt such a run. And with the enormous rear wing, it’s probably aerodynamically limited to a lot less than that. But what I do know is that on December 1st 2016 at approximately 9:30 pm CST, I drove faster than I ever have before in my life. And like losing one’s virginity, it was equally exhilarating and scary. Kids, don’t try this at home!

 

The next day, I went to my local GM dealer to price the driver side door trim cover. Chris, the parts manager, was assisting a couple in front of me who were futilely trying to obtain a part for their 2003 Saturn Vue.  They reluctantly left empty-handed when he informed them that the parts they needed had been discontinued. After I regaled him with my explanation of why I needed a new window piece, he checked and fortunately found it was still available. However, he cautioned that after ten years GM typically stops supporting any platform. The last Ion Redline was a 2007 model, so I reckon that I still have one year before parts will be phased out. Much to my chagrin, the appliqué (GM’s fancy term, not mine) was $47 which seemed exorbitant for a small section of injection-molded plastic. It also reminded me of why Henry Ford once proclaimed that he’d happily quit selling automobiles and would be content just selling their parts. Indeed, there’s a lot more profit to be made from selling the individual components rather than the whole car. Several days later when I got ready to install the new piece, I noticed on the underside that it had a manufacture date of April 21, 2015. That meant it was not old stock and, at least up until 2015, GM was still actively fabricating parts which was a good sign. As I attempted to attach the new piece, I discovered that a portion of the original part was still screwed into the door. Sure enough, the wind force had literally sheared the panel off the car. I now have a running joke that it cost me $47 to drive 155 mph!  

When I filled my car up the following week, I was curious as to how badly the multiple high-speeds run had cannibalized the fuel economy. My Aeroforce Interceptor once informed me that when the engine is at 100% throttle, it guzzles pricey 93 octane at the obscene rate of 4 mpg. I feared the worst, but despite the 155 mph foray, my average was still a respectable 26.3 mpg. Granted, that’s a ways off from the 31 mpg I usually see, but I certainly can’t complain. My Mother used to joke with me by saying “Never drive faster than you’re guardian angel can fly”. Thankfully, it looks like I didn’t.

Bright Lights, Big Apple

While I’ve always aspired to one day visit New York City, I’d never have made the 1,220-mile trip just for the sake of it. No, it was actually my wife’s ambition of always wanting to experience the Thanksgiving Macy’s Day Parade that provided the impetus for it. With her 40th birthday the same week, it seemed like the perfect milestone to celebrate it. The only undecided aspect was the mode of transportation. After a grueling drive in a rented minivan to Washington D.C. in 2013, I swore never to log such a distance again in a car. Similarly, my wife and daughter were afraid to fly, so by process of elimination we settled on a train. There’s a certain romantic notion associated with riding the rails that harkens back to a simpler time, even if many in today’s fast-paced society ridicule locomotives as old, crude and inefficient. But to satisfy my curiosity, I ran the numbers for all three forms of transportation (Car, Plane, Train) and Amtrak was still the cheapest by far. And thanks to a holiday promotion where my daughter could ride for half-price, it was even less expensive than Greyhound’s bourgeois bus service.

Scrolling through the list of Amtrak trains, I saw a lot of exciting names that could also be substituted for the iron giants in Pacific Rim. Acela Express, California Zephyr and Silver Star all sounded like great call signs for Jaegers. But sadly, our gleaming, steel chariot was simply named Crescent and I couldn’t tell if it was supposed to be reminiscent of a moon phase or those delicious Pillsbury rolls. Nevertheless, I was just glad it wasn’t the Sunset Limited. That Amtrak train was involved in the bloodiest rail disaster in history, crashing right outside Mobile, Alabama killing 47 passengers and injuring 103. Two years later, it was sabotaged near Palo Verde, Arizona, killing one person and wounding 78. Naturally, I suppressed these facts from my daughter who, at eleven, is going through a fragile stage of fearfulness. With Amanda’s father and my Mother both passing away so close together, it has stricken her with a preternatural anxiety about dying. She had already expressed concerns about the safety of riding a train even though I quoted statistics that showed just 0.03 deaths per 100 million passenger miles. Automobiles, I pointed out, were much more deadly with fifteen times the rate of fatalities. But she didn’t accept it, and I guess I shouldn’t be surprised since she frantically worries about tornados every time it rains.   

I was astonished to learn that our train, travelling from New Orleans to New York daily, crosses more territories than any other in Amtrak’s fleet. And in so doing, it allowed me to see five new states I’ve never visited before: Delaware, Maryland, Pennsylvania, New Jersey and New York. The Crescent typically ferries 833 riders daily and over 300,000 annually. It also boasts specs that would make for an incredible supercar--- twin turbocharged V-16 engines, each displacing 10,690 cubic inches and pumping out a combined 8,500 horsepower at just 1,047 RPM. Alas, it’s 217,000-pound weight curtails any neck-snapping acceleration, as does it’s aerodynamically-limited top speed of 110 mph. Consequently, with a 2,200 gallon gas tank, I wouldn’t be able to swing the diesel to fill it up.                              

We boarded the Crescent in Hattiesburg at the Amtrak depot which was restored and re-dedicated in 2007. It’s been said that this was a popular hangout for singer Jimmy Buffett when he was attended USM in the sixties, but he clearly hasn’t been back and who can blame him? Despite it being 9:00 in the morning, there seemed to be a lot of inebriated commuters who had already taken the midnight train to Margaritaville. An affable, if obese, man missing his front teeth sat across from me in the waiting area and peppered me with questions. After prying our destination out of me, he then eyed my Senior Bowl Charity Run shirt and asked if I was going for the New York Marathon? When I declined that I was, he took another guess and asked if I was in the military? He quickly volunteered that I looked and acted like a “service man”. I affirmed that I wasn’t and began to pray that I would not be seated beside him for the duration of the trip. As I looked around the assembled occupants, I regrettably conceded that none appeared to have any experience with authentic Japanese Kobe Beef or Ferraris, the two main things I was looking forward to in The Big Apple.  

Once on the train, I declared to my wife and daughter that the accommodations were remarkably like an airplane, and the only tiny difference was a distance of roughly 35,000 feet. This did not amuse them, so I attempted to be satisfied with the separate dining car, onboard Wi-Fi and extra legroom afforded by Amtrak. There were some occasional bumps and knocks, similar to turbulence experienced when flying, but overall it was incredibly quiet. I had feared the horn blaring at every intersection (and there were hundreds on our route) would be a constant source of irritation, but thankfully, it was barely audible.          

In Birmingham, Alabama, my luck ran out when the spare seat beside me was filled. The tenant was a man in his late fifties who apparently thought deodorant was solely for girls and that garlic was a natural mouthwash. He was travelling to Philadelphia (which he annoying referred to as Philly the entire trip) and given his girth, was clearly fond of his hometown’s cheese steak sandwiches. Furthermore, there were no armchair dividers restricting our space, so he took up all of his seat and about a third of mine, leaving me squeezed against the window. When I realized that he would be crammed beside me for the next 20 hours, I began to frantically fumble around for anything I could use to take my own life. Conversely, there was nothing, so I was forced to divide my time between catatonically staring out the window or entertaining erotic fantasies about the two college cheerleaders in the next row.

 

A slug-like pace of 65-70 mph and numerous stops in every small town quickly inflated our travel time, requiring a mind-numbing TEN HOURS just to reach Atlanta. In comparison, it typically entails only five hours in a car to travel the same distance. Furthermore, some of the rural stops were so remote that an actual train depot wasn’t even visible. At night, this became more ominous when my wife feared our train was being hijacked due to us stopping for a shadowy group of individuals near the tracks. Nevertheless, I had no complaints about the beautiful autumn scenery. It was a hypnotic swath of amber, gold and crimson that streamed past my window, interrupted only by Normal Rockwell vignettes of small town America.

 

In all fairness, I have to take exception with the glamorous way train travel has been unrealistically portrayed in recent movies such as Casino Royale and Spectre. I never spotted Daniel Craig on our train, much less anyone dressed in a $5,200 Tom Ford tuxedo jacket. Nor did I see Léa Seydoux dreamily drifting down the aisle in a diaphanous dusty green dress. Nope, we were headed to Trenton, not Tangiers, and the only “celebrity” on our train was a redneck in a cowboy hat who thought he was Tim McGraw. So, if you do decide to travel Amtrak, please adjust your expectations accordingly.  

In Washington, D.C., there was a brief stopover for them to switch our diesel engine to a more efficient-- and cleaner-- electric one. Here in Amtrak’s “Northeastern Corridor” the railway infrastructure was much smoother and faster. The bucolic pastures of the Carolinas and Virginia gave way to glimpses of Baltimore’s Atlantic harbor and the industrialized steel mills of Pennsylvania. By New Jersey, I began to see the urban sprawl and the graffiti that characterizes it. Finally, as we headed into New York City, I noticed our speed was 105 mph and wished the entire trip could have been undertaken at such a rapid velocity. 

A completely sleepless 27 hours after departing Mississippi, we were dizzily disgorged into Pennsylvania Station, the busiest passenger transportation facility in the Western Hemisphere, serving 600,000 people every day. When we left Hattiesburg, the weather was a perfect 70 degrees and sunny, but the Empire state was not nearly as hospitable with cloudy skies and a vicious north wind driving the temperature into the 30s. It was a brutal wake-up call for us, as was trying to navigate through the bustling crowds of holiday travelers with 7 suitcases in tow. New York City recently surpassed 8.5 million citizens and another 4 million were expected for Thanksgiving. Fortunately, our hotel, the Radisson Martinique, was just a few blocks away. Standing 19 stories tall, it was a magnificently restored Beaux Arts landmark occupying an 1898 French Renaissance style building. I’d been warned to expect a small hotel room since real estate is at such a premium, but it was actually pretty spacious. The only downside, aside from the exorbitant daily price, was a scenic view not of Central Park, but a brick wall.  

FORT TRUMP
Less than two weeks after he won the Presidency, we were outside Trump Tower amid the protestors, revelers, and general curiosity seekers. NYPD had set up barricades around the building which greatly impeded the already clogged pedestrian traffic along 5th Avenue. News crews were lined up across the street, and it seemed reporters were covering the scene nearly twenty-four hours every day. Seven uniformed policeman were stationed in front of the gleaming gold doors and some of them appeared to be in standard NYPD uniforms. However, at least three were outfitted in full riot gear and were brandishing M16 assault rifles. Furthermore, to visit the famed Tiffany and Company jewelry store next door, we had to wait in a security line and consent to have our bags searched. Industry analysts forecasted a 10% drop in sales for Tiffany’s flagship location given the post-election disruptions. Despite that, estimates are that it will still pull in $320 million this year, with $100 million of that coming in between Thanksgiving and Christmas. Lord knows I did our part to prop up Tiffany’s stock prices, buying Amanda and Victoria each one of the company’s overpriced heart-shaped necklaces. Before leaving, we also saw the legendary Tiffany Yellow Diamond, the largest diamond in the U.S. Our salesman informed us that the softball-sized rock was originally 287 carats before being trimmed down to a more polished 128 carats. And even at that reduced mass, it was still nearly three times larger than the celebrated 45-carat Hope Diamond. He wrapped up the presentation by admitting that it was truly priceless.  

YANKEE ROSE
Back in 1986 when the Statue of Liberty was undergoing restoration for its 100 year anniversary, singer David Lee Roth’s first solo album single was a tribute called “Yankee Rose”. It featured lyrics like “She’s a vision from coast to coast/Sea to shining sea” and “Watch the sparks will fly/Fire cracking on the fourth of July”. The jingoistic jingle got my blood-pumping, so we decided to catch the South Ferry to Staten Island to clamp our own eyes on Lady Liberty. Interestingly, the small island on which it sits was originally a quarantine area where citizens with communicable diseases were secluded during colonial times. Later on, it was part of a cluster of small atolls known as the Oyster Islands due to the enormous mollusk beds encircling them. Unfortunately, toxic waste decimated the area at the turn of the century killing off all marine life, so in 1956 the area was renamed Liberty Island. The copper skin of the statute is said to be as thin as two pennies put together, just 3/32 of an inch, but it weighs a reported 62,000 pounds. Incidentally, my daughter thought the statute was intentionally green like the color of our money. However, I explained to her that the jade patina was a natural byproduct of the oxidation of copper called verdigris, whereby it lost electrons from exposure to air and water. Otherwise, the Statue of Liberty would be a shiny orange-red color. And at 305 feet and 1 inch from the base of the pedestal to the tip of the 24k gold torch, it’s a massive 29 feet taller than the Brooklyn Bridge. But there’s also a sinister side to the Statute, whereby some purport that it’s a sign of Satanic solidarity, as evidenced by the fact that it’s creator was a Freemason and that there are occult-like Freemason symbols inscribed on its base. Also, “Yankee Rose” were the last two words in Anton LaVey’s Satanic Bible, and if they are to be believed, indicates that Lady Liberty is a thinly-veiled depiction of Lucifer. Given the holiday and threat-level, we were escorted each way by a 25-foot U.S. Coast Guard Defender Class vessel. It was equipped with a manned 7.62mm M240 Machine Gun on the bow. Thankfully, there were no incidents, but I certainly felt much safer with their presence there.
 

FERRARI OF NEW YORK
My wife and daughter dragged me to see The Rockettes and a Broadway musical (each at great expense), so I figured the least they could do was tolerate a brief visit to the Ferrari showroom in Manhattan. Located on ritzy Park Avenue, it blends in with the other rectangular buildings unless you’re specifically looking for it. And unlike every other place we visited the entire week, it was the only one where we were the sole customers. Unfortunately, by Ferrari standards, the automobile selection was pretty sparse. I was hoping to see a LaFerrari, but all they had was a 488 Spider, California T and a F430 Scuderia. I spoke to the saleswoman that greeted us, explaining that I was a long-time enthusiast, and asked if I would be permitted to take a few pictures? She was very accommodating and gave us free reign. As she was walking off, my wife mentioned that the California looked like the silver one I drove in New Orleans. I commented that she was right, but that the actual color was Argento Nurburgring. I noticed a sly smile of appreciation cross the saleswoman’s lips as she realized I was more than just a camera-wielding tourist. Ironically, the most valuable of the trio was also the oldest, a 2009 F430 Scuderia in a very rare Grigio Alloy (Light Blue Silver) with Ferro (Grey) racing stripes. I never ascertained whether it was a customer car or on loan from the factory, but it was not for sale. The California T was a solid Nero Black with the exception of a subtle tri-colored (Green, White & Red) stripe celebrating its national flag and running the length of the vehicle. Finally, the 488 Spider was the newest and most powerful with a 661-hp twin-turbo V8. They also thoughtfully had a “Ferrari Store” whereby visitors such as myself could actually afford to buy something like a cheesy $20 mouse pad or a tacky $30 ashtray. But that’s not to say everything was cheap; also on display was a 1:8 scale LaFerrari just like the one actual owners received, that could be yours for the low price of just $8,200. I thanked the saleswoman for letting me look around, but obviously left empty-handed. Outside, I was stopped by three of New York’s finest sanitation workers who had seen me inside and wanted to settle an argument. Their squabble was over what time of year was best for selling a Ferrari? Moe (not their real names) claimed that Christmas was the best time, but Larry thought the warmer summer months were ideal, and Curly was undecided. As an appointed authority in their eyes, I ended the debate by answering that summer was the most lucrative season and cited the asking price of a Ferrari 360 on Ebay that had dropped $10,000 from June to November. Larry was positively jubilant in his victory as he and Curly relentlessly teased Moe about being wrong. Following that, they showered me with questions they had always wondered about “EYE-talian cars” but apparently had no one to ask (they didn’t strike me as voracious readers). Eventually, my wife had to pull me away so we wouldn’t be late for our dinner reservation.  

MACY’S 90TH ANNIVERSARY THANKSGIVING PARADE
Two days before the parade, authorities in New York arrested Mohammed Rafik Naji, a 37 year-old Brooklyn man, when it was discovered he was planning a Thanksgiving Day assault. The ISIS supporter was alleged to have been plotting a potential truck attack during the parade stating, “I mean a garbage truck, and one drives it there to Times Square and crushes them.” Chillingly, investigators also said that Naji referenced a “reconnaissance group was already put on the scene.” I’ve lived with the physical threat of hurricanes my whole life, but it was a little surreal —and scary— to realize I could potentially be involved in a terrorist attack. Nevertheless, I arose on Thanksgiving day at 4:30 a.m. so that I could save a spot for Amanda and Victoria to watch the parade from. Of all the places I would never have imagined myself being, here I was in pitch darkness and frigid weather, staggering down 5th avenue in New York City. I felt like Dennis Quaid in The Day After Tomorrow and it was so cold I halfway expected to see the Statue of Liberty entombed in ice just like the movie. What I wasn’t expecting was the eighty-two sanitations trucks filled with 16 tons of sand at every intersection. These were the anti-terrorist barriers erected by the police to prevent a copycat crime of the ISIS one that killed 86 people and injured more than 400 last year in France. As the sun came up, I saw more and more police presence and later learned that there were a total of 3,000 officers stationed along the 2.5-mile parade route. In addition to radiation detectors, police helicopters and undercover cops, there were also “Vapor Wake” dogs trained to sniff out the faintest signature of explosives. Finally, the NYPD’s “Critical Command Response” team was overseeing the parade for the first time with high-powered assault rifles. Luckily, the only real danger we faced was our feet becoming permanently stuck to the filthy pavement. Banana peels and rotten milk were the only two items I could visually distinguish in the adhesive substance which mimicked a giant glue trap. An informal survey I took of visitors for the parade revealed families from Oklahoma, Texas, Tennessee, North Carolina and even as far away as Ecuador. The Macy’s parade itself was similar to our Mardi Gras, with a lot of standing and massive crowds, but unfortunately without the eventual payoff of beads and boobs, so I don’t recommend it.      

CHINATOWN
Add ChinaTown to the list of places I never thought, or wanted, to actually visit. But that’s how I ended up in some creepy basement on my daughter’s quest for crazy Asian toys called “Kawaii”. I quit trying to understand the concept behind them, but apparently the little plush toys with names like Rilakkuma and Gudetama are insanely popular right now. There are even entire channels on YouTube devoted to them. I asked my wife how it was possible that we were able to peruse $1 million in Ferraris with no supervision, but the oriental shop owners suspiciously followed us around like we might suddenly swipe a $5.00 toy? It was also the only time in my life I’ve felt illiterate, as nearly everything was in Chinese. Granted, I can fumble my way through some Spanish and French, but all the obscure writing might as well have been Martian for all I could tell. Despite that, there were a few Chinese proverbs I spotted such as: “Karma's a bitch. Dogma, however, is a wildcat in the sack”and “Religion is the opiate of the masses, but Vicodin is the opiate of the business class” which reminded me how much I could have used some on the train ride. Finally, I did notice an Asian-authored study guide for immigrants taking the New York Driver’s License test. What struck me as funny was that it featured a 550-hp Ford GT, instead of something more appropriate like a Honda, Nissan or Toyota. Traffic problems in Manhattan are bad enough, but do you really want to learn to drive behind the wheel of a 200-mph supercar?

I don’t know if he was Asian, but I did happen to see a Nero Black 458 bravely tackling the post-Macy’s Parade traffic. Trust me, I spent a week in that gridlock, and there’s no way I’d drive my Saturn in that snarled mess, much less a $250,000 Ferrari. Seriously, did he have nothing else to drive, or did he simply have a death-wish? Several times we had to take taxis, which are now all environmentally-friendly Toyota Priuses, and the drivers all had one speed: Flat-Out. I also don’t think we had a single cab fare that was less than $15 one way. The meter starts running at $3.50 as soon as you’re picked up, and then continues to accrue like a bad payday loan whether you’re stopped or moving. Holiday traffic was so crowded across the Williamsburg bridge in Brooklyn that our driver actually took pity on us and proposed we take the nearest subway terminal rather than going all the way down to Central Park. We agreed, but even being dropped off at out hotel and walking the other twenty blocks, our cab fare was still $40. Only in NYC have I ever covered more distance on foot than in a car.

STEAK AND THE CITY
Last year, we celebrated Thanksgiving at Disney’s Polynesian resort, eating such tropically-influenced items as pineapple-coconut guava cake. It’s safe to say the Pilgrims probably did not mark the occasion with a similar dessert when they first dined here 400 years ago. As such, it made perfect sense that we were celebrating this Thanksgiving in New York City, possibly the furthest environment you can get from the Magic Kingdom, but where both have an oversized rodent as their mascot. Our “traditionally untraditional” meal this year consisted of genuine Japanese Kobe Beef, another entrée I’m reasonably sure was not consumed at Plymouth Rock. That’s because Hyogo Prefecture in Japan where the Tajima livestock of Wagyu cattle are raised, is roughly 7000 miles away, or nearly twice the distance the Mayflower sailed to America.

This has been an item on my bucket list for the past 25 years after I read an article about John F. Kennedy Jr. dining on Kobe Beef at The Old Homestead Steakhouse. It turns out, the name is pretty accurate as it’s indeed the oldest steakhouse in New York, dating back 100 years before I was born to 1868. Back then, it was a three-story Greek-revival mercantile building known as the Tidewater Trading Post since the Hudson River regularly lapped at its doors during high tide. Affluent locals and travelers shopped there, and sometime around 1890 the name officially changed to Old Homestead. By 1953, the reputation of Old Homestead was such that a Nebraska farmer promised the restaurant a cow and delivered a fiberglass replica after hauling it across the country in the back of his truck. When it took up too much space on the sidewalk, it was relocated to the metal canopy above the entrance. The kitschy cow was christened “Annabelle” and “We’re The King of Beef” was emblazoned on it. For such a fine-dining establishment, the statue looks like it belongs outside a Western Sizzlin’.

In 1991, owners Marc and Greg Sherry were looking for a unique dish to distinguish the Old Homestead from the dozens of other high-end steakhouses in Manhattan. That’s when they came across Kobe Beef in Japan which Sherry described as akin to experiencing “the 4th of July in your mouth.” They worked dutifully with the Japanese government to export a few hundred pounds which they began selling in their restaurant. Despite the exorbitant price, it was an immediate success and they had trouble keeping up with the demand. Naturally, the expense and rarity spawned a whole host of industry imitators, who rolled out their own counterfeit versions using cheaper cuts but claiming the Kobe name. And when Kobe Beef exports were suspended from 2009 through 2012 to curb the Japanese hoof-and-mouth epidemic, Sherry was the first U.S. restaurateur to travel to Japan's Gunma prefecture in 2013 to bid at auction on the pricey beef. Furthermore, it reportedly took 45 days before it was cleared by customs to enter our country. 

Much like Cuba offers the perfect climate and soil for its singular tobacco and sugar cane, Japan’s Tajima region is characterized by mountainous terrain that helped shape the smaller, densely-built cattle. Early on, they were prized for their ability to move in such narrow confines and carry heavy loads for farmers. Their history can be traced all the way back to 794, but it wasn’t until 1868 (ironically the same year Old Homestead opened) that they were recognized for their unique meat. As legend has it, an Englishman arrived at the newly opened foreign trade port in Kobe and convinced a local famer to sell him one of his Tajima cows for food. Word quickly spread of the delicious flavor to other visiting merchants, and they all began asking for “Kobe Beef”.

So what separates Kobe Beef from our domestic cattle and makes it so much better? Although popular culture loves to reinforce the image of the Tajima cattle being fed beer and receiving hand massages to tenderize the meat, such lore is less rooted in reality than Godzilla. The main difference is breeding and genetics. Our “Black Angus” beef is so adulterated that virtually none of its DNA can be traced to its Scottish forbearer, the Aberdeen Angus. Instead, there’s just a laughably vague set of ten generic guidelines required for certified Angus status such as the steer must be “Usually black or red in color” and possess “No hump on the neck exceeding 2 inches”. In stark contrast, all Tajima cattle have an individual 10-digit identification number and their pure bloodline lineage can be traced back centuries.  Similarly, their diet is a specifically chosen amount of organic barley, corn, grass, rice straw, soybeans and wheat which varies depending on their age, condition and time of year. Unlike domestic beef, they are never fed antibiotics or growth hormones. In the end, this stringent process only yields around 3000 cattle each year, less than the amount in one midsize U.S. cattle ranch. Due to that, there’s only enough real Kobe Beef imported annually to satisfy the typical beef consumption of just 25 American households.

What makes Kobe Beef or Wagyu (loosely translated at Japanese Cow) so prized is the incredible amount of intramuscular fat or “Sashi” present, and Japan’s Beef Marbling Standard (BMS) is the most important criteria when grading it. Our richest cut available, USDA Prime, equates to roughly a 4, whereas Kobe goes up to 12. To determine the final meat quality, there are three yield grades and five quality grades. The yield grades are classified as A, B or C and the quality grades are designated 1-5. Old Homestead advertises a rating of A5+ which means a yield percentage of more than 72% along with an “Excellent” BMS of 8-12. Kobe Beef has a unique mouthfeel due to the fact that its "Shimofuri" fat marbling has a very low dissolving point of around 70 degrees. It literally melts in your mouth. But the other benefit aside from the velvety texture is that all the fat is monounsaturated which helps lower the bad cholesterol (LDL) while promoting healthy cholesterol (HDL). Additionally, Kobe Beef is even high in Omega 3 and Omega 6 fatty acids which are essential for good health.

There was also some trepidation about my visit, since I’d questioned after a quarter-century of anticipation if it could possibly live up to my expectations? I’d read countless online reviews that criticized the establishment and servers for being surly and, in some cases, even downright rude. So, I was prepared to accept that, but I’m happy to report that everyone from the hostess down to our servers were all very pleasant and accommodating. In fact, our waiter didn’t even bat an eye when I ordered the $350 steak, although I jokingly asked if he needed to check my credit first? I also speculated if they’d ever had anyone dine and dash on such a large check? For all I knew, the Sherrys could have mob ties to John Gotti or the Gambino crime family, and I certainly didn’t want to be erased like Jimmy Hoffa. Also, you’d imagine for such an expensive price that a salad, potato or bread would be included, but everything was a la carte. Whenever a waiter walked out of the kitchen, I nervously eyed him to see if he was bringing my prized Wagyu filet. I curiously wondered if there would be any special presentation that accompanied it, like maybe a marching band or a stripper would pop out of a huge cake holding it? Sadly, the actual delivery was pretty low-key, with no confetti or fanfare. Additionally, Marc Sherry kept walking past our table and I had to suppress the urge to leap out of my seat and announce through a giant bullhorn and humongous flashing arrow that I had traveled 1,200 miles for the privilege of blowing over $500 on dinner. But he had a laser-like focus and seemed very busy, so I didn’t want to interrupt him.  

Ordered at the suggested medium rare, the outside had just the right amount of sear and the inside was a perfect strawberry color. In Japan, it’s served in paper-thin sections like sashimi, so I trimmed off a small slice and relished it on my palette . With the rich concentration of oleic acids, the flavor was exquisite. It really was better than anything I had ever eaten. I savored it with as much restraint as humanely possible, but after sharing some with my wife and daughter, the 12 ounce portion was quickly devoured. I’m surprised there’s not a Kobe Beef support group, like Wagyu Eaters Anonymous. It’s certainly addictive and expensive enough. Forget gambling and alcohol, Japanese Wagyu would be my vice. I then wondered aloud how many of the destitute and homeless we saw littering the streets had once been like me, coming to New York City for the first time, bright-eyed and optimistic, only to succumb to a life of crime to support their Kobe Beef habit? “Probably none. Zero. Zilch.” my wife interrupted with an exasperated tone in her voice, and I reluctantly agreed she was probably right. I was just saying that, while not likely, it could happen.

CONCLUSION         
Of course, I’ve edited this article for brevity and humor, but in all seriousness our trip was pretty incredible, particularly with such magical moments as it snowing on us in Central Park. New York is such a cultural epicenter that literally everything is at your finger tips, from the newest fashions, to world-class dining and performing arts. You can’t see it all in a week, even though we tried. Initially, I was cautiously optimistic about how well three Hurley hillbillies would fare in a place so busy that it earned the axiom “New York Minute”. However, within the first 24 hours, I inexplicably felt as though I’d lived my whole life there and I really embraced the fast-paced lifestyle. Similarly, my daughter was ready to move to Manhattan. But then again, she also said her favorite meal of the entire trip wasn’t the Kobe Beef or Canadian lobster, but the $5.00 hot dog she got from a street vendor. And as for the age-old stereotype of brash Yankees, we never saw it, even during the most stressful and hectic time of the year. We treated everyone with respect and that’s what we got in return. Rounding a corner at Madison Square Garden, I caught a policeman sharing his lunch with a homeless man. In passing, the officer reached into his fast food bag and handed the homeless man a bag of French fries. Now, this wasn’t some carefully orchestrated publicity stunt, or a post that would go viral on Face Book and be shared 10 Million times. Only my daughter and I witnessed it, but it bears repeating. As of late, the police have been under a lot of scrutiny, and some of it’s justified. Yet, it’s not fair to blame them all for a few bad apples. During the Macy’s Parade, I thought of all the police present and how I knew they’d rather be home with their families on Thanksgiving. But like the Coast Guard we encountered earlier, they were there in the bitter cold, ready to offer their lives to protect us if necessary. The media gives New York a bad rap, but what I experienced that week reaffirmed my faith in humanity.             

Cruisin’ The Capital

 

Pirate Press     November 2016

Now with 40% more Pumpkin Spice!

 

Car-centric events in Mississippi are a real “Feast-or-Famine” occurrence. For months at a time, the automotive landscape is bleaker than Death Valley and then suddenly three spring up at the same time. For the first weekend of Fall, there was the kickoff of “Cruisin’ The Coast”, “Cars and Coffee” in Biloxi and “Euro Fest” in Jackson. But given the prominence of Italian cars at Euro Fest, it wasn’t hard to decide which to attend. So, on October 1st, almost exactly one year after the “Ferrari Days” event I attended in New Orleans, we ventured to our state capital to attend another Ferrari meet. This one was much smaller though, and not officially sanctioned by the Ferrari factory. However, I took exception to the name, “Euro Fest” which sounds like a triple-x flick about a slatternly Czech girl and a hotel room of amorous suitors. The improbable title notwithstanding, the car show took place in the same city where I saw my first Ferrari nearly thirty years ago.  

 

That was in January 1987 at Ferrari South, the only authorized dealership between Florida and Texas. My Father volunteered to drive me the three hours to Jackson so I wouldn’t get hopelessly lost and end up somewhere like the pecan orchards of Indianola. And this was the Eighties, where you didn’t drive anywhere without a gas station highway map that unfolded into the size of a small tent. Back in those dark days before Al Gore claimed he invented the internet, there was no GPS or crowd-sourcing apps like Trip Advisor or Yelp, so we just rolled the dice when stopping for food in an unknown town. They say you can’t judge a book by its cover, but you do have much better odds of choosing a restaurant by its storefront. And we lucked out when we stopped at a nice two story, wood-sided eatery on the forested outskirts of Jackson.  Lunch was going along swimmingly until I attempted to open a glass bottle of Heinz ketchup. Remember, these were the old times when restaurants still had pay phones, so the ubiquitous fast food squeeze bottles were as foreign as wireless routers. Back then it could take a lot of cajoling, begging, pleading, embarrassing hand gestures and sometimes even a ritual-sacrifice before you could eventually coax the ketchup out of the bottle. And unlike a good bottle of wine, you didn’t want to receive an aged bottle of ketchup where the contents had the same viscosity as flypaper. Nope, you’d have better luck breaking the glass bottle over the bow of the Titanic and picking out the glass shards than persuading it to pour out in a reasonable amount of time. As such, when the ketchup finally decided to exit the bottle it did so with an explosive force equal to that generated by Mount St. Helens. But instead of grey soot and ash, this was an enormous, anomalous blob of ketchup moving at roughly the speed of light towards my crotch. Almost as if guided by an extraterrestrial intelligence, it somehow completely missed my plate and napkin and made a perfect bulls-eye on my button-fly jeans. I immediately grabbed my napkin and desperately tried to wipe it off, but I only succeeded in rubbing it more into the faded denim. Meanwhile, my stern Father made an exasperated expression that seemed to convey he couldn’t take my anywhere without it embarrassing him. A trip to the men’s room was also futile in removing the stain which now bore an eerie resemblance to Gorbachev’s Port-Wine Birthmark. Determined there was nothing else I could do, I sheepishly left with the huge crimson stain on the front of my pants, looking like an unprepared woman who was surprised by the early arrival of her monthly visitor.

 

Shortly thereafter, we arrived at 419 South Gallatin Street, the location of Ferrari South. Granted, Gallatin Street in Jackson was never a prosperous section of the state capital even when the economy was booming in the 1980’s under a Republican president. I always thought it was a little incongruous that a dealership purveying $125,000 sports cars was built in an impoverished area where houses were a half-century old and displaced less square footage than a politician’s kitchen. Additionally, the nearby named Hooker Street did little to boost property values and encourage community reinvestments. Finally, Jackson’s mass-transit authority was within walking distance and became a hub for a parade of modern-day carpetbaggers. In 2014, this unsavory element helped catapult Jackson to number two for murder rates in the Southeast (behind only New Orleans) and number four nationwide. 

 

As we walked up to Ferrari South, Dick Manning, the Sales Manager, rushed to greeted us at the door. In retrospect, this was probably because with the scarlet stain on my pants and the part of town we were in, he probably thought I’d been stabbed and had mistaken the dealership for an Urgent Care facility. However, he relaxed once he saw that wasn’t the case. I introduced myself and he recalled us speaking on the phone. Although I had made it clear that I was not there to buy a Ferrari, he still gave us the royal treatment.

 

Incidentally, that would be my first (and last) visit to Ferrari South as the owner, Ed Wettach, would shutter the dealership in 1994. Wettach, as local lore has it, became a real-life Horatio Alger. He was a typical used-car salesman until he sold his future wife a Corvette. That woman just happened to be Eleanor Hederman of the Hederman family that owned Jackson’s Clarion-Ledger newspaper. He married her and flush from a $110 Million dollar sale of the Clarion-Ledger to Gannet Corp., opened Ferrari South in 1984 and used it as his private toy box. He leveraged his position as a dealer to obtain not only the newest and best Ferraris for himself, but also at a steep discount. One of his most famous acquisitions was a 1993 Ferrari F40 LM, one of just 19 built worldwide. But believing the road to Atlanta was paved with gold, Wettach began a “Sherman’s March” to Georgia’s capital in 1995 with plans for a fancy new Ferrari dealership there. As with the Civil War that happened 100 years earlier, there was considerable bloodshed and casualties from employees who either left or were fired. In the ensuing years, Ferrari of Atlanta thrived but Wettach passed away in 2013 after a long struggle with MDS, a rare form of blood and bone marrow cancer.

 

A postcard of the dealership in better days

 

And as it stands now, with rampant rust and graffiti

 

Fast-forward to present day and our destination for Euro Fest was Ridgeland, a swanky suburb about 10 minutes north of Jackson. It can be confusing to find as there are three locations in the same vicinity that sound similar. With the local lazy southern drawl, Ridgeland, Richland and Richton are all pronounced the same but are vastly different. There were many other small towns we passed through and the lack of imagination when naming them seemed to reflect the local intellect, or lack thereof. For instance, there was “Rock Hill” “Dry Creek” and “Strong River”. There was even a billboard for a motel named the “Luxury Inn” that included directions which read “Near Giant Cross” as if every passerby was a local who would immediately recognize the location they were speaking of. Sure enough, ten miles down the road the Luxury Inn was smack dab between a church and a catfish restaurant, two of the most prolific industries in Mississippi.   

 

North of Hattiesburg, there was a startling sound like distant thunder which was odd given the clear forecast and picturesque Autumn weather. The cacophony grew louder and louder before we spotted the origin of the disturbance. Behind us, it looked like a giant, angry swarm was rapidly approaching. We watched as nearly 200 bikers on hot-rodded Harley Davidson’s roared past us. They were so loud, I told my wife they couldn’t even sneak up on a marching band. After the deafening display, I laughed at the name of their gang stitched on their leather jackets: “Sons of Silence”.

 

Euro Fest was expected to draw 15,000 spectators to view 150 entries, manufactured in five different countries, and coming from eight different states. Aside from Ferrari, some of the other marquees represented were BMW, Jaguar, Porsche and Rolls Royce. It took place in a 500,000 square foot open-air lifestyle center known as Renaissance at Colony Park. We were also surprised when we spotted a 190-foot-tall replica of the Washington Monument near the entrance. However, it turns out that the monolithic obelisk was designed more for civic-minded progress than flag-waving patriotism.  Upon further inspection, there was nary a piece of marble or granite to be found. Instead, we discovered that it was a carefully camouflaged cell phone tower concealed in 4-foot by 8-foot fiberglass panels, painted to mimic the approximation of stone. And yet, the irony was not lost on us: it was a perfect metaphor for how today’s government painstakingly cultivates an image to disguise its true nature.

 

However, after a stroll around the Renaissance at Colony Park, I personally felt that a statue of Atlas would be more appropriate given that the whole center feels as it was founded on Ayn Rand’s philosophy of Objectivism. It’s also no surprise that shopping there requires a political lobbyist’s salary and with such affluent tenants as Ruth’s Chris Steakhouse and a Rolex dealer, it’s equally easy to wreck your cholesterol as well as your bank account. Fittingly, the Ferraris were parked in front of Biaggi’s Italian Ristorante, so we had a spectacular view of them as we dined on such traditional delicacies as bomboloni, calamari and tiramisu.

 

 

There was also a rogue element at Euro Fest that I had not experienced at any car shows before, and that unpredictable factor was the general public. Previously, the Ferrari events I had attended were largely private affairs that helped separate the wheat from the chaff. But that cushion was absent here and it brought out the absolute worst society has to offer: teenagers, shopping and selfies. That’s right, these kids were literally falling all over themselves trying to snap pictures in front of the cars, even though they knew nothing about them. Young and old were equally mystified by the various marquees, not being able to tell the difference between a Fiat and a Ferrari. A bright red Lotus Esprit Turbo generated a lot of attention due to its cuneiform curves. I witnessed a thirty-something woman drag her two young daughters over to it while sighing heavily that it was the same car Richard Gere drove in “Pretty Woman”. Similarly, I overheard a teenage boy confidently told his friend that it was a million-dollar Lamborghini. They had no idea it was a 1981 model with just 220 hp and a price less than $20K on Ebay. But, the height of these clueless onlookers had to be when I spotted an elderly man snapping photos of a new Accord. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that he could see as many as he wanted at the Honda store. Later on, I would reflect on the entire day and remain amused at what an exercise in ethnology it was.  

 

 

Aside from the registered show cars, there were a lot of high performance vehicles parked amongst the hoi polloi. I spotted an Acura NSX and a C7 Corvette Stingray on one aisle, while a Dodge Viper and Porsche 911 Turbo were on another. But it was a brand-new 2017 Tesla Model X that garnered the most attention. It might have slipped through as discretely as any other random luxury crossover, but that chance disappeared when its signature gull-wing doors lifted up. “What is that?!?” asked my wife, genuinely perplexed. I explained that it was essentially a $100,000 electric SUV, but that answer didn’t sit well with her. Apparently, she could justify such a price tag for a Ferrari which combined sleek bodywork with high-performance, but a $100,000 battery-powered minivan was as alien to her as a flying saucer.  

 

 

1971 Alfa Romeo Junior Zagato 

This Alfa Romeo was a pleasant surprise, as both the styling and the Champagne Metallizzato color strongly evoked the late sixties Space-Race era that it was born in. It belonged to Mike Glore of New Orleans who had perhaps the strangest stable of cars present. At one end was the aforementioned antique Alfa Romeo, and the newer end was a sunburst orange 2012 McLaren MP4-12C.

 

2003 Westfield Seven  

Along with the Alfa, this Westfield Seven was one of the stranger oddities. It’s essentially a kit-car based on a Lotus Seven, hence the strong physical resemblance. However, the main difference between the two is that Westfield continues manufacturing their models in fiberglass as Lotus originally did, whereas Caterham (who bought the rights) now uses aluminum. And given the light body weight, all versions of the Seven are terrific performers with engine choices ranging from mild to wild.

 

2013 Maserati GranTurismo MC Stradale

With its special one-of-a-kind Lamborghini Verde Ithaca Pearl Green paint, this Maserati was certainly the brightest and most flamboyant vehicle in attendance. Unfortunately, it was more flash than dash, with a relatively weak 444hp V-8 to motivate its four-doors and 4000-plus pounds. It was offered by Motorcars of Jackson and touted as the owner’s personal vehicle. With just 6,000 miles on the odometer, it was being advertised for $135,000 but had no takers. Such an ostentatious appearance clearly requires someone with the questionable taste and money of a professional athlete. 

 

2012 McLaren MP4-12C 

Next to the Ferraris, this Pearl White McLaren was my favorite exotic at the show. I heard it before I saw it, when the owner revved it up to demonstrate the custom exhaust it was equipped with it. As I made my way through the crowd, I caught the tail-end of his conversation explaining the special system. I may not have gotten to speak to him, but the McLaren didn’t need an introduction.  The “Warp Drive” vanity plate was quite as fitting as the 600hp twin-turbo V8 made it one of the fastest cars at Euro Fest.

 

 

2016 Ferrari F12

Whereas the Maserati was simply too gaudy and could be spotted from outer space, the F12 on display had the exact opposite problem and was too subdued. I didn’t feel that that the Argento Nurburgring silver paint properly conveyed the Ferrari’s powerful character. After all, with a 730hp naturally-aspirated V-12, it remains the fastest production Ferrari available. But to test my theory, I asked my wife which she thought was the quickest and most expensive Ferrari present. She incorrectly picked a black 488 and a red California, both eight-cylinder models, over the F12. Likewise, the performance is nearly as breath-taking as the sticker price, starting at $319,999. But everything is a la carte, so it’s not hard to rack up another $150,000 in accessories. For instance, one carbon fiber cup holder fetches $3,533 making for a very expensive way to carry your $5 Frappuccino. Similarly, convenience items standard on even the most basic cars such as electric mirrors are also a $3,533 option. Finally, the most sensible item, a suspension lift for raising the front a couple inches to clear steep inclines, seems a bargain at $5,461. But for me, the real kicker is that Ferrari is discontinuing the fitted car cover that came standard with every F12 purchase. Apparently, word is that the Italian automaker is too cheap to continue including it for free.   

 

The F12 belonged to Paul McNeill, a Senior Vice-President at Merrill Lynch in Ridgeland and also the President of the Mississippi Ferrari Chapter. He grew up in Oxford, England before moving to Jackson when he was 13. As such, he goes by the moniker “FerrariBrit” on the forums and is quite passionate about the prancing horse, having owned every generation of eight-cylinder Ferrari available in the past thirty years. Interestingly, he recently possessed a Rosso Corsa (Racing Red) 2015 F12 before trading it in on the platinum 2016 model. As he was proceeding to leave, he cranked the F12 and it emitted a Valkyrian shriek from the quad-exhaust tips before settling into a deep, gurgling idle. I turned around and looked at my wife as is if to say, “Can you believe that unearthly sound?!?” Noticing my surprise, Bobby Gill, the owner of an F430 Spider parked nearby, leaned over and remarked that Paul had turned the exhaust valves in the mufflers so that they stayed fully open all the time, resulting in the aural ambrosia. But the only option on the F12 I didn’t desire was the curiously named HELE Start&Stop feature. This “High Emotion Low Emissions” technology helps Ferrari achieve a 23% reduction in CO2 emissions at the risk of automatically stopping and starting the vehicle at every red light. Personally, I wouldn’t want that wear and tear on my drivetrain, nor telling people that I have HELE, which sounds like an autoimmune disease.           

 

 

2009 Nissan GT-R (Click Picture to Watch)

What’s this, a six-cylinder Nissan ranked ahead of Ferrari’s V-12 flagship? Indeed, as we were walking back from watching the Ferraris depart, I spied an unassuming silver Nissan GTR pulling up. I casually pointed it out to my wife and then I noticed the red fender badge which read “Alpha 16”. Suddenly, it hit me that this was Ben Haynes’ world-record GT-R. Six-months ago, he had made history when he dominated the TX2K16 event by beating a 2000+hp Lamborghini in the finals. I remember thinking that it was incredible the trophy was coming home to the Magnolia State instead of the usual areas like California or Florida.

 

So what kind of guy races a Nissan that can do 0-60 in 1.6 seconds and hit 216 in a half-mile? Ben is 31 and reminds me of a younger Brett Favre at the peak of his career. He owns a construction company in nearby Madison, BBH Construction, which allows him the budget to buy and modify his $60,000 Nissan, of which he has reportedly spent over $200K in upgrades. Naturally, tripling the stock horsepower means that very few items were carried over and the assembly was done by T1 Race Development in Rockwall, Texas. Primarily, the stock 3.8-liter V-6 was bored out to 4.2-liters and all internal pieces were replaced with T1’s proprietary GT1R components. Following that, an AMS Alpha 16 turbo kit was fitted which was akin to strapping dynamite to an atomic bomb. The explosive results speak for themselves and are what prompted him to create the now-famous “LMBOKLR” personalized plate which is short for “Lamborghini Killer”. Sure enough, when I spotted him, the same license plate was on it as was the parachute mandatory for slowing down from double-century digits. I gave him the thumbs up and he smiled and waved. Amazingly, despite 1600 horsepower going to all four wheels, it was trudging along in traffic as easily as a Toyota and nothing, save the parachute, tipped off its performance potential. Now, that’s what I call a supercar!