Engaging the SoulImagine nine blobs of mercury, careening over the folds of a crumpled silk kimono, and it gives you some idea of european car's annual Grand Prix test.
We were like frenetic hemispheres of the liquid metal, swooping and whirling across the twisted terrain dividing Southern California's coast and desert. Climbing up Cajon Pass, a deep gash cleaved into the mountains by the infamous San Andreas Fault, we were headed for a challenging network of back roads-and that meant thrusting deeper into earthquake country.
Nine cars, 36 tires, 69 pistons. Lots of noise. Rubber riffing a steady thrum against the blacktop. As we treaded across the fragile crust of the rugged landscape, I added another worry to the fear of an "off" by one of our test cars. Would we, I wondered, trigger a seismic event with our pounds of metal and pound feet of torque? Would Dr. Richter's needles register an effect to our cause, which was to choose european car's Grand Prix, our car of the year? Which of the talented group of cars would win the Grand Prix was yet to be determined, but opinions were quickly being formed. Several days of everyday use had us accustomed to each of our contender's more obvious traits, and now it was time to get better acquainted.
True natures are often exposed in the heat of action, and the first stretch of back road absolutely sizzled with alluring curves. The authorities don't even bother with warning signs. It would take hundreds to mark every rapacious radius, each one ready to turn a driver's red mist into an apex missed. I couldn't imagine the malicious mind that engineered such a vicious series of corners...but I'd sure like to shake his (or her) hand for designing that hugely enjoyable test venue.
As trail boss, I decided the horses needed to be cooled down and the drivers cautioned-to be safe and also to ensure they remembered the essence of our annual "most significant car" award. We don't want to judge the contenders against each other but rather to the other cars in their respective segments. european car's Grand Prix is perhaps the most subjective award of its type, unashamedly designed to be much less than full instrumented testing yet far more than judging based largely on ticks of the clock.
When I say subjective, don't think prejudiced. Think juiced. Think rich, sweet flows from all the good glands. Think the streaming rush of a heart finding joy in its work.
It's not always fun and games. We're often challenged on our choice, asked to defend it objectively. Arguments are backed by more stats than ants at a picnic. The world's car magazines are cited as better, more informed arbiters of performance and taste.
Well, even if we could go back and show that our former winners-the VW New Beetle, Audi S4, BMW M Coupe, Mercedes-Benz C-Class and Volvo S60 R-were the proper choices, that they were quantifiably better cars than their competition, we wouldn't bother. Passion pales in hindsight. Retrospection in this case would be a hollow search for an empty goal. To speculate about emotions that were never there is useless to us in our search for the thrill of the moment.
Driving is very much a here-and-now responsibility, an exercise in concentration. But it's also a way to elevate our progress through life to other planes and speeds, to take us places our minds wondered about and hearts yearned for. When driving a great car, the intellect should be as fully engaged as the soul is delighted. And that is about as objective as I want to get in choosing my car of the year.Editor