Day 3: Nashville to St Louis, via Bayonne, New Jersey; 953 miles; “Back Where We Started, Here We Go Round Again”

[From 2009]

            Ah, remember the Mantide?  We got a call from Dan’s customs broker on Monday, advising us that the car had landed and cleared customs, with delivery arranged for Tuesday morning.  Dan calls his friend Carlos, who has a private plane.  Could we borrow it in the morning?  Sure, no problem.  Glenn and Mark are to continue towards St Louis in the two Ferraris, with the transporter now having leapfrogged us and awaiting there.  On the flight back East, Dan takes a crack at programming the digital radio scanner.  Because it’s mind-bogglingly difficult, we didn’t get a chance to do it before we started.  Trying to do it on the plane isn’t helping.

            At the warehouse in Bayonne, NJ, the delivery truck arrives with a very large crate.  The uncrating process was started by three guys and a forklift; by the end of the near-three hour task, the entire warehouse staff was working on it.  The Mantide was so well protected, I think the crate could have been flipped over without incurring any damage.  Jason Castriota, the proud papa, has met us to handle the delivery, explaining things like how to open the cantilevered clamshell hood, the various hidden releases and buttons, and the various concept car quirks we’d have to handle on the way.

            While striking in photographs, there’s no doubt that the overall design can be polarizing.  But it’s not until you see it in person, seeing both the minute design elements worked into every centimeter of the car, combined with the overwhelming physical impact that one can truly appreciate the beauty of the thing.  It’s simply gobsmackingly desirable.

            The interior is just as stylized, though it must be noted that like many Italian supercars, it’s not designed for particularly oversized drivers.  The main carbon fiber design element running across the dash in the shape of a manta ray threatens to chop off my knees in case of an impact.  The climate controls and Heads-Up Display are hidden from view for anyone above, say, 5’10”.  Surprisingly, the carbon shell racing seats are adjustable for reach and rake, and are not uncomfortable.  The scissor doors allow for fairly easy entry (even for women in short skirts), and the four point harnesses can be tucked away for use on the streets.

            Dan is already planning a few upgrades.  The shift knob is a plain piece of brushed nickel, classic in simplicity but in marked contrast to the carbon fiber and leather everywhere else.  The few remaining Chevy bits still poke up here and there.  Some are perfect, like the ZR1’s carbon composite brakes (ironically, the fronts are from the Ferrari FXX while the rears are from the Enzo).  Other pieces are perfectly acceptable, like the keyless entry and starting system.  Still others are somewhat out of place in a $2mm car, like the standard GM green “check gages” light staring at you when the gas tank runs low.

            Tossing our bags into the much-bigger-than-expected rear hatch area, we roll down the street to fill up the tank and hit the road.  Trucks pull over and drivers jump out to find out what the heck this thing is.  This is representative of every gas stop we’ll make over the course of the week; everyone in a half-mile radius comes over to gawk.  Dan is delighted to show people the car, though, and tell them about it.  Each introduction is accompanied by a pronunciation guide:  “BEAR-tone-ay, MAN-tih-day”

As we get ready to depart, Dan remarks that visibility towards the rear is compromised by the complex curves molded into the clear Lexan rear hatch.  We look at each other, smile, and simultaneously quote Raul Julia’s character from The Gumball Rally:  “And now, my friend, the first rule of Italian driving…  whatsa behind me, itsa not important!”

            Since the uncrating took much longer than expected, we’re in the thick of rush hour traffic swarming out of NYC.  When Glenn checks in and we report back that we’re only averaging about 40 mph, he asks Dan, “did you buy a MAN-tih-day or a MO-PED-day?”  This is not helped by the description of the porterhouse and wine Mark and Glenn enjoyed at the Ritz Carlton St Louis, nor the comfy featherbeds awaiting them.  While Dan and I have 900 miles of Interstate, Red Bull and Doritos in front of us.

As we roll along, everyone and I mean everyone is staring at this thing.  More attention than a naked Megan Fox sunbathing in the back seat of a pink Cadillac convertible.  We’ve stopped counting at 473 the number of cell phone photos taken of us. 

Dan, my trusted and boon companion, suddenly decides that his stint behind the wheel is over and wants me to drive… just as we’re approaching Ohio.  Curses.  With its speed enforcement reputation, Ohio has scared plenty of drivers to take alternate routes (I-64 is a viable alternative, adding only a handful of miles but avoiding Ohio altogether).  With no small trepidation, we enter Ohio at the posted limit, slowly increasing it as we roll along.  I decide that at this late hour, we’re relatively safe – and hey, the faster we get out of this state, the safer we’ll be, right?  For the Ohio stint, we do 309 miles at an average of 80.5 mph, with 308.7 miles of that spent in 6th gear.  This monster motor has enough torque for 35 mph to 128 mph and beyond.

Stopping for gas in Indiana, we dine at 3:30 am on sandwiches in triangular plastic containers.  ‘Cause that’s how we roll.  “I’m thinking that the other guys may have enjoyed their dinner a bit more tonight.”  “But they’re missing out on this experience!  This is what American road trips are all about!  Answering questions about the car from meth dealers at Indiana gas stations in the middle of the night, eating 2 year old sandwiches, sucking down caffeine and racking up the miles – this is it, baby!”

While the dash contains a Magnetti Marelli race car graphic display (as used in the Ferrari FXX), it’s pretty useless when lumbering across the mid-west on Interstates.  The Corvette HUD projects the speed, engine RPM, lateral G ’s, and temperatures onto the windshield, so the green graphics appear to be floating on the road in front.  This makes for amusing visual illusions as the night presses on.  We cross the Mississippi at 5:27 am CDT, and arrive at the Ritz Carlton St Louis in a groggy but conscious state.  The best hotel beds in the world are calling us, and Dan and I each grab about 2 hours of rest-eye.