Day 5: Denver to Gateway Canyons Resort; 411 Miles; “This Is the Best Road in America”.

[From 2009]

We arrived last night in Denver at 1 am, staying at another Ritz-Carlton property, though very different in atmosphere from the Ritz in St Louis. Same great comfy bed, though, and I’m very grateful for the five hours of sleep.  Also arriving last night was Nathaniel Greene, Dan’s neighbor, who’s flown in to join in the drive for two days.  Today will be the only day spent in one state.  Sitting down to our breakfast repast at the Ritz, Dan and I realize that this is the first meal ordered off a menu since the diner in New Jersey.  Clearly, we need to upgrade our dining options.

The transporter is parked outside the Ritz, and we roll out the McLaren to a gathering crowd.  Saddling up all four cars together for the first time, we head North through the resort town of Estes Park and into Rocky Mountain National Park.  Nathaniel, 36, who’s not driven a Ferrari previously, is as giddy as a schoolboy.  And even after the long-haul the rest of us have endured, that giddiness is infectious, as we’re again facing some interesting mountain roads rather than flat interstate.  Even the loose gravel scattered all over the roads approaching the park don’t dissuade us from our good cheer; Dan’s attitude towards rock chips is,. “eh, cars can be repainted.”

Making the climb into the mountains though, does reveal a major drawback.  We flatlanders haven’t really acclimated well to the altitude.  In particular, I’ve neglected to keep properly hydrated, so combined with the lack of sleep, I’m sucking wind even crossing a parking lot for a view.  Uh-oh.  I feel even worse about my middle-aged decrepitude when, while sitting in the Mantide catching my breath, a pair of women bicyclists pass me, ascending the mountain as if commuting to school.  Dang.

Above the tree line, not only were we succumbing, but the McLaren as well.  Whether it’s the weak 91 octane gas available here or the altitude, the McLaren no-likey, running rough and wanting to stall.  Conversing over the radio, we suggest that what the McLaren really needs is an Italian tune-up.  The roads in the park aren’t conducive, however, filled as they are with vacationers and RVs.  While the views are the most magnificent to date, clearly, it’s time to beat a hasty retreat. 

We stop at Shadow Mountain Lake for gas, and decide to blow off lunch to make it to our destination by dinnertime.  Everyone else loads up on chips, cookies and yet more sandwiches in triangular plastic boxes, I have a craving for hot dogs.  The store doesn’t sell cooked hot dogs to go, but they do have packages in the case.  Hmmm… I buy a pack, stick three of them in a coffee cup, microwave for a minute, and chow down in the parking lot.  About upgrading our food options….  To my surprise, the guy in the checkout line behind me comes up to me outside, introduces himself as the local distributor for the hot dogs I just bought, and pushes $3 into my hand, to thank me for my patronage!  I guffaw, thank him for his generosity, and think about the ridiculousness of the situation:  I’m driving a $2 million car, eating micro-waved hot dogs out of a coffee cup, and a guy pays for them for me.  Only in America.

I-70 in Colorado is perhaps the most scenic stretch of interstate in the country, as it winds through canyons past Vail.  In a quandary; do we push it up a few notches, to make dinner at our destination, or slow down and keep absorbing the scenery?  Our stomachs dictate the answer, so we press onward.

Departing the highway just East of Grand Junction, we take RT 141 towards Gateway, Colorado.  We soon discover that RT 141 is easily our favorite road of the trip.  Ninety miles of smooth two lane road, with almost no crossroads, traffic, buildings, or anything, other than the occasional cattle guard.  And as the road heads South, it descends deeper into the awe-striking Unaweep Canyon vistas.  We’re soon driving the Pace at average speeds above 80 mph, with periodic bursts up to 150 mph, as Dan and I swap the lead between the Bertone and the McLaren.  The English supercar likes this altitude much better, as it’s thrown off its earlier recalcitrance, perhaps due to the Italian tune-up it received on I-70.  Radio silence is broken only for repeated bursts of “Oh. My. God.  Look at this.  This is the most beautiful drive in the world.  Where are all the tourists???”

We do arrive at our destination, the luxurious Gateway Canyons resort before dinnertime.  As we park the cars, a rainbow forms overhead, pointing to the giant mesas that form the resort’s trademark silhouette.  A sign of heaven.  The five of us take over the bar for dinner, downing pitchers of margaritas and wolfing down a side of beef.  Bruce Stover, COO of the resort, joins us for dinner, and gives us a history of the place.  Offering full spa treatments, full adventure outfitting and even guided driving tours with supercar rentals available, Gateway Canyons intends to be one of the leading destinations for auto (and outdoor) enthusiasts in the country.  You owe it to yourself to get out here to see this undiscovered gem of the fast car community.

Day 7: Delta to Lake Tahoe; 520 miles; “The Loneliest Road in America”

[From 2009]

Route 50 is promoted as “The Loneliest Road in America”, and in a sense it is.  Chalk-line straight for miles and miles and miles, it’s interrupted only periodically from climbs to cut through mountain notches.  This is an utterly foreign concept to native Northeasterners.  Back home, everywhere we look, there are hills, buildings, forests.  Out here, you can see the parallel road lines receding to the horizon.

And while the pavement isn’t perfect, RT 50 is otherwise a great place to go fast and enjoy the scenery.  You typically have a one or more minute warning as to oncoming traffic, with virtually no cross streets or, for that matter, any signs of human existence, other than the asphalt.  So we take this as yet another opportunity to exercise the 16M and Mantide, easily reaching some impressive speeds.  

The exhaust on the Ferrari opens up above 3,000 RPM, and turns into a rage-filled snarl accelerating past 5,000 RPM.  This sound is utterly irresistible.  The best way to hear it, of course, is to be doing 120 mph in the Mantide and have the Ferrari blow by you going at least 30 mph faster.  For one 20 mile stretch, I averaged 120 mph in the Ferrari.  I don’t know if it’s more impressive or less impressive to add that the entire 20 mile high-speed stretch required not one application of the brakes or more than a minimal turn of the steering wheel.  As an aside,  we leave Delta, Utah at 8:35 am, and cross into Nevada, at 90 miles later, at 8:40 am – technically, 750 mph!

We’re not the only fast movers on RT 50.  Aside from the aforementioned pickups and SUVs not wasting time, even a Prius was doing over 90 mph coming down out of the mountains.  As we cruise through Nevada, we pass through some small towns, many of which are faded relics of their glorious, bygone eras.  This is reminiscent of nothing so much as the town of Radiator Springs from Cars. 

We stopped for a mighty fine burger with onion rings and chili in at the Owl Club & Steak House in Eureka.  Leaving town, we had our only close encounter with law enforcement on the trip:  a sheriff heading East shot us with radar.  Luckily, we were still digesting the chili and weren’t going much more than 80 mph.  The sheriff hit his flashing lights, but didn’t even slow down – just a warning to us to play nice.  Another sheriff gave both cars a nice wave as we passed through Cold Springs. Ah, Nevada is most excellent!

By the late afternoon, we drive through Carson City and arrive at Lake Tahoe.  While we’ve seen plenty of beautiful scenery on this trip, Tahoe added a big water feature to our panoramic memory gallery.  We’re spending the night in suites at the Village at Squaw Valley, a bucolic ski development very similar to Tremblant and Whistler.  

For once, we’re not rushing to dinner or bed!  Mark has caught up to us here, having stopped for a quick drive across the Bonneville Salt Flats in the 612 – hey, it’s aluminum, right?  Glenn’s brother Bob has also joined us for the final leg, arriving in his Ferrari Challenge Stradale.  We feast on sushi and sake, delighted with the drive thus far but also cheerful at almost being done.

Day 4: St Louis to Denver; 848 Miles; “On the Fields of Armageddon”

[From 2019]

            We start the morning, after way too little sleep, with a TV station interview covering our little road trip.  While saddened to leave the comfortable embrace of the Ritz after spending such little time there, we did want to make Denver that night.  After the high-speed testing at Nardo, Bertone added small Lexan aerodynamic devices to the under-tray, one each in front of the front wheels, to provide additional stability above 200 mph.  Whatever benefits they provide, these little deflectors are also scraping on every coin we drive over.  In his Indiana stint, Dan hit an unavoidable minefield of construction potholes hard enough to jolt me awake (and convince me that I’ve shattered my left kneecap).  And in so doing, has cracked both deflectors.  They are designed to be easily replaceable, but we don’t have any replacements with us.  Unsure of the aerodynamic effects if we just remove them (particularly on the high speed runs planned for later), Glenn steps up and wraps them in duct tape.  Yes, we’re fixing a

unique $2 million concept car with duct tape in the driveway of the Ritz Carlton.  First class all the way, baby!  I dare Dan to display the car at Pebble Beach with our duct tape modification intact.

            Our trip today consists entirely of heading west on the Interstate.  The 612 Scaglietti is well-suited for this purpose, despite its niggling ergonomic challenges.  The cruise control switches are much more tactilely pleasurable than the Chevy bits on the Bertone, but they are much harder to use.  Perhaps Ferrari thinks that cruise control are like cup holders; really only for Americans?

The 612’s hyper-expensive Bose entertainment and navigation system is the prime culprit here.  Sure, it produces rich, atmospheric sound that can be tuned to your utter delight, but that’s only if you can work the interface.  Two reasonably bright, gadget owning guys spent 8 days trying to figure out the system, and it still left us scratching our heads.  Connect to an iPod?  Sure, but good luck trying to call up the right album or select a different song.  This difficulty is dwarfed by the sheer frustration offered up by the navigation system.  Want to pan a map?  Rotate a knob to move up and down; then push the knob to rotate the angle of movement, and push the knob again to enable movement along the new axis of direction.  Forget it.  It was far easier, faster and more accurate to use Google Maps on the iPhone.  What’s frustrating is that the underlying audio hardware is so damn impressive, with only the crippling interface letting us down.  Attention, Steve Jobs….

            Having said all that, the 612 is clearly the best car for today.  Comfortable, supportive seats, plenty of room, ice-cold air conditioning (the equal of any American pick-up truck and about 5 times better than any Ferrari of a decade ago), Sirius comedy (once you figure out how to select it), and easy cruising at 120 mph – there is no better way to cross Missouri and Kansas, other than a Gulfstream jet. 

           

The 16M is not nearly as bad as feared for this sort of driving.  With the top up and the A/C on, the only intrusion into comfort is the firm carbon fiber shells, and that too could be chalked up to our XL derrieres.  As a nod to weight reduction, the only audio system available is the fully integrated iPod touch (complete with custom Ferrari wallpaper).  Great concept, really; lightweight, easy to use, gigs of music.  Except that someone apparently forgot that this was a convertible.  The driver needs to read tiny icons and words while moving, illegible in the full sun typically accompanying a top-down drive, and not to mention tapping the screen just so while the suspension is bouncing your finger to and fro.  It’s only a matter of time until some rich idiot Ferrari driver sues for an accident that occurred while pulling up a new playlist.  The other bit of faulty design in this system is the volume control.  Want to turn up the volume?  Press and hold down a button for, literally, 2-3 seconds, or just stab the button 11-16 times.  Music is pumping and your passenger says something?  Do the same again to turn the volume down.  Who in the world thought this was a better solution than the 80-year old design of a knob?

Clearly, as we kept driving west through the flat Midwest, we had a lot of time to whine to each other.  The top of the Mantide’s doors are made out of clear Lexan and glass.  Resembling nothing so much as the cockpit of an F-16 Falcon, it’s the perfect car for seeing the sights, short of a convertible.  But less than great for crossing Kansas, as it’s basically a giant greenhouse.  Glenn, of Irish descent and pale of skin, was the lucky driver for this stint.  He draped a towel over his head and ears, pulled a cap over it, and dubbed himself Glenn of Arabia.  There would be more consequences later.

            Amazed that my compatriots have never had the world’s best fried chicken, we make a slight detour in Topeka for dinner, to a Popeyes Chicken and Biscuits.  A large box of spicy fried chicken, some red beans and rice, and fresh biscuits.  Nom nom nom.  Outside the Popeyes, the word had gotten out, and the locals had formed a small car show around our conveyances.  Modified Civics and Mustangs were roaring into the lot to check out the exotic machinery.  “Never in a million years did I think I’d ever get to see cars like this in Topeka!”

            As the sun set, it became self-evident just how viscerally stunning the Mantide is.  With LED lighting up front and back, it’s nothing less than an alien starship, particularly as it passes you at a high rate of speed, shockingly silent as the engine is barely above idle.  The 16M generates the most squeals of delight, as it’s at least recognizable.  The 612 glides along, nearly unnoticed in this company.

            As we enter the flatlands of Eastern Colorado, a major thunderstorm is brewing against the horizon.  For this New Englander, never have I seen a thunderstorm that stretches 180 degrees against the horizon, giant purple thunderheads glowing with lightning strikes.  The closest feeling I can summon is that of standing on the fields of Armageddon, witnessing the End of Days.  The gusting winds are discomforting, but all three cars handle it mostly with aplomb and only a few white knuckle moments.

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.

Day 2: Lexington, VA to Nashville via Tail of the Dragon; 594 miles; “Sheer and Utter Violence”

[From 2009] 

            Trying to make up time, we boogied from Virginia to Knoxville, Tennessee, where we were desperate for lunch.  A quick Google search turned up Scruggs Real Pit Barbecue, what was promised to be the best BBQ in Knoxville.  The atmosphere was slightly off-putting, as there were padlocks on the soda chests; the cash we dropped into the counter tip jar was immediately emptied; and all of the coin-op games had “not working” signs on them, as did the bathroom.  But was the BBQ good?  Yes, oh my, yes.  The best smoked pork sandwich any of us had ever tasted.  Surprisingly, the pork was thinly sliced and not pulled, closer in taste to belly than shoulder, and not deeply sauced, in accord with Eastern Tennessee tradition. 

While we were wolfing down our sandwiches, fried okra, mac salad, baked beans and a giant plate of rib bones, the owner rushed into the place.  Our cook had called him and said that a pair of Ferraris had pulled up.  The owner didn’t believe it, and came down to see for himself.  “Now, boys, I’m delighted you came, but what the heck are you doing in the ghetto?” “Sorry, did you say ghetto?” “Yup!  This is the ghetto of Knoxville!”  We told him that the food was fantastic, and we were glad that we braved the visit (the Google search hadn’t said anything about the neighborhood).

Unfortunately, because of yesterday’s torrential downpours, the transporter couldn’t catch up to us, which meant no unleashing of the McLaren F1.  We had grand hopes of seeing it in action on the Tail of the Dragon, famed for its “318 curves in 11 miles” and one of the most famous motorcycling roads in America.  Undaunted, we proceeded to drive the Tail, starting from the Tennessee side.  Hundreds of motorcycles, from sportbikes to touring rigs to fully chromed Harley Davidson cruisers ascend and descend the road, sharing it fitfully with pickups, campers and Tennessee law enforcement. 

We ended up completing the Tail of the Dragon not just once but three times, swapping cars and seats.  At the busy gas station and campground – staging area, really – on the North Carolina end of the Tail, we met some friendly motorcyclists who wanted to follow us back across the Tail to shoot some videos on their hero cams.

It was on this road that the Scuderia 16M finally revealed its true character.  Yes, you can drop the top and cruise through Beverly Hills.  But give it some leash, and the deep impression you get is that of sheer and utter violence.  One simply cannot turn away from the shrieking sound, the mace blow the transmission makes on a full-throttle upshift, and the head-snapping stopping power of the carbon composite brakes.  With the Manettino turned to Race mode, Dan attacked the curves with violence in his heart, the ripping canvas of the exhaust drowning out even the open pipes on the American v-twins and Japanese fours. 

The next time through, we elect to drive “The Pace”, a motorcycling term to describe the maximizing of cornering momentum and accurate targeting of corner apexes while using virtually no brakes – and absolutely no crossing of the double-yellow.  Done properly, the Pace is almost as fast –if not faster— than a more aggressive attitude, requiring only faith from the driver that the car can take a fast entry speed without braking.  Here, the 16M shines as well, sticking close to our new motorcycling friends, dragging their knees deep into the corners. 

The 612 Scaglietti comports itself with dignity, keeping mostly up, showing a dropped hem only in the wisps of smoke coming off the brakes at the turnout.  Pretty impressive for our luggage carrier.

We had to call it a day on the Tail of the Dragon, as the roller coaster ride had made Glenn and Mark very queasy.  From there, we headed for the Cherohala Skyway, a relatively new 36-mile road cutting through the Cherokee and Nantahala National Forests (well over 50 miles if you add in the bits at the start and end that are equally impressive).  This road deserves to join the pantheon of great American roads, as it offers Skyline Drive views and curves, with almost no traffic.

As the clock was ticking ever louder, we were now making a run for Nashville.  Stricken with hunger pangs, we stopped at the Watts Bar Grill and Chill, a roadside bar just after the twin cooling towers of the nearby TVA nuclear power plant.  We had hoped to be as unobtrusive as possible, to get back on the road, but it was not too be (yes, shocking), with patrons emptying out to check out the cars.  Still, the wings and cheese steaks were more than passable, longnecks were Monday’s $1 special, and the locals were very friendly –everyone in the bar introduced themselves and shook our hands.

Dark now, we put the hammer down, cruising up Route 68 and flying west on I-40, doing 102 miles in an hour and 18 minutes. We’re spending the night at a Fairfield Inn at the Nashville airport.  Why here?

Day 1: Manhattan to Lexington, VA; 477 miles; “How Bad Can the Rain Be?”

[From 2009]

We started the day very early, taking advantage of the relative calm to do some shooting with photographer Daniel Byrne for this article.  Coincidentally, we shot in many of the same NYC places as in The Gumball Rally: across 59^th Street in front of the Plaza hotel and into Columbus Circle, crossing Times Square, coming out of Grand Central Terminal onto Park Avenue.  After finally making it out of Manhattan, we detoured through a surprisingly pastoral part of New Jersey, where Daniel shot us while kneeling and facing backwards in the 16M.  

Then torrential downpours hit, as bad a rainstorm as we’ve ever seen outside the tropics.  Cars were pulled over on the side of I-78, but the 612 Scaglietti was supremely stable and confident even in these conditions; the 16M slightly less so.  The McLaren was downright scary, and the downforce it generated was literally vacuuming the water off the road, making it impossible for anyone behind it to see.  So we decided to call in the cavalry early.  The transporter met us and we loaded up the McLaren.  We had a late lunch at a traditional NJ diner, where buckets were catching the cascading rain dripping down around our table. 

Now about 4 hours behind schedule, we began picking our way through the 2-lane traffic down I-78 and I-81.  We made up a lot of the deficit, arriving at Front Royal, Virginia, in the late afternoon, where the rain had stopped. We set off for Skyline Drive through Shenandoah National Park, accepting the fact that the drive would be slow, but the spectacular scenery was high on our checklist. 

As expected, the road built by FDR’s Works Progress Administration was stunning.  Vistas opened up on either side of the road, and we stopped at plenty of overlooks for photos and just to gape.  Our average speed getting to Skyline was great, and now it was plummeting, but we didn’t care.

And the panoramas got even more breathtaking as the sun set, with a misty gloom settling over the valley, while we looked from on high.  After exiting Skyline Drive, we decided to continue South on the Blue Ridge Parkway.  No longer monitored by park rangers and well into deep dusk, it was time to pick up the pace.  As Dan exclaimed, this drive was transcendent.  With bi-xenon headlights cutting through the encroaching darkness, top and windows down, the ripping sounds of Italian engines, and a winding, rolling ribbons of pavement ahead, it was nirvana.

When we reluctantly turned off for I-81, we stopped for dinner at, yes, Burger King.  Picking Lexington, VA as our stopping point, we ended up at Col Alto, a historic manor house now turned into a Hampton Inn.  A motel never felt so luxurious.