On Loss and Lotus

 

During such occasion that I find myself in a place of culture, it’s eminently feasible that I can appreciate a good painting or sculpture. However, for me the most beautiful art is that of the engine adorned variety. A car can be an art piece for its obvious design elements or because of its overall ethos. A vehicle made solely for the pursuit of happiness doesn’t have to be beautiful, but surely, anything engineered with the sole intent of making the world more joyous is a thing of beauty. A Caterham or KTM X-Bow may have a face only a mother could love, and possibly a crack addicted one at that, but they’re nothing if not specialized fanciful objects made by talented fools for well moneyed ones – that is, art.

Being a procurer of fine art myself, I’ve had a bit of a love affair with the Lotus brand for several years now. While their reliability may vary, and their financial viability is less than resolute, they will surely go down in the annals of history as one of mankind’s most laudable artistic endeavors. In fact, I’d go so far as to say they’re the zenith of human achievement. While the Mona Lisa languishes lazily under the gaze of endless guidebook stricken denizens of the Louvre, a Lotus is out there in the world, broadcasting its wonder in so much noise and tire smoke like the British symphony that it is. Driving a Lotus is like conducting a delicate ballet, being let in on a secret of heightened feedback and handling prowess that feels like it was intended for the next phase of human evolution. It’s a rolling Rembrandt, a Visceral Van Gogh and so help me if the Evora isn’t also just bite the back of your hand pretty.

The thing is though, other people have a way of ruining everything. Most of the world’s recognized treasures pass their days in a secured environment, but automotive icons are subject to the general ineptitude of mankind out there on the road. I don’t know if you’ve met any people as of late, but Jesus tap dancing Christ are most of them not the brightest. The simple act of moving forward without crashing into stationary objects proves too much for some, and in a Julian rivaling tragedy of the ages, my six-week old Lotus Evora S hath fallen victim to the ever-increasing torrent of stupidity that is mankind.

In a most befuddling and almost impressive realization of total asinine ineptitude, an ancient Mitsubishi Montero found its way wrapped around the divine posterior of my precious Lotus Evora S last week in Manhattan. Picture the chaos of Manhattan, and then picture the particular breed of utter living uselessness that it would take to fall asleep behind the wheel during the day whilst driving in it. Somehow, in the 30 or so seconds that it took to turn from 3^rd Avenue onto to 27^th Street, a man managed to fall asleep in a vehicle the heft of which is outweighed only by its complete lack of engineering relevance.

I’ll never forget the noise. Being asleep, the driver of the car never bothered to do something as daft as applying the brakes before ramming into something irreplaceable, so the deafening cacophony of 5,800 pounds meeting 3,100 exquisite non-moving ones was like a crack of thunder hard wired directly to my auditory synapses. My body went into hyper adrenaline mode, as my brain went through that horrible stage of denial where you plea with the universe to let you go back just a few seconds in time.

It takes craftsmen countless hours to completely hand assemble a Lotus Evora S. It’s carted around the factory by hand on a dolly as it goes from stage to stage, lovingly looked after by a small team in rural Hethel. Hundreds of thousands of hours of engineering and testing, of design study and manufacturing feasibility tests, of material selection and the madness of the final sign off – the cumulative result of might and sheer audacious will from such a small company – results in something truly precious. They sell more than 10 Ferrari’s for every Evora in the United States, and now, thanks to a man who had no place on any road, there is one less Evora with which to dazzle and delight the world.

When you get in an accident, everyone loves to remind you that it’s only a car and the important thing is that you’re okay. But those words cut like a dagger to someone whose obsession with their mode of transport is a central part of their being. The Lotus Evora S is only a car like Scarlett Johansson is only a woman. The 2014 model year marks the swan song of this current iteration of Evora in the U.S. until a new for 2016 model joins us sometime in the future. My car was literally irreplaceable, and though people are as well, I was a whole lot easier to manufacture. My wounds will heal, but the Evora will never be the same. The universe can be a cruel mistress indeed. Alas, I’ve never much been a fan of the humans – many of them are a raucous destructive brunch that often wields more power than their fickle brains should be entrusted with. To the dozing shit faced bastard that hit me, all I can say is, have you any idea what you’ve done?

The car may be fixed, like so many rare books or paintings lovingly restored by master artisans eons after their original dates of creation. But it will never be as it once was, an impeccably precise piece of rolling awe. It just as well may be totaled, upon which it will surely be sent in pieces to Russia, where it’ll be reassembled with sledgehammers and wedges of iron and sold as a brand new car, probably in Albania. It leaves me thinking that the world is too cruel for Evoras and that maybe precious cars do in fact belong in climate controlled garages away from the madness and destruction that are the cell phone distracted half brained lemmings piloting their generic transportation modules in so many shades of telling grey and beige.

But then, what’s the point of being alive if I’m not doing my favorite thing as often as possible to the best of my ability? I could get something practical, give up, and reserve my passion for special occasions. However, after a week of contemplation, it has occurred to me that we only get one go round, and it’s better to have driven and lost than never have driven at all. I will be waiting until the 2016 model year and ordering the first North American bound Evora S. Maybe this time I’ll go to the factory to witness its birth before it enters a world not deserving of its brilliance.

Finally, though my Evora S only roamed this earth in its original state for six weeks, it should be noted that had I not been at that traffic light waiting to be crashed into, the rush hour pedestrians on that particular Manhattan crosswalk would never have made it home that night, as I was the first and only car waiting at the light. I’m proud of my vibrant blue Lotus, as it gave its life to save those of the pedestrians. In keeping with an icon, my Lotus Evora was not only a mobile mastery of the arts – it was a damn hero.

Intelligent Idiocy and the Two Wheeled Taboo: Motorcycling in 2013

“Why the intelligent choice isn’t always the smart one”.  The novel’s subtitle caught my eye as I was heading toward the car/motorcycle magazines at the B&N on Lexington.  Could this be the answer I was looking for? As I held the book in my hands I became hopeful that it would be the bound miracle to answer all of my questions.  A Rosetta Stone of sorts, translating the justification of a motorcycle purchase from my deeply innate desires to the language of reason and logic, the largely inarguable tenants that motorcycle detractors most often default to.

My name is Jason and I desperately want a motorcycle.  For me and in the bubble like world of which I am a product, this is like admitting to a yearning for meth addiction.  In another time, or another place, this desire for two wheels wouldn’t be so out of the ordinary, so deviant from convention.  But here, as product of upper class New York Judaism, motorcycles are about as Kosher as bacon fried lobster.

Growing up, I was certainly aware of motorcycles, but with a physician father and Jewish mother, these exotic marvels occupied the same area of my cerebral cortex as drugs or shelled fish.  Sure, it might be a lot of fun, but it wasn’t going to happen.  Ever.  End of discussion.

The age-old argument, or course, is that motorcycles are extremely dangerous, meant for tattooed vandals with a penchant for self-destruction, or as a spousal gift to husbands who’s wives recently upped the life insurance.  One thing is for certain though, or so it is widely believed: you will definitely be maimed or killed on a motorcycle. Naturally, there is no shortage of horror stories every time the topic is brought up, the dissenters reveling in the look on your face, daring you to still want a bike after learning of such horrid events.

Naturally, I know they’re dangerous.  I didn’t need a fancy private school degree to understand that being exposed on a 450-pound sliver of metal while the average driver is paying less attention to the road than their breathing is a recipe for potential disaster. This understanding is what has abetted my desires for a bike all throughout high school and college.  I would go through fazes and do my research, going as far as to get my permit once, but I never followed through out of fear.  I know the statistics, I’ve combed the Dept. of Transportation accident reports, and I’ve watched my fair share the gut wrenching YouTube videos.  So how can I idiotically still want one?

Perhaps I’m a remarkable example of de-evolution in one generation, but as I’ve aged I’ve attained what I’d like to believe is a quiet wisdom that sees profound meaning in the last-minute trip, the random adventure, the risky decision, or even the fleeting chance. Much more so than when I was younger and wiser.  I see people going through life with their eyes not so much closed as blurred, safe and numb, and I wonder just what the hell we’re really doing here.   This is where it gets philosophical; if we’re all averting risk and living life in our cocooned bubble of safety and regulation, are we missing out on a long forgotten pinnacle of the human experience- the actual “living” part?

My life long love of cars is the perfect example to portray the phenomena that seems to have formed a bridge from my youth to the current day. Cars are getting measurably better in every way, but many of these advancement have resulted in less involvement, be it automated transmissions, electric power steering, trick suspensions, or even stability and traction aids.  Without a doubt these are great innovations, but it seems to me that everything has a cost.  As a society we are litigating or collectively admonishing away what little joy we were able to squeeze out of everyday tasks and endeavors, such to the point that I fear for a Wall-E like world in which we ‘re all but immortal for a century or so, free to do nothing that can, heaven forbid, raise our pulse.

Maybe I’m just exaggerating.  Perhaps the character flaw of mine that attracts me to motorcycles has been present from the get-go. After all, I drive a manual in New York City, parallel parked a Lotus Elise for two years, and went skydiving during a period of severe illness to clear my sinuses.  Could this all be an internal phenomenon?

What it comes down to is that my intrinsic need to get a motorcycle has reached the inescapable point of no return.  A chance opportunity to ride an imitation Honda in China for a glorious five minutes all but solidified what I needed to know about my desire for a bike.  That segued into getting my license, buying a scooter as a bridge to the real thing, and recently renting a Ducati 848 Streetfighter on an impulse trip to Italy.  The challenge is allowing myself to do what I want in the face of extreme anti-motorcycle adversity.

The last months have been marked by a mental journey that has made me question my beliefs and values, asses selfishness and virtue against desire and perceived destiny, and ultimately think largely of death and the quality of the life that precedes it. Is it worth upsetting my family beyond comprehension, making them anguish and worry about me at all times?  Am I really that selfish?  I’ve thought of not telling them, which seems almost better in my eye, but that leads to the mental hurdle of lying to the ones I love most, even if it will protect their sanity.  Then there is the unpleasant possibility of the worst happening.  Am I really willing to take the chance?  Am I really fighting for what I believe in?  Is it more than just 0-60 numbers or the ultimate adrenaline rush?

I’m pretty sure for me it represents everything. It’s my stand against the overregulation of life, against the stagnation of joy, against the risk averse something for nothing attitude that seems to be spreading like a virus.  I’m also pretty sure I’m a rather loquacious want-to-be philosopher NYU grad who’s desperately trying to find logic in the irreconcilable, almost unfathomable decision to ride a motorbike in 2013.

Really, there is no justification that can be made on paper, except for the concept that our obsession with paper justifications has brought us to a place that I don’t like in many regards.  Maybe there really is sense in being seemingly senseless sometimes.  Maybe it’s not oxymoronic to be an intelligent motorcycle rider.

A long conversation regarding my dilemma with an uncharacteristically moral and impartial motorcycle salesmen ended with him telling me I was too intelligent to ride a motorcycle.  I’d like to think I’m too intelligent not too, if only I could find a way to aptly express why.

I really ought to buy that book.

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What the Hell is a Rossion?

Upon first glance my system of scientific beliefs was immediately challenged as it seems the only way a car like this could exist is through divine intervention. When god created the sports car, this is surely what he intended.

As my eyes resumed focused, the lustful gaze having sent them for a tizzy, the true absurdity of the Rossion Q1’s existence hit me.  For starters, most the current exotic car glamor items are largely absent and I for one am not complaining.  No dual clutch gearbox, no hybrid powertrain, no traction or stability controls, and no driving modes that dictate the cars behavior.  The only thing separating you from the guard rail is the modicum of self-control you have (or if you were born with my disposition, the intense guilt you feel whenever endangering the continued proliferation of the Jewish people.)

So just what in the hell is a Rossion?  Based upon the epic but somewhat less than reliable earlier Noble supercars of Great Britain, two American blokes decided to take another stab at the already wonderful recipe by buying the rights from noble, opening a facility in Florida and creating a hyper car that stands in stark contrast to the contemporary meaning of the term. The Rossion is light, it’s composite panels really the only thing masking the monocoque upon which it is based.  Undo the hood and bonnet to reveal the gorgeous wishbone suspension, have a perfect view of the engine, and really understand this modern take on Colon Chapman’s famous adage to add lightness. Building upon that, this is adding lightness with a sledgehammer.  A Twin turboed Ford Duratec V6 is mounted behind your head making a rather insane 450 HP in a car weighing 2475 pounds, resulting in a power to weight ratio that rivals a runway model on speed.  Before you get your panties in a twist over the “pedestrian” Ford engine, don’t forget the an Aston Martin v12 is basically two ford engines bolted together and a Bugatti Veyron is at the nuts and bolds of it two VW v8’s living in over engineered German harmony.

Hitting the road makes for a most interesting foray into a world where one must recalibrate their senses lest they wind up in the nearest ditch.  Fast is not an accurate adjective. Blindingly fast suggests you somehow lose focus of the speed.  This is otherworldly fast, the kind of acceleration that makes you wonder just how in the hell what you’re currently doing can ever be construed as legal, much less wear a number plate and registration tag.   It is shockingly, abdomen crushingly, license eviscerating fast.  0-60 in near as makes no difference 3 seconds will do that, and this is without a fancy pants gearbox or launch control.

Fast we can at the very least expect out of the Rossion’s delightful recipe, but perhaps the most impressive feat is what happens when you stay out of the triple digits and meander along our third world rivaling American excuse for pavement.  Over potholes and expansion joints, your spine is decidedly not being shattered, with a Lotus Evora rivaling surprising amount of compliance, all the more laudable due to the lack of magnetic infused suspension trickery.  The air conditioning is cold, the radio and power windows work, and nary a squeak or rattle comes form the shockingly not at all crappy interior.  You really begin to question that the Germans had nothing to do with this.  It really is an incredible feat.  I'm not saying you'd cross shop this with a Mercedes SL63AMG but for a car like this, the interior far exceeds expectations.

Handling wise the lithe Floridian is decidedly neutral and balanced.  None of the tail out antics that you’d expect from something with the development budget of a zip lock bag are present. In fact, truth be told, the handling is damn near epic.  It may be loud and responsive and utterly visceral, but it really is a peach to toss around, with enough tactile information coming though to let you know what Phylum that inspect you ran over belonged to. Your grandmother could heel and toe her way down to the supermarket without breaking a sweat if she was so inclined.  But she wouldn't be-resisting throwing this thing into a corner is as futile as turning down a particularly hot and bothered Mila Kunis.  The Rossion gives you the noises and G’s you might associate with the moment before everything turns into a wonderful fireball, but it just wont happen.  It’s so stable, so well sorted, and so progressive that you’d have to do something outlandishly obnoxious to get things hopelessly sideways.

What you’ve got here then is quite the cohesive package.  It’s good looking, well made, not exceedingly expensive, and somehow found the time to go to finishing school.  Your average country club valet will have no idea the tail lights are from a Hyundai (really Rossion... please change this).  The Rossion is perhaps the last remaining vestige to truly involving vehicles.  The lack of electronics may have been a budgetary necessity, but the end result in an ever-rarer driving experience uninhibited by the confines of safety and common sense. This is pretty epic, a oneness with the automobile that has all but been eradicated from the automotive landscape.  I’m not implying the McLaren MP4 12-C, for example, is anything less than stellar but it’s lacking a little something, as to bake up a 12C is to spend millions of man hours fine tuning algorithms and shaming an MIT professors understanding of physics.  With the Rossion, you can feel the gear headed insanity behind it all.  You know they didn’t dwell on computer models when they were developing it.  They tightened this bolt, changed that suspension dampening, increased this fan speed, and then tore it around a racetrack until it was just right, and you can feel that human element through the steering wheel every time you turn it on.  This car was designed to delight the senses without concern for the numbers-the fact that it happens to put down some giant killing specs is a happy bonus.

The Rossion is not devoid of faults, nothing endearing ever is after all.  Where to get it serviced, the lack of traditional financing, the borrowed bits giving away its kit car origins, etc are not without due pause and concern.  This car however, is a right turn when everyone is telling you to go left.  It's taking the corporate ladder, tearing it off the wall, and using it to assault your way to the top instantly.  It's skipping work and getting a fancy hotel room with the lady friend.  It's the perfect song at the perfect time.  Life is too damn short to worry about the durability of your cup holders.  This car is an ever rarer chance is flip normalcy the bird and laugh in the face of federal vehicle compliance, marketing departments, and by all means common sense.  Being cautious and making to do lists is what got us the Toyota Camry.  This car is what got us to the moon.  Embrace the imperfections, take a chance, and drive past the Ferrari dealer this one time.  In 30 years when the car is long gone you're not going to care about retention values or practical matters.  What you will have is an everlasting devilish grin that can only come from doing the wrong thing for the right reasons. Years from now I think people will be craving cars like this in the same way that salvation army adorned hipsters spend thousands on record players because they crave the warmer, more human sound of times past.  If you can purchase a Rossion, do it, and thank your lucky stars that in our mad world of looming autonomous vehicles and artificial sound generators that this Rossion can somehow squeak past the fun killers and manage to exist.  I’ll have mine in midnight blue please and feel free to lop the silencers off the exhaust.  The neighbors need something to remind them they're alive.