We were stuck behind some peaceniks in an old school Volvo. They were oblivious to the concept of a turn off. They picked the wrong time to sandbag us, as the music was making us feel more aggressive.

“Pass these people,” she said, as we entered a no passing zone.

So I punched the throttle. Cutting off some eco-warriors, while going into a blind curve on a mountain road seemed like the perfect opportunity to check the throttle response as well as the vehicles’ built-in understeer/oversteer over-compensator. “There is nothing more satisfying than pissing off some proletariat eco-warriors,” I laughed.

She leaned over and looked on the instrument panel. “Wow! Look at the needle on the gas gauge go!”

“You see, that’s perfect for the Attention Deficit Disorder generation. Today’s consumers need to see widgets move, or they’ll feel ripped off. Even worse, if meters and needles aren’t constantly blinking, they’ll lose interest in what they are doing and crash.”

“Speaking of crashing,” she interrupted, “you know you can’t drive this thing like a Maserati.” I could hear her roll her eyes. “That’s your problem. You think anything off of an assembly line is a sports car.”

“No, my dear,” I exhaled. “I think this Range Rover is the space age spawn of a tank and a school bus. But with all these pitch, roll and yaw correction algorithms keyed into the operating software, there is no way this thing is going to capsize, is it?”

ADVERTISEMENT

“So you are relying on an onboard computer to keep us from crashing. Have you ever seen 2001? If you drive this thing into a ravine -- and assuming we don’t die -- I’m going to lace your IV with strychnine and then smother you with a pillow while you overdose.”

“That’s not you talking... that’s Mars, the Angry Planet, talking.”

“Spare me the New Age hokum, Deepak,” she squawked. “My threat stands. If we die tonight, I’m going to kill you.” She turned down the music.

I slowed down a little and thought. The silence fell like a ton of trunk space.

“What is the purpose of this car?” I asked. “So we can pick up our kids at Day Care with a bitchin’ sound track?”

“We don’t have any kids.”

“Yes, but for reasons I cannot fathom nor articulate, this car makes me want to mate with you. You know: have kids – the whole deal.”

“Umm, we would have to grow up first. Which is something we both should have thought of ten years ago.”