Aaron Robinson: Cops, Ants, "Zins," and "Cabs"—and Another Year Goes to Pot
From the January 2012 issue
January: Most veterans of the car-launch circuit have been to southern Spain at least six- or seven-dozen times, mainly because German execs like to introduce new cars where they take their winter vacations. Part of the Bugatti Veyron Super Sport drive was through open rolling country south of Seville, with an optional extension into the granite shark’s maw of the Baetic Cordillera peaks. The goat paths that serve as roads through these mountains vary from 1.1 to 1.4 Bugatti Veyrons wide. I skipped the mountains to search for wider, straighter roads to see what 200 mph felt like. It definitely burned a lasting memory. Those who went for the mountains felt that they had narrowly cheated death.
February: Chrysler introduced the face-lifted 200 and some other cars in one big blowout in northern California’s Napa Valley, another industry-preferred destination. What with the exquisite crab puffs awaiting you upon arrival, the stemware brimming with new “zins” and “cabs” thrust into your hand during the 19-course dinners, and the Belgian chocolates parked on your Egyptian-cotton pillowcases at night, it’s easy to have a couple of 3500-calorie days in Napa.
March: At the very last minute, Audi informed us that our drive of its one-off Quattro Concept had to be done on a closed road and/or escorted by three police cruisers. Audi was very specific: not two, not four. Our planned photo location was thus dashed, so in desperation we rented California’s largest private landholding, the 270,000-acre Tejon Ranch, about 60 miles north of Los Angeles. This is California high country, and while we shot, an icy wind blew sand and small pebbles at us, causing the car’s German custodian to have apoplectic fits over its jillion-dollar paint job.
April: I praised the new Chevrolet Camaro convertible for looking cool even with its top up but forgot to instruct the photographer to take pictures of such. Boy, did we get letters.
May: As we raced back to town from the deep, empty desert on a moonless night of our three-limo comparo (Audi A8L, Jag XJL Supercharged, BMW 750Li), the front two guys were going stupidly fast while the third one took it easier. Eventually, he fell out of walkie-talkie range and didn’t hear the cop warning from the second guy, who had the only radar detector. I know that road; encountering a cop is as likely as encountering Carla Bruni with her thumb out. But fate was against us. It was unfair that the slowest guy got nailed, and I felt bad. I also remember having pancakes the next morning.
June: I tested the Nissan Murano CrossCabriolet on a road running directly under final approach for MCAS Miramar, the old Top Gun airfield near San Diego. The wheels of landing Marine F-18s were practically bouncing on the car’s top. So I have better memories of that vehicle than most.
July–August: Uh, never mind.
September: We ran the Audi A7/Benz CLS550 comparo in the mountains of California’s lonely Mendocino County, part of the so-called Emerald Triangle where electricity consumption has spiked in recent years, thanks to all the indoor pot cultivation. We stayed in the weatherworn fishing village of Fort Bragg, which only recently had seen one of its city councilmen and former mayors gunned down in the hills after stumbling onto an illicit poppy field. This was two weeks after a volunteer with the local land trust was shot multiple times in the woods for presumably the same thing.
October: Two photographers lost tripods while working my stories this year, both pro carbon-fiber jobs that cost four figures. On the Mulholland Racetrack story, our man accidentally left it behind on a park bench. In his defense, he was rushed. We’re always rushing the shooters, who are always sure that if they can get only two or three more hours at a location, they’ll have something suitable for the Guggenheim. He took the loss more stoically than I would have.
November: My co-driver on a Benz program in Napa turned up so completely pickled from the night before that his breath was a fire hazard. Our new Mercedes with its perfumed leather quickly took on the funk of a frat-house sofa. We had to pull over three times so he could toss. I never did read his story from the event.
December: The new BMW M5 was a wonder. However, my room in a rustic luxury resort in southern Spain (where else?) was Central Park West for a colony of tiny ants. They sped in purposeful black columns along the baseboard and were disinterested in me, so I left them alone. We coexisted peacefully until the final night, when I must have dropped something near the sink, possibly a potato chip, and awoke to find the bathroom carpeted by dark clumps of rioting ants. I quickly packed up and left, closing the door behind me. They had their job to do, and I have mine.
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