Sauf les carbus. Mais la faut tomber sur un connaisseur.

This little expedition into the inconsequential all came about because I said "No thanks" to an all-expense-paid week in Paris with a side trip to Geneva. It was February, racing season was coming up, and I wanted to wait by the phone, just in case an eligible Indy-car owner should decide to propose something for May. Saying no to Paris apparently qualified me for second prize.
 
"Why don't you take two days then and drive The Lagonda from Atlanta to Chicago so it can go into the Chicago Auto Show?"
 
A Lagonda, in case you've been down in your tax shelter too long, is a four-door saloon produced by Aston Martin at the rate of two a week and $150,000 each.
NB: en 1982 , les corvettes valaient environ $15,000, et une Rolls Royce environ $100,000  
 
 This one, however, was The Lagonda because it was the only one in the country, a European-spec model here to be dangled before the susceptible in the hope of drumming up a few orders in preparation for the full-fledged Lagonda trickle that will begin flowing to these shores this fall. It sounded like a tough job, but somebody had to do it.
 
"Does it have a phone?"
 
"No, but it has a Morris Longstreth Hallowell IV."
 
"Uh-oh."
 
Morris Longstreth Hallowell IV is the president of Aston Martin Lagonda, Inc. (14 Weyman Avenue, New Rochelle, New York 10805, Telex 666502), which acts as the United States Lagonda importer. As car-company presidents go, he's not so bad, if you don't mind an endless-loop commercial for his cars. For long distances, I might prefer a sack of Dolly Parton tapes. I might also have preferred, as recompense for being the ferry pilot, to be allowed to pretend that I was the wealthy industrialist to whom The Lagonda belonged. You never know what a $150,000 car with fender creases sharper than tuxedo pants' might get you in the hills of Tennessee. But with Morris Longstreth Hallowell IV continually interrupting with messages from our sponsor, I knew it wouldn't be much.
 
We arrived simultaneously at the "arrivals" curb of the Atlanta airport at about ten in the morning. The Lagonda was a glittering platinum metallic, as clean as new money and every bit as loud. I'd barely gained the sanctuary of its overstuffed leather interior and closed the door after myself when the throng began to form: cops, redcaps, businessmen laden with plaid sport jackets and unwieldy garment bags. Morris Longstreth Hallowell IV buttoned down the window.
 
 
"It's a Lagonda," he said in answer to the first question.
 
"One hundred and fifty thousand dollars," he said to the second.
 
Smiles broadened. There were sighs of pure rapture. The unattainable car. How wonderful. The only thing he could have done to make it more wonderful was to peg the price at a million bucks. Then it would have been perfectly unattainable, like Loni Anderson or the grand prize in the Publishers Clearing House sweepstakes.
 
Our getaway was made with me in the passenger seat. Once we were straight and level on 1-75, the intonation of Lagonda virtue began. "This is a handmade car," said Morris Longstreth Hallowell IV. "It takes eleven hides to do the interior. One man selects them to match, and then he cuts them one at a time. The wood is walnut veneer. The grain is mirror-matched on each panel. And the wood on the right door matches the wood on the left door, just one cut deeper on the log.
 
"The body is hand-hammered aluminum, each sheet butt-welded to the next and hand-filed for smoothness. There is no lead or filler in the body. The skin is separated from the steel structure beneath by a thin layer of linen. The finish is 23 coats of hand-rubbed lacquer. There are twelve standard colors, but the factory will match any sample the customer submits."  
 
Pretty fancy car, no question about it. The leather seats felt like that cushy Swedish furniture. But it was the headliner that really caught my eye, all done up in a gray wool so finely woven you could wear it without an itch. The sun visors were like lapels, sculptured to conform to the shape of the windshield frame, then tailored in matching gray. The Lagonda trim shop can do my suits any day.
 
The narrative by now had moved along to the digital instrument panel. "There are readouts for percent fuel remaining, oil pressure, oil temperature, water temperature, and ambient temperature, either inside or out. To change from one to the other, you push this button," said Morris Longstreth Hallowell IV.
 
"Peep," said The Lagonda, sounding very much like one of those buttonless Sharp credit-card calculators that have the numbers printed on a vinyl skin. Maybe that was the inspiration for the Lagonda, because it doesn't have buttons either, just circles drawn on smooth vinyl. You push a circle and peep, the fog lights come on; peep, the side lights come on; peep, the headlights pop up and come on. The whole front end of this car lights up if you peep enough circles.
 
"In the center, there are readouts for time of day, trip miles, and voltage. On the right, the speedometer in either miles or"—peep—"kilometers, and the tachometer. If you don't like all these red readouts, you can"—peep—"switch to Essential Instruments Only, which extinguishes everything but the speedometer and the fuel gauge."
 
"Um, makes it just like a Chevy Impala," I said. Morris Longstreth Hallowell IV pretended not to hear me.
 
Between the peeping of the dashboard and the beep-beeping of the twin Escort radar detectors (one facing forward, the other rearward—he didn't get to be president by having his name drawn out of a hat), the inside of The Lagonda sounded like a Space Invaders parlor   Kind of looked like it too, a push-button paradise. Once you're played out on the dash, you can move on to the driver's door, which has twelve more circles (windows and seats) and two knobs (mirrors). The price of admission may be high, but the electrick games are on the house.
 
We stop at a freeway exit. My turn to drive. It takes four buttons to get the seat position perfect. One of them is the power backrest adjuster, which gives a pretty interesting ride all by itself.
 
The automatic transmission is nicely calibrated. It even has a lockup converter, but the engagement is so smooth you could easily miss that operation. It's a Chrysler TorqueFlite. The engine breathes through four Weber two-barrels, which will also be the case with the emissions-controlled versions due later. It packs a pretty good punch for a luxury liner; makes a lusty roar too.
 
"Is this a Bob Butler motor?" I ask.
 
"No. Frank Matthews."
 
"I've only driven Bob Butlers. But they were very satisfying, smooth yet powerful, with just a hint of that twin-cam verve."
 
"Frank Matthews' are just as good."
   
 
Aston Martin has four engine builders. Each assembles complete engines and then affixes a plaque with his name on it to the finished product. When you build handcrafted stuff, why not take credit for it? Besides, such identification no doubt inspires the wealthy to collect the full set.
 
"There was a rumor," says Morris Longstreth Hallowell IV, "that the dynamometer operator could tell by the sound of the engine who built it. I checked that out the last time I was over there. It's not true. Unfortunately."
 
Lunch time has come and gone as we reach Knoxville. I open negotiations on the subject. It's quickly agreed that a sit-down lunch would waste too much time. There are Golden Arches, Burger Kings, Wendy's, Pizza Huts, and H. Salt, Esqs., visible in the lowlands to the right of the freeway. Morris Longstreth Hallowell IV eyes them disapprovingly.
 
"I've found Kentucky Fried Chicken to be okay," he says.
 
"But this is Tennessee," I say, trying not to point out the obvious, that there isn't a KFC this side of the horizon.
 
Miles pass in silence. Finally, in a conciliatory tone he says, “We rented a showroom in Greenwich [Connecticut]. It was across the street from McDonald's. A man was going through the drive-up line in his Rolls-Royce Corniche one day at lunch, saw the Aston Martin, and came over and bought it. Maybe, if we could find one with a drive-up window . . ."
 
He has a Quarter-Pounder  and coffee. I order a hamburger, fries, and a shake. We finish eating on foot, circling The Lagonda. It's obviously a handmade car. You can't get sheetmetal with such sharp breaks and abrupt corners from a commercial stamping plant. My attention is directed to the small Lagonda badge in the grille.
 
"That's the only identification on the car, either inside or out," says Morris Longstreth Hallowell IV. "People have to know what it is. If they don't know, we don't tell them."
 
By mid-afternoon we're in the low mountains of Kentucky, moving at a velocity that would make Frank Matthews proud. The front Escort begins beeping, casually at first, then insistently. I peep off the cruise control and get on the brakes as the warning goes solid. The rear one has the scent too. After about a half-mile, a state trooper with what must be the strongest radar in nonmilitary usage drives out from behind a bend in the oncoming lane. The beeping tails off as he disappears into the mirror. I speed up again. But the rear Escort continues a slow beep, then begins to pick up. We can't believe he knows how fast we've been going. Nor can we imagine how he could cut through the median so quickly. But to be safe, I slow to about 60. The traffic we passed is catching up. The beep goes solid. I slow to 55. A rusty old Impala, its fenders flapping, is closing on me in the left lane. I move over. He goes by at maybe 65. Certainly no more than that. Just then a police cruiser pops over the crest behind. He's coming on strong. Is it me? He swoops past and pulls over the Chevy.
 
Right after the feeling of relief comes a twinge of limousine-liberal guilt: the rich get by and the poor get caught. But wait a minute! I'm just another working stiff. Funny how a $150,000 car can make you forget. The difference between me and the Chevy driver is that he doesn't take seriously the fact that the world is filled with natural enemies. That same inattention among the lower orders is the reason barracuda never miss breakfast. I peep the resume button and we light out for Cincinnati, one eye on the road and one eye on the mirror.
 
The next morning, westbound I-74 toward Indianapolis is nearly deserted. We ease by a blue four-door Cutlass filled with four grandma types. Because there's nothing else to do, I watch them back out of my peripheral vision. But within seconds they're back alongside. I glance at the driver just in time to see that she's got both hands off the steering wheel so she can put on her glasses in exactly the way her optometrist told her to. When the glittery frames are in place, she turns toward The Lagonda and her lips form an "Oh."
 
Now that I've had a day of driving, Morris Longstreth Hallowell IV asks what I'd change about the car.
 
Every time I try to kick off the cruise control, I hit the gas pedal instead of the brake, so I tell him, "I would move the accelerator about an inch closer to the tunnel."
 
"No problem."
 
"And the brake over about the same amount."
 
"The factory would do that for you," he says. "Most of the people who can afford these cars are too busy, but we'd like them to come to the factory for a fitting. We can change the seat, move the steering column, do a lot of things. At this price, we think alterations should be free."
   
Indiana makes me nervous because I've never seen one of its highway-patrol cars. Therefore, I don't know what I'm watching out for. Worse yet, they may be unmarked, which means I might inadvertently pass one. So whenever I spot a suspicious car ahead, I peep off the cruise control and coast up beside it. I'm easing up on a white Fairmont in that fashion. When I'm near enough to read the license plate, it says "U.S. Government." It's running the double-nickel in the right lane. As I creep alongside, I see the driver is a civilian. A book is propped against the steering wheel, and he's reading it.
 
The Lagonda is headed for a dealer in Lake Forest who will shine it up for the show. The airport is on the way, so I can be dropped off. As we pull up to the TWA curb, two policemen come over to check out the merchandise. A tow truck backs over to the front bumper. The operator gets out and says, "Hey, I never seen one of these before. Can I practice on it?"
 
As I'm heading for the terminal, a baggage checker, all loose-jointed and grinning, steps over to The Lagonda.
 
"Man, I gotta have me one of these," he says.
 
"It's $150,000," says Morris Longstreth Hallowell IV. "We'll make it any color . . ."