Dear Mercedes-Benz C63 AMG,
You are red and shiny and diabolically fast. When I start you up, your exhaust note sounds like an orchestra made up entirely of tubas. When I press down on the throttle, you return the favour by pressing me into my seat. Your g-force feels like a father’s bear hug: part affection, part aggression.
I love being seen with you. You are a beautiful woman in scarlet. The men are all looking at you, and so are the women.
You never let me down. Even your insatiable thirst for high-octane fuel – which you so charmingly gulp right from the pump – somehow adds to your appeal.
You are a beauty and a beast wrapped up in one tight package on four smoking wheels.
As Top Gear’s Jeremy Clarkson says, “You’re an ax murder with headlights. And I absolutely adore you.”
Although I push it from my mind, someday we will part. You will begin to rust, and as more time goes by you will break down. We all break down at some point. I can hardly hold that against you.
Even when you’re gone, compacted into a lifeless block of metal, I will remember you and the times we had together. I too will get old. Then someday, in the twilight years of my life, when they finally take my license away, I will think back with fondness of our travels together.
Until that day, let’s burn rubber. If we go fast enough, maybe, just maybe, we can outrun time.