There’s nothing like a little LSD to change your perspective: Limited, adj.: restricted in size, amount, or extent. Slip, v.: an act of sliding unintentionally for a short distance. Differential, n.: differing or varying according to circumstances or relevant factors.
I don’t need some guy who looks like Newt Gingrich telling me that I can’t drive my car the way I want to—and where I want to. I especially don’t need some lady who looks like Wilma Flintstone telling me that I’m the reason our grandchildren aren’t going to have fresh air to breathe. We live in an amazing country, a country full of opportunities, options, and outlandish—sometimes overwhelming—luxury. We enjoy a land of freedom, enterprise, and open roads. Who has the right to tell me when and where and how I can drive my car?
I was having lunch with old friends, talking about the Monterey Motorsport Reunion at Mazda Raceway Laguna Seca, and a lifelong race fan said to me, “Is there some way you could tell the guys who own the cars now that it’s not about them?” He added that Elmo Watson may own West Texas’ biggest pizza chain, but nobody is going to care that Elmo’s driving an ex-David Pearson Daytona 500 car unless he’s as fast as David Pearson.
You’ll read all about it in the September Roundel, but we thought you might like a sneak preview of what BMW junkies will call the F32, the 4 Series coupe built on the architecture of the F30 3 Series sedan. And one drive will finally erase any confusion about the nomenclature: Simply put, the 4 Series may be sibling to the 3 Series—but siblings are rarely identical. You always have the smarter kid, the more athletic, the better-looking.
A single bead of sweat carves its way down my red, exhausted face, hugging the brow and navigating the path of least resistance; it manages to curl beneath an ear to the back of my neck, where there is, magically, a gap: no cloth, no cotton, no silk—not even polyester. With nothing to stop it, the salty globule plunges over the sheer drop between the shoulder blades all the way to the lower lumbar, where it sneaks into my underwear.