If any random driver is going to get pulled over for an infraction, it’s the insouciant older gentleman in the ululating, $200,000, radioactive warbler-colored convertible. So don’t expect me to goose it and give chase when you engine brake alongside me in your stanced-out, white smoke-belching 2002 M3.
Like the desert oasis of Palm Springs in which I tested it, the Velar is a machine for delivering glamorous leisure.
Chameleon wheels, rhinestone studded tires, and bright mismatched paint. Keeping up on the outrageous trends in car customization for top music artists, with the pros at Roadstarr Motorsports.
What does Michael Fassbender say to himself in the privacy of his own race car? “You fucking idiot.”
The fact that this was physically, scientifically, and perhaps legally impossible led the CIA–often ad hoc or accidentally–create technologies that would change the transportation industry forever.
And it looks like something the company’s most famous fictional customer would drive while fleeing from a super-villain off the coast of some island lair.
A V8-powered DB11 does not feel in any way inadequate. But it does not quite fulfill the Aston mission of feeling far more than adequate.
These amazing people are my former preschool students. After spending their early childhood dressing up and deconstructing gender, of course they’re spending their early adulthood creating Foucauldian Fashion. (And of course, I’m delighted to have the opportunity to write about them in Billboard.)
Whittell used to let his 300-pound lion ride shotgun with him in his Duesenbergs, and its claws would come out and put holes in the seat.
My latest feature for Autoweek. Click on the thunbnails above (and then click again) to read a crappy scan. Or just download the magazine yourself, you chintzy bitch.
The Aston Martin Valkyrie will not have massaging seats.