It's very highly caffeinated, the Ferrari Roma. But that's fine, because it's 7am now and thanks to a bubbly barista at Cardiff West services, so am I. But two hours ago I wasn't. The Ferrari, however, still was. And at 5am that wasn't ideal.
So before we do anything else, we need to discuss what our expectations are of these cars and how they behave. This used to be easy. These are grand tourers. Insert two plus luggage, point prow at Antibes, pitstop at Reims for a crate of champagne, dinner at some place with stars in Lyon, apply head to pillow, repeat the next day. But no one's diet plan permits a contented belly waft through France these days. And besides, who drives all that way? You've heard all those old tropes before. GTs are dead and gone.
The truth of the matter is that all these firms actually do build grand tourers. Only they're called SUVs. The role of an actual grand tourer has changed. These cars, although built for that job, actually do another. They're the Monday-Friday exotica, doing the things that everyone else does, just more raffishly. And with a sideline as supercars for the hip-replaced. Except the Porsche, it's quite a drop for the buttocks, that one.
Ease. That's the key. They should make the business of getting about and using them hassle free. Connect and engage when you want them to, but know when to pipe down. Follow your mood, in
other words. So for three days that's how I used the Roma. Followed the M4 coneworks in and out of London, folded the back seats to fit guitars, put them back up for small nephews, did runs to the pub, supermarket, school. Then on a Tuesday morning got in and drove a very long way, very early in the morning.
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