Girl?
Check.
Mop?
Check.
Sunglasses?
Check.
Let's r o
veryone has a favorite road-trip story. This is ours: On a warm Sunday evening in San Francisco not long ago, we climbed into the cockpit of a black, 200-plus mph, $140,000 supercar—a Ford GT (pictured). The engine put the power of 550 horses to the pavement. In the driver's seat, our spine felt like the stitches on a baseball clutched in Roger Clemens's hand. Next stop: New York. You don't need a reason to drive across the country, but we had one, albeit flimsy. Half a century has passed since President Eisenhower signed the Federal Highway Act, funding the greatest nexus of freeways in the world. Forty years have passed since A.J. Foyt and Dan Gurney's historic "all-American" Le Mans victory in a car called—you guessed it—the Ford GT. To celebrate both anniversaries, we decided to bomb across the country in a rubber-burning quest to snap the coast-to-coast record (32 hours, seven minutes, set by some nut in a Ferrari in 1983). Ignition. Once on the highway, we shifted into second gear at 60 mph. Into third at about 90. Fourth at 125. Only two more gears to go. The car turned a lot of heads, but suffice it to say we didn't break any records. There was this great cover band playing an outdoor show in Reno, see. And in the tiny desert enclave of Elko, Nevada we happened upon an amazing Basque restaurant whose next-door neighbor was a legal brothel. The girls were scary, but the beer was ice-cold. Somewhere in Nebraska we realized what makes road-tripping such a quintessential manly experience—speed, freedom, loud nights in cheap motels.... No matter how old you are, you feel as if you're 17 again. Now enough about us. You have your own trip to plan.
