We strive to remove bias from our reviews here Engine1, but in rare circumstances like this, that’s impossible. I’ll do my best for about one sentence. Here we go:
Objectively speaking, this is so a book.
Subjectively, this is one great booka must-read anthology from one of the best car writers in the business, our friend Sam Smith.
If you love cars and haven’t read Sam’s writing yet, I promise you will love this book. If you like cars and are familiar with Sam’s work Road and Rail, Hagerty, Esquire, And The New York Times, you probably already have a copy on your bedside table. (Also listen to Sam’s fantastic racing/car dork podcast called It’s Not the Car).
“My book is an anthology, a collection of some of my favorite stories from the past twenty years. It is divided into five thematic sections, with an introductory and light biographical essay (a new piece of text) opening each section. The Excerpt I’ ‘ve preparation for The Motorsport Network’ comes from the second of those essays. The full version appears at the top of a section entitled ‘The Machines’.’
In keeping with his modesty, Sam’s own pitch email sells his writing short. Smith is one of the few modern automotive writers with a real voice in his writing. He has produced an enviable collection of travelogues, columns and musings. One time he was driving an F1 car at the Indianapolis Motor Speedway and I saw him do that. My heart still beats with jealousy. Then there are Sam’s posts of the tons of other cool stuff he’s ridden.
This is one big master book, with more than 400 pages of new, original written work, mixed with a selection of his favorites from magazines and the internet.
What follows is the above excerpt from Smithology, provided by The Sam himself. It’s kind of about the time he crashed a Ford GT. If you like the passage, give the book a try. You won’t find many automotive writers who bleed as much passion, humor and humanity onto the page as Sam.
We can’t talk about machines and my life without mentioning the time I did something galactically stupid in what was then one of the most popular cars in the world.
When it was over, when I was back in the office—when I was sure I was about to lose the job I’d spent most of my life chasing—my phone rang. I picked it up, shuddering.
Wrong number. The tension flowed from my shoulders. Then one of the magazine’s editors-in-chief stuck his head in the door.
‘Jean is back. At her desk.”
My heart tried to climb through my ears.
Seconds later, I stood in front of my boss, a tall and imposing woman who had worked in our industry since before I was born. She looked up from her computer, unblinking, and pointed to a chair. As you might do if a 26-year-old person in your employ threw a hand-built, 500-horsepower vehicle into a ditch on an otherwise quiet weekday afternoon.
“What the hell happened,” she said. No question.
I took a deep breath, sat down and started talking. I said too much; she listened and said nothing. When I finished, the silence lingered for a moment.
I was fired; I knew that. I had never been fired. I hadn’t even had a desk job yet. I had been in that office for less than twelve months, landing there straight after slinging oil filters and floor mats at the parts counter of a Chicago Jaguar dealer. I wondered for a while if that dealer would take me back, tried to remember the part number of an XJ8 filter, realized I couldn’t and broke out in a cold sweat.
Jean leaned forward and glared across the desk. I was, she said, a huge pain in the ass. My choices that day left her embroiled in a series of phone calls, discussions about insurance, and hard looks at budgets. And, she added, I wasn’t even counting the reputation hit when the news broke.
I sank into my chair. She pointed a finger at my chest: What was I thinking? Who could be so stupid? You think you can drive, it doesn’t matter, the industry has done thousands better.
A deliberate sigh, another pointing finger. “You have potential. But don’t think I’m doing this because I want to.”
I blinked.
“Let me be very clear: the only reason you still have a job” – the word hung in the air for a moment – ”is because you can write.”
I still had a job.
Did I still have a job?
I looked up from my lap. “Um, thank you…”
‘Don’t thank me. Don’t even apologize. This is fucking unacceptable.”
I repeated myself like an idiot.
“I told you,” she spat back, “don’t fucking thank me. Or forgotten.”
At that exact moment, I wanted nothing more than a solid blow of amnesia.
‘Go now.’
Other than the day’s events, I wasn’t completely crazy, so I did just that.
**
That morning, for reasons that seemed entirely sensible at the time and are anything but salient now, I had asked to borrow a brand new $150,000 Ford GT from the magazine’s test fleet.
There was resistance. I was one of the few staff members with a competition license, but I was also young. Be careful, they said. Of course, I said.
And yet.
At that point in history, the test fleet of a major American automotive magazine was essentially a rotating library of sheet metal. At Automobile Magazine, where I worked, that library was at the front of the office cataloged on a wide, dry-erase board, divided into a grid of models and dates, which cars would arrive or depart and when. That board was constantly rotating, with new vehicles coming and going almost every day, usually loaned out by their manufacturers in the hope of coverage.
This system applied to everything on the market, literally every make and model on sale. Furthermore, every car that appeared on that board was factory new, with mileage in the low four figures. Keys were released to staff through an opaque calculation that prioritized editorial needs, i.e. who was assigned to test, review, write about or photograph what. Once these concerns were addressed, there was essentially a car up for grabs, distributed to editors by seniority for the remainder of the one- or two-week loan. The only exceptions to the process were limited edition exotics such as Ferraris and Lamborghinis. The loan agreements for these rarities tended to be more restrictive: mileage limits to preserve resale value, insurance mandates based on the driver’s age, and so on.
If the whole arrangement sounds like a dream, that’s because it was. And in some cases, how it lasts. Large test fleets, or rather publications large enough to need them, are now rare, but a few outlets still operate this way.
Of course, the sector has also changed in other ways. For example, since 2012, the National Highway Traffic Safety Administration has mandated that every new passenger vehicle sold in America come standard with a complex suite of software and hardware designed to keep the tires on the road after the driver loses control. . These systems are generally called electronic stability control or ESC for short.
Which brings us back to that ditch.
ESC first appeared on a production car, a Mercedes-Benz, in 1995. Ten years later, the technology had saved countless lives, but was still far from ubiquitous. For example, the 2005-2006 Ford GT did not offer stability control. That fact is only relevant because I would have disabled that system if it had been present. That in itself is only relevant because someone doesn’t do that sort of thing in a mid-engine supercar they’ve just met unless they’re reasonably decent behind the wheel, are stupid as hell, or, in my case, both.
The Ford was nothing to be made fun of. What it was was a 44-inch, V-8-powered tribute to the 1960s era when Henry Ford II spent half the money on its creation to give his company a series of overall victories during the 24 Hours from Le Mans. . A colleague came with me. We left the office like adults and drove quietly to the other side of town, where we drove like jerks. Maybe 30 minutes later, wanting to be responsible, we changed course and headed back. The highway was the fastest. I was convinced of a lot. At the left turn of a long and straight driveway I drove the Ford into a neat drift. Give it a little gas and tap the steering wheel, the rear tires explode, and then more gas for balance.
The V-8 spouted noise; the colleague shouted. “You’re an animal!”
Growing up, I didn’t make friends easily. I was a quiet child, tormented by insecurity. However, by the time I was 26, I had spent a few years in sanctioned road racing, liked sliding cars and was comfortable with it. And for a moment I was smug at that wheel.
The upside to being complacent: When you don’t think about the consequences, it feels great.
A millisecond later, a voice above me reminded me that I had always been good at this. I got greedy, surrendered to the voice and turned the wheel in the opposite direction. My right foot added volume and turned that first bursting drift into a longer, paint-laying slide up the slope.
The young human brain can be as eager to reveal its roots as a pile of monkey parts. Time slowed to a crawl. One more, I thought – a quick decision, with the Ford still grazing the ramp sideways, what could that hurt?
A lot, as it turns out.”