These days, a girl’s practically surrounded by cars that think they’re some kind of marauding beasts. No, really. Is there a vehicle out there whose design language doesn’t include “aggressive,” “muscular,” or “brawny?”

Yes. That would be the 2017 Toyota Prius. Just when it seems all the cars out there are trying to feed into some macho fantasy, which can breed some truly Neanderthal driving behaviour, along comes the redesigned Prius. With no thrusting bulges or nostril-flaring stance, the Prius is downright refreshing to look at. It’s quite sleek and streamlined, designed for maximum aerodynamics, and boasts a reduced drag co-efficient of Cd=0.24. What does that mean in English? Over the week that I drove it, mostly around downtown Toronto, I got about 5.6 litres per 100 kilometres, or 50 mpg. That’s quite an achievement, considering that one day, the readout told me I’d averaged seven kilometres an hour. Welcome to urban living.

Inside, the 2017 Prius was most spacious and accommodating, with about a gazillion ways to adjust the driver’s seat, and all controls within easy reach. Toyota does ergonomics so well! And speaking of controls, the dashboard was bristling with high tech, especially charts, graphs and apps dealing with fuel consumption. I could have spent all week studying the hows, whys and wherefores, even how one trip compared to the other over few days. Of course, I also found time to boogie down to all my favourite Sirius stations on a fabulous six-speaker sound system!

But don’t take any of this to mean the Prius was some kind of slouch in the performance department. The Prius driver is wrongly maligned as being too preoccupied with their recycling and Sierra Club activities to be an alpha-type motorist. Most hard-core gearheads aren’t exactly drawn to eco-conscious, alternatively fuelled vehicles. But that’s changing, with cars like the BMW i8, McLaren P1, and Ferrari LaFerrari. Okay, so they are a little more predatory looking than the Prius.

But it’s precisely because the Prius driver is often perceived as some kind of absent-minded eco-dullard that it was even more fun to race the Queen 501 streetcar; screech into a U-turn on Bay Street; outrun a 5-series on the expressway, and deke past a few surprised construction workers. I mean, they just weren’t expecting that from a Prius! That car did everything I asked it to do, and with more than enough verve and pep. The small turning radius meant that I could do all kinds of turns – so necessary in a city choking on its own development and aging infrastructure, sometimes with more work crews on the road than cars.

One evening I had to drive out to the west end to attend a screening, and sure enough, the traffic was horrendous and the parking even worse. Yet, the Prius and its 121 horsepower handily managed to keep up with, and as mentioned before, even outpace the bad boys. I mean, the look on the Beemer driver’s face when he realized he’d been passed by a Prius, with a woman at the wheel, was priceless.

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In fact, the main faults with the Prius were the glaring blind spot in the back – yes, there was a rear view camera and enough ringing, whistling, flashing alerts to wake up a dead man. But you want to be able to do a proper shoulder check during a lane change, and guess what – it’s still the law. So I wound up lowering the rear seat headrests, and doing more than due diligence when backing up or changing lanes. That, and the white plastic console in the front really wouldn’t look much out of place in a men’s bathroom, which is where it belongs.

There’s no question that the Prius is the best-selling hybrid out there, blazing a trail for all other alternatively fuelled vehicles. It started out in 2000 as a modest Toyota Corolla with a “hybrid” badge slapped on it, and was heralded as “Toyota’s pace car for the new millenium.” But it wasn’t until 2003, when it finally took on its now-familiar unique five-door hatchback shape, that Toyota achieved a masterstroke in marketing. When you drove a Prius down the street, you were wearing your environmental consciousness on your sleeve. Everyone who saw you in that car knew that you had spent your hard-earned cash on a vehicle that put climate change before acceleration – that you were a poster child for a healthy planet. That’s why celebrities and movie stars ditched their $250,000 exotic supercars and invested in a humble Toyota, even on the red carpet.

It’s more than a car. It’s a statement about caring.

And these days, that may be just what we need.

No doubt about it, the 2017 BRZ – in nothing less than Pure Red – was ready to rumble. Slightly refreshed for this year, these wheels were a touch more burly and lithe; the lowered front bumper lent a sneering, moody air and a natty sliver of a spoiler perched petulantly on the business end. From my driver’s viewpoint, tucked into the snugly accommodating and sharply appointed cockpit, the bright red hood stretched out sinuously, promising chills and thrills.

Of course, the main event in Toronto is always the film festival, drawing in glamorous celebrities from around the globe. Entire city blocks are cordoned off, red carpets flow through streets, squadrons of business-like black SUVs carry their precious cargo from one gala to another. Once in a while, you might even actually spot a movie star!

With its small footprint and nimble ways, the scarlet BRZ was ideal for coiling and creeping around the lesser-known enclaves of the city, where SUVs dare not tread. Up and down gaudily grafitti’d pathways, seemingly no broader than a starlet’s IQ, we glided past shadowy figures. Some, seeking refuge from the spotlight, scurried away, wrapped in smoky clouds of mystery. Others glanced tremulously into the BRZ, perhaps hot on the trail of a luminous A-lister. We left them in a swirl of raucous vibrato, to draw their own conclusions.

Then it was time to catch our favourite jazz pianist at the inaugural Kensington Jazz Festival, in one of Toronto’s notoriously car-averse ‘hoods. We ploughed down the avenue with panache, the BRZ nipping and tucking through the blundering crowds. Except for one father and his son crossing at the corner of Baldwin and Augusta, circling around the cocky sportster. “That’s a Subaru?” Dad exclaimed, his eye catching the Pleiades badge. We teased the gear shift, glanced at the gas pedal, and busted forward, holding mystified Dad in our condescending gaze.

Women who find it difficult to get lubricated even after showing positive response towards partner’s approach, it can be physical problem which reduces her power to enjoy order levitra online http://cute-n-tiny.com/cute-animals/pile-of-golden-retriever-puppies/ lovemaking. Here, incrementalism and reciprocity are the keys. right here viagra sales online Key ingredients in Lawax capsules are Kaunch, Safed musli, ashwagandha, semal musli, shatavari, viagra sales uk vidarikand, akarkra, safed musli, safed behmen, and sidhha makardhwaj. It can be viagra soft purchased that of big help in bringing back the enjoyment of their sex life. And from the west end of the city, a high-Spiritus (as in vodka) Polski party beckoned, turning back the clock to the time when Slavs ruled the street. All of Roncesvalles was turned into a huge beer garden, with gaps for the occasional confused taco stand. Since every Polski in the city (and then some) was in attendance, parking was scarce and could get ugly. Of course, in the BRZ, we were on a mission, especially when there were pulled pork pierogy to be had. Up and down the warren of one-way streets, past the grand mansions of High Park to the semis of Sunnyside, the BRZ wound its frisky way to our secret parking spot – perhaps the last one for miles. We easily thrust into reverse, quickly spinning into position and claimed back our turf.

As I strolled down Roncy, the delicious rustling sound of the Polski language filled my ears with warm childhood memories. There were wallops of spicy kielbassa, dancing maidens, peppy accordian music, while the potent stink of cabbage made me giddy with delight.

Sitting down to a plate of piri piri pierogy, I wondered if tradition could be tampered with. What about the potato and cheese dumplings I’d grown up with? Could a little tweaking with fiery sauce make a good thing even better?

I had to admit, it could.

Just look at the BRZ.

Which is how I came to pick up a 2016 Mazda MX-5 GS in Metallic Soul Red from the Mazda Canada. Some folks still call it a Miata, but all of us call it heart-stoppingly sexy and fun. That luscious sloping hood, with just the right amount of brawn, sinuously winding its way around the curves of fender. An undulating insolence follows to the tightly cinched rear, as the flippant roadster dares you to bend the rules and go ahead, live a little.

Slipping in behind the leather-wrapped wheel was like being embraced by a naughty friend. In fact, everything fit and cradled my five-foot four-inch frame so snugly, it was hard to believe this car had not been made exactly for moi. Which is, of course, part of the MX-5’s charm. It can make you think that from concept to clay to car, you were its muse, its inspiration. And just for that, it’s going to take you for the ride of your life.

Of course, the timing was impeccable. Here I was, just two days away from the Barbra Streisand concert. With the MX-5 at my command, I could be assured that for about a week, my feet would not be touching the ground! The combined high of live Streisand and MX-5 voodoo was sure to keep my spirit dancing above the of heads of hapless mortals for days.

But there was work to be done, errands to run, places to go, people to meet. All week long, we ran the gauntlet of road crews, stubborn streetcars, and chaotic traffic that is downtown Toronto at its finest. True to form, the MX-5 took over my better judgement and we sprinted along congested thoroughfares with nary a care in the world, outgunning less diabolical vehicles with an exquisitely taunting raspy snarl. Our favourite trick was flouting arrogant construction workers with stop signs, who are really only killjoys hell-bent on dispensing their own little reign of terror. I’d wait until the last possible moment, as the reprobate worker stalked out onto the roadway, hoisting his obnoxious sign. Then, peering out over the divinely arched hood, I’d squeeze the clutch, thrust the gearshift (oh! those short, sweet strokes!) into first, and lay the hammer down, leaving the poor sucker in my degenerate dust.

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Towards the end of the week, I relented, and deigned to share the MX-5 with a neighbour. We peeled along the backlanes of the city down to the beach, where a fine tangle of twisty roads beckoned. My neighbour was game for some truly reprobate driving, and the MX-5 blithely massaged corners, shrieked down straightaways and generally tore up the unsuspecting asphalt. We whooped and howled around the main drag, and my neighbour reminisced about how she once dated a guy with an MX-5, which he foolishly traded in for one of those so-called premium brands. Now she’s married to a guy with a Mazda – maybe not an MX-5, but still.

And the Barbra Streisand concert? She was magnificent. Like the MX-5, Streisand is in a league of her own.

Even after all this time, she’s still the best-selling female artist, with number one albums for seven decades in a row.

You can bet that’s a hard act to follow. Unless you’re an MX-5.

And lord knows, there is nothing more adorable than a Caribbean Aqua Metallic MINI Cooper convertible. Design cues from the legacy MINI abound, from the bright-eyed stance and cheerfully rounded headlights outside to the overlapping circles of the tach/speedometer inside. Complemented by a rounded 8.8 inch touchscreen which lights up like a mood ring depending on your driving mode, toggle switches abound, all finished in dazzling brightwork. Flipping back the convertible roof was as easy as holding down one of the toggles, and in a jiffy, the sky rolled into view. We could have opted for a partial-roof (mini-roof?), which is sort of like having a sun roof, but half-milers we’re not!

Straight away, our first stop was our lanky MINI fan, who unfurled her gams and artfully arranged herself against the dove grey leather seat, pulling out the handy thigh extension. (Oh, that there were thigh extensions on my denim miniskirt) Buttons, knobs and switches were all examined and fussed over, and then it was off to Centre Street Deli for some sustenance. This deli is the kind of place where the demographic swings between mishpocha, mensch and meshugenah. The zaide next to us stole our napkins, and then, in a moment of contrition, gave one back. Like we wanted it back? And the waitresses shower you with toasted rye, even though you specifically said, no bread. And the lox is simply to die.

Did I mention the MINI Connect app? Combined with the Wired Package, this app completely changes the MINI game for music lovers like moi. I could download Deezer, where, much to my delight, I discovered a playlist of bootleg Streisand songs, recorded at the Bon Soir in 1962. YES! With the Streisand concert a scant two weeks away, I could gleefully immerse myself in BabsLand. My rapture was off the charts.

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But the truth of any car lies in its ability to navigate the hard-scrabble urban landscape, and I challenged the MINI to rough’n’ready Parkdale. We handily outraced the Queen 501 streetcar, finessing around miscreant cyclists, scooters and pedestrians. Parking the compact MINI was a breeze, even in this cramped neighbourhood, and I pulled into a tight spot right in front of my favourite vintage clothing store, Stella Luna. Naturally I found a green and blue dress that matched the MINI perfectly, but not my budget. Oh, well.

I had something better. Peeling away under a luminous sky, my heart fluttered as the MINI surged forward.

Leaving a trail of urban grime in our wake, the throaty murmur of the MINI was more than enough. For now.

And of course, the dark red 2016 Subaru Legacy 2.5i was just what I had in mind for a weekend getaway to the cousins. First of all, I don’t travel light. Despite being just one person, I need to be prepared for all weather and social occasions, which requires serious wardrobe. And then, of course, I can’t arrive empty handed, so various hampers and coolers are packed with cheese, fresh veggies from the market, and other treats.

Finally, I was set for the three hour drive up north. The Legacy was equipped with Subaru’s EyeSight, which meant that I really did feel like I had an extra set of eyes helping me drive. In fact, it was a little like having my mother in the front seat. Fiddling with the satellite radio, I didn’t slow down fast enough, so the Subaru beeped and told me to do so immediately. Yikes! Then, still preoccupied with the radio, I failed to accelerate to the car’s liking, and it flashed “vehicle in front has moved.” Double yikes! I had been told! And move I did. It was as if the Legacy was hell bent on making me a better driver.

Reclining into the creamy upholstery, this is a car that will have your back. Seriously. The 10-way adjustable driver seat includes a firm lumbar support that’s heavenly on long weekend rides interspersed with the inevitable traffic jams. I stretched out, and the car did the same. Yes, this is a comfy sedan that just loves to take big easy strides on the asphalt, and the four-cylinder 175 hp engine feels at home in the fast lane.

There were two levels of lane centring, one that was a gentle alert on the dash, and the other more of a production number complete with flashing lights, as the situation warranted. Naturally all this drama came about in the name of science, as I am a very careful and cautious driver. Yes, I am.

Like other Subaru models, the Legacy has the best visibility bar none. You can see a whole battalion of cars in the side view mirrors, they are HUGE. Nothing gets in the way of your view, either from the front, back or side.

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The next day, it was off to town, where the Legacy elegantly wound its way around a street market, a lakeside boulevard, and the local marina. Then it was time to party again on the dirt road – it was as if the Legacy could sense that we were ready for a swim!

Covered in road dirt, in repose under the fragrant shade of several big old pine trees, the Legacy looked … happy.

From city to highway to cottage country, that had been quite the workout.

You don’t need to dress this car up to take it anywhere.

Since I am a grown-up lady, I opted for the deluxe end of the Spark spectrum, a fully loaded 2LT5 with all the trimmings.  That included several different ways to surf the internet!

You see, it’s the Summer of Streisand. Come August, my number one singer/actress/role model will be singing her heart out at nine cities in North America, including my hometown of Toronto. She’s been hyping the tour with her usual boundless energy (it’s hard to believe she’s 74!), releasing an album, appearing on the Tony Awards, and who knows what else. I’m determined not to miss a thing.

So it was imperative that while away from my computer, I have full access to the internet at all times. You see, I need to know the minute Streisand does what she does best – the unexpected, and brilliantly. Also, I was curious – how many ways could the Spark stream Streisand?

Inside, the wee set of wheels was beyond cushy, with high end attention to detail. There was a cross-hatch design on the dash that carried over to the leatherette seats, which were quite accommodating to my skinny behind.

In fact, the Spark was surprisingly roomy inside, to where one might be hard pressed to know that they were in a sub-compact, with oodles of legroom and headroom. I leaned back into the rather luxuriant seats, and easily paired up the Bluetooth. Right away, the sonorous sounds of Streisand wafted through the cabin. Then, I plugged in my iphone and voila! Apple Car Play popped right up on the seven inch touchscreen, and with it, my music. So now, I had two ways of saturating myself with Streisand.  Of course, Apply Car Play only works on the iPhone, although naturally I had to try my iPad. Chevy has one of the hardest working WiFi hotspots around, and can connect up to SEVEN devices.

Then the $64,000 question – does the internet stay on when the car is in motion? Indeed it does. I could Facebook, Twitter and Snapchat away while driving at the same time. Of course, just because I could, doesn’t mean I actually did. Only researching in the name of science to ascertain that I could. Hmm – some people would prefer there be some safety-oriented standards to prevent active access to the internet while driving.

To be fair, Apple Car Play includes Siri, and there is a dedicated menu for Voice Command, which enables hands-free telephone access and navigation. But I didn’t fare well with the voice activated navigation, which had a hard time recognizing my destination.

Another surprise was the fact that I had to use an actual iPhone cord to pull up Apple Car Play. Since wi-fi is available (although finding the wi-fi password turned out to be a little clunky), one would think the iPhone cord, which let’s face it, is so very 2012, would not be necessary.

But the tiny Spark was an able-bodied contender for big city traffic, nicely nipping in and out of lanes and tight spots. We easily took on notoriously car-averse Kensington Market, with its narrow streets, scofflaw bicyclists and perturbed pedestrians. This neighbourhood has recently come under fire for jumping the gun on the federal government’s proposed legalization of marijuana – “dispensaries” have sprouted from a number of storefronts, and even before you see them, you can smell them. Although Kensington has always been a haven for pot smokers, it’s now practically reefer madness. Even cars are left to go to pot, and transformed into community art gardens. Why, you can almost get high just walking around, breathing in the second hand 420. And it seemed, by their lack of attentiveness to motorized vehicles, a number of folks had been doing just that. Fortunately, the little Spark could stop on a dime, and often had to.
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Cute as a bug in a rug, the little Spark drew attention from all kinds of folk. From an elderly woman who was taken by its unusual hue (“why, it’s almost lavendar”) to the bicyclist who pulled up next to me at a red light and boogied down to The Sounds of Philadelphia. Unfortunately, it also caught the eye of an eager parking mercenary who swooped in to slap me with a ticket, when there were only four minutes left to actual legal parking time. Drat!

Mileage, as might be expected of a car this diminutive, was most decent. I averaged about 6 to 8 litres per 100 k, or about 40 mpg of pretty strictly city driving, and usually in rush hour.

Down by the harbour, I sipped on a cold bevvie in the Spark, listening to Streisand while watching the lazy waves on the lake. Out of nowhere, a rather nicely muscled speciman of beefcake came sailing along on his cigarette boat, vastly improving my view.

But that was typical of the Spark. All kinds of good things could happen, even when you weren’t expecting them.

The little Spark is up to it, even those pesky parking tickets and potty pedestrians.

So here’s my confession for the week: despite being a type-A gearhead, I have never ever actually driven a motorcycle. It’s true. Oh, I’ve admired their lustrous black and chrome curves from afar, and even had a few adventures riding on the back. But somehow, never made it to the driver position.

An offer came one day that I couldn’t refuse, not just because it was free, but because it came from one of my favourite PR chicks*. What the heck, I figured? Worst case scenario, I’d wipe out in grand style. But being the gearhead that I am, I secretly assumed that I’d soon be popping wheelies over flames like the famous British dare-divas, the Motobirds.

The day of the lesson arrived with a blast of the winter we’d managed to miss in November. Never mind, it was clear and dry, and a little cold wouldn’t keep me from my date. And there, on a square patch of asphalt in the parking lot, a group of tall orange pylons stood guard over five Honda motorcycles. They were neatly lined up, angled rakishly to the left, beckoning seductively. I was introduced to my instructor, George Williams, from Learning Curves.

Right away, I was suited up in a thick motorcycle jacket made of goretex and possibly gyproc, as well as a helmet. These folks were not leaving anything to chance!

A diminutive black Honda GROM caught my eye, with its raw, exposed innards and chubby small wheels. I couldn’t wait to get started, hopping astride and grasping the handlebars. But wait, wait! George insisted on first giving me a full description of the bike, showing me where things were, from the kickstand to the fuel tank. He even demonstrated how the kickstand worked, from at rest to ride.

The GROM boasted 125 cc and 10 horsepower. George quipped that there were lawnmowers with more power. I believe that my late mother’s sewing machine was capable of more power. But that, in turn, made the GROM ideal for novices like me, especially those who were hankering to be overnight badass bikerinas.

It turns out the bike, tiny putt putt that it was, had more to it than I’d thought. The setup was completely different from my car – the clutch was on the handlebars, and the shifter was at my left foot. The ignition was at the centre, above the fuel tank, but the starter was just under the right handlebar. Oh, and there was no reverse – and no syncromesh. Never mind that the throttle (accelerator) was on the right handlebar and the front brake was attached to the right handlebar. Got it? Got it!

Before I could even turn on the ignition, George ran me through exercises designed to keep my head up, look where I was going, feel for the friction point (where the clutch starts to grab).

As the lesson unfolded, George was a welcome font of knowledge. I learned “KNIFE,” an acronym for preparing to ride. K was for kickstand, which should be up. N was for neutral, the gear in which the bike should be. I was for ignition, which should be on. F was for fuel, which should be enough to get you where you’re going. And E was for engine kill switch, which could stop the bike at any time.

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In fact, we spent a good 30 minutes learning what features were on the bike, where they were, how they worked, what was legal and what was not. And what to do in case of an emergency (kill switch!), but more importantly, how to avoid getting into emergencies.

A few more minutes of sitting on the bike, turning things on and off, moving backwards and forwards, and I was finally ready to roll! I crawled forwards, in a straight line towards George, brave soul that he was. I drove around in a large, wobbly circle, steadily more secure until I felt almost, downright brash. It was like slow sorcery, this kinship with a magical machine.

Teasing the throttle, I felt the engine throb under me, and the bike surged forward. Leaning down, I kept my eyes up and tried not to think about the fuel tank just north of my kidneys. The sturdy wheels gobbled up the pavement, and I gripped the body with my knees. Leaning into the curve, I pulsed the throttle and a quick shiver rushed through my arms as the bike rumbled in response, gently tilting to the left.

As encased in protective plastic as I was, I could still feel the wind buffeting against me, lifting my spirit as I soared through the laps on my imp of a motorcycle.

Then, all too soon, it was all over.

Sadly, I de-clad myself of jacketing and helmet, and returned to earth.

Would I ever take this up seriously? That is, get a motorcycle license and a motorcycle?

I don’t know. If I got on a serious motorcycle, it’s just possible, I might just keep on going and never, ever come back to reality again.

*Note all photography by the delightful Kim Lizmore-Campbell of Calador Communications.

Years ago I attended a bus rodeo in the north end of the city, where I learned to drive an actual city bus – not only forward, but backwards, and through an obstacle course. There’s something about navigating a big and bulky vehicle, especially around corners, that gives you incredible insight into the laws of physics, and new respect for bus drivers everywhere.

So when I picked up a very large and very white 2016 Volvo XC90 T6 Drive E Momentum, I was just a little cowed. Could little old me – all of 5 foot 4 and 121 pounds – be be capable of helming Volvo’s largest SUV? Would it even fit in my parking spot? Then I remembered, hey, I conquered a circuit of vicious traffic cones in a city bus! And felt invincible.

Inside, the Volvo was like my own personal five-star hotel room. Plush black leather cushioned my derriere, with multiple seat settings to ensure I was not just comfortable, but downright rapturous. Brightwork and elegrant woodgrain adorned the dashboard, which also sported a touchscreen the size of an iPad. Actually, it worked much like an iPad, with swipes up and down and left to right bringing up various menus and screens. In fact, I’m pretty sure it was a whole nicer and definitely more fun than my iPad.

No doubt about it, a person could live very luxuriously in the XC90. In fact, a family of four could have lived in that car. Friends of mine pronounced it the perfect road trip car, with its ample back seat and storage capacity. There was seating for seven! Back seat passengers could even set their own seat heater temperatures on a touchscreen.

To put the Volvo into motion, there was a slightly retro “start” switch switch on the console next to me. It reminded me of the rectangular stop/start button on old Steenbeck film editing machines. You never know where those Volvo engineers find their inspiration! And as soon as the Volvo leapt to life, I skimmed the five driving modes available, and opted for the “eco.” I guess I was a little nervous about how much fuel the 320 horsepower motor would consume. (It was actually quite reasonable, getting about 11L/100 K, or 21 miles per gallon.) Volvo’s Sensus infotainment system proved ridiculously easy to use, and I was able to handily set up my favourite Sirius radio stations. It even previewed what was on all the different stations, so I could see if, say, Jackie DeShannon was on some other station, tap and make the change. The drive was even more refreshing with the Volvo interior air quality system, which monitors incoming air, removing pollen and pollutants.

So as I moved forward, ensconced in sumptuous yet supportive black leather several feet above the asphalt, I felt rather regal. Like a queen, moving among her villagers. This, I thought, is how Beyonce must feel, and wondered if she too had a Volvo XC90? Far removed from the street, bumps and road noise were alien concepts, banned from my luxurious cabin. I glided around the city, oblivious to the riffraff and detritus faced by more common vehicles. Could there have been a smoother ride? Doubt it.

And yet, for all its pomp and circumstance, the XC90 was surprisingly limber. After all, even though I could barely feel the potholes and jagged patches of my neighbourhood’s 24-7 road construction, I still had to maneuver through lanes reduced to half their width, stopping and starting at the whim of the local workers. We tore through the snarls and jams, shedding barely a bead of sweat. I even managed to pull a U-turn during rush hour, and, even more impressive, parallel parked in the frenzied Market area.

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One morning, I came down to my tiny parking spot, ready to take my big fancy ride out on the road, when I saw that there was an even huger vehicle parked next to me. A brand spanking new Chevy Silverado had somehow been lovingly wedged into parking spot #7, and it came this close to making my XC90 look small. Just the headlight from the Silverado was the width of a Mazda MX-5, I was sure. The whole beast  was at least twenty feet long and easily stole my hard-won title of “big bad truck” right from under me!

Not being one to dwell on such things, I hopped in the XC90 and pulled out. Under a clear blue autumn sky, we headed out to the highway, and out to the country, where the leaves were just starting to turn. I peeled back the enormous panoramic sunroof, and let the fresh air into the car, allergies be damned.

Inside, all was bliss as I watched the pastoral scenery unfold before me, around me, and above me.

A girl could get used to this.

Funny how getting outside of my comfort zone was so, well, comfortable.

Plum Crazy. Farnia Gray. Bleu Camargue. Jaune Pamplemousse.

So when I saw the keyfob for the 2016 Hyundai Elantra GT I was picking up came in Windy Sea Blue, my heart did a little happy dance. And when I laid my eyes on the sharp little hatchback with clean, angular lines in deep blue-green, I was enthralled. The Elantra was sporty in an understated, rather than come-hither way, with wraparound headlights glancing out from under the creased hood. It was going to be a good week.

As I settled in behind the wheel, I reached up to open the sunroof. Mon Dieu! A vast expanse of glass and steel, the panoramic sunroof took up nearly half the real estate above my head. Opening it, I felt like Moses parting the Red Sea.

My next tasks were less dramatic but equally satisfyingly – pairing my iphone and honing in on my favourite radio stations. Hyundai has one of the most user-friendly infotainment systems around, with just the right balance of knobs and touchscreen interface. In fact, I could whip around the radio stations with ease, going from local traffic reports on AM640 to SiriusXM Heart & Soul within moments.

Sliding into reverse, I noticed a whirring noise at the back of the car as the Hyundai badge on the trunk tilted out, and I could see everything behind me on the seven-inch touchscreen. Those Hyundai engineers surely sport degrees from Hogswort.

But it was as I wended my way to the west end of the city to check out some kittens, that I truly came to appreciate the Elantra GT. It’s not enough for the city to tear up the roads in my neighbourhood, oh, no. Road crews have been dispatched to the west end, where they impetuously mangled and lacerated all the streets in their way, and callously left the bits and pieces strewn about. With, of course, bulky construction equipment blocking the way, so no one could get through without a bit of effort. This meant scampering in and out of traffic, sudden stops, quick starts, and more than one aggravating U-turn as I sought a free road.

Finally, I made it to my friend’s, and we had tea as naughty Burmese kittens pounced on our laps and tried to scarf some scones. Because, well, Burmese kittens. I could have taken each and every one, but would have had some serious ‘splaining to do at home!

The next day, it was off to British Car Day, which is held every year in a large park in the suburbs. The Elantra had an automatic tranny, but held its own on the highway, and I didn’t miss being a three-pedalling gal at all. Its surprisingly potent 173 horsepower was more than adept at powering the light hatch into the left lane. In fact, the Elantra is one of the lightest vehicles in the five-door hatch segment, which also accounted for its precise handling. At one point, we even passed a Maserati Ghibli!
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I knew we were in the right place as a Triumph TR6 pulled up beside us at a stoplight, and I followed him up the driveway. Even the three parking lots were a treasure trove of extraordinary wheels, including a Citroen 2CV, Jaguars old and new, a pristine old Celica, and a Subaru BRZ. Clearly, many connoisseurs had come to represent and salute automotive glory.

And there was plenty of glory to be had. Over a thousand cars had come, some travelling from as far away as Texas. There was an entire field of Jaguars – I was practically tripping over XKEs. Another field held MGs from five decades, as well as Triumphs of all kinds. There were marques like Sunbeam, Aston-Martin, Lotus, Rolls Royce, Morgan, TVR, and a row of DeLoreans, their gull-wing doors aloft. Vendors sold snacks, aftermarket goodies, books, posters, trinkets, and novelties.

But what stopped me dead in my tracks was a sublime 1974 Jensen Intercepter III, in glossy blue and black leather interior. With its lean, elegant silhouette, it spoke of Saville Row, Knightsbridge and Mayfair. Its actual colour was Brienz Blue, after a rambling Swiss Alpine village of charming cottages and stately manor houses.

I wondered, who had driven this sumptuous vehicle? Where had it travelled? What adventures were looped around its wheels?

That’s what stardust can do to a car.

A couple of weeks ago, journalists and photographers crowded in the cavernous halls of the Messe Frankfurt to get a better view of bewitching vehicles like the new Ferrari, Lamborghini Huracan, yet another Porsche Carrera, and the new Bentley Bentyaga SUV. With almost a million people attending, the annual Frankfurt Motor Show is easily the biggest in the industry.

So it took chutzpah for the newly revamped 2016 Honda Civic to rob Frankfurt’s thunder in New York, where it got up close and personal with a good sized crowd of auto media. When a car has sold 40 million units around the globe, an all-new redesign will steal the headlines! In Canada alone, the Civic has been the top selling passenger car for the past 17 years. Even thieves love the fearless compact, as it makes the list of top ten most stolen cars year after year.

What does it take to be the best-selling passenger car in Canada (and many other locales) for almost two decades? I decided I couldn’t wait for the dishy new model, and jumped into a 2015 Civic Si. That’s the sinewy athlete of the Civic family, with a hefty shot of power and performance. In Taffeta White, with contrasting dark 18-inch wheels, and fierce front fascia balanced by a playful rear spoiler, Honda’s favourite son looked smokin’ hot.

Inside, the natty red and black cloth seat easily accommodated my butt, and as I put my hands on the thick steering wheel, it was like sliding into Mission Control. Everything was digital, barely a knob or button to be seen. But not to fear, the large seven-inch touchscreen made it easy to manipulate the infotainment system, and soon we were properly plugged in.

Honda is renowned for their slick shifter and light clutch, and we easily breezed onto the highway. With the last vestiges of hot summer sun beating down on me, I felt like the Beach Boys singing about their “Little Honda” – first gear, it’s alright (faster, faster) second gear, I lean right. Okay, so they were extolling the virtues of a motorcycle. Had they been in a Civic Si, they no doubt would have been equally inspired!

Now that summer was on the run, serious roadwork made its inglorious return to my neighbourhood, complete with stinky asphalt, sudden stops and starts, and unwanted detours down side streets with “traffic calming,” aka speed bumps. These are anything but “calming.” In fact, the annoying road bulges may slow down traffic, but are killer on the suspension, brakes, tires and driver’s frame of mind. Luckily, the game Civic swam over the hillocks with elan, as did my sunny disposition.

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I spent the better part of the week dashing to client and social appointments, in and out of the city, starting new projects and trying to capture the last precious moments of summer. After a hectic week of too many early mornings and late nights, I decided to treat myself to a day on the beach. Not just any beach, but my own private secluded getaway, where my only companions are dusky double-crested cormorants, twittering red-winged blackbirds, and buoyant mallard duck families.

Setting out in the early morning, I packed sunscreen and a snack, and slid into the Civic. We glided ably onto the highway, thanks to the 205 horsepower i-VETC engine. I watched a small gauge showing me how far I ventured into Honda’s famed i-VETC system, with a heart-popping alert as I approached the red line. We handily floated in and around the slowpokes, opening up the throttle while shifting. The Civic seemed to grip the road as firmly as I did the gearshift, and welcomed the narrow side roads off the highway. Every move sent a blissful rush, and the Civic embraced every corner that led us further from civilization, ingratiating itself under my hand.

And as I lay back on the beach, sipping my lemonade and watching the lazy waves, I realized that, relaxed as I was, I was really looking forward to driving home.

That’s what a Civic Si can do to you.