Buick Regals roll in slow and spacious formation leaving Cheyenne, Wyo. The 350Z is a wolf in a henhouse of pedestrian traffic, growling through stainless-steel pipes and carving up lanes of humdrum metal. Good people dressed by Sears, Roebuck and Co. shoot looks of "what's your rush?" at our eastbound missile. We glance at the red circle around New York City on the crumpled map and floor it.
It's Monday. We left fog-banked San Francisco yesterday, hell-bent on making it to the Big Apple by Thursday night to catch the start of a rich-boy rally called the Player's Run. Saturday morning, the Run will unleash 75 platinum card holders onto America's highways for a cross-country blast to, believe it or not, Los Angeles, and we want to tag along. If all goes well, and it probably won't, we'll be back in L.A. in two weeks with 7,500 more miles on Project 350Z's odometer.
Before we left, we installed fresh Mobil 1 to guard the VQ35's friction surfaces, and an XM satellite radio tuner to guard us against that no-talent ass-clown Michael Bolton. We also threw in a case of bottled water, a roll of toilet paper, 10 pounds of trail mix and two overnight bags, which are enough to turn the cramped Z into the Beverly Hillbilly mobile, without the hoes.
We also checked the 275/40-18 BFG g-Force KDs filling the Z's sculpted derrire. Despite a daily dose of powerslides the KAAZ limited-slip encourages, we figure they're "good enough." This phrase, we'll realize 4,000 miles later, is more appropriate when buying new socks than describing the condition of the devices supporting a 3,200-pound car.
A pact is made that first night not to eat shit food-vowing starvation over stomach ruining, cabin-polluting food born in microwaves. The first night finds us in Sparks, Nev., just over the state line. It's 10:00 p.m.-all that's open that isn't McDonald's is TJ's Family Restaurant. The turkey tastes like it was basted in brake cleaner. We pay and pass out in a gross motel.
Cheap motel equals no curtains. Daggers of sun stab our tired eyes, making us rise early and continue east on Route 80. We try to relax and enjoy the shift behind the wheel, but we see cops everywhere. Constant vigilance seeps into the subconscious, injecting aviator glasses onto Crown Vic-driving retirees, morphing headlights and reshaping grilles. The paranoia is justified. East of Phoenix we land in the gun sights of Nevada's finest. Ninety-one in a 75-mph zone.
Heavy bladders and an empty fuel gauge beckon, so we pull into the dirt-stained town of Burmester, Utah. The only option is Thrifty Fill-brand gas at grab-your-ankles pricing. No pump-side payment here.
"Where you going?" asks the bored blond clerk looking up from her copy of "The Globe."
We mumble something about going east.
"Oh, New York? Can I come?"
Although we're tempted by visions of blondie flinging her Thrifty Fill visor out the window as we speed up the on-ramp, fleeing the town where everyone knows her shoe size, we decide her poofy hair and Ding Dong-heavy backside ain't gonna fit in the Z's cramped cabin.
Nebraska. We blitz through its vastness at night, headlights illuminating nothingness, like a flashlight shining off the deck of a ship. We make it to Platte, and discover there's no such thing as slipping a 350Z into a small town. Locals do laps around the block to get another look, pulling up to say they've never seen one of these before. We might as well be driving a Lambo.
Tom Petty's been preaching the truth about small-town girls. The prettiest girl in town serves us pulled chicken sandwiches at The Deep Pit BBQ. Shockingly blue eyes smile through too much makeup, and frosted hair. Her body is corn-fed and curvy, her skin healthy. Farmer's daughter jokes circulate in the Z's now musky cabin as we stay on Route 80.
Gaining altitude, the brush and leaf canopies of Ohio replace the rolling green of Iowa. Days like this make even chassis rigidity engineers want a convertible. For the first time, we drive with the windows down, escaping our A/C capsule that's been recirculating since Cali. The Z is happier too. It could also be that she's getting fat and happy on her diet of 93 octane, after 46,000 miles of Slim-Fast crap 91.
The Z is getting a little more than 27 mpg. Not bad for 3.5 liters, and a whole lot better than the 20 mpg we get around town. Eighty-three miles per hour seems like a slow waltz, when all that offers perspective are rows of fence posts and far-off herds of Holsteins. Miles of train escort us east on Route 80-tanks of crude, hoppers of coal, and flat cars stained various shades of black diesel smoke.
We miraculously avoid the Pennsylvania State Police and cross into New York just as it begins to rain the kind of rain immune to windshield wipers. It's like the heavens just threw a kegger. Where a forest of massive tread blocks once stood on the rear of our Z is smooth, deforested blackness. Shit. Black ice and wet leaves have nothing on a half-inch of standing water. The Z sloshes around like it's crossing a lake on inflatable shoes.
We avoid morning rush hour and cruise into Manhattan late Thursday night. Some stereotypes, like New York having shitty streets, exist for a reason. Potholes that swallow 14-inch wheels whole. Foot-tall humps of pavement waiting to center punch your oil pan. Taxis that wear sideswipes like purple hearts. The Z's suspension, which has been a silent, compliant and willing partner thus far, is unhappy. It feels like we're driving an earthquake down 17th Street. Wanting to find our car in the morning, we park overnight in a garage. Tab? $40.
On Friday we hitch up with the Player's Run, a seven-day New York-to-Los Angeles rally with a $12K entry fee. With questionable stomachs and tired eyes, we show up at the USS Intrepid, a decommissioned WWII aircraft carrier and museum moored on Manhattan's Lower West Side. The museum's parking lot is the Run's kickoff point, and boutique machinery is gathering in the ship's massive shadow. Included with the bevy of Ferraris and Porsches, we find a supercharged 350Z owned by the 19-year-old proprietor of AutomotiveForums.com, a twin-turbo NSX and turbocharged E36 M3. We register and leave the car.
When in New York, do as New Yorkers do. Eat good pizza pie. Swear. A lot. Visit Central Park. Go clubbing. And get out.
The next morning is overcast. Hung over backwards, we return to the Intrepid to find the cars coated in vinyl sponsor stickers, making it the largest collection of expensive rice in history.
NYPD's finest has closed down the Westside Highway for the start. Squad cars line the street as millions of dollars of machinery pour into the city. A Porsche ahead burns out across the intersection and doesn't get pulled over. We click off the traction control, see 4000 rpm on the tach, drop the clutch and fog the cheering crowd.
We're in the middle of a high-priced train roaring down Broadway. Shooting into the Holland Tunnel, our windows go down in expectation of the aural assault about to be unleashed on the tunnel's tile walls. Horses prance, bulls rage, boxers punch and pushrods zing in a symphonic battle for the ages.
Ten miles out, the twin-turbo NSX is pulled over. Cruising down the highway with this pack of supercars is like every 13-year-old's exotic car wall poster come to life. The 350Z slots in surprisingly easily, having road presence far beyond its price tag. Five miles later a rental 911 convertible sits pulled over. We cruise in a caravan with a Bentley convertible, a Ferrari F40 and a Murcilago at 90 mph and get a fly by from a 993 Turbo and a turbocharged M3 carrying a solid 60 mph on us. Then the rental 911 Cabrio and rental SL fly past. A few miles later, both are pulled over.