I don't know much about cars, but I know a muscle car when I see one. It's not defined by model names and trim designations, or even specifications and performance figures. It's way more visceral. It's about gratuitous waste and sensory excess. It's about stance and attitude and a brooding, bad-tempered look that, like a bodybuilder on steroids, growls, "Don't mess with me." It's about sound too, the deep, throbbing heartbeat of a V8 at idle, turning to a raging bellow through twin tailpipes the moment the pedal gets buried in the carpet. A muscle car is no pussycat. It's loud and announces its presence with a deep rumble that shows the world who's boss.

The best muscle cars have a gorgeous aroma all their own. Oh sure, there's that delicious, acrid rubber from the tire-smoking burnout, but there's so much more. Poke your head into the cockpit of a car at rest and inhale deeply. What are you getting? Most likely a potent mixture of grease, oil, wax and chrome polish. What other vehicle is loved, cherished and pampered as much as the genuine muscle machine?

Yet looks don't matter. Matt black is effective for the muscle car has no need of a gaudy peacock's strut. Form follows function. Performance speaks louder than paint. Furry dice are permissible, but only in a strictly ironic sense.

Then there's feel. What a feel. At rest, waiting for the green light, the chassis vibrates with urgency. At yellow the pedal goes down, the cabin fills with the roar of burning gasoline and the nose lifts. As the green lights the rear tires, wide fat rubber with raised white lettering, begin to spin. The car leaps towards the horizon with a massive shove in the gut that no roller coaster can touch. The back of the car steps out from behind the front wheels, the tires scream in protest as the driver feeds in slight course corrections and the quarter mile of black tarmac is swallowed up by the long, wide hood.

"Transportation" doesn't come close to describing the way a muscle car covers the ground. No other vehicle delivers such a cocktail of adrenaline and testosterone. There's no stimulant to compare with the fury of a four-barrel carburetor pouring fuel into eight huge, sucking chambers, detonation converting the high-octane mixture into torque and horsepower.

The muscle car is a beast and I want to ride it, it's a drug and I need it. I can't define it but I know one when I see it. Listen to the sound and you'll know it too.

Learn more about this author, Nigel Holmes.
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