I write this on an airliner headed west from London. If you haven't seen a couple of D-type Jags powerslide out of a corner in hot pursuit of a crackling Ferrari 246S Dino, then you need to go to the Goodwood Revival in September. If you haven't seen 150,000 people glammed up in vintage tweed and gabardine and taffeta, been buzzed by a dozen Spitfires at once, applauded the riders of a pair of Norton Manxes for dicing from the green to the checkered, gawped at a 427 Cobra cornering on three wheels, or felt proud to be a Yankee as a Ford Fairlane bellowed through a picket line of Alfas and Cortinas to kick ass on foreign soil, then you need to get to Goodwood. For me, the Revival capped a summer of deep immersion in British motoring culture, most of it a lot more prosaic than Goodwood. It all started because my wife's company decided to airmail her to Madrid for three months starting in July. Madrid is in the dead center of an arid country, and in July and August you can bake a potato on the sidewalk. So I said I wasn't going. I said that the summer is when you go north, so meet me in England and we'll go camping in Scotland for a couple of weeks and scramble around castles and hike the fells and eat, well, if not haggis exactly, because it's disgusting, then haggis-flavored Pringles. She agreed, and then the next question became what to drive. READ MORE ››
-from Car and Driver Blog http://ift.tt/nSHy27
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