We all have one. Whether it's that Boss 428 with the Detroit Lokkas that you just can't beat in a straight line, a Park Avenue 'Scraper that insults your automotive aesthetic or the stupid motorcycle cop with the radar gun that hides behind the telephone pole on Riverside Drive (yeah, him), somebody is always out to ruin your drive. Allow me to go first. It doesn't matter where I am, what road or the time of day. Somehow, someway, a first-generation Dodge Caravan going double digits under the limit will invariably wind up in front me. I just don't get it. Every other bail-out K-Car built has long since rusted away or blown something vital. Yet thousands of Caravans (slowly) soldier on. And 9 times out of 10 they're blue. I don't get that part, either. I nearly died in a Boxster trying to pass one on the two-lane, blind-corner insanity that is Decker Canyon. I hate them. Seriously, mid-80s Dodge Caravans are my sworn automotive enemy. Plymouth Voyagers, too. You?