Our hotel in the town of Puebla started life as a convent. The building's center court featured a giant awning and a nice fountain. There were no nuns. We looked.
Route book as seen by cameraphone. "Magically attracted to bends"? More like "batshit crazy behind the wheel." Note to self: Visit Mexico more often.
Note to self, part II: Runaway trucks bad. Fam good. Buenos dias, Estados Unidos Mexicanos. Your road signs are helpful.
The hotel's garage prior to our departure.
Our test car. Interesting fact: The American-market SLS sports small trapezoidal bumpers on each side of its rear license plate mount. The European car does not. This is a U.S. car.
6.3 badging, 6.2 liters; tomato, tomahto. Still one of the greatest engines ever built.
Oh, sure, totally, yes, of course. You try it first. We'll have some... later.
The convent/hotel's main tower.
Departure from Puebla.
Note to self, part III: Screaming through Mexican traffic in a 563-hp supercar with a police escort is the coolest form of tourism on the planet.
More coffee stop.
Shamelessly derivative cockpit cues don't get much better than this.
This was someone else's map. We didn't look at ours once. Yeah, so we got lost. We also drove through random small towns with the doors up and the engine all cracklesnappopsnarl at the top of the tach and felt impossibly alive. Maps are overrated.
Coffee stop again.
Do not — we repeat, not — screw with the federales. Charger or no, these guys move.
Quien es mas macho: Mercedes-Benz SLS o Mercedes-Benz SLS? Trick question! Mike Ditka is the Mercedes-Benz SLS. Thank you for playing.