Exterior Design: ****

Johnson: I really like the cut of the RS4's jib. The flared fenders are suitably butch and don't look tacky. Plus the fronts feature that cool disappearing-cut-line trick. The wheels are tasteful and display the Gallardo-type brakes with bravado, but withhold from Federline-emblazoned, yellow-painted ostentatiousness. And of course, it's got heaps of Q-factor. We couldn't tell it from a regular, pedestrian S4 until we'd smoked the guy in the regular, pedestrian S4 on PCH. What's more, dude gave us the thumbs-up when he pulled up to the next light.

Loverman: We smoked him good, and how! The RS4's got the big, angry face that the German manufacturers are all up ons with these days. The lights are complex and intricate, just like every other modern luxury ride. The Audi grille sans front plate is shockingly good-looking, but this car is from the great state of Michigan — California versions look buck-toothed with the useless-yet-mandatory second numberplate. The 19" wheels and dwarf-profile tires look intimidating, especially stuffed full of those awesome Lambo-pilfered seventeen-foot diameter brakes with 9-million piston calipers. The backside is my favorite view. Nothing looks too different from your run of the mill daddy's-little-girl A4. And then you walk backwards a few feet and notice that if Audi hadn't massively flared out the fenders, the rear wheels would stick out a foot from the body. Quite Q. Though, give me Emil's gray version any day over the wannabe-Subaru blue.

Interior Design ***

Johnson: It's an Audi, hence the interior rocks. The speakers in the forward bit of the rear-passenger doors are a great touch. The stereo's not particularly great, and the seats inhale an alpaca's ass at fifty yards. Unless you're going bass-licks-on-your-grave-type fast — then they're adequate. But why does it manage to score even three stars with that against it? Two words, kids: Gun Compartments.

Loverman: I'm really mixed on the interior. It's done up in the standard Darth-Vader-red-lights-on-black-on-black theme that Audi's Bavarian friends are just as obsessed with. Where's the light and airy wonderment found in the A6 and A8? However, since it is an Audi everything clicks cool and feels good. Remember when I made you stroke the shaft of the gear lever, Johnson? I mean, billet aluminum - talk about going the extra mile. And the steering wheel is meaty and proper. While I don't despise the seats nearly as much as you do, they really should have thrown the Euro-racing buckets into the Team USA edition. These guys are 377-way adjustable, so you can get comfy for fifteen minutes. But then they start to wear you down. Though, it must be pointed out that the under-the-knee bolster on the driver's seat can be slid out, and I already miss it. What I don't miss is the triple-lame carbon fiber trim. Three stars indeed.

Acceleration: *****

Loverman: The RS4 is a cannonball. Stupid, stupid crazy-fast. It hits 100mph when your car hits 60 mph (or in Johnson's case, 30 mph). When that S4 was in front of us, we were gaining on him so rapidly an onlooker would have thought he wasn't trying. Or even moving. [I will break in and second this - DGJ] Only he was. And the acceleration is not just lunatic-fast from a standing start. Going from lazy freeway speeds to sinfully-illegal velocities happens faster than you can say, "What seems to be the trouble, officer?" The gear doesn't matter either. Go ahead, stomp it at 80mph in 6th and the damn thing just goes faster. There is no better way to explain it than this; 90% of the torque is available between 2,500rpm and 7,000rpm. That said, 100% of the 317lbs. ft of torque is available from 3,000rpm up to 7,000rpm. Amazing.

Johnson: It accelerates as mightily as Wonder Woman's invisijet. At one point, I accidentally knocked it into third instead of first while leaving an intersection. And hot damn if it didn't chug merrily away. That friends, is torque. Torque is your friend, and Audi has slathered it all over this motor's powerband like it was a Hawaiian Tropic model in heat.

Loverman: Dude, you could have started in fifth.

Braking *****

Johnson: There is nothing to be said about these brakes other than that they should be mandatory on every car.

Loverman: When I'm in charge, these brakes will be mandatory on every car. When I was letting Autoblog Frank pilot the RS4, I instructed him to stomp on the brakes as hard as he could. As far as I can tell, he's still laughing. That was three days ago.

Ride ***

Loverman: Giving the RS4 three stars for ride is a bit of a stretch. Audi's uber-pocket rocket is rougher than this Chinese woman I once paid to walk on my back. Wait a minute - that's not what I paid her for... Regardless, the ride is punishing around town. I can allow for three-star action only because at high speeds on smooth roads, she rides quite nice. Considering that the tires are no thicker than beef jerky, quite impressive, too. Just stay away from expansion joints as they make the RS4 rock back and forth like a see-saw.

Johnson: It's beside the point to comment on the RS4's ride, really, although to my mind, it's better than one would expect from such a machine. Which is why it gets three stars instead of two. Then again, I don't generally like wallowy vehicles. I mean, I once drove a Plymouth Prowler three thousand miles, which is my benchmark for a bad ride. That may mean my brain is slightly cooked. That said, we were wiped out at the end of the day; driving an RS4 for long miles can definitely take it out of you. This may be the reason the Transporter dude ponied up for the S8.

Handling *****

Loverman: Not only as close to perfect as you are going to find on a production car — balanced, all-night long grip, capable of taking corners at stupefying speeds — but shocking, too. Pop the hood and you will see that the entire engine is in front of the half-shafts. All 317lbs. of it. The feeling is exactly like the shock I succumb to every time I climb out of an "ass-engined Nazi slot-car" - there is no logical reason for this machine to handle the way it does. Only it does. The only answer is magic.

Johnson: No, Jonny, the answer is computers and hyper-sticky rubber compounds coupled with that 60/40 rear-biased AWD system. It's absolutely astounding. And lifeless. It's Fine German Precision taken to its logical extreme, and I don't like that. I just had an early-'70s "ass-engined NSDAP staff slot-toy" blast past me on the way to the bodega, and was entirely struck by its purity of form. But the Audi is anything but pure. It's a hash. A sumptuous hash, to be sure, but the entire car is really just extremely delcious garnish surrounding a disappointing, overpriced meal. It's Coca-Cola made with corn syrup instead of real sugar. "Cloying" may be the actual right word. The Germans were better when they didn't know as much but had gotten past the whole bad warmongering time. Look out, honey 'cuz they're wasting technology.

Loverman: You're nuts.

Johnson: You drive a hatchback and refuse to admit it.

Gearbox ****

Loverman: Around town, the gearbox is a pain in the right arm/left foot. First gear is difficult to engage. The engine produces 90% of its torque at 2,500rpm, so unless you are planning on accelerating quickly (which you frankly should be planning for) there's a lot of shaking and shunting. But never mind any of that, as it is bollocks. The machine's sex pistol...err...clutch, is ideally positioned and weighted for heavy stomp-boxing. Moreover, there is tons of room to the left of the pedal for dumping it. The gearbox - which clunks around town - comes alive and is tied with the shifter on Mazda's Miata for the title of speed-shifting champ. You can bang it home with ease and confidence. Plus, with all that torque on tap, slamming through the gears results in pleasurable mule kicks to the skull. They could have set the shiny-pedals up better for proper heel and toe action, but the also-aluminum dead pedal rules.

Johnson: Shift-gate action was slightly nebulous, but well within the realm of the acceptable for a performance car. I actually didn't find first difficult to engage. Except for that one embarrassing incident somewhere in Thousand Oaks, which was due to me suddenly becoming irrationally used to just dumping the damn clutch and going. The car definitely inspires that sort of Pavlovian response. Then again, Jonny, you drive a stick day in and day out, and I only do so in press cars. Readers, take that statement and mull over both the positives and negatives of both sides. Some don't like the clutch; I thought it was great. The gearing is note-perfect. The powertrain in this car is simply stupendous. 'Nuff said.

Audio/Video *

Loverman: The stereo not only had more buttons than central command at the Johnson Space Center, but it sounded pretty poor. Worse than say, a certain Subaru. There was no video to speak of.

Johnson: Agreed. Stereo, not so good. And who needs video in a car like this, anyway? The only children in the backseat will be invariably lost to SIDS after a ride over Decker Canyon in the thing. The difference is, they'll be eight years old, instead of eight months old. Despite its four doors, this is emphatically not a family car.

Loverman: Unless you hate your family.

Johnson: Good point. Plus, the engine and exhaust sound so righteous, why would you want to listen to anything else? It almost makes the mighty Minutemen pale in comparison

Loverman: I don't know - blasting Black Flag's White Minority in a $70,000 Audi while tearing apart the hills of the Rancho Palos Verdes Peninsula holds a deeper meaning.

Johnson: I cannot argue with that statement within even a fraction of a percentage of an iota of a millimeter.

Toys **

Johnson: Our RS4 didn't even have sat-nav, but I'm giving it five stars simply for the goddamn motor and brakes. Those are the only two toys you need. The sunroof was rather nifty, too, performing feats that may be available in 99% of other vehicles, but not all at the same time, in the same sunroof.

Loverman: If you include the engine than the RS4 gets 50 stars. But we're not going to do that, so it gets two. Aside from lack of sat-nav, the black leather seats in the $69,585 ride were not air-conditioned and it's hot in LA. The near-useless rear-views (why are they so small?) mandate a parking camera which wasn't there. Having to stick a key in an ignition is defeat-o-crat, post-9/11 thinking and the computer functions are not Porsche-simple to operate — even though they should be. There is a lap timer but you have to hit a hidden button four times in a row to find that out. Moreover, you don't click on "Lap Timer." You click on "Menu Off." Which makes no sense at all. Dear Audi, who employs the haptic engineers around here? The RS4 is saved from a single star by a simple interior addition: gun compartments.

Trunk ****

Johnson: The decklid is short and the trunk is deep. Sexy and practical. What more do you need?

Loverman: What more do I need? For Audi to import the Avant stateside. Four stars.

Johnson: Hatchback.

Loverman: Shut up.

Value */****

Johnson: You're spending around 70 large for a car that only a select few will know costs that much, which sort of kills any scoring-chicks-while-cruising-Sunset factor.

Loverman: Yeah, I tried that. Total failure. Not a single anyone - male, female, transvestite hooker - looked at me.

Johnson: For that kind of cash I could buy a Magnum PI-style 308, enjoy it more and have a six-month parts/labor budget. At which point I could sell it for what I paid, thus losing only 40 thousand on incidentals. That said, the RS4 does breathe the rarefied air of supercars and has serious "Why would you bother me, cop? I'm just an innocuous A4," law-enforcement-avoidance potential. And at least one Lambo owner kinda prefers it to his Gallardo SE.

Loverman: For the money, no better car exists. Forgetting about the money, it is still the best. There are a handful of cars (er...a couple handfuls) that get to 60mph faster but as a certain Lambo owner agreed with me, the RS4 feels just as fast, if not faster. Odds are if the car is faster, the RS4 handles better. And probably sounds better, to boot. Plus, nothing is cooler than a Q-car, and this is the Q-car king. And Davey - a 308 would make you look like such a tool. Ferrari's worst-ever car screams, 'I HAVE CHLAMYDIA" louder than even an El Camino. The fifth star is held back because in 620 miles I went through five tanks of the good stuff.

Johnson: So fucking what if I have chlamydia?

Emil and Keri's Party ****

Loverman: While loaded with legitimately hot chicks and funny, lecherous, car-loving men, I had exactly one beer over the course of six hours because getting pulled over drunk in the RS4 is for suckers. Especially since you know the damn cops would spend the rest of the night joyriding. And my costume was embarrassingly awful.

Johnson: Emil and Keri's party was yummy. That's all I'm going to say to protect the innocent. Your costume was chintzy, but I believe the embarrassingly-awful prize falls to me. The sad thing is, I got makeouts and you didn't.

Loverman: You're a softie. Anyhow, I find it odd that even six-and-a-half foot tall lingerie models lose their long-legged luster after lengthy periods of sobriety. Plus, two of the blondes were supposed to dyke-out on top of the Lambo, and that never happened. The food, however, was divine. As was Wonder Woman.

Johnson: Wait? Which blondes? Where was I?

Loverman: Dude.

Johnson: Oh, right...

Overall: (null and void)

Johnson: We can't agree on a star rating in this category. Jonny loved it too much and I disliked it too much. As Clarkson would say, it's a Marmite car. And while I respect it, I simply can't love it. And if I'm going to drop that kind of cash on a car, I have to love it. So, three stars, maybe?

Loverman: Marmite? Piss off. Giving the RS4 anything less than seven stars is a crime and I simply refuse to go lower than five. Remember the bon mot, "A car is only as good as its brakes?" Ten stars then. Engine? Eleventeen stars. The satisfied feeling from knowing you are behind the chunky wheel of the actual ultimate driving machine? We might have to move over to Hustler's movie rating system. With very few exceptions, I climb out of the cars I review and into my Subaru breathing a sigh of relief — ahh...good to be home. Today is the day the people took the Audi away and when I got into the WRX after a week of RS4age, I nearly broke down in tears. I've never wanted to be wealthy so bad. [Thanks to Autoblog Frank for the incriminating pic.] – Jonny Lieberman & Davey G. Johnson

Related:
Jalopnik Reviews: 2006 Audi RS4 - He Said Supercar, He Said 'Meh' Edition - Part 1; Jalopnik Reviews: 2006 Audi RS4 - He Said Supercar, He Said 'Meh' Edition - Part 3 [Internal]

We have a feeling that Emil Rensing may behind this. And seeing as he and his wife Keri own an RS4, a Neun Elf and one of those good-for-nothing half-breed Gallardo SEs (the baby Lambo's precision is sullied by what the Italians refer to as "passion," but true believers in the power of wafer-sliced-micron-thin tolerances understand as an excuse to drink grappa on the job), he's obviously a believer in the power of fine German engineering and workmanship. (And yes, as a citizen of the EU, Belgian Luc Donckerwolcke was bestowed Emergency German Citizenship in an attempt to revive Lambo's wayward styling until such time as an appropriate German could be located to redefine precision in Lambo design.) Just in case there was any wonder left in your kopf, doof.

Fine German Precision [Internal]

Related:
Precision Comes to Paris: The Porsche GT3RS [Internal]

So while some of you have expressed displeasure with our extensive Bullrun coverage, some of y'all have enjoyed it and some have reacted with indifference, we have to say that our own abbreviated sojurn as a mini Sal Paradise to the distaff Dean Moriartys of Keri Rensing and Jennifer Nicole was an experience we'll never forget as long as we live. You can call the celebrities B-grade. You can laugh at some of the posturing, but at the end of it all, it was an incredible gathering of car guys and gals all blowing across the country together and often helping each other out. And while yes, certain things were overwrought, we had a wonderful time on our two days on the rally. Click through for some of our favorite participants' recollections.

While tickets were a worry for some, others, like the Subaru Forester-mounted Colin Herrick, managed to stealthily cruise past law enforcement, Herrick comments, "I didn't get any tickets! Don't know if that's really something to brag about with the Bullrun crowd, but it certainly makes things easier for me!" Especially considering Herrick's an emergency worker and excess baggage on his license could mess with his ability to do his job. On the other end of the scale, Noah Lehmann-Haupt in the Ford GT scored a plethora, commenting, "If you count the CHP combined "speeding + improper lane change" as a twofer, then 5," while his co-driver Rob Ferretti racked up exactly zero. Meanwhile, Jennifer Nicole made a game of it, shooting photos of every cop that pulled them over.

Fast cars make for hot action, no? According to a veteran rallying friend of ours, that's not always the case. He commented, "Guys like you and me would have more luck with women in a regular bar on a Wednesday night than on a rally. There's a lot less sex than everyone would think." Nevertheless, the Rensings managed to sneak in a couple of rendezvous, while Annabelle Frankl saved it up for after the rally, noting that she made the beast with two backs "Only once we got back to LA. However, it was someone on Bullrun..." Rory Camangian had to wait until he returned to his wife in New Jersey, noting that due to the omnipresence of roommates, he wasn't even able to rub one out. Jennifer Nicole, however, seemed satisfied with the titillation the cars themselves offered: "Keri would crack up because every time I saw a hot car or heard the Ford GT's extremely loud exhaust, I'd get major goosebumps down my legs and my nipples would get hard. The funniest thing about that was in Vegas: one of the guys on the run put his hand on my leg (I won't mention his name) and mentioned how nice my legs were and I turned to him and said 'If it wasn't for you and your fucking hot car they'd be a lot smoother!" and he just laughed. I think he got the picture...later.'" Jason Garber, who is now known to us as the Dutch Hercules for his amazing performance in the Team Darkcyd Support Navigator, was more succinct, merely answering, "Yes."

So while a number of us were busy not getting laid, we focused on the cars. We were in love with the Feretti/Lehmann-Haupt Ford GT, which sported an aftermarket Ford Racing exhaust system that gave the car the vibe of a knife-shaped Norse hammer. Or a gun-shaped knife. Or something. Whatever it was, it was godly. Obviously, Jen concurs, but what else were people into? Chuck Mallett was so impressed with Claus Ettenberger's Brabus CLS that he's vowed to enter a four-door of his own next year. While Lehmann-Haupt admits to going faster than Mallett and co-driver Danny Coyle, he counts Tove Christensen's Porsche as his favorite car, "Because seeing it meant we were finishing second." Herrick, on the other hand, was a little more indecisive, naming the Ward/Haller Stude as his personal fave and then coming up with a couple of alternates: "Of all the cars that finished I'd have to say the Lotus 340R was pretty damn cool. The Mosler was stunning, but at 147F inside the car, I'd pass out. They literally fried an egg on the dash board." Garber nominated Mallett's diff-fluid-boiling 'Vette, while Haller and Emil Rensing seconded Herrick's props to the all-open-all-the-time 340R.

As we've previously noted, nobody needs to drop 14 large on top of the price of a car and enough petroleum products to get the job done to haul ass across North America. So what does one get for one's money? According to a Bullrunner who wished to remain anonymous, "The food and drink situation on the rally was disappointing. There were way too many cash bars and not nearly enough good meals to justify the expense. Sure, the Bullrun was worth it as an experience, but it was certainly not something that I can call a 'value' as I try to convince more of my friends to participate next year." We personally found the breakfast at Shelby's facility to be especially bad, although the final meal at Social was good, and the breakfast spread at the W in San Diego featured really rather good eggs. The King Taco experience at California Speedway was generally universally reviled, leading Annabelle Frankl to comment, "If you're going to hire something mobile get a fucking In-N-Out Burger van!"

As for accomodations, Gansevoort in New York and the Sonnenalp in Vail, CO tended to be the two favorites, with Haller noting that the anticipation of the impending rally added a special air to the pre-race night in NYC, while Camagian had fond, Teutonic memories of the hotel in Vail: "It made me feel like I was in Germany, even more so after speaking with Peter Kolb for an hour."

Ah yes, Peter Kolb. The hyperserious, r-Deutschman who campaigned a Porsche GT3RS under the aegis of Robb Rill's Team Darkcyd. Peter is a serious believer in the power of German Precision, and given Tove Christensen's turbocharged "Always First First Place," we can't not lend the man's opinion some credence. So what, then, can we learn from Peter Kolb? Camangian: "I learned that anything that comes from Germany is better engineered than anything from other countries — including beer, pretzels, mountains (The Alps), weiner schitzel, and of course, PORSCHE!" Haller: "I like the Brabus. I think I buy a Brabus." The Dutch Hercules was cryptic, commenting only that, "There is no easy way to devirginate an asshole." Meanwhile, Keri was more forthright, praising Herr Kolb: "[I learned that] some Bullrunners have manners — example: they will stop and check if you're okay when you are pulled over on the side of the road for no reason, even though the other 15 cars in their pack did not." But we'll give Emil the final word on Mister Soul Patch: "Porsche may make the most precise of fine German automobiles, but if you drive like Peter, you won't win the Bullrun."

And that, friends, is it for this year's Bullrun coverage. As Kerouac wrote, "Nobody knows what's going to happen to anybody besides the forlorn rags of growing old." Here, then is a toast to bombing across the country while you still can. We're shutting up. Y'all can exhale now.

More on the Bullrun [Internal]

The rally was originally supposed to end at The Grove, one of the tonier open-air shopping areas in Los Angeles. However, at the last minute, mall authorities reneged on the deal, as they'd been doing some research on the Internets and decided that the Bullrun wasn't a "family-friendly" event. During the drivers' meeting at Fontana, David Green informed us that our final destination would actually be the Beverly Hilton, our hotel for the evening.

After a few pace-car-led laps of the track (with Danny Coyle getting reamed by the authorities for passing everyone, including the pace car) and a snack at the King Taco truck, (where they don't know the meaning of the words "no meat"), we lined up for take off. Pulling away from the starting line under escort Keri suddenly called out, "My brakes! Something's wrong with my brakes!" When she got the car stopped and threw the Audi into park, the motor immediately began revving. The gas pedal had gotten stuck under the floor mat. Emil later remarked, "I told her she should've ditched that thing at the beginning."

She tossed the offending piece of carpet back toward us and took off. But we'd lost valuable positions, considering that most of this stage would be played out in Los Angeles traffic.

We didn't have our route entirely planned out as we took off, but we knew we were heading toward the 210, as we figured the 10 would be an absolute disaster. A number of cars had similar ideas, including the consistently well-placing Darkcyd support Navigator and the Skiny/Haller A6 Avant (now missing most of its stickers due to scanner reports that police were looking for the silver/gray wagon). While on the road, we mused on possible routes aloud to ourself while studying the road atlas, until Keri told us to be quiet until we had something figured out. We let Jen handle the directions at this point, as she's a 909 resident, and thus knows the roads out there better than us.

Finally, she suggested the 605 down to the 60 and then over to the 10, which we were pretty much going to have to be on at some point. In a moment of kismet, we mentioned that were just thinking that it was the optimum route as well. So it was set, the Nav Bitch was yammering and we were off. We'd never spent so much of a stage staring out the back window. At one point, we were pretty sure we'd seen a white Crown Vic a ways back. But every time he was out of our line of sight, Keri would put a little more distance between us until he ceased to be a worry.

We hopped off at La Cienega, took Cadillac up to Robertson, then cut over on Olympic to Beverly to Wilshire. The sensation was not unlike when you're driving home and you really have to go to the bathroom. And the closer you get, the worse the feeling of having to go is. By the final stoplight, all three of us were ready to pop. We'd heard via the radio that Los Matadors (who'd taken the 10 all the way) were already there. We pulled in 18th (filmed by one of the Car-Parazzi kids), right behind Richard Rawlings' 750il. William Wu had blazed to victory on the stage, just beating Carl Lewis due to his handy-dandy little device that turned any light with an emergency-vehicle sensor green.

Now it was time for donuts.

More on the Bullrun [Internal]

Skiny maneuvers the A6 Avant into proper takeoff position in San Diego.

Generally, when you wake up in the morning at a deluxo hotel in beautiful downtown San Diego and find out that your next destination is in the 909, your first inclination is to break out in hives, go into a seizure, mess yourself, and then put on a straight-brimmed baseball cap, take a hit off the glass dick, climb into a lifted Avalanche, get a slew of tribal tats and crank up any and every Fred Durst-related project you can get your hands on.

Dave Green (left) used to be pretty. Somehow we doubt Richard Rawlings ever was.

Instead, we had eggs that were quite good, drank a fair amount of coffee, and sat down at a table with a group of people, all of whom, except for Jennifer Nicole, had varying models of Motorola RAZRs. Ours was even admired for being "old school," despite the fact that we only bought it last fall. Emil's was gold, Keri's was pink, and Claus had one in some crazy dark finish we'd never seen before which is probably only available to owners of Brabus-tuned cars.

But much in the manner of ninjas during one or another of those Shogunates they had in Japan back in the time, we and our RAZRs would all soon be hurtling toward California Speedway in Fontana. Little did we know, but those of us in the black Audi A8L would also be headed toward our finest hour on the 2006 Bullrun.

The intersection was a madhouse. Danny Coyle was pulling mad donuts and block-long burnouts in the Mallett Corvette. Jen couldn't figure out which way to point the Audi until Emil pointed out to her that she'd be driving out over a curb. Skiny and Bret were about to enter a world of hurt and emerge unscathed, but with their time shattered. Emil was shooting back and forth like a shuttlecock. And Claus? Well, Claus kicked back with his feet up on the open door of his Brabus and made use of his RAZR. Peter Kolb was undoubtedly being more German than anyone else. In fact, we're starting to wonder if he'd actually shrunken the state of Bavaria down to pocket-size when nobody was looking and was carrying it in his pants, simply for added precision. A little extra Weissach never hurt anyone, after all. Except for James Dean.

And then, suddenly, we were off. And miraculously, we were really off. After blowing past Los Matadors on the 163, we didn't see anyone until we got onto the 15, blasting past Skiny and Haller in their A6 Avant. And then the crackle started on the radio. The heavy hitters were quickly moving up behind us. Tove Christensen. the Lehman-Haupt/Ferretti GT with Noah at the wheel. The Team Chris 911. And of course, Danny Coyle wheeling the Chuck Mallett 'Vette.

They blasted past us, with Danny the first to arrive, but not without Jen getting a crack in to Danny over the CB about how it felt to be behind a girl. More chatter, including some worrying news from the well-tuned scanners in the GT regarding Chippies searching for Bullrunners. And sure enough, not long after, the news came over the radio that Team Chris and the GT boys had been snagged. We attempted to get a shot as we drove by, but our imprecise Japanese camera did not allow us such a luxury. We knew we should've bought a Leica. Peter Kolb is no doubt laughing at us as we write this.

Then we flew past Chuck Mallett on the side of the road, refuelling the 'Vette, which only had a 66-mile range. Keri commented, "Watch, in five minutes, he'll come flying past us." Guess what? He did, doing well over a buck on the hard shoulder. Keri put out an APB to all Bullrunners within range, pointing out that in California, the hard shoulders are often filled with tire-and-air-dam-destroying detrius and that we all should be careful.

Meanwhile, just a few miles before we hit I-10, we got stuck in massive traffic. We're not quite sure how we got past Tove, but with the traffic locked in and the GT boys and Team Chris stuck behind us due to their run-in with law enforcement, we knew we had a real shot. Especially if Chuck and Danny ran out of gas again.

On the 10, we made good time, and on the offramp to the Speedway, Jen made use of her looks and got us up in the line. We drove carefully, as the fuzz tend to hang out around the entrance to the speedway, and then hauled ass to the staging area, where we pulled up third behind the Magnaflow RS4 and the Mallett Corvette. The RS4 guys had voluntarily disqualified themselves because they'd left 20 minutes earlier, due to the co-driver not feeling well, putting the nearly bone-stock A8L in behind the 900hp Corvette.

Which just goes to show that on the Bullrun, horsepower is far from everything.

Related:
More on the Bullrun [Internal]

Generally, one does not fuck with the Polizei. In this case, we are making an exception. Even German precision can be fouled, as was proven with the ailing front differential in the Los Matadors' Lamborghini Gallardo SE. It can be argued that without an infusion of German precision, the Lambo would never have made the 4,000-plus-mile trek. It can also be blamed on shoddy Italian workmanship. It might also be blamed on the lead feet of Emil and Rory Matador. However, the lack of precision in this photograph of Alex Roy and his film partner Corey could only be blamed on the slow response of Los Jalopnik's shoddy, imprecise Japanese camera's shutter and some yahoo with a couple of fingers to spare. Thanks, Alex, for showing up in LA for the soiree. Respect das Law!

More on the Bullrun [Internal]

Fueling up for world domination at the drive-thru Starbucks in Blythe, California, just past the AZ border. Next stop? San Diego!

Emil and Keri purchased the car through a wholesaler friend of theirs out in Jersey, as it would've been too much to deal with to get Keri's 911 cabrio out to New York in time for the rally. Keri also admits that she's not as adept at driving stick as she'd like to be. Which is fine, because we'll admit that we're not as adept at it as we'd like to be, either. Regardless, she only really scared us once, on a decreasing-radius onramp in San Diego rife with expansion joints. But the Quattro, combined with the uprated tire-and-wheel package, totally kept the car stuck to the road. The ramp was marked at 45mph. We were doing around 75. It seemed like the huge sedan was defying the laws of physics as we knew them.

While the Audi was at a disadvantage across the wide-open Interstates of the Midwest, it really came into its own in the twistier, backroad and/or traffic-laden routes of Nevada, Arizona and California, where the 4.2 V8's torque cranked the long-wheelbase A8 over the hills with ease. Plus, we were running a New Jersey out-of-state temp tag in the front window with no rear plate. Eat that, cameras.

The equipment list was spartan, but well-chosen. The theme was "None More Black," and frankly, nobody could question our blackness. Rolling on wheels purchased from Funkmaster Flex's shop with mad-sticky tires and a dark tint, the Audi blended in where other Bullrun cars (including the Los Matadors Gallardo SE) stuck out, giving us an advantage in the traffic-laden, CHP-beset environs of Los Angeles. We were set up with a Kenwood CB, a Valentine One radar detector, and the not-entirely-affectionately nicknamed "Nav Bitch," the A8's OEM sat-nav system that had us double checking its instructions against a Rand-McNally road atlas.

Besides the speed limiter (the car wasn't originally equipped with tires that could handle the car's true top speed, and with only a week to prep the car, they didn't have time to get it re-chipped), the only disadvantages were that the front end was out of alignment and the brakes were somewhat worn, leading to some funky pedal modulation. But the biggest problem was that in the quest for blackness, the girls had chosen a tint that was too dark, making it tough to make out telltale police headlight shapes, leading us to try to peer through the tiny space between the top of the CHMSL and the bottom of the tint. Still, in the two days we were in the Audi, we never got nicked, and from anecdotal evidence, we're thinking that they finished with one of the lowest ticket counts of any of the teams that ran near the front of the pack.

The afternoon after the end of the Bullrun, the A8L was stripped of its rallying livery and went off to the grocery store with Keri. Although it still looked badass — as well as far less ostentatious — it made us rather sad. Make no mistake, children, Bullrun Damage is a very real psychological condition.

More on the Bullrun [Internal]

On our first evening on the Bullrun, Murphy was in full effect — at least as far as technology went. The power port on our iBook decided it was no longer going to do its job. So we resigned ourselves to kicking it Colt Seavers-style; watching a documentary on Wayne Newton while smoking cigarettes in our in-room jacuzzi tub at Caesar's Palace. Unfortunately, Heather Thomas and Markie Post weren't there with us to comment on the day's adventure.

The next morning, after approximately two hours of sleep, Emil Rensing, the Los Matadors car owner, hooked us up with Noah Lehman-Haupt for a quick dash in the Gotham Dream Cars Ford GT out to Las Vegas Motor Speedway, with us peering at the Garmin GPS, while Noah jockeyed for position with Tove Christensen's Porsche, Richard Rawlings' 750 and the Skiny/Haller A6 Avant. The Garmin took us off the freeway early, and we finished poorly into the track. After a fairly inedible breakfast and a tour of Shelby's rather unremarkable facility, Emil tossed us into the backseat of an Audi A8L 4.2 with a couple of girls: Keri and Jennifer.

At that point, totally disoriented, we were just happy that we had a ride to Lake Havasu, having no idea that we'd hooked up with some of the cream of the Bullrun crop. The co-drivers were Keri and Jennifer Nicole. We were halfway to Havasu before we figured out that Keri was Emil's wife.

Much, much, much more to come.

More on the Bullrun