Men aren’t the only ones with James Bond fantasies.
But it’s not the Rolex Submariner or exploding attaché case I covet. It’s the silver birch DB5 Aston Martin that Bond drove in “Goldfinger.”
Here’s how I envision it: The 1964 Aston Martin speeds along the French Riviera, as elegant as a Savile Row suit. But I’m behind the wheel, not James, driving with what Ian Fleming might call sensual pleasure.
The engine purrs like a lion as I move through the five-speed gear box, hitting its stride at 145 miles per hour. Europe’s most dashing men gape when I pull up at the Monte Carlo Casino. The sight of my DB5 makes their Jaguars and Ferraris seem as common as the supermodels draped on their arms.
A low-slung symphony of curves, my Aston Martin is sculpted to seduce. I invite the most dangerous-looking man for a ride.
But the moment he bores me, I hit my ejector button and roar off.
Liz Clarke is a Washington Post sportswriter and author of “One Helluva Ride: How NASCAR Swept the Nation.”