Five minutes after meeting up in his hotel lobby we took the elevator down one floor to the parking garage. I’d only met the car's owner once before but was struck once again by the sense of motion and restlessness he exudes, like he isn’t a person you could imagine sleeping. Anyway, I was in town for work, but was sneaking in a ride in the Singer he had just taken delivery of the day before and as we crossed the overly polished floors of the hotel in Beverley Hills the car was tucked into a corner, blocked by a column. There is an electronic hum moments before the engine turns over, a kind of waking up that happens before the explosion of exhaust noise, which bounced around the walls of the parking garage. So I’m 20 feet underground in Beverly Hills, laughing like an idiot wondering, how the hell do you get in a car that expensive. All the sudden I felt like Edward Scissorhands clumsy and dangerous, and opened the door with the care of a surgeon removing a gallbladder. Finally settled in, I had to wonder if I should have taken my shoes off before sitting down? After some u-turns and wrong turns we made it onto Mulholland and as the accelerator neared the floor and my heart rate spiked above 150bpm, I wondered if maybe this was the best cure for depression. We stopped at an overlook to take photos and I couldn’t help but notice that while the engine was cooling down, my heart was still racing. Just looking at the car elicits a reaction, it’s like seeing someone particularly famous, your autonomic nervous system spikes and I had to think that maybe that’s what makes these cars so special, that they are, well, special. Only 75 exist, only 35 will make it to the US and I’ll probably never see one again in my life, but I’ll never forget that drive and my sweating palms and stupid smile and a perfect thing that a group of people made because they wanted to see if they could.