The monochrome orange glow of street lights fills the cabin as my lover and I wait to enter the West Seattle bridge. When the light turns green, I gently pull my hand from hers and grip the leather-wrapped wheel tightly. Aimed at the onramp with the throttle matted, the 4.0-liter V-8's baritone voice soars, filling the Aston’s cockpit until it’s rudely interrupted by the staccato bark of a violent upshift at 7,000 rpm. In three seconds, we’re at merging speed. Three more seconds and the speedo reads triple digits.
