I can't recall the last time I got this excited on the way to a road test. On the two and half hour drive down from Manila to the Batangas Racing circuit, I would find myself getting swept over by random waves of mild nausea – not the unpleasant kind, but the type that leaves you feeling lightheaded and triggers an involuntary smile to spread evenly across your face. No, it wasn't motion sickness from the floaty suspension of the the mini-van we were hauling ass in, either; just the simple sound of the word 'Corvette' leaving my lips would fire off that tingling sensation in the pit of my stomach; the kind that is born from pure, sweet anticipation; the kind that you savour, because it is almost as exciting as the event.


It felt like I was about to meet a Hollywood celebrity. I mean, lets face it, there are cars, and there are icons – and for as long as I can remember, the Corvette has been the ambassador for every boyish fantasy, representing all your wildest teenage dreams in one curvy, sensual, yet unmistakably masculine package. Forget poetry in motion, this is sex on wheels. The industry's first American Idol. It belongs to an elite group of cult vehicles that has evoked enough passion to spark off a chart topping song. Sally had her Mustang, Prince gave us a Little Red Corvette.
As we pulled into the paddocks inside the track, I immediately spot it at the end of pit lane, taking shelter under one of the roof awnings. There she sat, in all her splendour, milking every last ounce of attention from the small group of star struck well-wishers that had gathered around to pay homage. She was soaking up their stares shamelessly. It may be a fairly common sight over in the land of milk and honey, but shoehorned into our contrasting tight tropical setting, it looks simply audacious. Its about as American as a Big Mac and is equally cliché in its interpretation of a sports car.

From its long, swooping, hand sculpted hood, to those massive 19 inch wheels at the rear, the sixth generation Corvette blends technical sophistication with expressive style. Yet for all its bulk, the C6 cuts a tighter, more taut profile and is 5 inches shorter than the car it replaces – with virtually no claimed loss of usable space. And, with just 0.28 coefficient of drag, it makes this the most aerodynamically efficient Corvette ever. But hang on a sec... where are those trademarked pop up lights? Its like looking at a flat chested Pamela Anderson. There's something terribly wrong with this picture. Not that I'm saying its a bad thing, its just that were not really used to seeing it this way. This would be the first time since 1962 that a production Corvette has not had a mechanism to conceal the lamps when not in use. After the initial shock, though, I tend to agree that the exposed Xenon High-Intensity Discharge headlamps do give it a more mature, and purposeful look. Less cliché, too. The fixed lamps combine with the grille to create much more of a “face” on the car and is meant to provide superior lighting performance that integrates seamlessly into the design and aerodynamics of the car. And it does so beautifully.


I remember thinking that I couldn't believe how big this car seemed in person. It seems to take up an enormous amount of real estate to do what it does. If you look at how the Japanese approach a sports car, it almost seems entirely wasteful to ask so much from such a huge car that seats just two people and their cappuccinos. I mean, you could just as easily wring out better performance from a five-seater, 2.5-liter, 4-cylinder WRX on just the excess fumes that the Vette burns off on idle. If you were to actually compute the amount of energy vs performance per kilo of person plus his/her warm beverage of choice, this must work out to be one of the most expensive and inefficient forms of road travel available in the current crop of mass produced vehicles.
But that's its appeal. It has never been about saving the trees, and it makes no apologies for it, either. It actually celebrates the fact it uses the largest, most powerful standard small-block engine ever offered in Corvette – there is, as they say, no replacement for displacement. And with Chevrolet's new LS2 6.0-liter small-block V-8 packed tightly under the hood, the LS2 has just raised the bar for standard performance in the Corvette, punching out a staggering 400 horsepower and gut-wrenching 400 lb.-ft. of torque. I almost expected to see a patch of hair sprouting out from that beefy hood.


I must have circled the car a dozen times before climbing in. Much like how you would approach a thoroughbred horse before mounting it. For the first time in years, I was actually intimidated by a car. You enter it as you would any low slung coupe; butt first, then swing your legs in after. There are no traditional door handles, either; the C6 features GM’s Keyless Access with Push Button Start technology and an electronically assisted mechanism to open the door. By detecting the proximity of the key fob, the system both unlocks the doors and allows it to be started.
Inside, the cabin feels more like a boulevard cruiser than a track warrior. Here is where you feel its domesticated roots – there are two, huge 24oz cupholders in the center console for crying out loud. The dash is recessed deep and uses the largest instrument cluster this side of an Isuzu Elf, while the well padded, perforated, beige leather seats could have been lifted straight out of a mini-van and just given a bit more side bolstering to look more at home. It has more seat padding than any sports car I've ever sat in and I'm not sure that's a good thing. You'll need to rethink everything you've been taught about a proper driving position.


Turn the key... pardon me, engage the clutch, select reverse gear and press the button and the 6.0 liter V8 rumbles to life and takes a solid chunk of the ozone layer with it. You could sweep up a week's worth of leaves with the blast of spent gasses from the four integrated tailpipes at the rear with just a mild tap of the throttle. Ahhh, but the sound of that deep, throaty, all-American muscle being flexed covers a multitude of sins. It is intoxicating, corrupting even. I pull out of pit lane awkwardly and join up onto the track a couple of hundred meters from the exit of the newly revised turn 1 of the BRC. It is terribly uncomfortable with such low speed. I could plant it, but I exercise restraint as I approach the unforgiving right hander, double apex corner just up ahead. This was my warm up lap after all, and I needed to re acquaint myself with the track as much as I needed to familiarize myself with this monster. Besides, there were large puddles of standing water and the braking and turn in points were still damp and greasy from the lack of any recent use. Plus there were cows.


I restrict myself to around three thousand rpm on the opening lap until I can be sure of a clean lap with no bovine obstructions. Towards the final sweeper that funnels into a wide, double apex, right hook that leads onto the main straight, I gradually build up pressure on the throttle to get a good exit speed. Once I see the exit, I boot it in second and a crackle of electronics kick in with a cacophony of sounds that loosely translated says: “are you out of your friggin mind?” With 400 pounds of torque directly fed into those fat rear tires, the tail still swings out and undermines its own electronic wrist slapping technology and I enter the main straight sideways.
Once I've corrected my line and am confident I'm facing the correct way, it takes just four and a half seconds to dispense the patch of road between standstill and a hundred – and the acceleration remains just as brutal as I come barrelling down the start/finish line with the glorious sound of that screaming V8 reverberating through the paddocks and sending the track cows scurrying off the racing line. I punch it in third until it kisses the redline of 6,300rpm. The traction control light flickers. I plunge it down into fourth but barely hit 4,000 rpm before I run out of road. Even this modest attempt sees me hit 200 km/h before nailing the brakes just a couple of hundred meters or so before the new hairpin on the newly extended straight. I row through the closely machined feel of the Tremec six-speed manual gearbox and build up such an alarming pace that I allow myself an extra 50 meters to my normal braking point. There is so much meat in every gear at virtually every notch of the tacho, I'm guessing you could light up the rear wheels from a standstill in third gear.


The pedals are positioned perfectly for smooth heel and toe down shifts, while the stubby leather wrapped gear lever with carbon fiber accents sits about an inch shorter than before and seems cambered to favour the driver. It all starts making more sense once you build up enough momentum. What once felt domesticated now feels more involving, with nice touches like a heads up display that enhances, rather than distracts from, performance driving. It still feels too big for a serious sports car, but it is in fact shorter than the current 911. What did feel small, however, was the Batangas Racing circuit that day. Long sweeping turns were dwarfed by the velocity of 400 horsepower galloping at full bore, even if the upgraded brakes did struggle to wash off all that speed from this American heavyweight champion. ABS would be invoked earlier than wanted, but then again, these were unusually slippery conditions.


With such aggressive acceleration and six great gears to choose from, the C6 really comes alive at anything over the legally posted speed limit and remains planted even at mind numbing speeds thanks to improved anti-lift characteristics which gives it tremendous confidence at high-speed. That's the pay off from more than 400 hours of wind tunnel testing. But no amount of electronic wizardry can cheat the laws of physics. Despite all the advanced traction and stability controls, with this much raw power, the Vette's tail would still break free as easily as OJ Simpson evading a prison sentence.


If you're one that weighs out your automotive choices carefully, then the Corvette wouldn't stand a chance. But you would also be missing its point entirely. There's nothing here that appeals to logic or reason; it talks instead to a more primal feeling. It is all about sinful, self indulgence and is unashamed by its own ostentation. God bless America. Here, you're not just buying a car, you're buying into the lifestyle. The culture. The dream. If you think about it, you would always be better off choosing sashimi and sushi for the rest of your life – it's lean, terribly efficient and makes painfully good sense. It's where the wise money would go. But when you're really, really hungry, doesn't a huge, greasy, blue cheese burger with hand cut french fries from Chili's just hit the spot?