Driving an Aston Martin brings out the best in people around you.

      Byron Hurd

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      Located just north of Detroit's east side is Macomb County. It replaces the numerous diverse lakes of neighboring Oakland County with one prominent body of water: Lake St. Clair. The area is quite suburban and hosts several automobile assembly factories and suppliers. Kid Rock, known for his unique style, also calls it home—a man whom the typically polite Ken Jennings once described as “a little Florida-coded.”

      Because of its close proximity to Detroit, Macomb County is part of my improvised general loop around the city and features some of the few roads in the immediate metro area that actually have turns, although I wouldn't go so far as to call many of them "fun." Occasionally, the roads shift from asphalt to gravel almost spontaneously, just to add some excitement.

      Moreover, it is the third-most populated county in Michigan, with nearly 900,000 residents. Whenever I’m behind the wheel of a fine British car, I often encounter one or more of them. This time, it was at a gas station in Sterling Heights, causing Stellantis employees nearby to cringe.

      I was driving the 2026 Aston Martin Vantage S. It was a beautiful Saturday, expected to stay rain-free long enough for me to follow some variation of my convoluted test route. The weather and traffic worked in my favor, creating perfect cruising conditions, so everything was going smoothly until I decided to make an unplanned pit stop.

      Byron Hurd

      My wife requested a moment to use the restroom and refill her water bottle; I was content to step out and stretch my legs. I chose a clean-looking gas station along a major road and parked in the first available space—at the far end, where I thought I had the least chance of an encounter. I felt quite pleased with my strategic choice when suddenly, the desperate sound of rear glass clinging to a liftgate, accompanied by booming bass, pierced through my self-satisfied moment. The noise could have originated from any direction and been headed off in countless different ways.

      Naturally, it wasn’t.

      In my mind, I envisioned a bulky American SUV, and I wasn’t disappointed. However, I was surprised to see a nearly new Escalade instead of the ten-year-old clunker I had imagined. It was clean, driven by someone clearly experienced in handling large vehicles. It smoothly pulled into the space beside me just as its window rolled down perfectly timed with its arrival, revealing a pretty, smiling face.

      “Hey there! Are you a father?” The voice was young, but the tone was polished.

      I stand at 5 feet, 7 inches and hover just below 200 pounds. I wore a green Hanes T-shirt, Levi's, and the first pair of Skechers I found that morning. There I was, casually leaning over the open cockpit of a $250,000 Aston Martin. While I’m a car journalist, which implies a bit of social awkwardness, I've long grasped the difference between a friendly inquiry and a pick-up line.

      And as all this raced through my mind, my wife stood just 20 feet away, separated from my situation by nothing but floor-to-ceiling windows and the norms of social etiquette. For all I knew, she was close to a fresh box of BBQ skewers. To this day, I’m uncertain where the next six words I uttered came from, but I'm forever grateful I managed to say them without pause.

      “No, but I am a husband.” I didn’t even have time to congratulate myself on that one because she was already turning her attention away.

      “Do you guys go to strip clubs? I was about to give you some Father’s Day coupons!”

      With that added context, my previous answer about being a father sounds far less bizarre, doesn’t it?

      “Not really our scene,” I replied, trying to emphasize “our” as much as possible.

      “I love your car!”

      Perhaps because I caught her outside of work hours, or maybe she was realizing I might not actually have any cash to share, she seemed to abandon her prepared lines for a more spontaneous conversation. Though that might be overestimating someone who keeps repeating, “I love [that last thing you said],” endlessly.

      When I stopped providing her with new conversation topics, she launched into her life story. Somewhere between mentioning her (five?) kids and recounting how she'd recently totaled her cherished BMW by crashing it into the very Cadillac next to me (in an attempt to stop its driver—her significant other—from “going to” another woman), I began to lose my grip on reality.

      “Oh, I love your wife!”

      Byron Hurd

      Sure enough, my wife was rounding the front of the Cadillac, coolly smiling at my unexpected companion. Sensing that her window of opportunity was about to close entirely, our entrepreneurial