When I start my red 1987 M6 every morning and let her warm herself, a slight smile crosses my face in anticipation of the adventure that lies ahead. There's a slight growl in her voice that hints that there's more to her than meets the eye. She purrs impatiently. I know if she could talk she would be saying, "Come on, drive me...DRIVE ME HARD." And so I do, and she never fails to please. A Porche to challenge here, a Mustang to toast there. Her speed and grace equaling that of cars a quarter of her age. And even though she's ageing she has the beauty of a Sophia Loren, or a Raquel Welch. Driving an M6 is an emotional experience. It's one that few cars can offer. Sure, you can find cars that beat her in various categories, but very few that offer the total experience. In a way, it's kind of like a marriage. Have I been frustrated with her? Sure. Have I ever wanted a divorce? More than once. But then I start her in the morning, and that slight smile crosses my face...