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It was in Rock Hill, South Carolina, right next to the exit from Interstate 77, that I made one of the great blunders of my career. Confronted by two bright green fuel nozzles beneath a large sign that said “DIESEL,” I grabbed the nozzle on the left and pumped fifteen gallons of high-test gasoline into the tank of the brand new Grand Cherokee CRD that I was driving from Amelia Island, Florida, to Ann Arbor, Michigan. Before I had even replaced the hose I knew that I had screwed up. I rushed inside the gas station/convenience store with its stacks of Moon Pies and refrigerated cases of atomic soft drinks, described what I had done, and the nice Indian gent who ran the place confirmed that I had, indeed, pumped the tank full of the wrong fuel, and asked, “Please, for God’s sake, don’t start the car.”

We called Chrysler LLC’s roadside assistance number, and they were instantly on the case. They told me that I was less than a quarter mile from the local Jeep/Dodge/Chrysler/Chevrolet dealer, that they would call him, and “Please, for God’s sake, don’t start the car.” The dealer came and collected us in a Dodge Charger. His first words were, “You didn’t start it, did you?” The tow truck came and collected the Grand Cherokee, which had not rotated its crankshaft since my fit of stupidity. Four hours and $243.16 later we were back on the road.

To be perfectly honest, I have never thought much about Grand Cherokees, one way or the other. But when I learned that the current Grand Cherokee was available with a 3.0-liter turbocharged version of the Mercedes-Benz direct-injected common-rail diesel engine, mated to a Mercedes five-speed automatic gearbox, I had to drive one, and the 2100-mile round trip, Ann Arbor/Amelia Island, seemed to be just the ticket.

The car turned out to be terrific. An honest SUV, no attempts made to recast itself as a crossover, and dead sure of itself at 80 miles per hour on the long, fast, rain-swept mountain curves of I-77. The turbo-diesel produced massive torque in passing and merging maneuvers, and only betrayed its oil-burner heritage for an instant following each cold start. In short, a really first-class family hauler that’s sure-footed, economical, and fun to drive. Fully equipped, and I do mean fully, the window sticker price, in these highly negotiable times, was $43,795.

More recently I got to spend a weekend with the Audi S5. This tightly drawn little coupe follows the formula set down with the RS4, only more so. If forced to nail it down for a skeptical fellow enthusiast, I would say that it’s like driving one of the all-conquering Audi Quattros that were the scourge of World Rally, IMSA, Trans-Am, and Pikes Peak, but with maximum refinement.

I love plain old manual gearboxes and clutches, and the gear change and clutch engagement on the S5 are so nearly perfect that everybody should have access to one for his or her first driver’s test. Utterly natural, utterly intuitive. The S5 always makes you look a little better than you actually are. The 4.2-liter V-8’s exhaust note provides a punchy acoustic string bass line that drives the sensation of acceleration multiplied and remultiplied. The Audi S5 is a car that should be pulled off that mountain road for a few minutes to savor the experience of the previous twenty miles.

William Neely died on March twenty-fifth, following heart surgery in Wilmington, North Carolina. Bill was co-author, with the late Bob Ottum, of Stand On It: A Novel By Stroker Ace. Ironically, the film version of Stroker Ace was on cable TV the week that he died. He wrote nineteen books on subjects ranging from New Orleans jazz to great American aviators, wrote for Playboy, wrote for me at Car and Driver, Automobile, and WINDING ROAD magazines, and he was the go-to guy for early stock car racing lore. He raced sports cars, ran for Congress, ran the West Virginia State Chili Championships, acted in a number of TV dramas, and was an indefatigable storyteller. I met Bill Neely in 1963 when I first took over Car and Driver magazine. He was one of my best friends from that time onward, and I never saw him without a smile on his face.

Early in my years with Car and Driver, I had a secretary who generally appeared to have been “rode hard and put up wet.” She came to me and said that Bill Neely had invited her to spend the weekend at the Darlington 500. I gave my permission, with the caveat that she had to be back in the office by Monday noon. Monday came and went. No secretary. Tuesday morning passed into history. Then at about 2:30 Tuesday afternoon, she appeared in my doorway. “Where the hell have you been,” I snapped. She favored me with an insouciant smile and said, “When I write my book about stock car racing, it will be called Thunder at the Holiday Inn.”

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Magazine Issue: Winding Road Issue 33