Features

This month, I have mostly been picking bits of banana pie from out of my nose, but there has also been time to drive down the Pacific Coast Highway in one of the new Pontiac Solstice two-seater rag-tops.

The car was ghastly, as you'd expect from a country that hasn't produced a sports car since the Crosley Hot Shot in 1952. But the road was something else. Even by the standards set by the Stelvio Pass in Italy, the mountain road in the Isle of Man, that beach blast in New Zealand and Highway One in Iceland, Route One in California is pretty special.

But not for the reasons you might be thinking. Built in 1919 by the locals, including one John Steinbeck and prison labour - they actually moved three jails to California to ensure there were enough men - it goes all the way from Mexico to the Canadian Border.

But the bit I'm talking about here is the 139-mile stretch from Monterey to Morro Bay. With the Pacific Ocean to your right and fogtopped hills to your left, you could hammer along at 100mph, with your tyres scribbling for grip on the corners and your engine wailing.

You could sit there, reading the road ahead and dealing with the twitches and shimmies when you've misinterpreted what's next. It really is an exceptional drive. You don't even mind when you come up behind a recreational vehicle and are forced to drop from 35mph, the traditional US cruising speed, to something not far removed from walking pace.

Occasionally, if you're going slowly enough, you can catch a glimpse of the Northern Californian hinterland. It's train-set country really, with white picket fences, lollipop trees and a velvety texture to the hills. It is stunningly, hand-bitingly, breathtakingly beautiful.