Features

Twenty years ago, the Town Car was the preferred choice of America's golfing class and it's packed with electric gizmos, most of which still work. Touch the door handle and the lock illuminates, the trunk lid shuts by itself and a tiny joystick controls the electric seats. There's even a thermometer attached to the driver's wing mirror, which is illuminated at night.

Only the seats cause concern. The air-conditioning packed in long ago and the plasticky leather trim has been marinated in God knows how much sweat. It's a horrible thought and, having discovered that the last owner was a male college student, we've declared the back seat a no-go zone.

We stop for the night in Fort Payne, Alabama, where it seems you can't drink beer in a hotel car park. Our attempt to do so is met by an official complaint and a visit from a state trooper. "If you don't take that inside you'll be coming to the station with me," says the menacing man with the big gun.

"This state has only been wet [allowed alcohol] for six months and people are still getting used to it. We don't have bars and we don't have hootchy-cootchy [strip] clubs in Alabama."

We're soon back on the highway and heading straight for New Orleans. We settle back with the cruise control set to 70mph, marvelling at the brilliance of our $177 car. Even when the rest of the exhaust falls off with a hundred miles to go, our enthusiasm is unabated. It just makes the five-litre V8 sound even better. This car is like Mick Jagger - its best days are behind it, but it can still work some magic.

Our arrival in New Orleans conjures mixed emotion. There is no mistaking the impact of Hurricane Katrina: a boat lies stranded by the central reservation; the word 'help' is scrawled on a rooftop. In the suburbs, people are living in mobile homes as they rebuild their lives. "I finished renovating this house three days before the storm," says a bemused local. "Now I must start again." He reckons less than a third of the population will return.

Other parts of the city are doing their best to carry on as normal. The famous French Quarter was largely unaffected by the storm and its hedonism contrasts sharply with our experiences of the Bible Belt. Beautiful architecture is offset by garish bars and strip joints... 'Hustler Barely Legal' anyone?

The rally ends with another New Orleans tradition. At the prize-giving party we stand on a balcony and lob beaded necklaces at the girls below in the hope - often fulfilled - that they'll reveal their boobs. It's a bizarre finale to a bizarre event.

BABE doesn't have the supercars and razzmatazz of the Gumball Rally, but it's much more honest. Wealthy professionals mixed easily with hard-up students; only one car failed to make the finish and everyone had a good time. The BABE Rally is motoring in the raw, and all the better for it.

Alistair Weaver