Driven Hard: 2009 Range Rover Autobiography

The immutable laws of supply and demand dictate that some automotive indulgences will never move down market. These include, but are not limited to, old-growth brazilwood dashboards (scarcity of raw material), 19" magnesium wheels (expense of fabrication) and martini-addled trophy wives (New Jersey can only spawn so many). These bedrock economic truths, however, faced a severe test in the mid-1970s, barely escaping history's vortex when Ricardo Montalbán brazenly hitched the words "rich," "Corinthian" and "leather" to a Chrysler product. Leather interiors, once the dominions of coddled, affluence-fattened buttocks, were subsequently free to crop up in the least rarified environments. These included, but were not limited to, Hyundai Accents.

Leave it to one of the most coveted vehicles of the past two decades, the Range Rover, to stage a drastic course correction. The 2009 Range Rover Supercharged Autobiography boasts more leather than any Rangie in history. But these are not the hides of feedlot mediocrity -- They are the finest of the fine, treated to a semi-aniline finish that will encourage the skins' character to deepen with age while the surfaces retain their suppleness.

The range-topping, limited-production Autobiography trumps its nearest kin, the fully-kitted Range Rover Supercharged, by an even $10k, weighing in at $104,100. For that money, leather should all but line the exhaust pipes. But instead, we get an English gent's sense of tasteful restraint; look elsewhere for suede fringes. Our Rimini Red car had matte-black leather high on the dash and thick steering wheel, and exactingly stitched beige swatches amid the handsome instrument panel. Beige hide continued on the doors' perforated inserts and storage bins; the dry-cleaning handles above each door; the center console storage area; and of course, the seats. Non-heifer-based goodies included rear-seat climate control and entertainment systems, fourteen-piece wood trim, stainless steel pedals and brushed aluminum step plates embossed with "Autobiography" in flowing script. Outside, there are handsome 20" diamond-turned wheels and a subtle "Autobiography" badge on the lift gate.

Iconic sheet metal notwithstanding, subtlety is the Autobiography owner's prize to savor. A remarkable number of supercharged Range Rovers were spotted in weekend ambles through New York City's outer boroughs, their telltale diamond-mesh grilles and side vents distinguishing them from their normally aspirated V8 brethren – but not so readily from the supercharged Autobiography. We assumed, while gamely squirting our 5,000-lb leather-lined cocoon through Flatbush Avenue traffic, that my fellow country squires were also experiencing the Autobiography's distinctive olfactory nirvana. Then we would spot a mere "SUPERCHARGED" badge on their lift gates, and budding camaraderie gave way to sublime desolation. We'd breathe the leather's exquisite perfume deep and sigh. There's precious little company at the top.

Strangely enough, not everyone looked favorably on a $100,000 rolling tannery that reflected 10.3mpg on its trip computer after 200 miles of mixed driving. With 400 hp and 420 lb-ft. of twist on tap, "mixed driving" meant occasional blitzkriegs through flooded, rutted Bronx parking lots and 0-60-0 tests between stoplights. (Land Rover rates the vehicle at an optimistic 12mpg city, 15mpg highway.) A vegetarian friend whose objections to the Autobiography package I assumed would come on gas-guzzling and animal-rights grounds, stepped into the car's backseat with a coy grin, admiring the finery. After a few minutes, though, the bloom was off. "I have a soft spot for Range Rovers," she allowed, "But I think I'll be nauseous if I smell this leather any longer."

I was hoping for withering accusations of Homo sapien fascism and indictments of Darwinian natural selection from a longtime-vegan friend who I chauffeured to JFK Airport. Instead, she coolly tapped the subwoofer control on the car's Sirius-equipped sat-nav, adjusted her 10-way seat and, settling in, flashed yet another coquettish smirk that non-meat-eating females manage so well around this vehicle. Given the sled's girth, she perceptively asked whether Range Rovers were American cars, so I broke down the Coventry to Dearborn to Mumbai odyssey of Land Rover ownership. To this, she asked, "If it's owned by an Indian company, what happened to that whole cows-being-sacred thing?" Only Mr. Ratan Tata can field that one – touché, vegan, touché.

Meanwhile, even in today's climate of rescinded holiday bonuses, volatile gas prices and a zeitgeisty pushback against ostentation, Land Rover's limited run of Autobiographies will likely encounter no shortage of stateside buyers. The laws of supply and demand provide no elegant accounting for irrational exuberance, and when subtlety drives, looks and – indeed – smells this special, it's enough to make even 2009's cautious gentlemen of means forgo filet mignon and dig deep for the chateaubriand.