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When I emerged from my apartment this morning, a few neighbors could be seen grimly scraping their windows and preparing for another slushy, icy commute. Poor peasants. I simply climbed into my Range Rover Sport, flipped on the front-windscreen heater (not to be confused with a lowly defroster), provided a squirt of heated washer fluid, and turned the Terrain Response dial to snow-and-gravel mode. Within minutes, I was bombing toward downtown Ann Arbor at a 50-mph clip, my forward view obstructed only by the faint wires of that very handy heated windshield. This, my friends, is the Michigan-in-February equivalent of cruising the Pacific Coast Highway in a BMW M3 convertible.inline_mediumwraptextright27219686/reviews/editors_notebook/1003_2010_land_rover_range_rover_sport_supercharged1003_01_z+2010_land_rover_range_rover_sport_supercharged+front_three_quarter_view.jpgTrue

As this issue goes to press, General Motors is busily off-loading its last 450 new Pontiacs, most of them G6s. It's hardly a fitting final act for a brand that gave us some of the twentieth century's most memorable cars - the GTO, the Trans Am, and the Grand Prix, to name but a few. But Pontiac could have met a similarly ignoble end six decades ago, and thus never have even lived to see its glory days, if not for the success of one man, Semon E. "Bunkie" Knudsen, and one car, the 1959 Pontiac Bonneville.inline_mediumwraptextright27042746/features/collectible_classic/1004_1959_pontiac_bonneville1003_17_z+1959_pontiac_bonneville+front_three_quarter_view.jpgTrue