Speeding toward Stromberg, I was less than a kilometer from my exit when a car ahead blew its engine, eclipsing the foreground behind an opaque cloud of dense white smoke. I hit the flashers and braked gently before entering the cloud and losing all visibility. Fortunately, I emerged unscathed to find that the driver, a young woman, had pulled well off the road and was already standing clear of her disabled vehicle-textbook good behavior. One reason grand touring is more fun on the Continent than in the States is that German drivers, each having invested more than a thousand dollars and twenty-five to forty-five hours of professional instruction plus twelve hours of classroom instruction to obtain a driver's license good for life, tend to be a lot more skilled than your average American laboring to keep his SUV off the rumble strips. Accelerating into the exit, I noted that the Bentley's air filters had done an admirable job of excluding the smell of burning oil from the cockpit.