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2020 Aston Martin DBX Prototype Drive | Sliding into your mentions

OMAN, Persian Gulf — The last time I got an Aston Martin this filthy was 5 years ago in dusty Anza-Borrego, California, where I ripped several illicit burnouts in a low-slung V12 Vantage S. This time around is dramatically different: Chief Engineer Matt Becker, seated alongside me, is actually egging me on to powerslide an Aston Martin DBX across an off-road trail in Oman — the first time IÂ’ve ever been encouraged by Aston brass to hoon one of their vehicles, let alone a priceless prototype, in the dirt. You wouldnÂ’t expect Becker, who spent 26 years at Lotus, to be an SUV guy. But the hardcore chassis and handling guru says the DBX project gave him a new respect for the genre because sport utes need to do far more than just go around a track quickly: TheyÂ’re required to tow, support weight on their roofs, and manage all manner of terrain, all while creating a comfortable living space for their passengers. “Once you push them and understand what they can do off-road, on-road, on-track,” he tells me while IÂ’m tackling a rock-strewn trail at highway speeds, “you really start to respect what theyÂ’re capable of.” Building the DBX will also show us what Aston Martin is capable of — capable of surviving, that is. The new decade is shaping up to be the most challenging yet for the storied carmaker, so bringing a viable sport utility vehicle to market is essential. And though weathering severe business headwinds seems to be an ongoing pastime for Aston Martin, the brandÂ’s first-ever crossover gets a rather ambitious hardware package. The DBXÂ’s bonded aluminum chassis is entirely unique to the model, as is the brandÂ’s first-ever air suspension system. While thereÂ’s no V12 available in the DBX — that honor remains reserved for Rolls-Royce's almighty $325,000 Cullinan — the AMG-sourced, 4.0-liter twin turbo V8, while similar to the mill found in the DB11 and Vantage, has also been coaxed to produce more power: 542 horsepower and 516 pound-feet of torque, capable of launching it to 60 miles per hour in 4.3 seconds and a top speed of 181 mph. But building AstonÂ’s first-ever SUV from the ground up enabled unique packaging opportunities in addition to the specific hardware. For instance, market research revealed female drivers were often frustrated because most cars donÂ’t have a place to stash their purse.

Aston Martin's deal with Mercedes-AMG more than skin-deep

Aston Martin is working on a raft of new models. But it's not going it alone: it has a technical partnership with Mercedes-AMG, the details of which have only been revealed in bits and pieces. If these latest spy shots are anything to go by, however, the arrangement could run deeper than anyone initially let on. Spied undergoing testing at the Nurburgring, this prototype for the upcoming successor to the Aston Martin DB9 is widely expected to be called the DB11 (10 is being used by James Bond's new ride). From the outside it doesn't look different than the previous versions we've seen running around, but this time we can also peer into the cabin, and that's where things start to get interesting. Despite the best arm-waving efforts by the development engineers, our spy photographers managed to snap a couple of shots of the interior. And though it looks far from being ready for production, the components we see appear to have been lifted from the Mercedes S-Class Coupe – particularly the steering wheel, digital instrument cluster, and almost the entire center console. This speaks to a deeper collaboration between the British and German automakers. The 4.0-liter twin-turbo V8 from the Mercedes-AMG GT, C63, and G500 4x42 is already being adapted for use in the next generation of Astons. Related Video:

2020 Aston Martin Vantage Road Test | Old-school road trip in a new-school Aston

Our roads may be virtually empty, with Americans all cooped up and nowhere to go. But with jet planes and TSA lines looking iffy and icky for the foreseeable future, the great American road trip is poised to reclaim its preeminence in travel. To test that post-pandemic theory, in a purely theoretical way, I requisition a 2020 Aston Martin Vantage for a daytrip from New York to the Catskills. It’s the kind of high-character “import” sports car that once defined the breed, before corporate imperatives watered the character down. AstonÂ’s two-seater is nakedly beautiful, flawed-yet-fabulous, and expensive as hell. But if you drive the Vantage and donÂ’t fall head-over-loafers, IÂ’d accuse you of not caring for sports cars at all. ItÂ’s as alive and engaging as any sports car out there, a 509-horsepower firecracker that rewards skilled drivers – or dings them for mistakes – in defiance of the trend toward all-wheel-drive automatons. As for the Catskills, itÂ’s in the midst of its own explosive comeback. This rough-hewn mountain region, a convenient two hours north of Manhattan, was once the prime vacation destination of the Northeast, so popular in the late 19th century that a 1,200-room luxury hotel was required just to gaze at some waterfalls, with guests including U.S. presidents and Oscar Wilde. Through the 1950s and 60s, it continued to be the pipeline to nature for Jewish families and other northeast tourists. Their summer camps and sprawling “Borscht Belt” resorts and nightclubs mythologized in films like Dirty Dancing and now televisionÂ’s The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel, which has fetishized Catskills nostalgia to a truly marvelous degree. Then came airline travel, and affordable tickets to Miami Beach and other exotic warm-weather locales. Like a Palm Springs of the east, the Catskills fell into steep decline. The region became a punch line of corny kitsch. As with Palm Springs, fashion has come full circle: The Catskills and adjacent Hudson Valley are red-hot again, rediscovered by Brooklynites especially as a magical spot for affordable second homes, or permanent moves to open farm-to-table restaurants, curated antique shops and other bastions of rustic hip. The Vantage lures me from coronavirus lockdown like a movie idol waving outside my Brooklyn window, for a cannon-shot recon run to Woodstock.