Perhaps the scariest thing about it wasn’t the violently refined acceleration. Maybe it wasn’t the total lack of visibility to the driver’s side rear. It probably wasn’t even the fact that everyone in every other car on the street, and every pedestrian in this southern California neighborhood on this Super Bowl Sunday evening (in other words, not too many) looks in your direction with primal bloodlust. No. I think that the scariest thing about it was having a brief premonition of being decapitated by the top of the door when the car owner pushed it closed from the outside to send me on my way. See, the top of the door swings at your neck like a horizontal guillotine if you’re at least six feet tall. Your eyes are on those of your friend, and you can see the reflection of his face on the top of the blade, er door, as it starts coming your way. Yet, somehow, you make yourself short and the whoosh passes overhead, taking only some hair with it, followed by a soft thump as the door latches closed.