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The low, lithe coupe glares at me with distinctive trapezoidal headlights. Its seeming frustration isn't entirely unwarranted - it's parked in (and I mean really parked in) on the fourth floor of a Bethesda dealership's parking garage. An Infiniti G35 blocks it from the front and two late-model Corollas sit inches away from either flank.
As the sales rep jogs off to retrieve the G35's key, I thread my way through the Prelude's stablemates. I see thousands of Preludes all over suburban streets, mall parking lots and college campuses and yet I've never been so close to one.
It has a presence unlike any of its competition, and as the rep returns, keys in hand, I am running my hand over its haunches. He seems to understand.
I recall the conversation I'd had with him on the phone earlier that day arranging the test drive. He asked me if I'd ever driven a Prelude.
"No," I responded.
What a strange question. The guy who let me drive a Lotus had asked the exact same thing. Keep in mind, that was a Lotus.
"You'll absolutely love it," he said. Click.
I fit the Prelude-buying demographic - a 21 year old male with a thin wallet and a primal lust for cheap speed.
And the Electron Blue 2001 Honda Prelude equipped with a five-speed manual tranny and a sunroof definitely fits my theoretical bill - decent mileage (20 city/25 highway), a heroic 2.2-liter fuel-injected four-cylinder posting 200 horsepower at the crank and a sticker price of $11,950.
Back in Bethesda, it is cold and drizzling and the G35 burbles away into the bowels of the crowded garage and parks. The sales rep hops out and walks over.
"I'll get it out of the parking garage, and then it's all you," he says.
Sounds good.
Outside, we swap seats, and over the engine's metallic, raspy vocalizing, the sales rep utters "Honda" and "torque" in the same sentence. I almost laugh, but… the clutch. The clutch, I say.
It's reassuringly heavy. As I delicately mash the gas and ease out the clutch, there is none of the indecisiveness I have come to associate with torqueless four-bangers. The whole process is eerily similar to that found in engaging a torquey straight six or - dare I say it? - a V8.
As I row through gears and carve corners, I am smitten with how responsive this car is.
The past few cars I've test-driven for this column have comprised a thoroughly disappointing downward trend in driver involvement- the 2007 Civic Si (another Honda, ironically enough) felt more like I was playing a piss-poor early-90s video game than driving. And yet this 2001 Prelude responds like it's reading my damn mind.
It must be said that the Prelude is, in fact, relatively torqueless. There's very little grunt off the line.
If you want the Prelude to sing, you're going to have to keep the revs up at five, six, even seven grand - which requires a lot of rapid-fire footwork.
If that's your particular poison, then the Prelude is definitely for you.
But before you sign the lease in triplicate, boy-racers, know this: that though the trunk is of decent size, the trunk lid itself is not. Which, if we're talking practicality, will become infuriating very fast. And the backseat is an insurance write-off rather than a place for people to sit.
You're young and carefree, though, aren't you? Strap a buddy in and light up your front slicks. This car is a rev-happy thoroughbred.
THE GOOD: 200 freakin' horsepower, looks sufficiently bad-ass from any angle, vast aftermarket support.
THE BAD: The torquey clutch is an illusion, sadly. I could probably muster more torque from my 7-speed Diamondback.
THE LOWDOWN: For less than 12 grand, this is as good as a used front-wheel-drive hot hatchback gets.
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