Dawn is breaking over the Corvette's blood-red hood, and a mist masks the road out of Ljubljana, Slovenia. My friend Jeremy Wilson, a cantankerous Texan who moved here last year to write for the Slovenia Times, is riding shotgun as we pass through the Dinaric Alps, bound for the Croatian coast at 110 miles an hour.

We're headed this way to experience Dalmatia, a coastal region of Croatia every bit as rough, rolling, and breathtaking as Big Sur, but without the Sunday drivers. Croatia was devastated during the Bosnian war; these days it's starting to return to its former jet setÐdestination status. For the moment, though, there are still fewer tourists (and lower prices) than most anywhere else in Europe. We're here to soak it all in before Dalmatia becomes as crowded as the Côte d'Azur.

Near the suburbs of Zagreb we catch a new highway that's as fast as an Italian autostrada -- three wide, flat lanes, with gently sloping straight-aways and few surprises. This is perfect speed-test territory.

When I peg the throttle at the on-ramp, the 'Vette sounds as if it's ripping open the earth. In 10 seconds I pass 130 miles per hour. The outrageous gas prices (around $4.50 a gallon here) are offset by the empty roads and the distinct absence of radar guns.

Just short of the Velebit coastal range, in the town of Trilj, we stop and order plates of a meat-and-veggie goulash known as poli-poli and a Croatian orange soda unfortunately called Pipi. Then, after another hour of driving switchbacks through the olive and cypress groves, we emerge abruptly on the coast.

I park in a vista pull-off, and we gaze at the crystalline water, home to more than a thousand islands -- most uninhabited -- and the ghosts of the great navies of ancient Greece. Jeremy stands uncharacteristically quiet for a moment as we watch the sun set behind the Adriatic. A newly minted Slovenian nationalist, he was skeptical of Croatia's allure. Then he speaks. "I hate to say this, but Dalmatia ain't no dog."

We pull into the coastal town of Makarska just as the streetlights come on. With its white marble walkways and palm-studded promenade, it looks like the French Riviera, but without the preening tourists. For dinner we feast on thick sirloins, veal medallions, and garlicky sauteed squid, a Dalmatian specialty. Unlike the gasoline, the food here is cheap -- just $25 for our meal. Jeremy drains a bottle of Sampjer, a Croatian red, then orders another and downs that, too. When I go to bed he's downstairs chatting with members of the Croatian national soccer team.

In the morning one of several outfitters based in Makarska meets us in the hotel lobby. We've arranged for him to guide us on the craggy bike trails of the Biokovo Nature Park. Unfortunately, he's racked with the flu, so he gives us two bikes and begs off, back to bed.

No matter. Trail maps will suffice. The hotel van drives us up the 20-mile road to the top of the Biokovo, and when we step out, the bura, or east wind, is raking the mountaintop with powerful gusts.

"Let's get the hell off this peak," Jeremy says. We choose a trail and set off into the cypress groves below.

These trails, originally carved by goats, are dizzyingly twisty. Near the peak the grade is severe and the ground loose, but when we hit the cypress line, the trail solidifies and we pick up speed, wary of the abrupt turns -- a mistake could send us tumbling 500 feet. Along the way we pass four wild boars. When we stop for a snack a finch lands on Jeremy's helmet. After three hours we roll to the trailhead, sweating and exhausted, but exhilarated.

Showered and checked out, we reboard the Corvette and set off south for Dubrovnik. But no trip to the Balkans is complete without burek, a flaky, meat-filled pastry that Jeremy says only Bosnians make properly, so we turn away from the coast and make a detour for Mostar, 25 miles into Bosnia.

When we cross the border, every cop in Bosnia notices our red Corvette trespassing in a world of gray Yugos. Half a mile from the border we pull into a restaurant and buy a greasy satchel of burek. Minutes later we're eating like wolves, and suddenly I round a corner and see a roadblock. I pull over, and a cop approaches wearing a wide grin.

"My English not so good, but you drive fast car. Maybe too fast, yes?" He pinches a small quantity of air with his thumb and forefinger. Two hundred kuna: $60. Another crucial difference between the former Yugoslavia and Big Sur: A few miles inland you remember you're in a land still recovering from a decade of ethnic cleansing, not the playground of the digerati. I thank him and then gun it back to Croatia.

The sun has set as we cross the new bridge into Dubrovnik, and the bura is whipping over the walled city. A new map of the ancient wall nearby details where each artillery shell landed during the city's 1995 siege. I study the map, mesmerized, and the 'Vette's engine ticks as it cools. That cop was right. Maybe I should slow down.

ENGINE 7.0-liter V-8
TRANSMISSION 6-speed manual
POWER 505 hp @ 6,300 rpm
0Ð60 MPH 3.7 secs
EPA FUEL ECON 16 city/26 hwy
BASE PRICE $65,690

BRIEF Fast and cheap (for its class), the Z06 is a tightly crafted demon. While it can compete with supercars such as the $240,000 Ferrari F-450 and the now discontinued $150,000 Ford GT, it firmly beats both for value.

THUMBS UP This 505-hp beast serves power raw and right to the road. At testing on the Autobahn, the Z06 reached a top speed of 198 mph, a benchmark made possible by its ultralight aluminum chassis and V-8, magnesium roof, and carbon-fiber fenders.

THUMBS DOWN If you aren't prepared to unleash all 500-plus hp, don't: The Z06 seemed to me almost too powerful for untrained hands. The interior was cramped, which is to be expected from a vehicle in this category. And the stock performance seats left me feeling untethered on sharp turns and sore afterward.

By: Mike Guy
Photograph by: Joshua Paul
(June 2006)