The moment was like that of a bedraggled and thirsty bandito stumbling across a well in the middle of the Mexican desert. Or Henry Stanley finally finding Dr. David Livingstone. It was catharsis. It was all I could do to stop myself from sinking to my feet and sobbing gently, right there on the sidewalk of 14^th Street. I was standing in front of a bona-fide, American issue 2010 Chevy Camaro SS.

It was a black one, resting on the side of the street like a sleeping jaguar. My god, it was a thing of beauty. I’ve admired this muscle car for many a while now, but had never actually seen one. Until three weeks ago, rather ironically outside a left-wing restaurant in Washington DC called Busboys & Poets. It was as I thought it would be – really large, really menacing and with an engine so ridiculously huge that it can set off Icelandic volcanoes.

The weird thing is that Americans actually have no concept of what a beautiful car is. The notion doesn’t seem to exist in their heads, much like the notion of trigonometry doesn’t exist in Paris Hilton’s chihuahua. It is easy to be plunged into the very depths of despair when you see the cars you drive past on America’s highways. It’s just rows and rows of shapeless Lincolns, Toyota Priuses, top-heavy SUVs and the most wilfully ugly car on earth: the Ford Crown Victoria. Oh, and vans – the type used by kidnappers in Hollywood films.

Americans do huge very well. I made the mistake of ordering a “regular sized meal” at a barbecue diner in Tampa Bay. The plate was about the size of my entire torso, heaped with a good helping of ribs, another good helping of chicken and enough fries to feed Uganda for a year. The waitress was grievously offended when I suggested that I may be unable to finish the food. She hovered nearby, doubtlessly to ensure that I enjoyed the publican’s cooking to its fullest extent.

The Yanks have exactly the same attitude to cars. Their cars are not terribly well made. You wouldn’t expect attention to detail in a country that invaded Iraq because some Saudis flew planes into a building. General Motors almost went bankrupt because they made such shit cars. This was before they almost went bankrupt because Wall Street was so shittily regulated.

When it comes to muscle cars however, the men in overalls over in Detroit have the recipe right. This isn’t to say that muscle cars are beautiful cars – they don’t tick off all the boxes. Yes, they’re mostly decent to look at, in the same way that Bruce Willis carrying an M16 assault rifle makes men go “phwoaar!” Yes, they have enormous engines and fat tires and a speed so quick it can wipe your face off the front of your head. But their handling is rubbish. It would be easier to drive a Fresian milk cow around a corner at high speed than any American muscle car. When we’re talking about big and dangerous, my idea of a beautiful car is the Mercedes Benz CLK 63 AMG Black.

But one thing that the Americans do better than their European and Asian counterparts is fun. Muscle cars are not serious. You sort of point them in one direction, hammer down very hard on the accelerator and hope that most of the car will be intact at the end of your run. You want to be able to then fix your wounded muscle car with nothing more than a hammer, a radio blaring away a few Bruce Springsteen tunes and a six-pack of beer.

I don’t quite know why I love the Chevy Camaro SS more than the other muscle (or pony) cars out there. Sure, the Pontiac GTO has the history, the Ford Mustang has the iconic image and the Dodge Challenger is probably the best one of the lot.

Pontiac GTO – Top Gear Apocalypse from Alexandre Luttringer on Vimeo.

But there’s just something about the Camaro 2SS Coupe 6-speed manual that drives me nuts. Perhaps it’s the sound of the 6.2L, V8 engine that pumps out an impressive 462 horsepower. Maybe it’s because it always looks like it’s always about to pounce on a hybrid car, and maul it to pieces with its scowling, pointed nose. I think it’s what this car represents: a good, outdoors culture; a certain sense of humour about life and just plain not giving a damn.

As that other secret American Richard Hammond said of muscle cars and the men who made them, they’ll be remembered for giving us a laugh. “And I don’t mean that spitefully,” he said. “What I mean is they made cars which looked like this [1970 Pontiac GTO 7.4 litre, V8] which say, ‘Look, calm down. Nobody died. It’s a bit of fun. Enjoy it’.”

As I drive around South Africa, surrounded by BMW X5s and Toyota Yarrises, I’m going to miss that recognisable rumble of a good muscle car.