(FORTUNE Magazine) – In a bout of patriotism on the eve of Fourth of July fireworks and flag flapping, I test-drove the new Corvette C5. In 44 years of production, Chevrolet has sold roughly 1.1 million Corvettes; the V-8 sled has been the No. 1-selling sports car in the U.S. for six years running. By now the Corvette is such an all-American staple that driving one ought to be tax deductible. But sales have been dropping the past several years, in part because the car industry has acquired a case of two-seater fever.

Chevy understood that the new, $38,060 Corvette (and the convertible version, due in September) would have to stand up to similarly priced European entries like the Porsche Boxster, BMW Z3, and Mercedes SLK. That's a tall order for a car that has traditionally been difficult to handle, squeaky as an old floorboard, and uncomfortable for anyone over 5-foot-6. Yet David Hill, the 'Vette's chief engineer, exudes confidence: "The C5 fits into the big spaces between the Porsche 911, Jaguar XK8, and Toyota Supra." You could park a few Mack trucks in spaces that wide. Could it really run with such a crowd?

I donned cutoff jeans and some bad sunglasses (never forget the importance of role playing) and planned a route that swept from the hang-it-all-out, Mustang-loving Jersey shore to tweedy, Mercedes S-Class Greenwich, Conn.--the Bold Coast to the Gold Coast. Somewhere in that band of Americana, the 'Vette's personality (and natural admirers) would emerge. First, however, I had to make it out of the parking lot, a tough job given the crowd that swarmed around the low-slung, mean-looking plastic--excuse me, flexible sheet-molded compound (SMC)--hull. I had to hand it to the designers; the Corvette's new shape has the long-nosed, big-hipped stance of an exotic. I detected suggestions of Acura NSX in its wedginess, Mazda RX7 (God rest its soul) in its rear-hatch lines, Ferrari Testarossa in its bold, beefy back end.

Inside, too, the design seemed to work: leather-wrapped dash and steering wheel, well-bolstered leather sports seats, the traditional "twin-pod cockpit with passenger-side grab handle," nicely staggered analog dials, an onboard computer that tells you everything down to the air pressure in each tire. But wait. What was that tower of atrocity in the center? A column of clunky black buttons with E-Z read symbols stuck out where understated stereo and climate controls should have been. When will an American car company design a good-looking control panel?

The bass rumble of the 'Vette's small-block V-8 grabbed my attention away from the interior; who needs any other music? Hitting the open road, I toyed with the six-speed manual transmission (long, torque-rich gears, but a shifter too far away for quick maneuvers), the aluminum pedals (drilled for grip, but spaced so far apart I had trouble double-clutching), the power (consistently, unabashedly thrilling, all 345 horses of it). The sight of innumerable wannabes choking on my tire smoke in the rear-view mirror told me all I needed to know about the car's straight-line accelerating ability. A tight set of curves somewhere south of Long Branch, N.J., told me a lot about its cornering. Entering one turn at a semi-blistering pace, I felt the 'Vette skip like a stone across the lane, the back end clearly wanting to shake free. I slowed down after that; it's always nice to know a car can give you cheap thrills--but you don't necessarily want them every time you turn a corner.

From Asbury Park, N.J. ("Hey, lady, floor it!" from a Camaro owner), to New Canaan, Conn. ("Look at that! Step on it!" from a guy in a BMW 750iL), the praise flooded in--and always from men. Which makes sense: Last year, 85% of Corvette buyers were men. Maybe that's why, despite hauling past other two-seaters, the wind from the open targa roof drowning out the cry of the guttural engine, I wasn't won over; the 'Vette's appeal is too unsubtle. As Groucho might have agreed, sometimes a cigar is just a car.