300C: A US odyssey

It's said that alligators sometimes wander into peoples' back gardens in this part of Florida. You really can head out to the pool and find half a ton of armoured reptile basking in it. Yet even here the greatest threat to a pale skinned Brit seems to be that of spontaneous combustion. It’s mid December, but still the temperature is a thoroughly toasty 85 degrees and the humidity is up to nearly 60 percent.

So what drags me away from the temperate climes of London? Well, in between sampling the banked curves of Daytona and plying my wares at the world's largest racing trade show – more on those later – I'm here to experience a little bit of American car culture. In truth, it's been something of an impromptu affair – with a day to spare before the show I approach the local car hire firm for something suitable. The result was a gleaming black 2008 Chrysler 300C. And a map. The plan is to get out of the tourist Mecca of Orlando, which lies to the east of the Florida peninsula, and head west to the town of Clearwater on the Gulf of Mexico; sort of a mini coast-to-coast.

Out in the car park, the big Chrysler does a fine job of filling even a US space. At sixteen and a half feet long it's bigger than a Bentley Continental GT. It screams Americana too, with a comically high shoulder line, a brash authoritarian presence and a front end seemingly modelled on JR Ewing's grin. It's much the same inside, with wide open spaces and a bold, simple layout.

The 3.5-litre V6 starts with a slightly muted thrum and the 300C creeps forward obligingly once the 5-speed auto 'box is placed in drive. We whisk out the car park and onto International Drive with the transmission quietly slurring away. The sheer size of the thing would render it unwieldy in the UK. Fortunately, you sit quite high with a good view of its extremities as the long bonnet sweeps round corners. It does feel somewhat like captaining a boat at times, but cruising the wide palm tree lined boulevards of downtown Orlando the 300C feels perfectly at home.

Soon I locate the interstate, and with it my first chance to open the car up. To be honest it seems to be a bit startled by the process. I'd love the 5.7-litre V8 in the higher spec 300s, but my work was cut out just trying to find something American and the V6 is a bit of a pale imitation. It's actually a very revvy engine, with a useful power band extending up to 7,000rpm, but torque isn't really on the agenda. Cruising slowly this isn't a problem; the auto 'box shifts up at the earliest possible moment and you're left wafting quietly around, but put your foot down and the torque converter throws a hissy fit. After a moment's confusion it begrudgingly kicks down two gears and begins screaming away without any significant increase in speed. It's almost as if the gearbox is slipping. Yet with a more delicate approach it can be coaxed into performing quite well. The acceleration is hardly alarming (it's rated at 8.6 seconds to 60mph), but it does feel nicely sustained as the big Chrysler pushes its way through the air. The soundtrack isn't bad either; quite refined, but with a muscular edge that almost suggests an extra pair of cylinders might be lurking under the bonnet.

After a couple of miles I start to drop into the routine of US motorway travel. Barring the flat, sub tropical landscape, much is the same as the UK. It's 3 lanes wide, people have a healthy disdain for the speed limit (which ranges from 55mph to 75 and even includes minimum speeds in some sections) and the layout is all fairly intuitive. What's even worse than the UK is lane discipline. It simply does not exist, and drivers seem to pick a lane completely irrespective of their speed. Occasionally one of them wakes up and promptly undertakes the car in front, but there's little real order. It never feels aggressive or overwrought and, with relatively low traffic densities, the whole thing more or less seems to work. In fact they're so chilled out that several times I witness a car in one of the outside lanes wander until it actually puts two wheels on the dirt. Fortunately the trucks appear to be somewhat more carefully guided. They're big out here; really big. If one was to stray off the road it's likely it could run over several small towns before the driver's attention was even diverted from his Lynyrd Skynyrd tape.

The I4 widens to four lanes as we pass the outskirts of Tampa. It's a bright modern city with a cluster of silver sky scrapers looming against the hazy midday sky. It also marks a brief stint on the I275, a comparatively twisty urban freeway, which gives a bit more insight into the Chrysler’s dynamics. Once again the messages are a little mixed. The steering is quite precise with a pleasingly linear action, but it’s almost completely devoid of feel. The initial turn is distinctly floaty and the whole thing feels a touch under-damped, but the car actually feels surprisingly well balanced once its set up in the turn. Sweeping through the I275’s twists, its body roll is no worse than you’d expect from a large sedan and the car actually feels quite poised. 

The only real shock comes after we turn off and join State Road 60. It begins by heading through a series of traffic lights, one of which decides to turn red just as we approach. There’s no one behind and it’s not that close so I elect to go for the brakes. They felt fine on the interstate with adequate feel and reasonable levels of assistance, but when tasked with something a bit more urgent they fail miserably. The tyres let out a screech and a puff of smoke, but little in the way of actual retardation. We pass the stop light travelling at pretty much the same speed as before and I elect to go for the gas instead. There’s plenty of time to clear the crossing, which is fortunate as the brakes are simply the worst of any modern car I’ve encountered. I suppose it’s good to see the big Chrylser does live up to its ‘yank tank’ image in at least one respect.

The SR60 rapidly blends into the Courtney Campbell Causeway; 9.9 miles of bridges and reclaimed land stretching across Tampa Bay. It leads to the aptly named town of Clearwater. You can drive virtually onto the beach and, as Florida gives way to the Gulf of Mexico, the water is indeed crystal clear. As we pause for a photocall, a steady stream of numbered white 4X4s drive past – presumably watching out for anyone paddling past in a sombrero. The strange foreigner randomly photographing his hire car seems to attract a certain attention too, signalling that it’s perhaps time to move on.

We trundle down a rough concrete track barely wider than the Chrysler. It runs within feet of the waters edge, before rejoining the main road that takes us back towards Tampa. Cruising onward along the I4 you can’t help noticing the sheer number of police cars. There are state troopers, county sheriffs and local police everywhere. At one point we pass a car being pulled over and the officer approaches cautiously, one hand hovering over his gun. Make no mistake, this is still America.

Orlando is beckoning, but we’re not done yet. With about twenty miles to go, we turn off the beaten track onto State Road 532. This is Smokey and The Bandit country; unmistakably Southern with paperbark trees, Florida pines and palm trees dotted along the side of the road. Sure enough, it’s not long before we pass the county mountie, watching intently from a side turning. Even the cruisers still bear a distinct resemblance to those which chased Burt Reynolds.

Our final waypoint, Kissimmee, is different. It feels like someone has turned the contrast up – it has the bluest skies, the greenest grass and the orangiest buildings. To be fair, the Victorian shop fronts and awnings stretching onto the main road actually come in a variety of colours, but all are bright. I don’t know how many ordinary Floridians actually live here, but to an outsider it appears to be a rather utopian vision of small-town America. It’s like Pleasantville. There’s no litter, every blade of grass is immaculately trimmed and every street corner has a bright, breezy cafe cheerfully dishing up the local speciality, key lime pie. Even fly tipping just looks better here. We pass a mid ‘50s Ford Edsel Station Wagon that’s been abandoned in a side street. Although faded and abused, it still bears a sort of retro charm. Somehow it just looks right.

The drive back along Poinciana Boulevard features a rare sight on Florida’s country roads: corners. It’s hardly Zig Zag Hill, but there are a couple of S-Bends that provide a certain amount of childish amusement for me, but apparently considerable concern to the local drivers who slow right down before carefully negotiating these dangerous oddities. If their cars go round corners like the 300C stops it’s probably a wise move.

My first experience of driving Stateside has been an enlightening one. Like America in general, much of it feels strangely familiar, but all with a distinctly US slant. I’d love to do a real coast-to-coast one day or cruise along Pacific Coast Highway, but for now the trip to Clearwater in the big Chrysler will have to do. At least I didn’t expire in the heat.

Driven: TVR 1600M

Blackpool's finest treats us to a blast from the past...


There's a bit of a debate raging at the moment as to what extent our traits are inherited. It seems likely that some things are indeed genetic, and perhaps that goes some way to explaining my obsession with cars. You see, my dad is something of a petrolhead. It was his blood red Alfa Romeo Alfetta GTV that defined my earliest memories of the motor car, and the sales brochures for the TVR Tasmin 2+2 he contemplated replacing it with that adorned my bedroom walls as a kid. Before I came along, however, my parents' choice of transport was a 1972 TVR 1600M.

Not wishing to part with his two seat toy, my father squirreled it away in a lock up garage for the next decade or two, until time, money and a grown up family allowed it to be revived in the late '90s. And so, after a thorough restoration, it's perhaps the only pristine one-owner-from new classic TVR that still regularly tackles the muddy lanes of Devon for the weekly shop. It also happens to be a kit car – the last that TVR ever built no less – and so, with the Caterham temporarily out of action, I opted to hitch a lift in the Tiv to this year's Exeter Kit Car Show.


"Do you want to have a go?" my dad enquired part through the drive way back. The offer was too good to refuse, so we promptly pulled into a lay-by and swapped seats.

Threading yourself through the low, narrow doors of the M-Series is something of an event. The leather-lined interior perfectly compliments its 'pocket GT' aesthetics, which you might be forgiven for thinking originated in Modena or Maranello, not windswept Blackpool. The exotic theme is carried over to the driving position, with long arms, comparatively short legs and the steering wheel resting on your knees. You can tell this car was designed before (the much missed and unfeasibly tall) Peter Wheeler took the reigns.

Finding the bite point on the cable-operated clutch takes some degree of practise, but we're rapidly away. One of the first things you notice is the clarity of the steering (unassisted, naturally). It has no discernable play, and every bump and ripple of the Devon lane is perfectly relayed through the chunky leather helm. It's strange, then, this early promise isn't born out in the corners. The front suspension runs very little castor, so the steering resolutely refuses to weight up, giving you little confidence in the remaining grip. It also feels like the adjustable dampers may be set a few notches too low on the front end, which comes across as a tad wayward and disconnected on turn-in.


It's a shame, because the chassis clearly has great potential. Despite dating back to the early seventies (and tracing its roots back beyond) it feels impressively rigid. There's no scuttle shake, no discernable chassis flex, and bumps are absorbed in the suspension, not the structure. It even rides well for a sports car, combining reasonable levels of comfort with relatively little roll. Steering foibles aside, the controls are basically good too. True, the 4 speed gearbox is a little vague, but the brakes combine excellent feel with plentiful stopping power and the throttle has a pleasing action to it.

Squeeze it, however, and the results aren't all you might expect. Although praised for its handling balance (and considered ultimately, by many, better than the 3-litre) the standard 1600cc M-Series wasn't an especially rapid car even in its prime. This one benefits from a somewhat tuned engine, but it's a mixed blessing. The Ford Crossflow lump takes some time to get into its stride, and flooring it in the mid range exposes a rather obtrusive flat spot in the power delivery, which ultimately leaves it feeling slower than it actually is. In reality, the performance is probably approaching warm hatch territory, with a nought to sixty of somewhere around 9 seconds.


The other thing that counts against this TVR is its soundtrack. While it emits a suitably retro burble from the outside, the experience within the cabin is dominated by a civilised, but ultimately rather mechanical noise – it doesn't belch sheets of flame and terrify passing children in the way we've become accustomed to with later models. And yet, driving the M-Series is still a special experience. Partly on a personal level perhaps, but also because it offers a rather romantic glimpse into the past, with its elegant granturismo styling and atmospheric cabin. That said, much of the driving experience still stacks up well today and the car's idiosyncrasies should be easy enough to tweak.

I already have images of an M-Series running revised suspension geometry, modern rubber and – not wishing to do anything by halves – a nice sonorous Alfa Romeo V6 thrown in for good measure. Sadly I'd never have the skill to carry out such work myself, but it seems I'm not the only one who's had the idea. My dad's also been contemplating doing just such a swap on an M-Series restoration project. Fortunately for him, my mechanical ineptitude is one genetic trait that doesn’t come from his side of the family, so it might just happen. Come on Dad, you know it makes sense.

My cars: Sylva Leader 400

Intoxicating and uncompromsing, the Sylva Leader provided a tantalising taste of extreme sports


My girlfriend has a uniquely feminine way of describing cars. It revolves solely around colour, and it’s usually a hugely incomplete method of description, but in the case of my old Sylva Leader she may have been on to something. If you asked anyone to describe the car - even a bonefide petrolhead - the one word that usually came up was yellow. And it was indeed very, very yellow. And fast - as if Noddy and Big Ears had consumed way too much fairy dust one night and decided to try their hand at street racing with a homemade hotrod.

The Sylva certainly was homemade, and boy did it look it. The kit car industry has produced some staggering designs in recent years, but even in 1987 the Leader wasn’t one of its better offerings. The whole thing looked like a giant, slightly misshapen jelly mould, and yet - with it’s low stance and (yellow) roll bar - also strangely purposeful. This combination of the sublime and the ridiculous found many fans in the vicinity, and it never failed to raise a smile, even with typically disapproving audiences such as old ladies and the local constabulary.

The driving experience was always an event. It took several pumps of the throttle to prime the two huge Delhorto carburettors used to feed its 1800cc Lancia heart, but it was worth it. If you were lucky the push button starter on the left hand side of the dash would overcome the engine’s Latin temperament and it would fire with a delicious bark. Prod the throttle and the big carbs would let out a snort, while the side exit exhaust, barely two feet beneath your right ear, emitted a fiery rasp. To this day it remains the best four cylinder soundtrack I’ve ever heard.


On the road its performance was electric. The 150bhp produced by the Italian twin cam might not sound like much, but, with only 650kg to propel, it equated to around 230bhp/ton, which is 911 turbo territory. The brick-like aerodynamics may have blunted its potency at higher speeds, but this was a bit irrelevant for a speccy four eyes like myself, because at around 60mph (with next to no windscreen) my glasses began to take off. Factor in the lack of doors, a hood of any type, any security or anything remotely resembling a boot and the Leader’s everyday credentials began to look shaky.

As a general rule all Sylvas, and most Leaders included, are very fine handling cars, but some DIY suspension mods carried out by a previous owner had left mine with a few unwanted traits. The rock hard rear suspension made the car skittish to say the least, and loss of traction on bumpy roads was a sudden and frequently violent experience. The direct, but surprisingly numb steering, meanwhile, gave little indication of impending doom through its overly weighty helm. It made any of the TVRs I’ve since driven seem a bit, well, safe, but it was undoubtedly exciting and every journey bore a sense of occasion.

Another idiosyncrasy was the car’s braking system. Not only was it un-servoed, which takes some getting used to in this day and age, but it was well overdue for an overhaul. Even if you could summon the gargantuan force needed to operate the hydraulics I’m not convinced they would have done much good. To compound matters, the previous owners’ home engineering periodically reared its ugly head. One hot day the outer part of the throttle cable melted (later discovered to be a bicycle gear cable run perilously close to the exhaust manifold); only to solidify at the extreme end of its travel. Cue a flurry of screaming revs and wheel spin that sent me snaking down a narrow (but mercifully straight) country lane for a few seconds before I brought the clutch in. And, if experiences like that weren’t enough, an unidentified misfire would routinely kick in at high revs, and on occasions the car would simply fail to start altogether.


So does this mean the Leader was a bad car? Well, no, not in the slightest actually. It wasn’t even a particularly bad example. The body and chassis were pristine (if somewhat yellow), the engine performed spectacularly when niggling faults weren’t hampering it, and a damper change and some new rubber would have gone a long way to sorting out the handling. It was a few weekends work away from being a superb track day toy. Sadly, in truth, it was another car that succumbed to my learning curve. At the time I had no garage to work on it and little in the way of tools or practical experience.

The Leader was also a victim of its own appeal. The experience of blasting down country lanes with the glorious twin cam on full song, the hedges accelerating past your ear and the sheer force pulling you back into the seat was intoxicating. I wanted more, but even in pristine condition the Leader would have been a little extreme. What I needed was a car that could deliver the same hit, but also justify itself with fair weather trips to the office and the occasional weekend away. So I did what any sensible young man would do; I bought a TVR.

Northern highlights

I’m not going to pretend my choice of transport for this trip came through anything other than necessity. The Caterham’s current mechanical issues, allied to its lack of a hood, and the fact I would have almost certainly ended up single by the end of the trip had I taken it, compelled me to use the Focus instead. And for those very reasons I find myself cruising up the A1 in the quiet confines of the Ford’s interior.

The familiar journey up to my girlfriend’s parents’ near York turns out to be an uneventful one, barring a spooky atmospheric phenomenon that manifests itself as I pass through Cambridgeshire. As the last rays of the peach coloured sunset creep over the horizon, a dense mist wells up in the fields surrounding the road. It hangs all around, covering the windscreen with a fine film of water vapour and collecting by the hedgerows and hollows like the start of a horror film. There are, however, no ghosts, ghouls or vampires, and by about 11pm I’ve arrived, safely back in the land of the living.

Two days later I head out with my significant other to our base for the next couple of days; the Yorkshire Dales. We approach from the bustling market town of Leyburn, following the sat nav along a spectacular single-track road onto the fells. Not for the last time it turns out to be a route you couldn’t drive at any great speed - thanks to crests, blind corners, errant sheep and the sheer lack of width - but the scenery is breathtaking. The sudden switch from lush farmland to rugged moorland leaves you in no doubt you’ve arrived in the Dales. A few miles further on, the view from our hotel in the tiny hamlet of Low Row is almost equally dramatic, and it promises much to explore.


The following day we head out to the Lake District along the B6270. Initially it’s a meandering country road skirting the villages of the Northern Dales, but the eastern edge thrusts us onto a narrow track, like the previous night's road only more so. The scenery becomes increasingly desolate, and the views ever more expansive. This is big sky country, with a horizon that stretches on for miles, and over one of its numerous crests we cross the border and plunge down into Cumbria.

The roads around The Lakes are predictably congested and we stick to the main routes for ease, but on the way back we stumble across a real gem and arguably the best driving road of the trip: the A684. Sometime after Kendal the traffic peters out and the road darts around a series of devilishly twisty bends and fast sweeping curves. It gives a rare opportunity to exploit the Focus’ innate chassis balance, trail braking into the bends to quell the initial understeer and then pushing the revvy, if somewhat beleaguered engine up through the gears on the way out.

The roller coaster lasts until we get back into the Dales, when an increasing quota of villages and bumbling tourists forces a more leisurely pace. Soon afterwards, however, we turn off onto the infamous Buttertubs Pass.


Heading north out of Hawes the first stretch is classic moorland road - quite straight, reasonably well sighted and fast. As the altitude peaks, the swooping introduction gives way to the famous vertigo-inducing section. Here all that separates you from a fiery death in the valley floor several hundred feet below appears to be a length of green hosepipe suspended between the fence posts. Fortunately we remain on the black stuff, and the final descent into Thwaite is something else. It's narrower, steeper and twistier than the rest of the road, and I reach the end with a considerable grin, a strong smell of warm brakes and a somewhat spongy pedal. In truth it would probably be more fun the other way round (north to south), but that will have to wait for a future trip.

The following day, however, we do head south over the same valley, albeit on the Askrigg Common road that runs parallel to the Buttertubs, a little further east. It’s a familiar story – more scenic route than honing road - but nonetheless spectacular as the road hugs the steep side of the valley and makes its way over the common. Unfortunately there turns out to be a cycle race on, making progress, for us, very sedate. Not so for the competitors, who are hurtling down the 1 in 4 hill towards us, placing all their trust in old fashioned cycle brakes and sticking rigidly to the racing line. While, to me, it looks like fun, I defy anyone who moans about people driving enthusiastically to claim that’s safer!

Afterwards, on a tip-off, we head down the B6255 towards Ingleton. Were it not for swarms of peak-season tourists this road would be one of the highlights, thanks to a great mixture of longish open straights and tight twisty sections. It seems to be very popular with bikers too, but the local constabulary are also in attendance, sporting a very tasty looking Evo IX pursuit car no less.


On the final day - after another pass over Askrigg Common - we head back along the eastern stretch of the A684. Initially it winds its way through a series of quaint stone-clad villages but, as before, it opens up on the periphery into a genuinely credible driving road. It's just a pity that this particular road leads us back to the A1 and, from there, on to London.

Yet the Focus once again performs admirably on the motorway slog. For a sub-premium hatchback, let alone a design that’s over a decade old, it’s remarkably versatile. True, the meagre 1.6-litre engine needs working to overcome its considerable mass on occasions, but even then it remains relatively civilised, with an excellent ride-handling balance and some of the most comfortable leather seats I’ve ever sat in. What’s more, throughout the whole trip it’s averaged comfortably more than it does on my usual suburban commute, so it seems this very ordinary car’s trip into some extraordinary surroundings has categorically done it good.

New arrival

It’s said the best things in life are worth waiting for. Yet, a month after the TVR had gone I was about to starting to dispute that. Mid-summer had come and gone during one of the hottest and sunniest periods of recent years, and all the while the B-roads were sat quiet, empty and inviting, yet I had nothing to play with.

Finally, yesterday, that was put right. After a bumpy ride which had seen me looking at the best part of a dozen cars and nearly buying two I eventually struck gold, or rather metallic blue, in the form of an ex-competition car from Scotland. It was built to contest Roadsport A – at the time the fastest class in the Caterham Cup – and features a very healthy spec including a close ratio 6-speed gearbox, limited slip differential and Minister-built 1.6 Supersport powerplant.

Waiting for it to arrive on Thursday morning I sat with some trepidation. The car was coming all the way from Argyll and I’d never seen it in the flesh before. I’d spoken with Mike, the seller, at some length and poured over endless photos, but there was still a slight anxiety about how it would appear in the flesh.

I needn’t have worried. Yes, it bears a few battle scars up close, but it’s actually in remarkably good condition for a retired racing car. Its bodywork glinted in the morning sun as we offloaded it from the trailer and the engine burst into life with an enthusiastic rasp as I headed off for the maiden voyage. In my haste I’d elected to leave the sidescreens in the garage, along with all my tools; both of which turned out to be a mistake.


First impressions were of a very rapid little car. In theory the engine produces the same power output as the factory Supersport, but in reality the Minister unit felt distinctly more athletic. That said, the impression of speed was greatly exaggerated by the lack of sidescreens, which I rapidly learned was a big mistake. Above about 50mph I had to squint to try and maintain my vision and as the national limit approached there was a very real chance of my glasses taking off.

That, however, was the least of my worries as, a few miles later, the rear bracket of the exhaust decided to detach itself, leaving the tailpipe skimming the road. A couple of superficial burns to my hand and a makeshift bracket constructed out of an old shoelace later I was ready to go. Unfortunately, the car was not. The dreaded ‘Caterham click’ issue had struck, ceasing the starter motor and leaving me stranded.

My first reaction was to try and overcome it with some more volts and it just so happened a van had recently pulled up at a nearby house. I went over to ask if the driver had any jump leads and it turned out not only that he did, but also that he was a former Caterham racer and member of the local motor club. My luck seemed to be improving. A simple jump start got the car running again and the improvised exhaust mounting saw me home without incident.

I probably should have left it there until the exhaust was fixed, but temptation got the better of me, and that evening I headed out for a quick blast. It turned out to be a truly phenomenal drive - one of those really gratuitous occasions where you don't even kid yourself you're going out for a pint of milk, you just hoon around childishly. I didn’t go off to anywhere far flung and I didn’t seek out any particularly epic roads, but just buzzing around the local B-roads in the warm evening sunshine felt sublime. It was pure automotive indulgence.

Arriving back in time for a nice cool beer I felt eminently satisfied with my purchase. True there are a few things on the ‘to do’ list, not least the exhaust, but I seem to have bonded very rapidly with ‘the wee car’ as its Scottish builder used to refer to it. Evidently it was worth the wait after all.

Le Mans 2009 - part 1

Whisper this, but I’d never actually been to Le Mans before this year. It seemed any petrolhead worth his salt considered the place a sort of spiritual home, but not me. I was a Le Mans virgin. I suppose there is a first time for everyone though and in my case that was earlier this month.

Day 1
It was an inauspicious start to be honest; moderate traffic and light drizzle for an unexceptional run down to the tunnel on Wednesday morning. One villainously over-priced croissant, a slurp of orange juice and a few chapters of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas and I was out into the overcast gloom of northern France.

Somehow the Focus didn’t quite cut it with the Ferraris and Aston Martins disembarking at the same time. I’d sold the TVR a week and a half previously, so I had no real choice in the matter, yet part of me was actually quite glad of this as the heavens opened near Rouen. It may have about as much charisma as any other metallic gray repmobile, but the humble Ford really does impress with its refinement. The engine is barely audible at motorway speed and even though wind and tyre noise are a bit more pronounced the Focus is still streets ahead of many of the more evocative Le Mans choices in this respect. Likewise, the route – straight down the A28 – may have been a little unadventurous, but with a tight schedule to keep and zealous gendarmes potentially perched behind every tree I set a steady 130kph and cruised on to Le Mans. After all, I was on business.

The first job when I arrived was to rendezvous with the rest of the Race Tech crew at the press accreditation centre. It was also my first chance to take a proper look at editor William’s 1938 Bentley special, which to be honest figured pretty high in my list of priorities. I’d been keen to see the car since I’d joined the magazine last September. And so, curiosity satisfied and accreditation complete, it was time to head back to my first hotel, the Mercure in Le Mans centre.


That evening we were due to attending a dinner near the circuit, so after a brief rest, William brought the Bentley round to the hotel and I followed him and publishing director Soheila out to Arnage. Or at least I tried to. Slight navigational issues intervened to give the evening a rather surreal atmosphere. Chasing the Bentley’s art-decco tail through the gloomy half-lit back streets of Le Mans was pure film noir, and the plot was about to thicken. It dawned on me that were starting to pass familiar landmarks and in fact we were going round in circles.

This trend developed as we somehow progressed into the countryside only to continue driving in circles. It didn’t matter though, we were close enough to here the racing engines scream past as free practice unfolded, and the Bentley’s elegant frame blended perfectly with the time-warp landscape that bordered the circuit. Le Mans had begun.


Day 2
That morning, still fuelled by what was undoubtedly the best dinner I’ve ever had the previous night, I ventured out towards the circuit. It was due to be a day of preparation – both for us and the teams. While they performed last minute setup changes before the evening’s qualifying session, we secured a prime spot in the Le Mans press office and, later, I headed into the town centre to pick up the latest addition to our squad.

Steve Bridges’ day job is promoting industry (and in particularly motorsport) for the Commonwealth of Virginia, but in his spare time he’s also a track marshal and unofficial ambassador for Virginia International Raceway – the hidden gem sometimes referred to America’s Nürburgring. And now he was about to add another title to his collection: Race Tech’s official photographer.

After meeting at the station and proceeding to accreditation again, we decided to head back to get some rest ahead of that evening’s qualifying. For the rest of the week we were both staying in a small farmhouse near Teloche, about seven miles away from the circuit. The route out into the sticks seemed straightforward enough but, as we were about to find out, things were a little complicated. Thanks to the unique nature of Le Mans, most of the roads out to the BnB either formed or intersected part of the circuit and we came to numerous roadblocks only to be turned away by stony-faced gendarmes. Eventually we made our way down a narrow gravel track to the farmhouse, sheltered from the afternoon sun by the shade of an old barn.


That evening, after struggling through the pleasantries with our hosts in broken Franglais, we returned to the circuit. At this point two joys of being a member of the press highlighted themselves. Firstly, we had access right up to the crash barrier on several parts of the circuit, including the Esses just before the Dunlop Bridge. The sense of smugness this generated in both of us was palpable as the pietons sat some 50 yards further back crammed behind the catch fence. Secondly, this jammyness only increased as we discovered the various hospitality units were open for business.

After a very pleasant meal care of Peugeot – Chris Harries once remarked the free dinners were the best part of this job and he’s not far wrong – we headed back out to watch the end of qualifying. Despite the 908’s general air of dominance, Allan McNish had set a blistering time in the Audi in the first half, which seemed unbreakable. However, as the final session drew to a close, with the track now engulfed in darkness, Frenchmen Stephane Sarrazin flew through to take the pole for Peugeot. Things were looking very good indeed for the car I’d witnessed the birth of back in February.


Day 3

Friday is rebuild day for the teams at Le Mans. An army of mechanics take to the cars changing engines, gearboxes, bodywork sections and just about anything else that bears any risk of detaching itself or degrading over the course of the race. We, meanwhile, set to delivering magazines and securing interviews with the various team owners and race engineers floating around.

The paddock at Le Mans has a unique atmosphere, which seems so much more organic than the rather clinical condition encountered at a grand prix. Access is far less restricted and, despite a very serious job in hand, the feeling is far more relaxed. All of this seems to put the teams at ease, but if you really need to break the ice, I found three little letters which were guaranteed to do the trick. The ACO, or Automobile Club de l'Ouest, has been running the race since its inception in 1923, and in the 86 years since then they have rarely seen eye-to-eye with the competitors. I rapidly discovered this was a favoured topic of conversation and guaranteed to produce the start of a long, frank conversation.


After a productive day at the coalface it was time to experience the carnival atmosphere that surrounds Le Mans. All four of us clambered into the twin cockpits of the Bentley – separated fore and aft like the pilot and gunner in a vintage fighter plane, with William and Soheila up front and Steve and I in the back. As we set off into the twilight, the circuit’s floodlights glowing in the background, the evening once again took on a slightly surreal aspect, however this time it was an altogether more visceral experience.


We were just approaching the exit when the first barrage of Mad Friday began. A large crowd lined the road and a torrent of water pistol fire came from both sides. Then – bam – a water bomb landed square on the cowl in front of the rear seats, showering me and Steve. We ploughed on towards the town, dodging the broken bottles on the side of the road and attempting to pick our way past the drunken revellers.

A circuit of Le Mans on Friday night is a must. The mood hovers somewhere between good-natured fun and a full-on riot, but somehow it stops just short of being excessive. The Bentley proved extremely popular, particularly with the hordes of Brits who lined the streets, and every so often William would open it up to unleash a deep rasp from the exhaust and a great cheer from the crowd. Because of this we probably got away rather lightly as we cruised through Mulsanne and onto the town centre, but it still remained an exciting – and damp – experience.


As we drove through the centre, past the floodlit cafes, and the cathedral front that Steve McQueen drives past in the famous movie homage to the event, we shared the streets with a mouth-watering array of machinery. A Ferrari 599, a vintage Aston Martin International and an enthusiastically driven French-registered Lotus Esprit V8 were just some of the ‘spotteds’ along the way. And then we turned off the main roads and down a narrow side street, which it later transpired was jam packed with Brits. Yet again the car acted like cat nip for the drunken fans, with a wall of camera phones raised in front of us and drunken greetings issuing from every direction. It looked like we would have to come to a halt but, wisely, William kept us crawling through the dense crowd until an opening appeared. As he opened the taps the old Bentley catapulted forward with surprising force, the crowd cheered, and we drove off into the cool night air.

Le Mans 2009 - part 2

Having survived Mad Friday and the drive down, the race itself begins...


Day 4
By Saturday we’d figured out a nice back way into the circuit, which brought us in away from the increasingly congested main entrance. However, as we approached on the morning of the race it seemed the gendarmes had blocked this off and we approached a typically humourless officer, who explained to us (we thought) in French that we needed a different colour parking sticking to enter this way. For a second the thought occurred, why not just go for broke, dump the clutch and steam our way past the road block? “Better not,” mused Steve, “he’s got a gun.”

We reached the track just in time for the start of the historic race. This was a slightly mixed affair, with some of the racers treating us to a fantastic display of four-wheel drifts with a classic soundtrack, while some pottered around at a more sedate rate. Given many of the cars were worth more than my house the latter is probably sensible. It’s just not quite as fun though.

About an hour before the start of the main race we pitched up at the Peugeot hospitality unit overlooking the pits and secured a spot by the window. As 3pm approached the cars went off behind the safety car for the formation lap, and then silence. The procedure may have changed, but you could feel a tangible link to the famous start sequence in the Steve McQueen film. The grandstands went quiet and the crowd’s collective pulse began to rise, faster and faster. Then came the noise. The combination of cheering fans and angry racing cars reached a crescendo as Ferrari chairman Luca di Montezemolo dropped the flag, and Le Mans 2009 was go.

The beginning of the race was eventful to say the least, with GT1 Lamborghini retiring after two (although it has since been suggested the remarkably relaxed team were in fact there to boost its resale value and had no intention of going any further). Two of the Audis went for off-track excursions during the first couple of hours and, not to be outdone, a pair of Peugeots T-boned each other during the first round of pitstops.


As the race progressed a beautiful sunset lit the sky with a rich purple glow that provided ideal photo conditions. I headed up to the Dunlop Bridge to take a few shots and, on my return, came across one of the stricken Audis under a tarpaulin. The car was completely covered and unidentifiable barring the branding on the dust cover and the fact it was boarding an Audi transporter, so there seemed no harm in recording the moment.

The marshals, it seemed, did not agree and all hell broke loose. One of them charged at me furiously yelling something in French. Quite why – given I was yards away from a see-through fence behind which were 300,000 spectators armed with camera phones – I’m not sure, but the ranting Gallic lunatic then tried to physically grab my camera. Holding it at arms length and fiercely protesting my innocence I retreated to the gate frantically gesturing towards my press pass and photographer’s bib. I later found out there’s a gentleman’s agreement between the French photographers and the organisers not to take photos of broken cars, even when the interesting bits are safely covered and it’s in full view of the public. Now how did I not work that out in the first place? Still it’s not every day you get physically assaulted by a moronic jobsworth in a dayglo orange vest.


Day 5

As we came back to the circuit on Sunday morning the drone of race engines reverberated around the grandstands. The field was quite well separated by sunrise and the sound of the individual cars going past took on a rather more sombre note than the cacophony of the early stages. As ever the diesels provided one end of the spectrum with an eerie whoosh – more wind noise than revs – while the GT1 Corvettes provided a dramatic counterpoint with their old school V8 bellow and sheets of flame on overrun.

The race had settled into a rhythm, with the leading Peugeots first and second, Audi in third and the Gulf-liveried Lola Aston Martin of Thomas Enge and friends in fourth. I headed out to work exchanging magazines for interviews, until about an hour before the end, when we all converged on the Peugeot hospitality area once more.


With ten minutes to go the lead car appeared to slow down. Confusion reigned around the cheeseboard – did he have a problem? Far from it actually; it seems Peugeot had slowed the car down as part of a carefully orchestrated photo-finish. Confidence was evidently high in the team, and so it seemed at the bar, as the waiter lined up a row of glasses and filled each to the brim with champagne. Sure enough, three and a half minutes later there was a deafening roar from the elated home-crowd as the 908s swept past the grandstands to take the chequered flag. Inside the mood was similarly ecstatic as the drivers’ families watched the car cross the line, and we stayed to soak up the atmosphere, not to mention what remained of the Lanson.

After braving the pitlane crowds for the podium celebrations, we went for a walk around the site. It was quite strange how quickly the event died down – before long the grandstands were thinning and the seats on the iconic Ferris wheel were being taken down. However, it turned out the party was about to begin.


The Peugeot team’s after race celebrations began quite sedately, with a rather corporate presentation to the winning drivers and a succession of somewhat restrained speeches. Then something we didn’t expect happened – the Germans turned up. Audi walked over to congratulate their adversaries in what could have been rather hollow move, but instead turned out to be a deeply sporting gesture. They received a standing ovation from the victorious French team as they walked up the stairs to the main part of the suite, and there was a feeling that the pre-race mud slinging between the two companies had well and truly been left behind.

From that point the music rapidly got louder and livelier, the corks started to pop and atmosphere became electric. Along the top of the bar an assortment of Le Mans winners, mostly past or present Formula One drivers, in various states of undress were spraying the crowd with champagne. Beneath them Audi motorsport supremo Dr Wolfgang Ullrich and drivers like Allan McNish were taking to the dance floor. And so, as the evening unfolded, Sunday night at Le Mans morphed progressively into Friday night at Austin Powers’ pad.



Many hours later, as the crowds finally began to thin we emerged. Steve and the others had consumed several bottles of champagne by this point but, as designated driver, I was alarmingly sober. This did, however, have an upside. It meant when the urge to drive round the recently re-opened road sections of the course hit us at about 2am we were perfectly positioned to respond. Sat-nav armed with the start of the D338, we set out and picked up the circuit at Tertre Rouge.

Even the Focus proved a pretty special place to be as we accelerated down the start of the Mulsanne Straight. Rapidly the wind noise took over from the hopelessly un-Porsche-917 engine note and we cruised past the first and second chicanes (cordoned off now the race had finished) and on to the roundabout that forms Mulsanne Corner. Back on the gas, we followed the road as it kinked to the right, flanked by Armco to the sides and bordered above by a Shell advertising banner.


Next Indianapolis Corner appeared in the dim light of the Ford’s headlights and we swept to the right, clipping the rumble strip on our side of the road, before braking hard into the left hander that follows. Off the brakes, I turned into the corner with Focus’ tyres complaining bitterly and its inhabitants grinning like imbeciles. “Curb on the left, curb on the right, second gear, third gear, fourth gear” recited Steve doing his best Allan McNish impersonation as a slight lift brought the Focus’ wayward nose back into line. Next, the road reached a junction where we took a square right to follow the circuit around Arnage Corner. A short distance further up the road the track veered off to the right in what becomes the Porsche Curve. Alas a pair of substantial looking barriers forced us to continue along the road towards Arnage instead, and with that our trip around (part of) the Le Mans circuit came to a close. But the night was young and gendarmes appeared to have gone home, so instead we elected to turn round and do the whole thing again. Twice... Well, it would have been rude not to.


Day 6
Monday morning began early as I took Steve to the train station in Le Mans for the 7:30 train. As with the rest of the week it was something that could have been a chore, but turned out to be anything but. The whole event had been fantastic and, along with the rest of the Race Tech team, Steve’s knowledge and humour had made it far more than the corporate business trip it could have been.

After dropping him off I headed for the channel, with the roads once again deserted as the remaining fans slept off their hangovers. The gendarmes, however, were up and out, but thankfully still not in the sort of force I’d expected. I managed to spot a couple of lightly camouflaged speed traps on the latter stretch of the A16 heading in towards Calais and boarded the Eurotunnel unscathed. Emerging on the other side, and for perhaps the first time ever, I felt rather glad to be on roads with UK speed enforcement and not their altogether sneakier continental cousins. And, with that, my first Le Mans week drew to a close. It had been a fantastic introduction to the race and one which cemented many lasting memories. What’s more it was a rite of passage; next year I won’t be approaching the event as a Le Mans virgin.

Run to the hills

Day One
It’s 7:15pm, on an unseasonably mild February evening at Reading Services on the M4, and I’m sitting outside on the grass bank that lines one side of the car park. I’m waiting for my best mate and fellow car nut Ian Robinson. A few feet away on the tarmac the TVR sits gleaming under the spot lights, and somewhere on the M25 Ian is nearing the rendezvous in his Fiat Panda 100HP.

The aim of the next couple of days is twofold. Firstly, we’re travelling down to Llandow race circuit near Cardiff, ostensibly to write a story on the Adrenaline Motorsport’s Murtaya Britcar entry for Race Tech, but also to take the TVR on track. Secondly, it seems a shame not to pay a visit to the Brecon Beacons – said to be the home of some of Britain’s best driving roads – while we’re there.

A phone call signals the arrival of the mighty Panda and within minutes we’re heading out onto the motorway. Having had various tip offs about good roads I’ve loaded a mind bogglingly complex route into the sat nav and so all that remains is to press go. At least in theory.

Day Two
Day two dawns early as we scoff an unusual breakfast of Y-Fenni cheese on toast and set off towards the circuit. I can’t deny I’m feeling slightly apprehensive about taking the TVR on track, after my last, (somewhat sobering) attempt was plagued by unpredictable bouts of snap oversteer. It wasn’t really a problem then, but Llandow, unlike North Weald airfield, has very little run off area. What’s more I know from past experience just how quick the Murtayas and the tuned Imprezas due to turn up can be. I fully expect to be scared witless as banzai 600bhp monsters fly by left right and centre.



I do have a couple of tricks up my sleeve though. Since last time I’ve had the front ride height raised to the correct level and, after we park up at the track, I set to work adjusting the dampers. The first few laps are taken cautiously, and then it hits me: The car is handling well. Really, really well. It feels far more planted at high speeds, with a fundamentally neutral balance that can be coaxed into oversteer using the throttle at low speeds, or a slight lift to tuck the nose in at higher speeds. The change is simply unbelievable and the new package is nothing short of sublime.

However, as I start to get carried away, it feels like the rear tyres are suffering somewhat so I head back to the pits. After a few minutes for them to cool down, Ian and I head back out, but something appears to have gone very badly wrong. There’s a massive vibration coming from the rear of the car and we nurse it round to the pits. Trying not to think of wheel bearing failures or broken suspension arms, the only other option seems to be a loose wheel, so I head straight for the rear left. It’s the only wheel that renowned specialists The TVR Centre needed to remove for the recent fuel sender change and sure enough it’s loose. I let off a stream of expletives and settle into a daze – minutes before we were doing 100mph towards a very solid looking crash barrier, dependant on that wheel for safety.

After torqueing the wheel nuts up – something that one of North London’s most expensive garages is seemingly incapable of doing – we head back onto the circuit. Fortunately the car is once again handling fantastically and, confident it’s no longer likely to kill either of us, I come in to swap seats with Ian. “Have fun,” I explain. “But just remember: if you break it, you pay for it!”



Even from the passenger seat the S3 makes for a fantastic ride. Ian has always been quicker to adapt to things than I am and we’re doing a very respectable pace right from the first lap. On about the fourth attempt we come into the bus stop chicane just after the start/finish straight. As he goes for the power on the second left-hander the back end starts to come round and Ian steers into it but overcorrects and sends us into a tank-slapper. The final rotation sees the car pirouetting back to the left, where we finish on a mercifully clear stretch of tarmac some yards away from the nearest barrier.

“That was fun!” I exclaim, but Ian isn’t quite so sure, so we return to the pits for another driver swap. It later transpires that he managed to dislocate his thumb during the first part of the drama and this may well have been the reason we ended up spinning. Sadly it marks the end of his circuit driving for the day. For me, however, the next outing proves to be a rather special one. The Murtaya demonstrator is out of action but, explains Neil Yates of Adrenaline, I can do a few laps in the racer if I like.

Minutes later I’m struggling to post my less-than-athletic form through the roll cage of the enclosed GT racer. Ingress is a mild challenge, but the real problem comes from trying to fit my crash helmet once I’m inside. The boxer engine’s staccato note fires up and then settles to a bassy idle as works driver James Harrison gives me a few last points: “Try and be smooth, only use 2nd, 3rd and 4th and make sure you short shift coming out of the bus stop.” My apprehension builds as we head out onto the circuit. Pulling out onto the track I take the first trip through the chicane very gently and short shift into third as requested. As I feed the power in towards the first straight it dawns on me that actually this production class racer has significantly less power than the wild road-going demonstrator I sampled last summer.



Nonetheless it feels very much a race car, with the stripped out dash, integral roll cage and plumbed-in fire extinguisher. The characteristic wave of turbocharged torque remains, as does the chirp from the waste gates when you lift off. Beside me, James is proving to be an excellent instructor. He points out a few new lines – particularly through the tricky high speed chicane towards the end of the lap – and provides plenty of encouragement. “Ok, this time go into 5th,” he says. “Good now keep the throttle pinned – pin it – don’t touch the brakes – now brake!” We fly around the long final corner, with the front tyres just starting to give way to mild understeer before slingshotting past one of the road going Scoobys like it’s stuck in reverse. One lap later we return to the pits and I pause to catch my breath before beginning the predictably tortuous extraction process.

In the afternoon I return to the track in the TVR and put some of James’ advice into practice. With the rear dampers turned up another notch and a bit more familiarity with the track I’m starting to make quite respectable process. To my astonishment ‘the baby TVR’ makes its way past several Imprezas, a track prepared Clio 182 and even the odd Murtaya over the next couple of hours. I still can’t believe the change – it simply wouldn’t have been possible one week previously even though they were obviously driving more gently than I was. As it is, my final trip onto the circuit at around 5pm sees the chequered flag hung out from the control tower. I never expected as much track time, nor for the TVR to be so entertaining. I return unbelievably chuffed to the car park and, after saying our goodbyes to the other drivers, Ian and I set off in convoy back to the B&B.

Day Three
It’s another early start on Sunday and another fine breakfast at Rectory Cottage. Today, in theory, is the big one, with a full itinerary planned out taking us over some of the most spectacular roads in Wales. We head out with the Tom Tom in control – me in front in the TVR and Ian following behind in the Panda. From the start it’s obvious that yesterday’s track setup greatly enhances things on the road too. What it loses in ride comfort over the broken tarmac, it more than makes up for with improved body control and greater composure.

After skirting the Beacons on the Head of the Valleys Road for some miles we wind our way through the ominously grey streets of one last Valleys town, before suddenly the road opens out over a cattle grid and we’re thrust onto the moor. There’s little here other than the occasional sheep and mile after mile of windswept heathland. It’s a truly breathtaking location and, as promised, a fine road. Unfortunately the local topography lends itself to repeated blind crests which slow the progress somewhat in a low slung car on an unfamiliar road, but the views are every bit as epic as anticipated. Apart from a few lost tourists acting as mobile chicanes we’re alone until a pair of Porsches streak past in the opposite direction as we descend into Langynidr.



There we once again place our trust in the sat nav, which takes us up to Brecon on the B4588 as planned. It makes for a very picturesque route, but with a narrow road, tall hedges and a dawdling Vauxhall ahead, not one for hooning. However, after a short trip along the A470 we find something altogether more satisfying.

The A4059 starts off inconspicuously, sweeping through a patch of conifers, before emerging onto the open moorland. Pausing for photographs, we spot patches of snow remaining on the opposite side of the valley and a cool wind whistles past the camera. Nonetheless, it’s time to take the hood panels off and, once safely stowed in the back of the Panda, we make our way back onto the road. And what a road... it snakes over the Beacons with reasonable visibility and a good surface all the way. The fast sweeping corners flow into each other with short straights between them and the occasional tighter bend thrown in for good measure. It’s my first chance to really exercise the TVR today and the long gearing, hairy-chested torque and new-found high speed stability suddenly come into their own. With the roof down every last blipped down change is heard in glorious stereo and the pace starts to rise. Life is good.

After a brief spell back on the dual carriageway, we pick up the A4109. It’s only supposed to be a connecting route, but it proves quite an entertaining drive in itself. The slow trundle through the streets of Brynamman that follows may not be quite so exciting, but what is to come more than makes up for it.



Once again civilisation rolls back to plunge us into the wilderness. But this isn’t just any patch of wilderness; it marks the start of the A4069, the infamous Black Mountain Road. After briefly lulling us into a false sense of security it starts to live up to its reputation. The sides of the road close in, with an unremitting stream of jagged rocks marking out its boundaries and a series of adverse cambers. What’s more the surface changes to a dark tarmac with curiously shiny flakes imbedded in it that the TVR’s Bridgestones don’t like one bit. We slither cautiously around the corners until the surface changes and the road widens somewhat just uphill of the old quarry that sits by the summit of the Black Mountain. Back on the gas, we slingshot down the next half a mile or so until we reach what is possibly the most famous photo location in UK motoring journalism.

The ‘Evo Hairpin’ as it’s often dubbed perches high up on the side of the valley, offering incredible views over the northern tip of the Brecon Beacons. For this very reason we slow down looking for somewhere to take a few photos and pull up on the outside of the bend next to a beautifully prepared TVR Griffith. There’s a tremendous camaraderie between TVR drivers and they always seem to be up for a chat with like-minded enthusiasts. Wyn Davies is no exception - it turns out he owned a string of V8 TVR ‘Wedges’ before adopting the immaculate black Griffith you see in the picture. He gives us the benefit of some local knowledge regarding the Mid Wales roads, before heading off in a thunderous symphony of V8 revs and protesting tyres.

As we make our way back down the valley the narrow mountain road jinks left and right clinging to the side of the hill, with regular bumps and camber changes to keep us on our toes. Aided by the new setup the TVR is digging in out of the slow corners and catapulting itself down the road with impressive force. The tenacious little Panda isn’t losing any significant amount of ground either though, as we bang and pop our way off the moor.



What the next stretch of the A4069 lacks in visual impact compared to its high mountain section, it makes up for with better visibility and a wider, more reliable road surface. We swoop down under the trees, apex to apex with barely a dab of the brakes as the road flows towards its northern tip at Llangadog. It’s so good that we turn around as the road flattens out and make a return trip up to the quarry. On the ascent, with the road now more familiar, we up the pace a little. The TVR’s torque becomes a clear advantage on the uphill stretch, but the diminutive Fiat is doing a good job of staying in touch. I’m learning that it pays to dip down into second gear – if nothing else it gives the excuse for a self indulgent down change – but it makes for quite an interesting ride as the wheels spin up and S3’s rear skips nervously over one of the more pronounced bumps. This is not a road to be taken lightly, but it certainly rewards when you get it right, particularly in the southerly direction. At the top we turn around and head back down with ever increasing grins.

This descent fundamentally marks the end of our Brecon Beacons route, but after lunch and an hour or so burbling along behind tourist traffic on the A40 we found an unexpected highlight. The B4235 starts off as a pleasant, but fairly unassuming country road. It gets progressively twistier as you head towards Chepstow, culminating in an almost alpine series of Armco-lined switchbacks under the trees. Once again a repeat is in order and we go back to a point about half way up before turning around. Setting off we encounter two bikers who approach from behind. After a brief spell it’s clear that lead rider is able to make more progress than us on the more open stretch, so I signal to let him past.



Tagging on behind I can get a much better idea of where the roads goes and I keep up for a time before the bike edges out of view. Then something happens. It all starts to come together and the TVR and I start covering ground a lot more rapidly. Coming back into the tighter section, the improved body control offered by the new setup and superb feedback from the front wheels allows me to exploit the excellent road surface. The bike comes back into view and soon, along the tightest stretch, I find myself gaining on him. For a couple of hundred yards we go along in unison until a slower car spoils my fun and he disappears into the distance. It doesn’t matter though, because I’m grinning like an idiot after one of the defining driving experiences of my life. I’m still in this state of delirium as the Panda comes back into view behind, with the second biker still tucked in behind it. It seems a good drive was had by all!

Shortly afterwards we pull into a service station, buzzing with adrenaline, before commencing the long slog back to London. It’s been a superb weekend, one with some unexpected bonuses, yet - perhaps more impressively - absolutely no disappointments. It seems a repeat is definitely called for – but one thing’s for sure – we won’t forget this trip in a hurry.