RIDING SHOTGUN
THROUGH TV FEATURES IN THE LAST DECADE, I AM the only person to have ridden shotgun in four of these cars, on both road and track. Nothing equips you for the experience, not even drives in McLarenMercedes SLRs, Nismo GT-Rs or Ariel Atom V8s. Nothing can match the outright power, grip and feeling of wide-eyed vulnerability.
Cruising around Wolverhampton’s badlands in Andy’s Red Victor 2 was my first foray into the street dragster. The unfurnished cabin is no place for even the shoutiest of conversations. Mechanical noise – especially valvetrain – is deafening. It’s all flickering gauges and rows of toggle switches.
Like Andy’s car, John Sleath’s Audi took to the road with turbo boost backed right off. You’re tickling the lion’s chin, idling around. What struck me with both cars was their comfort. I’d braced myself in the various configurations of the roll-cage tubing, yet thanks to suspension setups and tall, chubby rear radials, in each car the ride was more compliant than, say, in an AMG Merc in Sport mode.
On track, I ran high-seven-second quarter-mile times in both Andy’s Red Victor 2 and John’s Audi. Suited up and tethered tight into your seat, the burnout smoke makes its way into the car. Then we ‘staged’ for the race. Eyes on the Christmas-tree start lights. Transbrake engaged and throttle on the mat. Turbos cackling and flaming. The amber light disappears and then it’s the feeling not of an engine, but travelling in a trebuchet. Totally un-car like.
The grip off the line and subsequent weight transfer were forces of strength my body never had to deal with until then. The acceleration didn’t relent. No pauses for transmission shifts. I remember not being able to focus my vision. Of course, everything was over in seconds, and then the G-force shifts as the parachute brake is deployed, making the car dive and shimmy. My mind was crème brûlée, yet I hadn’t even been the driver. Guys like Andy and John drive one-handed!
For the ultimate juxtaposition, we went to Waitrose for a prawn sandwich in the 3000bhp Red Victor 3. The sweet pungency of methanol enveloped the car, and exhaust condensation danced up the side windows on idle. Visibility dictated Andy’s chin-up driving posture.
In Saboury’s Vette we cruised past idyllic farmland and Amish ladies. He nodded at a piece of paper taped to the window (a tiny timing slip to remind passengers of what they’re sitting inside), cracked a smile and gave it a smidge of the throttle…
When the turbo dump valves ditched excess boost it sounded like a pair of CO2 fire extinguishers had been let off next to my face. Rod was grinning. I’d had a sample sensory battering of what a 0-338kmph-in -6.75sec car does. We then went to the police station to meet Rod’s friends. No joke.