Don't Stop Me Now
Porsche 911
As you read this, a ship called the Terrier is forging a path across the bitter north Atlantic on its way from the eastern seaboard of America to the north coast of Germany. I hope she has a smooth and unruffled passage, because in her bowels is something very precious. My brand new Ford GT.
I first drove this 212 mph monster about two years ago in Detroit, and I pretty much knew as I flew home that I simply had to have one. I mean, it was a modern-day incarnation of my childhood dream machine, the GT40, the car that had been built to take a working-class sledgehammer to Ferrari’s aristocratic dominance of European motor sport. And a car that had done just that by winning Le Mans four times on the trot.
Unfortunately, by the time I got round to ringing Ford, it had already had 2,000 serious enquiries about the 28 GTs that would be coming to Britain. It seemed bleak, but I was at journalism college with Ford’s head of PR, so guess what? I was squeezed on to the list of accepted customers between Damon Hill, Martin Brundle, Eddie Jordan and Ron Dennis.
This was certainly the first time I’d ordered anything without having a clue about how much it would cost. But in hushed whispers Ford was saying I should think along the lines of the Ferrari 360. So that meant a whisker under £100,000. And that seemed all right, for the realisation of a dream.
What’s more, as the months rolled by, the dollar weakened until we were teetering on a two-to-one exchange rate. I even started to think it might be under £4.50. I was happy.
And then everything started to go wrong.
First of all, the cars went on sale in America, but there was no sign of any coming to Europe. ‘Ah,’ said my friend at Ford, ‘that’s because we have to change the lights and the exhaust system before it can be sold here.’
Now look: the BBC was recently asked to make 18 episodes of Top Gear for the American market in which all references to petrol, bonnets, pounds sterling, boots, motorways, footpaths and bumpers were altered.
On top of this, all mentions of Bolton Wanderers and wellington boots had to be expunged. And we did that in a week. So how come it had taken the world’s third-biggest car firm six months to fit its flagship with a new exhaust pipe? Then I was sent a recall notice, saying the front suspension was likely to crumble and that the car must not be driven under any circumstances. Well, that was unlikely, since the parts for mine were still being dug out of the ground.
Then the delivery date slipped from Christmas to Easter, I suspect because Ford in America had lost its atlas and couldn’t remember where Britain was.
And then they announced the price. Despite the whispers and the exchange rate, the car was going to cost £120,677 plus £2,79° for stripes, £1,600 for the fancy wheels, £160 for the road fund licence, £38 for the first registration fee, £25 for number plates and £75 for the first tank of petrol. Which at 4 mpg wouldn’t even get me home from the dealership. Gulp.
People kept telling me not to worry because GTs imported privately from the US were being sold in Britain for £180,000, and I was still in profit.
But I hadn’t ordered this car to turn a buck.
I’d ordered this car because I have the mental age of a seven-year-old, and I wanted a 5.1-litre supercharged monster to play with.
I know of course that it won’t fit in any parking space and that every penny I earn will be used to feed its fuel injectors. I also know that people will point as I rumble by and say, ‘Ooh look. There goes someone who can’t afford a Ferrari Enzo.’
I know too that it has no satellite navigation, no hands-free phone, no traction control and that the exhaust system, the very thing that has delayed the car for so long, will have to be replaced with the louder, squirrel-killing American set-up.
But I don’t care. I don’t care about the wait, the price or what anyone will think. Because I’m going to be travelling at 3½ miles a minute in the best-looking, most evocative, most exciting, muscle-bound meat machine the world has seen.
And now it’s time to talk about Porsche. Yes, I know I talked about the Boxster last week, and there was a review of the new convertible the week before that, but I haven’t finished yet. Because I’ve just been driving the bog standard two-wheel-drive 3.6-litre 911.
As you may know, I’ve never really liked the 911 because over the years it’s adhered to a flawed basic premise. That the engine should be in the back.
Yes, as the car squats under fierce acceleration, this layout gives you better traction. But in the bends it becomes a giant pendulum, using the laws of physics to swing you clean off the road. So, as you scream along your favourite bit of blacktop, there’s always been a worry that you’re messing with the forces of nature.
It’s like being an anti-terrorist policeman. You get it right for year after year and nothing happens. But if you get it wrong just once, everyone in London ends up with 14 ears and lungs like walnuts. This makes the job a bit unrewarding somehow.
Now, though, after 40 years of constant development, the rear is held in place as firmly as Lake Mead. Which means the latest models are sculptured proof that, in a battle for supremacy between God and German engineering, beardy is always going to finish second. A modern 911 shouldn’t work, but it does. Brilliantly.
There’s a lightness to the steering that you just don’t get in any other car. It whispers information to your fingertips about what the front wheels are doing and how they’re feeling. Driving a 911 is like making love to someone you care for in the bridal suite of the Georges V Hôtel in Paris. It makes my GT feel like a knee-trembler among the empties outside a Rotherham nightclub.
And, on top of this, a 911 is beautifully made and small, so you can use it every day. Also, it has two small seats in the back, a usable boot, and prices start under £60,000.
This, then, is a 177 mph car that you can choose with your head and your heart. It’ll make love to your fingertips and stir your soul. There is no part of your body that it will not stimulate and caress. But don’t, whatever you do, buy the convertible, because this won’t stroke your penis. It’ll make you look like one.
You can’t, when you’ve got a hair hole, and a gut the size of one of Saturn’s moons, drive through the middle of a populated area with the roof off any car. Trundling along with the sun on your face and a breeze in your hair may feel nice, but it’s as stupid as walking into the Ivy with a 12-year-old Russian hooker. People are going to snigger.
And it’s especially sniggersome in a 911. Because this makes you look like a prize vegetable even when the roof is up.
You see, all convertibles are engineering and dynamic compromises. They are heavier and less stiff than their hardtop brothers. That makes them slower and less wieldy, which doesn’t matter if you’re talking about a cut-down version of a car that wasn’t much good anyway. But it does matter with a 911.
This is a purist’s driving machine, an adrenalin pump. Every last detail was designed to maximise the score on the driver-o-meter. So removing the roof is like removing the laces from your training shoes. It’s only a small change but it ruins everything.
And don’t try to tell me that a convertible Porsche is more finely honed and more delicate than my big Ford because, while this may be true, I have an answer already prepared. In my GT I shall look like Steve McQueen. In your drop-top 911 you’ll look like Robert Kilroy-Silk.
Sunday 13 March 2005
Don’t Stop Me Now