Who’s been most afraid of the Bugatti
Veyron? Those who had to engineer it? The people who had to pay for it? VW
Group shareholders? No. It’s our Anthony, and this is his moment
Nervous? Of course I’m bloody nervous.
Granted, as feats of automotive endeavour go, punting a Veyron Grand Sport
Vitesse past the 200mph mark falls a tad short of Andy Green thumping through
the sound barrier with what Mr Petrol would describe as ‘a dab of oppose’ dialled
in.
Granted,
as feats of automotive endeavour go, punting a Veyron Grand Sport Vitesse past
the 200mph mark falls a tad short of Andy Green thumping through the sound
barrier with what Mr Petrol would describe as ‘a dab of oppose’ dialled in.
But Mr Green had an entire county of
crusted salt to himself, whilst I shall have to contend with everyday traffic
and the unpredictability of Mr and Mrs Middle-Lane-Mitherer, who will be
rocking in the slipstream of a two tonne land-crab outstripping them, inches
away, by some i3omph...
Truth is, however, what’s worrying me most
is that my co-pilot for the day, Bugatti Official Driver Andy Wallace (yes,
that Andy Wallace: 1988 Le Mans winner and - courtesy of no little success at
the Brickyard - owner of four Rolex Daytonas which have never seen the light of
day because he doesn’t wear a watch), will play the ‘photo opportunity’ card: a
euphemism for ‘Christ, you’re crap. I’ll take it from here.’
And that would constitute every egg in the
world on my face. Because, with all 300 coupes sold and less than 20 Grand
Sport Vitesse models remaining (including 18 special edition Legends cars),
this is undoubtedly my one and only opportunity to drive Ferdinand Piech’s
pipe-dream-made-profoundly rapid pressed-metal reality.
Because,
with all 300 coupes sold and less than 20 Grand Sport Vitesse models remaining
(including 18 special edition Legends cars), this is undoubtedly my one and
only opportunity to drive Ferdinand Piech’s pipe-dream-made-profoundly rapid
pressed-metal reality.
Not, to my eye, the best-looking thing on
wheels, that reality. Nonetheless, its compact, muscular presence undeniably
enhanced by the promise of prodigious performance, the Veyron simply demands
your attention as it eases into view. That stupendous, 8.0-litre,
quadruple-turbo W16 powerplant ticks over with a unique and purposeful woofling
throb, which drums through the fuel-tank-housing double bulkhead separating
cockpit from open-topped engine bay to dominate the cabin.
Easing down Molsheim streets which have
seen it all before, the Grand Sport Vitesse doesn’t grouch along to the Ferrari
or Lamborghini soundtrack of Louis Armstrong saying ‘aaaaah’ for the doctor. It
merely thrums with malevolent intent: the suppressed heat and fury of a giant
hornet’s nest waiting to erupt at the thwack of a stick; collosal energy
straining for release; the mechanised hum of another world.
Yet, in traffic, Ii83bhp proves remarkably
docile and easy to live with. Though enormous, the W16 actually generates only
some 74-bhp per cylinder (about the same output as a VW Golf R), and that not
only leaves the engine surprisingly under-stressed and, as a result, durable,
but also delightfully docile when bogging about in traffic.
Though
enormous, the W16 actually generates only some 74-bhp per cylinder (about the
same output as a VW Golf R), and that not only leaves the engine surprisingly
under-stressed and, as a result, durable, but also delightfully docile when
bogging about in traffic.
Did I say docile? Oh. My. Giddy. Aunt. I
think I may have inadvertently deployed my entire expletive lexicon within the
first two seconds of Mr Wallace first unleashing the Veyron. The acceleration
is extra-ordinary. Mind-boggling. So far beyond rapid it’s just shattering. The
car simply imports the road ahead piecemeal, north-eastern France yelling
backwards as if some giant, malicious hand had grabbed the planet and given it
a vicious twist beneath the freewheeling Bugatti...
