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
Then there’s the tyre issue. Back in the
day when Mr Wallace was putting McLaren’s Fi through its 240mph paces, Michelin
told him that if he exceeded 248mph their radials would simply explode. The
ante has only been upped by 6mph since, but these Michelin PAXs are designed to
run for, erm, 15 minutes before giving up the ghost.
Michelin
told him that if he exceeded 248mph their radials would simply explode. The
ante has only been upped by 6mph since, but these Michelin PAXs are designed to
run for, erm, 15 minutes before giving up the ghost.
This, of course, can never happen, because
at full chat the Veyron will drain its 100-litre fuel tank in just 12 minutes,
63.5 miles of vicious blur later. Which, unless you own your own country, is
also never going to happen, because, even on de-restricted autobahns, flooring
the throttle for even 12 seconds proves a massive ask.
‘Right, give it a go,’ commands Wallace as
the lane ahead suddenly clears. Already lopping along at over loomph, the
Bugatti instantly erupts into a headlong charge that will outstrip a Formula 1
car. Wallace says that as the McLaren Fi approached its top speed it was ‘all
over the place’, but the Veyron remains 100-year-old-oak-planted, utterly
unflappable.
Wallace
says that as the McLaren Fi approached its top speed it was ‘all over the
place’, but the Veyron remains 100-year-old-oak-planted, utterly unflappable.
Indeed, the drama is largely reserved for
the eyeballs and adrenal gland, the car taking all in its stride with
astonishing insouciance, simply rocking back fractionally on its heels and
exploding forwards in a seamless surge of unrelenting urgency, the second and
third numerals of the digital speedo flitting through their decimal repertoire
at the pace of the pence department on a BP forecourt petrol pump.
The role played in proceedings by an
utterly outstanding seven-speed, dual-clutch transmission cannot be
underestimated. Quite how Ricardo’s engineers have managed to conjure a gearbox
that will handle over lioolb ft of torque yet appears to be made of nothing
more substantial than meticulously teased alpaca wool, gentle tittering and
helium is beyond me. Have the missus slide down a French-polished banister in
silk pyjamas and she’ll experience a far jerkier ride than this gearbox will
ever subject you to.
Quite
how Ricardo’s engineers have managed to conjure a gearbox that will handle over
lioolb ft of torque yet appears to be made of nothing more substantial than
meticulously teased alpaca wool
And that, I’m sure, plays a major role in
making the accelerative experience so unique. It’s not just that it’s
hilariously, breathtakingly rapid, it’s not that it just goes on, and on, and
on... it’s also unbelievably smooth. You simply do not feel any change in
ratios. Every time you anticipate the nod of a gear change and a drop in engine
note to indicate a re-grouping of forces down the rev band it has already
happened, acceleration simply continuing uninterrupted, undiminished and
un-f*****g-believable in its authority.
