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
The only time your head does nod is when,
car ahead filling the windscreen so fast I’d swear it’s driving the wrong way
down the motorway, you stand on prodigiously powerful brakes. The rear wing is
a massive asset to retardation here: angled to 55 degrees, it alone generates
o.8g of stopping, about that which you experience stamping on the pedal of a
family hatchback.
The
only time your head does nod is when, car ahead filling the windscreen so fast
I’d swear it’s driving the wrong way down the motorway, you stand on
prodigiously powerful brakes.
Retrieving tonsils from the glove box, we
take stock. 289 kph, about i8omph, and I managed to floor the throttle for an
eternity of, oh, about five seconds. ‘You see,’ growls Wallace. ‘That’s what
annoys me about supercar owners who brag to me about driving at 200 mph. AH
we’re trying to do here is touch 200 mph, let alone sustain it, and we keep
running out of road.’
Retrieving
tonsils from the glove box, we take stock. 289 kph, about i8omph, and I managed
to floor the throttle for an eternity of, oh, about five seconds.
Indeed, despite pushing the Bugatti’s
cruising speed ever higher before flooring it for each run, and despite the
fact that there appears to be astonishingly little difference between o -loomph
and ioo-2oomph in accelerative fury, finding the space we need to travel some
6o-7omph faster is proving a dauntingly tough proposition. Given that, at
2oomph, the Veyron is whipping the length of a football pitch every second,
this is hardly surprising, but increasingly frustrating. And unnerving.
At these speeds, the upshot of anything
we’re passing at over nomph darting into the outside lane doesn’t bear thinking
about. Indeed, why I’m even bothering to watch out for this eventuality is
beyond me since the impact - carbonfibre tub notwithstanding - would, Wallace
agrees, undoubtedly be terminal.
Indeed,
why I’m even bothering to watch out for this eventuality is beyond me since the
impact - carbonfibre tub notwithstanding - would, Wallace agrees, undoubtedly
be terminal.
Half a dozen high-speed runs later and
we’re still about i5mph short of the magic 200. And, though one might never
fully acclimatise to the sheer pace of this car, I do find myself stamping on
both throttle and brakes with ever increasing assertiveness: this really is an
extraordinarily accommodating machine.
Traffic building, so one last attempt.
Staying on the throttle for just half a second longer than is wise, I see the
first digit of the speedo finally flick to ‘3’ and immediately stand on the
brakes.
I’ve cut it somewhat fine, and if the car
in front were to follow suit it would find itself the recipient of a massive
punt up the luggage. ‘3i2kph... i93.87mph... I’m not sure we’re going to better
that in this traffic,’ mutters Wallace, clearly recognising the burgeoning
glint and grin of someone who is fast becoming entirely addicted to the
hilarious velocities on offer. Time to call it a day. Burbling back over the
Rhine, it strikes me that I may have just enjoyed my ‘See Naples and Die’
moment: how is anything automotive ever going to top that? The Veyron has ruled
the uber performance roost for nine years now, and will undoubtedly have sold
out before its 10 th birthday. We may not, I suggest to Wallace, ever see its
like again.
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ he grins. ‘There’s a
new car in the pipeline, and they’re hardly going to make that slower, are
they?’
