Picked up my new whip yesterday and we shunted round the M25 in the rain. ‘Can we go fast now?’ it asked, as its Goodyear F1 tyres rumbled and tramlined along the concrete, engine slumbering at 3000rpm.
‘No.’
We swung off the orbital onto the A3, boxed in, raining. ‘Can we go fast now?’ It asked.
‘No.’
Finally, the traffic thinned, the rain stopped and the road ahead was steaming and serpentine.
‘Can we?’…
‘Yes.’ Flick down into third, Cheaney to the firewall and watch the illuminated red needle swing.
Past 4000, past 5000, oil pressure building to that magic cam-profile change at around 5400rpm. Case-hardened, big lift, long duration nodes on said camshafts are like popping a Fisherman’s Friend into the engine’s breathing; the timing changes and the revs climb harder with the exhaust gas blaring out of the triangle shaped snaps, saucy as a lead trombone in a strip-club band.
