It had been an early start, and joyously so. When there’s a Porsche 911 GT3 outside and a mountain to climb, sleep becomes a secondary concern. And now we are there. It hadn’t taken long to reach the summit: a blur of hands, a twiddle of fingers and a bit of jumping about on the pedals and we had arrived. I was outside the car now, listening to it cool down, filling the lungs with air blown in from the Atlantic, reliving every part of the journey.
But soon something made me turn my head away from the wind. A sound on the breeze, as sharp as anything I’d heard so far today, getting closer. I looked but could see nothing. Not that I needed to, because I already knew: Dan was on his way. So I just listened for a bit. Amazing how much vicarious pleasure can be derived simply by hearing someone else enjoying themselves.
Still out of sight, I nevertheless knew exactly where he was on the mountain. So I went with him, eyes shut, mentally anticipating each shift, each bark of throttle, each application of brakes. He was wringing it out. Good. It’s so easy to change up at 7000rpm, because that’s what you do in other cars. But we’ve got 9000rpm here, so let’s use ’em.
And use them he does. Would I have held on that long, braked that late? I’m not sure, but I can sense his enthusiasm being carried upon the broad shoulders of his flat-six motor. And there it is: a flash of yellow spearing up the side of the hill, young gun at its wheel in his flash new car while the GT3 and I wait, me wondering whether I can cast myself as the elder statesman upon this stage, or just the bloody senior citizen.
