The Alps, a Zonda, and a Writer
Part III

Contrary to popular belief, driving fast cars does not make you feel richer or more important. Driving a fast car does not make your testosterone levels increase by leaps and bounds. Driving a fast car also does not make you rise up the macho-meter very quickly.

On the contrary. Driving a fast, expensive car such as the Pagani Zonda F makes you feel like a green, immature, overconfident, I-Can-Kick-Ass-and-Live-Forever teenager who’s just been mugged on the street with a gun to his head and is suddenly calling for his mommy. You feel like your Mr. Cool confidence has somehow been cruelly and abruptly violated by a machine.

Such is how I felt on a daily basis whenever I engaged the Pagani’s insanely bipolar gearbox. I’d sit down, feeling good and ready to wrestle with this beast of a car. Then I’d put it into first. The complete and instant suckage of my personal aplomb from my rear end’s cavity was one of simply epic proportions. In more precise terms, the car cleaned its spark plugs with my confidence.

This may lead people to think, “Wow! Sounds exciting! I want to drive an exotic car like the Zonda!” Curb your enthusiasm, laddies. It’s quite the opposite. Driving the Zonda, especially on public roads, is a nerve-wracking experience that rivals giving the State of the Union address in your underwear. I doubt any driving exploit can compare to the sheer fright and bloody anxiety as driving a car such as the Zonda.

How come? Is it the power at your disposal? Is it the sheer opulence of the car, inside and out? Is it because it is a colorful and in-your-face status symbol? Is it because it costs more than your net worth four times over? Personally, I believe it is a combination of the first and last. It’s almost too uncontrollably powerful; and it costs more than your left leg would net on Ebay.

So there I was, getting a nasty case of IBS, as I waited for some guy named Oskar to give me a green flag on my lap of the Hockenheimring. I had donned (for the first time in my life) a racing suit and a racing helmet. It was strangely comfy, and I felt really snazzy and professional as I prepared to throw my pet Italian thoroughbred into gear.

Bang! Roar! My teeth unceremoniously chomped down on my tongue, and with my cry of pain mingled with the roar of a Mercedes V12, the Zonda went from 0-60 in 3.6 seconds. Barely was I able to call my senses to order before I had to prepare for my first turn, Nordkurve, an easy 100-degree right. I was about a hundred yards from the apex when I glanced at the speedo. 98 miles per hour. Crikey. Better slow down. I slammed on the brakes and decided to down shift for good measure. The safety belt straps administered some deep chest compressions, and I was able to make the corner with minimal slide. I could almost hear the traction control giving me the wagging finger of shame for being so imprudent around the corner.

The next mission objective was the combination of turn 2 and 3, which consisted of a healthily-sharp right followed by an easy left. Some of my senses returned, and I was able to conservatively take turn 2 with no slide at all. After I completed that turn, I felt a surge of confidence, and decided to give it a few beans into turn 3. However, the laws of physics, as written by Sir Isaac Newton, claims that for each action there is an equal and opposite reaction. Therefore, for each good turn I made, I would make a miserable one. I committed a mortal sin of oversteer on turn 3, and my tach was telling me I needed to shift up to get some traction. So, like the brilliant racing driver I was, I shifted during a powerslide. The Zonda suddenly found traction, and I was violently jerked back to a straight line.

After this botchment of turn 3, I attempted to recover on the Parabolika, a long, sweeping straight. I eased open the Zonda with oily fluidity, and it gladly accepted this as a token of apology for my former doltishness.

Parabolika was brilliant, and I felt a newfound courage to attack the big cheese: Hairpin, turn 4. Since I was finally getting around to figuring out the Zonda’s quirks, I laid out my plan of attack. I would go in wide, and take the turn easy, and then as soon as I passed the apex, give it oomph to the next turn. Sounded good on mental paper.

I neared the Hairpin, and followed my plan like clockwork; however, I was not really expecting the Hairpin to be as sharp as it looked on the circuit’s map. Duh. I crossed the apex, but once again had too much torque and not enough track to keep it out of the weeds. The Zonda’s rear swung left, and before I could utter a German expletive, I was bumping along on the lawn. Correcting it as fast as possible, I was back on hard tarmac in no time; and I was eager to show these Germans that I could at least come out of this dogpile of a lap smelling like roses.

Turn 5 was a simple easy right, and the Zonda handled it brilliantly and with a certain amount of forgiveness. The same went for turns 6 and 7: I took them slow and carefully, and believe it or not, that method worked. The Zonda spurted out of turn 7 like El Toro Loco, and it was on to the stadium section.

Now it just happened that I was driving on a Thursday, and the weekend was booked for some kind of European motorcycle racing series. Thus, the stadium girding turns 8-12 were already bustling with motorsports fans saving seats, and I was quite flustered by the fact that I would have an audience for the final moments of my very cold lap. But, alas, being flustered was a skill I had earned in blood during my week with the Zonda, so I grit my teeth and headed for the final turns.

The Zonda always makes a grand entrance, and its entrance into the stadium was no exception. Mobil 1 was probably my best turn on the lap. The Zonda came out smelling like roses, and it worked some type of magic on my driving instincts, because Sachs was my second best turn of the lap. I finally was getting the hang of it. The Force was with me. The Stig Within was beginning to emerge.

But then it was suddenly over. Across the finish line I came, in a swirling cloud of tire smoke and brake dust. I made a U-turn (which I later found out was incorrect SOP) into the pits and complained bitterly that my editor had only arranged one lap. I desired more. I desired perfection. I desired to race late into the night, to beat the record books, to make history with the Zonda. Unfortunately, I had to turn in. Hokenheimring was too famous a circuit for some obscure car journalist to own for 24 hours. When I asked for my lap time, the track marshals simply exchanged smug grins among themselves. Har har. You’re all just jealous, I says to myself.

Despite the fact it was over too quickly, and my performance was less than Senna-like, I can say with confidence it was the happiest moment of my life. Never before had I experienced anything so thrilling and brilliant. Excuse my unimaginative language, but the breathlessness with which I speak may give you a sense of my enthusiasm. It was nerve-wracking, difficult, thrilling, delightful, and downright horrifying all at the same time.

When I finally drove the Zonda back onto the factory lot in Modena, I succumbed to another one of my lengthy soliloquies. This week had been, without a doubt, a crown jewel in my life, not to mention my career as an automotive journalist. One day, when I’m old and senile, and my 2005 Mini Cooper is considered an antique collector’s car, I will be sitting around the fireplace with my grandchildren. One of them will ask about the picture of me standing next to the crazy-looking old roadster. From there I will tell them the exciting tale of the Alps, the Zonda, and a Writer.

DISCLAIMER: THE ABOVE EVENTS ARE PURELY FICTIONAL PRODUCTS OF THE AUTHOR'S WILD IMAGINATION. NONE OF IT ACTUALLY HAPPENED. DON'T SUE.