Anyway, we will now return to our regular programming with another automotive anecdote from my imaginary life as an intrepid motoring journalist.
I must admit, I was bushed. Tired. Exhausted. I don’t like being in such condition. My personal aspiration is to be like Jack Bauer from 24: always moving, constantly encountering adventure, never stopping to use the loo. That’s living, as I see it. Sleep? Bah, humbug! Sleep is a big fat waste of time that could be spent constructively, behind the wheel of a fantastic car. That’s what I had been doing the last two weeks testing the new Mini Cooper S on the diabolically fun roads of Ireland.
Still, despite my brain wanting to keep going, the rest of me was ready to collapse into a plush leather seat in an air-conditioned Airbus, with a glass of chilled Perrier water and an issue of Top Gear. This was a gloriously luxurious picture after two long weeks sitting in a hip-hugging, moderately-cramped sport seat, drinking Diet Pepsi, feeling damp humidity blow from the air con, and sleeping for approximately 5 hours each night. Okay, maybe it wasn’t that bad, but you can see what I am getting at.
I was riding the shuttle bus from where we had dropped off our cars to the terminal. My cell phone suddenly rang for the first time in two weeks. It was my Editor, and he had some strange news. Apparently, I was to obediently board a plane for London-Gatwick, where I would then promptly board an Emirates flight to Dubai, UAE.
The son of some ultra-wealthy Sheikh had requested a writer from our Publication to join him for dinner and a drive on the Jebel Hafeet Mountain Road, supposedly the greatest driving road in the world. And was this all for a particularly practical reason? Apparently not. What Sheikh wants, Sheikh gets, because Sheikh can pay for it. The Bahrain Grand Prix was born from this adage.
My thoughts of a cozy Aer Lingus flight were immediately shattered, and instead of passing under a gate labeled “Baltimore”, I was walking out on the tarmac to what appeared to be a flying microwave oven. By some freak of nature, the Publication had discovered a small shuttle airline that serviced only the British Isles. It was my distinct honor to be this airline’s third customer. The plane was so small I was required to wear a flight headset so I could communicate with the pilot. Also, it didn’t help that for most of the flight, I could not see anything on account of low clouds. Not too low, I hoped. For most of the flight, I pictured my transport’s tail sticking out of the center of Big Ben.
Luckily, we made it to Gatwick in one rattling piece, and I connected with a massive 767 that far out-luxuryized the Aer Lingus plane. Cross the Taj Mahal with a Boeing and you get an Emirates Airlines plane. I departed Gatwick at 9pm, heading for the Middle East, the last place on earth I expected to be in 7 hours.
Dubai Airport is a marvel. Usually, airports are surrounded by middle-class suburbia or urban zoning. Dubai Airport is literally in the middle of the desert, just like the city. Yet this is not your dusty, World War II North-Afrikan desert outpost. It looks like Emerald City simply stricken by global warming. ‘Tis rather odd to the eyes of a American suburbia boy like myself.
My plane touched down at around 6 am the next morning, but I was thankfully able to catch some shut-eye on the flight, even with some Sheikh’s mug welcoming me on the in-flight televisions every 30 minutes. I guessed he was the Big Sheikh that ruled Dubai. Or the Big Sheikh that ran the airline. Who knows. There are more billionaire Sheikhs in Dubai than there are censor bleeps on an episode of “Hell’s Kitchen”.
I was told by my contact that the young “Prince” was expecting me, and had sent a car to pick me up in about an hour. I spent this time wading through the surprisingly lenient customs process, and browsing the duty free shops. Then I was told the meat had arrived.
I walked out into the open air, and the 120 degree dryness slammed into me like a propane explosion. It was terrifyingly hot, and I was pleased to see three shimmering Range Rovers in front of me, the middle one with its passenger door opened. Mine was silver, the two escort Rovers were black. I thought I caught the sight of an MP5’s barrel in one of the black Rovers, but it might have been my imagination.
Me and my escorts set off. My new friend, who asked to be called Gary the Persian, told me the young Prince was eagerly awaiting my arrival, and had a wonderful selection of cars to drive on the Mountain Road. This sounded fine and dandy, but I still retained a pensiveness about the situation. After all: I had just finished driving Mini Coopers through shallow puddles for weeks, and now I was riding in a Range Rover through the desert, with armed men behind and in front of me. This isn’t a movie, is it?
It seemed like we had just left the airport complex, and our caravan was already on a highway leading to nowhere. All the other cars were headed towards the city, and we were the only ones heading towards the blank horizon. I had just seen a movie called “Syriana”, and there is an event at the end that does not glamorize a Range Rover caravan in the middle of the desert.
Suddenly, we made a sharp turn off the main road onto what appeared to be a gravel driveway. The only marking was a tiny sign in Arabic, which, obviously, I couldn’t read. I just prayed it did not read “Camp Jihad”. But thankfully, we did not arrive at such a destination.
Me and the meat arrived at a tiny outpost in the middle of the rolling dunes. It looked like a pool-side guesthouse that came from a larger mansion. Surrounding it was an expansive patio, with some chic awning shielding it from the broiling sun. Surrounding the patio was a grove of planted palm trees. The entire setup was as new as a Starbucks, and you could tell the building was designed with the latest technology in mind. It was a perfect oasis.
Two Italian supermodels flanked the Prince, who was sitting at a table on the patio, enjoying golden flutes of mimosa. He rose to greet me, and was ever so polite. Probably the most polite person I’ve ever met. He was warm, friendly, and in desperate need of a job.
From what he tells me, his life is essentially one long vacation in the sun. He’s proud of it, too. Once and a while, he will take care of his father’s business when his father is unavailable, but most of the time, he’s eating cake and indulging his love for insanely expensive cars. Unlike many wealthy people, who attempt to hide their wealth behind trees, walls, security cameras and iron gates, the Prince is happy to show even the poorest denizen of Dubai his wealth. When he drives through the city in his Rolls-Royce Phantom, he wants everybody to see him. He’s the son of a Sheikh, for goodness sake. Bow down.
Suddenly, our conversation was cut off by what sounded like an alarm bell. The Prince excused himself, rose from his chair, and along with the rest of his retinue (save the supermodels), got down on his hands and knees and bowed in a certain direction. Ah. All I could do was silently stand, looking at my feet with my hands behind my back.
Later that day, we embarked for the Jebel Hafeet Road. The weather was, believe it or not, hot and dry. As I sat in the passenger seat of a red F360 Spyder, zipping along at a brisk 160 miles per hour, I reflected on my life as an automotive journalist. Earlier today, I was holed up in an Irish pub enjoying some fish and chips. Now, several hours later, I was sitting next to the son of a Sheikh going bucket-60 on a motorway in the middle of nowhere. I looked behind us, and saw that our meat in their Range Rovers were tiny specks on the horizon. Other than that, we had the road to ourselves. Or should I say, the Sheikh had HIS road to himself.
As we roared at 160+ mph, the Emir candidly explained the history of the Jabeet Mountain Road, and it goes something like this: it was built in 1987. That’s it. Apart from when it was built, the Prince couldn’t remember anything else about the road. All he knew was that it was his personal playground were he could play with his life-sized Hotwheels.
After a hair-raising ride on the empty highways, we finally arrived at the Mountain Road. The Prince had set up a portable pavilion tent, under which sat his high-octane collectibles. The official list:
2007 Pagani Zonda F, bared carbon fiber body, tuned exhaust (Prince likes big noise!).
2005 Ferrari F430 Coupe, black, aftermarket carbon fiber rims.
2006 Koenigsegg CCX, silver. Very menacing.
2006 Lamborghini Murcielago Roadster, a hideous lime green.
and finally, a pleasant surprise: 2006 Noble M15, blue. Subzero cool.
Sadly, the little Ferrari looked out of place among these more exclusive ultracars.
The Prince asked me to “take my pick,” as if I were choosing hors d’oeuvres at a cocktail party. He said we would “make friendly race” up the mountainside. Race? On a public road? Would I get in trouble? The Prince nonchalantly told me it would be completely safe. Safety, however, had a completely different meaning out here in the desert. When a Westerner thinks “safety”, we think of airbags and five-star crash ratings. When the Prince thinks “safety”, he thinks of avoiding a fatal, spectacular wreck by two inches.
I apprehensively chose the Ferrari, just because it was plainly the safest car in the lot and the easiest the drive. The Prince, however, looked monumentally disappointed, and without a word handed me the keys to the Koenigsegg. Now I was scared. The Koenigsegg CCX, for the uninformed, is a diabolically dangerous car to drive: no traction control, 800 horsepower, and a temper rivaling that of a Norse thunder-god. And yet the Prince impulsively hands it over to a jet-lagged, exhausted, pale, barely-lucid journalist with bloodshot eyes. This guy is a basket case.
After handing me the keys, the Prince chose the Zonda for himself. He got as excited and skittish as a ferret on crystal meth, and happily jumped into the innocent Zonda, unaware of its inevitable fate. I, on the other hand, reluctantly sunk into the Koenigsegg, praying that I wouldn’t end up neatly compressed into a Jersey barrier. But on the other hand, I was starting to believe the Prince would have trouble caring if that happened.
It might be the most dangerous car in the world, but, by golly, the Koenigsegg is a blast to drive. I wish I was well-rested so I could have actually enjoyed. I’m not going to waste time describing the car, but just know it spits flames when it changes gear. Enough said.
The Mountain Road was simply a masterpiece of engineering. It’s wider than the wingspan of an Airbus A380, but it is a veritable pig’s tail. If you had a car with any understeer at all, you would be in the wall before you even stepped on the throttle. This is a problem for a supercar which is designed mainly for going really fast in a flat, straight line. Around corners, it was a wild bat out of its cage: no sense of direction, catastrophic understeer, and a back end defiantly refusing to grip. I would have given my left leg to be driving the Ferrari, but Sheikh Jr. had been defiant. It took me a couple minutes to realize this hombre was actually giving me orders.
The Koenigsegg was giving me no mercy whatsoever, and it was an epic, Lord of the Rings-calibre battle to simply get the thing to turn a corner. The Prince had no apparent driving skill; and from the cobalt-blue tyre smoke billowing from the Zonda’s wheelwells, I suspected he would use about 5 sets of rubber before we reached the end of the road. That kid could not keep off his throttle. Either that, or he did not know to change into third gear. At one point, he executed a full 360-degree donut in the apex of a corner, forcing me to take military evasive action.
Finally I put the pieces together and became aware of the fact I was fighting a Holy War. I was a crusader, driving my Swedish Lutheran general against an automotive son-of-Saladin waving an Italian designer scimitar. The entire reputation of Judeo-Christianity was at the mercy of my driving skills, and I, a pathetic test editor for the Publication, would NOT fail! I would willingly sail through the pearly gates in a igneous Swedish supercar before I would let this Persian punk pass the finish line first.
Needless to say, I proudly crossed the finish line before the Sheikh, but that’s because he wasn’t really racing to begin with. He was still too busy 4 miles behind me turning his Zonda’s clutch plate into a cloud of ceramic stardust. Something told me he would be slightly late for his own dinner.
posted by J.L.D at 5:41 PM
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