► We set Bugatti virgin loose in a Veyron
► Anthony ffrench-Constant’s verdict
► This is what 254mph feels like for the first time
Nervous? ’Course I’m bloody nervous. Granted, as feats of automotive endeavour go, punting a Veyron Grand Sport Vitesse past the 200mph mark falls a tad short of Andy Green thumping through the sound barrier with what Mr Petrol would describe as ‘a dab of oppo’ dialled in.
But Mr Green had an entire county of crusted salt to himself, whilst I shall have to contend with everyday traffic and the unpredictability of Mr and Mrs Middle-Lane-Mitherer, who will be rocking in the slipstream of a two tonne land-crab outstripping them, inches away, by some 130mph…
Truth is, however, what’s worrying me most is that my co-pilot for the day, Bugatti Official Driver Andy Wallace (yes, that Andy Wallace: 1988 Le Mans winner and – courtesy of no little success at the Brickyard – owner of four Rolex Daytonas which have never seen the light of day because he doesn’t wear a watch), will play the ‘photo opportunity’ card: a euphemism for ‘Christ, you’re crap. I’ll take it from here.’
And that would constitute every egg in the world on my face. Because, with all 300 coupes sold and less than 20 Grand Sport Vitesse models remaining (including 18 special edition Legends cars), this is undoubtedly my one and only opportunity to drive Ferdinand Piëch’s pipe-dream-made-profoundly rapid pressed-metal reality.
Not, to my eye, the best-looking thing on wheels, that reality. Nonetheless, its compact, muscular presence undeniably enhanced by the promise of prodigious performance, the Veyron simply demands your attention as it eases into view. That stupendous, 8.0-litre, quadruple-turbo W16 powerplant ticks over with a unique and purposeful woofling throb, which drums through the fuel-tank-housing double bulkhead separating cockpit from open-topped engine bay to dominate the cabin.
Easing down Molsheim streets which have seen it all before, the Grand Sport Vitesse doesn’t grouch along to the Ferrari or Lamborghini soundtrack of Louis Armstrong saying ‘aaaaah’ for the doctor. It merely thrums with malevolent intent: the suppressed heat and fury of a giant hornet’s nest waiting to erupt at the thwack of a stick; collosal energy straining for release; the mechanised hum of another world.
Yet, in traffic, 1183bhp proves remarkably docile and easy to live with. Though enormous, the W16 actually generates only some 74bhp per cylinder (about the same output as a VW Golf R), and that not only leaves the engine surprisingly under-stressed and, as a result, durable, but also delightfully docile when bogging about in traffic.
Did I say docile? Oh. My. Giddy. Aunt. I think I may have inadvertently deployed my entire expletive lexicon within the first two seconds of Mr Wallace first unleashing the Veyron. The acceleration is extra-ordinary. Mind-boggling. So far beyond rapid it’s just shattering. The car simply imports the road ahead piecemeal, north-eastern France yelling backwards as if some giant, malicious hand had grabbed the planet and given it a vicious twist beneath the freewheeling Bugatti…
And there’s no snarl, roar or scream. The Veyron spears forward to an extremely expensive meld of oleaginous mechanical millings laced with a whiff of something indefinable like the threshing of a giant electric hedge-trimmer, the whole overlaid by the increasingly rapid passage of air. In a word, 2.4 million Euros-worth of utterly addictive whoooosh.
My go. And, after a few exploratory leans on loud pedal and deliciously meaty helm, the good news is that Mr Wallace shows no inclination to demand a photo opportunity. The bad news is that he says ‘You’re still feathering the throttle…’ Trouble is – and perhaps because massive mechanical grip allied to all-wheel drive tailored to utterly eliminate the possibility of oversteer equips the Bugatti with infinitely braver pants than any found in this driver’s top drawer – I keep running out of road.
Not wishing to spend a long night chatting things over with a distinctly miffed Inspecteur Marigold, I ask Mr Wallace to confirm that Bugatti does, in fact, have that reputed understanding with the local gendarmerie. ‘If I get stopped, I make a phone call,’ he replies. ‘But if you get stopped…’
Over the Rhine to Germany it is, then. But not before we sample the Veyron roofless, when aural entertainment reaches magnificent new dimensions. The thresh and thrum of mechanicals is now overlaid by the sound of air being inhaled at the rate of up to 47,000 litres per minute, and the ooooof of four turbocharger wastegates exhaling in tandem. The whole marvellous boiling sounds like the fire brigade trying to put out a very large dragon possessed of a bad cold. Addictive.
Roof replaced and en route to the autobahn, there’s time to review the two key engineering achievements which abet the W16 and its 12 radiators in making a 254mph top speed achievable: aerodynamics and tyres.
Drag increases as a square of speed, which means that, whilst air is a breeze at 100mph, it’s a brick wall at double that velocity. So the Veyron must effect two significant aerodynamic metamorphoses on the way to 254mph. At 112mph, the car automatically mutates into ‘handling’ mode. Ride height lowered and rear wing deployed, the bodywork generates downforce of 125kg at the front and an elephantine 400kg to the rear, and the car is now good for 233mph.
The hard part, however, is in carving through solid air in search of the scant 21mph more required to reach maximum speed: downforce must be dialled right out again and drag minimised. This requires pulling over to insert the ‘speed key’ in the floor, which further lowers the ride height whilst taking all but three degrees of drag-inducing rear wing off and closing the diffuser flaps behind the titanium front grilles (in the event of a 250mph bird strike the engineers want the victim to impact something important as French fries rather than whole).
Then there’s the tyre issue. Back in the day when Mr Wallace was putting McLaren’s F1 through its 240mph paces, Michelin told him that if he exceeded 248mph their radials would simply explode. The ante has only been upped by 6mph since, but these Michelin PAXs are designed to run for, erm, 15 minutes before giving up the ghost.
This, of course, can never happen, because at full chat the Veyron will drain its 100-litre fuel tank in just 12 minutes, 63.5 miles of vicious blur later. Which, unless you own your own country, is also never going to happen, because, even on de-restricted autobahns, flooring the throttle for even 12 seconds proves a massive ask.
‘Right, give it a go,’ commands Wallace as the lane ahead suddenly clears. Already lopping along at over 100mph, the Bugatti instantly erupts into a headlong charge that will outstrip a Formula 1 car. Wallace says that as the McLaren F1 approached its top speed it was ‘all over the place’, but the Veyron remains 100-year-old-oak-planted, utterly unflappable.
Indeed, the drama is largely reserved for the eyeballs and adrenal gland, the car taking all in its stride with astonishing insouciance, simply rocking back fractionally on its heels and exploding forwards in a seamless surge of unrelenting urgency, the second and third numerals of the digital speedo flitting through their decimal repertoire at the pace of the pence department on a BP forecourt petrol pump.
The role played in proceedings by an utterly outstanding seven-speed, dual-clutch transmission cannot be underestimated. Quite how Ricardo’s engineers have managed to conjure a gearbox that will handle over 1100lb ft of torque yet appears to be made of nothing more substantial than meticulously teased alpaca wool, gentle tittering and helium is beyond me. Have the missus slide down a French-polished banister in silk pyjamas and she’ll experience a far jerkier ride than this gearbox will ever subject you to.
And that, I’m sure, plays a major role in making the accelerative experience so unique. It’s not just that it’s hilariously, breathtakingly rapid, it’s not that it just goes on, and on, and on… it’s also unbelievably smooth. You simply do not feel any change in ratios. Every time you anticipate the nod of a gear change and a drop in engine note to indicate a re-grouping of forces down the rev band it has already happened, acceleration simply continuing uninterrupted, undiminished and un-f*****g-believable in its authority.
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 0.8g of stopping, about that which you experience stamping on the pedal of a family hatchback.
Retrieving tonsils from the glovebox, we take stock. 289kph, about 180mph, 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 200mph. All we’re trying to do here is touch 200mph, let alone sustain it, and we keep running out of road.’
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 0-100mph and 100-200mph in accelerative fury, finding the space we need to travel some 60-70mph faster is proving a dauntingly tough proposition. Given that, at 200mph, 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 120mph 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.
Half a dozen high-speed runs later and we’re still about 15mph 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.
‘312kph… 193.87mph… 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 über-performance roost for nine years now, and will undoubtedly have sold out before its 10th 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?’
The Sum Of All Fears was first published in CAR magazine, September 2014. Click here for more about CAR magazine and find out how to subscribe