It’s in a car without limits, and on a road where we’ve paid to suspend them, Thomas Falkiner discovers that he has some.
There’s a place up north where skies are vast, dust is red and crows scavenge in bins at truck stops. On Sundays the God-fearing locals pour into a nearby restaurant to gorge themselves on meat and milkshakes. And when the December heat is not melting the tar, the bitter July cold eats into your bones like a cancer. Yet, despite the fact that it lies in this hellish land of extremes, the town of Springbok actually plays gatekeeper to a slice of driving heaven. For if you should venture beyond its tattered boundaries you’ll find the N14; a lonely stretch of asphalt that runs almost straight to neighbouring Pofadder.
It may look and feel like all the other highways you’ve driven before, but there’s a little-known document that allows you to ignore its 120km/h limit. It’s called the Permit for High Speed Testing and yours for a mere R5000. Getting hold of one involves a call to the Kimberley Department of Safety and Liaison, where the powers-that-be take your details and place them in a three-month approval queue. Once they’ve checked to see that your proposed dates don’t clash with any public holidays, roadworks or top-secret prototype tests, it’s just a matter of time before the five- page document rolls through your fax machine. And when it does, you’ve got a 163km-strip of desert road at your disposal; a desolate space where your inner Stig can run amok without fear of prosecution.
Now you’re welcome to explore its limits in a hot hatch or luxury sedan, but to really squeeze the most out of every gnarly centimetre, you need to arm yourself with a serious piece of driving equipment; something from the heights of the supercar stratosphere. No mean task, I can assure you. A Porsche is too predictable, a Lamborghini too inaccessible and a Ferrari, well, that’s just too elitist. So after many arguments at the pub, I decided to go with Iron Man’s ride of choice, the Audi R8. Launched almost two years ago at the Paris Motor Show, Ingolstadt’s upstart packs brutal power and rich levels of dynamism into a package that knocked the 911 from its throne. Sure, it might be spliced with the genes from Le Mans racers, but what makes the Audi such a pukka piece of kit is the amount of engineering under its sleek aluminium skin. Every one of its 5000-plus components is scrutinised to the last nanometre before being bolted together by hand. Finally, once complete, the car is subjected to a CT scan that checks for imperfections invisible to human eyes. No other manufacturer on the planet does that. And while many may never be fortunate enough to sample this degree of Teutonic mastery, Audi has lent me one for a weekend of driving hedonism at SA’s capital of speed.
There’s only one direct route from Cape Town to Springbok and that’s a flat-out burn up the N7. I’ve got 547km to cover and there isn’t any other car I’d do it in than the R8. So, with the highway calling, I activate the DVD-based sat nav, twist the key in the ignition and awaken every last one of the 414 slumbering horses in its sonorous 4.2 FSI V8.
Although the in- terior may be sombre, swathed in black leather, alcantara and cool-to-the-touch aluminium, it’s supremely comfortable. And while the Recaro bucket seats grip you like a clingy girlfriend, there’s plenty of room in the cabin to stretch out and relax, should you feel the need. However, today, with the bitumen cutting through wheat fields and winding up lofty mountain passes, I start getting a feel for the car’s abilities — a little motorised foreplay before I get stuck into the main event. And thanks to Audi’s rear-biased Quattro four-wheel drive, the sensation is exhilarating. In fact, I’ve never had it so good.
Somewhere near the fragrant orchards of Citrusdal my mirrors are filled with the unmistakable grille and headlamps of the R8’s arch enemy, a Carrera 2S. Like a scene out of a Jay-Z video, we spend almost 40 minutes chasing each other through picturesque valleys and long, sweeping bends. And, as there’s such little traffic about, at times the landscape is filled with nothing more than the bark and bawl of two finely tuned engines. Interspersed with the metallic clack of the Audi’s stainless steel gear lever, it’s a speed-fuelled symphony conducted by power and precision.
Eventually the Porsche forks off at an intersection and I’m left to go the last of the journey alone, the lush wineland greenery slowly giving way to the dusty browns of the Northern Cape.
We cruise into Springbok just after 3pm. Everything is shut, the streets are empty and our hotel is already in shade; it’s a depressing end to such an enjoyable journey. With nothing else to do I spend my afternoon playing pool with the two hotel managers. Every so often a car stops outside and some excited locals jump out to eye up the Audi. People are transfixed by its beauty; those LED headlights, the quad exhausts and, most importantly, the glass engine compartment that allows an intimate look at all her rude bits. Jeremy Clarkson doesn’t think its particularly attractive, but he’s never been so wrong.
Next morning I wake with a tingling in my gut — in a few hours I’m going to open the taps of an ungoverned supercar.
But walking towards the R8, lying luminescent in the chilly morning sun, I start having second thoughts. The realisation hits me that, Christ, this is my reputation on the line. And, if anything should happen to this R1.6-million missile, I better make damn sure I don’t walk from the wreckage because, man, my life won’t be worth living. Luckily the chances of me surviving such an eventuality are slim, though; this is a grisly kill zone that savages steel and sinew with brutal efficiency. But screw it, I’ve got the dream car and the dream road and I’m not giving up either one of them up. Not today.
After checking the oil, I carefully inflate each tyre to 3.2 bar — a recommendation from one of the Audi Driving Experience’s top instructors. This will help keep the giant Pirellis cool at the limit, and lessen the chances of a blowout, something that can cause a most spectacular death.
Downing an energy drink, I strap myself in behind the wheel and taxi towards the N14. A petrol attendant waves at me from next to his pump; is he being friendly or does he know I won’t be coming back?
To minimise stresses on the drivetrain, I’ve decided on a route that will take me exactly 100km out of town. The first 10 have to be taken easy as the 120km/h limit still stands, but after that the only thing stopping you is logic and nerves.
As the engine comes up to temperature, the pangs of doubt return, causing me to squirm uncomfortably. Shortly after the digits on the trip meter read 11, I stop to do one last systems check and engage the sports suspension mode. In geek speak, this means an electromagnetic field changes the viscosity of the damper oil to instantly create a sportier ride. This strengthens the bond between car and road, preventing you from straying onto its sharp, gravelly shoulders and disintegrating against a never-ending line of telephone polls.
I sit there staring vacantly at the heat haze rising lazily in the distance, scruffy khaki foliage on either side. It’s eerily quiet now. Except for the hawk glaring at me from a telephone pole, I’m alone.
This is it. Go.
The silence shatters as I plant the R8’s throttle and rocket up towards the redline. Momentum builds at a furious rate and soon I’m shifting into sixth gear from 7800rpm. Unaccustomed to the road, I decide to ease off and get familiar for the return leg back towards town. And, except for one or two slow, meandering bends, it rolls smooth and uninterrupted right up to the horizon line. With excellent visibility, I keep the R8 planted between 200 and 230km/h. So poised is its chassis, these speeds actually feel as if you’re trundling along at a much more sedate pace. Having all this muscle at your toe tips is like owning an atomic bomb; you feel immensely powerful yet, at the back of your mind, you know it’s all fraught with apocalyptic danger.
Now knowing exactly where to push it, I reach the 100km-mark and accelerate back in the direction I came from. This time every last iota of concentration is focused between the two painted lines. With hands locked in the quarter-to-three position and eyes constantly scanning for wild animals and debris, my right foot progressively feeds more juice to the 309kW beast behind me. At 250km/h, the combination of road noise and air being sucked into the two sideblades becomes deafening, if not hypnotic. Approaching the crest of a small hill, I ignore the instincts of survival and hold the throttle wide open.
May the Vorsprung be with me.
Fighting all the laws of Newton, we crawl up to 260, 270 and 280km/h. The dotted centre line has become solid and the horizon narrows into an ever-tightening V. At this velocity, you have to treat the controls as if they were made out of the most delicate Swarovski crystal; one exaggerated move can break the car’s balance, putting you that much closer to an explosive end.
Just when I think the show’s over, that the engine has run out of steam, there’s an almighty rumbling sound similar to what a jet makes just before it leaves the runway. The door seals start to whistle and every single body panel feels as if it’s peeling off. In the second it takes to glance down at the speedometer, which now reads 295km/h, 82m have rushed by unnoticed.
The tyres are now so stressed and hot that even one sharp, well-placed stone can cause a life-changing puncture. And, even though the R8 is still stable and capable of 301km/h, my brain snaps and I start to lift my foot very slowly off the floor. As the needle falls, my body is hit with fear and adrenaline in equal amounts.
There’s only one way to describe it — it’s like walking away from a violent mugging, knowing you’ve cheated death.
Every nerve end is on edge. Your eyes start to water. You suddenly notice how deep your breathing has become; how your driving gloves are soaked with sweat and that you’ve managed to obliterate nearly 100 clicks in fewer than 20 minutes. I’ve done some pretty extreme things, but nothing comes close to this measure of forward momentum.
The cost back to town is bittersweet introspection. I’m alive and the car is, thank God, in one piece, but I’m kind of disappointed that I didn’t have it in me to storm those elusive 6km/h.
What’s that old mantra that it’s the man and not the machine?
Yeah, right. Tell that to the R8.
To watch the video, go to http://blogs.thetimes.co.za/wheeldeal
Fast Facts: Audi R8
The basics
Price:
From R1403000
Performance:
0-100km/h in 4.6 seconds, 301km/h
Power:
309kW at 7800rpm, 430Nm between 4500 — 6000rpm
Thirst:
14.6l/100km combined
The best:
Exquisitely engineered
Gorgeous looks
Incredible handling, ride and grip
Insane levels of performance
Every-day drivability
Superb brakes
The worst:
Extensive options list increases base price
Um...
Supercar rating:
Porsche-slaying ability: HHHH
Aural excitement: HHHH
Babe magnetism: HHHHH
Power-to-fun ratio: HHHHH
Total: 18/20
thetimes
