What Could Possibly Go Wrong. . . (36 page)

In the olden days, when it was possible to make a few shillings from cultivating the land, farmers could afford two cars. They had a Land Rover, on which they could lean while gnawing on a pork pie. And perhaps a Humber for nights out at the Berni Inn.

But then consumers got it into their heads that the correct price for a pint of milk was about 6p less than it costs to make. They also reckoned that bread should be 1p a loaf, and meat should be pretty much free. This meant farmers couldn’t afford two cars any more.

Happily, Land Rover came to the rescue in 1970 with something called the Range Rover. It was quite brilliant. The world’s first dual-purpose vehicle. For just £2,000 you had a car that would bumble about quite happily with some pigs in the back, and then, after work, you could simply hose down the interior and use it as a comfortable limousine for a trip with Mrs Farmer to the theatre.

The last Range Rover Sport was also a dual-purpose vehicle. It worked in Wilmslow just as well as it worked in Alderley Edge. It suited both footballers and their wives. You could use it to distribute pharmaceuticals during the day, and then in the evening it was a stable gun platform should a drive-by shooting be necessary.

I know lots of people who have what I call the proper Range Rover. In fact, I’m struggling to think of any friend in the country who doesn’t have one. But I know only one chap who has a Sport. And there’s no other way of putting this: he’s called Gary. A point made plain by his registration plate.

The main problem, however, with the Range Rover Sport was that it wasn’t a Range Rover. Underneath, it was actually based on the Discovery, which meant it came with a complex double chassis system. That made it heavy. And that meant it wasn’t a Sport either.

Then there was the problem of its tailgate. In a proper Range Rover it splits, and you can use the bottom half as a seat when you are at a point-to-point. The Sport didn’t have this feature. It just had a normal hatchback, like a Volkswagen Golf.

I was never a fan. I thought it was more of a marketing exercise than a genuine piece of engineering. And I harboured similar worries about the new model, which has just gone on sale. The problem is simple. For forty-three years Land Rover has been demonstrating that you can make a car that works extremely well off road and is still comfortable and quiet and refined on the road. But if you try to make it into a triple-purpose car by attempting to put some sportiness into the mix as well, you’re going to come a cropper.

Think of it as a stout brogue. You can use such a thing on a ruddy-faced country walk. And you can use it while window shopping in St James’s. But you cannot use it in a 100-metre race, unless you want to lose. And that’s what the Range Rover Sport is attempting to be: a brogue that works on the moors and in central London … and on a squash court.

A sports car must have direct, quick steering. But if you do that with a Range Rover, you will find the steering wheel bucks and writhes about on rough ground. A sports car must have firm suspension too, but that’s precisely what you don’t want on a ploughed field. Or on the M40, actually.

I therefore approached the new Range Rover Sport with a sense of dread. But I emerged a bit astounded because somehow Land Rover’s engineers seem to have pulled off the impossible.

It’s not sporty. Let’s be very clear about that. The throttle response is too slow, and the engine in my test car was too
dieselly, and the steering, though quicker than I was expecting, is not as quick as it is on, say, a Ferrari F12. But it does have a sporty feel, which is quite good.

In Dynamic mode the ride comfort is seriously compromised, but I have to say, for a big car, you really can hustle it very, very hard. How hard? Well, through the Craner Curves at Donington, how does 100 mph sound? Sure, you could probably get a proper Range Rover to achieve a similar speed, but it would be extremely scary.

Later I went to have a look round the charitable institution I laughably call a farm, and here, I’ll be honest, it felt pretty much identical to its proper brother. It had the same push-button system that lets you tell the car what sort of tricky terrain lies ahead, so that it can work out which differential should be locked and what range the automatic gearbox should select.

Then, afterwards, it was back to London, where the sporting brogue became as comfortable and as quiet as your favourite armchair. Some of the fixtures and fittings are not quite as satisfying as they are on its proper brother, but the architecture is great: the high centre console put me in mind of a Porsche 928, and there’s no getting away from the fact that there are many toys to play with. Possibly because I had an Autobiography-spec car.

DAB radio was one of those toys, and I’m sorry but it’s about time people stopped jumping up and down with excitement about the quality of the sound, because most of the time there isn’t any. When the signal is a bit weak, normal radio goes hissy for a moment or two. But when the digital signal is a bit weak, you get silence. For mile after mile after mile. It may work in your kitchen, but in a car you would be better off with a record player.

Still, because there was no radio, I did notice the fuel gauge, which, after many miles, was still resolutely stuck on full. And this really is the ace up the new Sport’s sleeve. You see, underneath, this is not a Discovery. It shares much of its basic
architecture with the new Range Rover, and that makes it light. And that in turn means massively improved fuel consumption. I swear my car wasn’t using any at all.

It’s where the sportiness comes from too, and the sometimes vivid acceleration. Even the six-cylinder diesel can do 0 to 60 in around eight seconds. The supercharged V8 will do 0 to 60 in around five seconds.

This, then, is a massive improvement on the old car. It is a Range Rover, it does have a sporty feel, it does work off road and it is comfortable and well equipped. But it doesn’t have a split, folding tailgate. That’s why my eye is still on its more expensive bigger brother.

It seems unfair now to call it the proper model. Because the Sport’s proper too. Gary has already ordered one.

9 June 2013

Porsche’s biggest problem is that it doesn’t seem to employ any stylists. The 911 was created after someone accidentally sat on a clay model of the Volkswagen Beetle, and every single version that has come along since has looked exactly the same.

Enthusiasts of the breed point at new door handles and headlamp clusters and say these subtle changes alter the whole appearance of the car. But that’s like saying Tom Cruise’s eyebrow wax makes him look completely different. It just doesn’t. It makes him look like Tom Cruise with new eyebrows.

My colleagues on
Top Gear
always refer to the various 911 incarnations by their model numbers and say the type 993 wasn’t as good-looking as the 996, and the 997 doesn’t have quite the right stance. To me it’s like looking at a field full of babies. No matter where in the world they come from, they are all the same.

Porsche’s designers had a stab at something new and different with the Boxster but, having created a front end, they were so exhausted by the effort that they simply fitted exactly the same thing to the back. Were it not for the colour of the rear lights, this car would look exactly the same going forwards as it does in reverse.

And then we have the Cayenne, the big off-roader. This has the nose of a 911 and the rest of it looks as if it’s melted.

I suppose the trouble is that when you are a small company, and you can afford to launch a new car only every 300 years, you can’t really employ a big styling division full of bright young things in polo neck jumpers and thin glasses. Because most of the time they’d have nothing to do. Except apply for a job with
General Motors. We see the same problem with Aston Martin, which designed one car back in the 14th century and is still making the same sort of thing today. At least that first car was pretty – which is emphatically not the case with Porsche’s squashed Beetle.

All of this brings me on to the Cayman, which, in essence, is a Boxster coupé. The first effort looked, as you may have guessed, like a Boxster with a roof. It looked as though I’d designed it. And anyone who bought it was saying one thing very clearly, ‘Hey. I can’t afford a 911.’

But now there’s a new Cayman and it no longer looks like a Boxster with a roof. It looks like a 911. Still, at least passers-by will no longer clock you as a man hanging to the bottom rung of the ladder. Only very keen Porsche enthusiasts will spot that it isn’t a 911, and you don’t want to be talking to those people anyway.

I have to, in a professional capacity, and what they’re saying is interesting. They’re saying that the latest 911 has lost some of the brand magic. That it’s no longer as sporty or as involving as it should be. And that actually the much cheaper lookalike Cayman is much closer in spirit to the original dream.

I don’t know about any of that, but what I can tell you is that my test car, an S version, really was the most lovely colour. It was a deep, rich metallic blue. It’s the best colour I’ve seen on any car.

I can also tell you that, as a sports car, the Cayman S is simply spectacular. It seems to flow down the road the way honey would flow over the naked form of Cameron Diaz. Only faster.

The steering and the brakes and the feel through the seat of your pants are all exactly as they should be. And then there’s the engine: a 3.4-litre flat six mounted just behind the cockpit. Not over the rear bumper, as it is in a 911.

This creates not just an innate sense of balance but also a surprisingly large amount of oomph. And it’s all accompanied by a noise that’s never intrusive or showy but is always there, in
a deep, quiet, reassuring way. It’s like driving along with Richard Burton in the boot, endlessly complimenting you on your clothes and your hair and your driving style.

We can wax lyrical as much as we like about the sporting prowess of cars such as the Jaguar F-type and the Lotus Elise and the Mitsubishi Evo. But all of them are left shivering in the cold, hard shadow of the Cayman’s magnificence. It really is that good.

Which of course is all very well when you are on the road from Davos to Cortina and the sun’s just coming up and everyone else in the world is in bed. But what about when you’re in Rotherham and it’s rush hour and you’re knackered and you just want to get down the M1 as comfortably as possible?

Things begin well. The Cayman has two boots, which means it can swallow a surprisingly large amount of luggage. It has a roomy cockpit too, full of nice touches. The satellite navigation is easy to program, the air-conditioning works nicely and, joy of joys, there isn’t a single button on the steering wheel. It all feels simple and unthreatening. As long as you stay away from the G-meter and the idiotic lap timer.

It also has surprisingly compliant suspension. Yes, it crashes a bit at low speeds on a badly maintained town centre high street. But once you’re above 30, it’s like a limo.

There’s a lesson here for every car maker. If you make the chassis stiff, the suspension doesn’t have to spend half its time masking deficiencies. It can concentrate on isolating occupants from potholes. Of which, in Rotherham, there are many.

Of course, you can ruin everything by engaging Sport mode, but if you leave that alone, and avoid the 20-inch wheel option, you’ll be fine. And you’ll be doing 30 mpg in a car that costs just £48,783.

However. I’m afraid I arrived back in London in some discomfort, which is the British way of saying ‘screaming agony’, because of the bloody seats. The shoulder bolsters are too close together, which means you get some idea of what it might be
like to be a letter inside an envelope. Even this morning, after eight hours of deep sleep, my neck feels as though it’s spasming.

There are other irritations too. The cupholder system is needlessly complicated and, no matter what you do, tins entrusted to the receptacles always rattle. And then there’s the gearbox. I had the double-clutch system, which costs an extra £2,000, and for the most part it’s very good. But at slow speeds, in Auto mode, you sense that a computer program is keeping you going, rather than neat mechanical design. In a sports car as pure as the Cayman, I think a manual is more in keeping.

That really is a tiny criticism, though. And I probably wouldn’t have mentioned it at all if my neck didn’t hurt so much.

Which brings me on to the final point. When I have finished writing this, I must drive the Cayman to Oxfordshire. With decent seats, that would be something I’d relish. But it doesn’t have decent seats, so I’m rather dreading it.

16 June 2013

When I first reviewed the idiotically named McLaren MP4-12C, I said it was better in every measurable way than the Ferrari 458 Italia, but that it lacked sparkle, panache, zing. That it was too technical and too soulless. And that, given the choice, I’d take the Ferrari.

Other reviewers came to the same conclusions, and as a result McLaren acted fast to address the situation. The company made its car more noisy and tuned the exhaust to make it sound dirtier. It gave the car even more power. And it fitted door handles that actually worked. Very nice. And, most of all, it cut the roof off to create the more sensibly named 12C Spider.

The effect of this amputation has been dramatic. It’s like one of those stern-looking girls you sometimes find in adult films who simply by letting their hair down are transformed into complete sex bombs.

Britain loves convertibles. We buy more of them than almost any other country in Europe, and it’s easy to see why. Because the sun on these islands is a rare visitor, we don’t want to waste the days when it’s here by sitting under a metal roof. We want to savour it, because we know tomorrow it’ll be gone.

I know the rules, of course. No man over the age of thirty-eight can drive a car with the roof down when he can be seen by other people, as it sends out all the wrong messages. You think you look good on the high street, sitting in the sun. You think you come across as suave yet carefree. But to other people it looks as if your gentleman sausage no longer works properly.

I don’t care, though. I love to drive a car with the roof down.
I love the noise and the sense that it’s just you hurtling through time and space; that you’re not actually in a car. In fact, when you’re in a convertible and the roof is down, the sensations are so vivid, it doesn’t matter what the car’s like at all. Worrying about handling when your hair is being torn out is like worrying about your ingrowing toenails when you are being attacked by a swarm of killer bees.

This is a good thing because as a general rule convertibles do not ride or handle or go anywhere near as well as cars that have roofs. That’s because today the chassis of a car is its bodyshell. The front and the back ends are joined not by two huge rails, which used to be the case, but by the floor and the roof. Taking 50 per cent of that connection away means you have to add all sorts of strengthening beams that a) add weight and b) are never really a satisfactory substitute. Soft-top cars never feel stiff. Much like many of the people who drive them.

The McLaren, however, is different. Because the spine of the original was so rigid, no strengthening beams have been added at all. That means no extra weight – apart from the electric roof mechanism – and no compromises. As a result, this car feels exactly the same as the hard-top. Which is to say, it feels magical. As if it’s being propelled by witchcraft.

No car in the world has better steering. It’s very light, which suggests there’s no feel. But in fact there is so much that when you run over a wasp, you can tell whether it was a male or a female. This means you can feel the precise moment when grip is about to be lost. Which means you always feel completely in control.

You’re not, though. A computer is. You can turn it off, if you are a space shuttle commander and you have half an hour to kill, but there’s no point. Because it will let you take diabolical liberties before it steps in, like a well-trained butler, with a gentle helping hand. It’s the best traction control system I’ve yet encountered.

And it’s almost never necessary. Fitting a car this well behaved
with an electronic restraining bolt is like fitting the Archbishop of Canterbury with an ankle tag. It’s pointless. Because the spine is so stiff, and because there are no anti-roll bars, there’s no physical connection between any of the wheels – it’s all done electronically – so the cornering speeds of this car are simply immense. Around a track, I know of no road car that could even get close.

If you have a Ferrari 458, do not attempt to keep up with a McLaren 12C. You will be either humiliated or killed.

And here’s the clincher. When you have finished tearing up the laws of physics and your neck hurts from the cornering G-forces and it’s time to go home, the 12C is as comfortable as a Rolls-Royce Phantom. Even though it will corner at Mach 3, the lack of anti-roll bars means it simply glides and floats over bumps and potholes. As I said, witchcraft.

As a piece of engineering, then, it’s fabulous. Jaw-dropping. Mesmerizing. But as a car? Hmmm. There are one or two things that would drive you mad. For instance, every time you open the butterfly door to get in, the side window will take your eye out. I must also say that if you are tall, the cockpit is a little tight. And the satnav doesn’t work. It always thinks it’s where you were two hours earlier, but that’s not really the end of the world, because with the roof down you can’t see the screen anyway.

There’s more too. Almost every feature is adjustable. You can even alter the volume of the wastegate chirrup. But only if you are six years old. Because when you go into the system menu, you’ll find the typeface is in 2 pt and you won’t be able to read it. Not without putting on a pair of reading glasses and peering into the binnacle, something that’s not advisable when you are in a 600-plus brake horsepower soft-top and you’re doing 200 mph.

These things may be enough to drive you in the direction of the Ferrari. But remember, that comes with a steering wheel that’s unfathomable and electronic readouts that make the McLaren look as though it’s been made by Playmobil. I’m afraid, then, that if you buy either of these cars, it will infuriate as often
as it exhilarates. It was always thus in the world of the supercar, though.

It has been suggested by some that they are similar in other ways too and that choosing between them is difficult. But that’s not so, actually. They may look the same, cost about the same and have the same basic design parameters. But they are completely different.

The McLaren is like a three-star restaurant. The food is immaculate, the service impeccable, the loos impressive and the temperature just so. Every detail is spot-on, and to give the place a bit of character, there’s now a maître d’ who has a twinkle in his eye.

The Ferrari, on the other hand, is a loud Italian joint full of shouting and massive pepper grinders. They’re both restaurants, then. And they’re both bloody good. But they are not remotely similar. As a result, I cannot tell you which is better. You have to choose what you want, and don’t worry, because whichever way you go, I promise you this: you’ll end up with a masterpiece.

23 June 2013