Peage Payments

Reaching across to the pretty assistant sitting high above me in her booth I realised that this was not going to be so straightforward. The car in front of me had paid their levy and passed through the barrier with consummate Gallic ease. I however was experiencing somewhat more difficulty. I set the passenger window lower so I could reach the girl’s outstretched hand as I attempted to pass her the coins as requested by the digital display. I ducked my head and arc-ed lower in the driver’s seat of the Porsche in order to attempt eye contact with the confused – and now giggling - young fille. It was no good. I could not reach her hand.

Now being a man, one must not concede defeat when faced with such a conundrum whilst in control of a vehicle. The same is said of taking directions and losing one’s way. The male driver is a proud animal whose authority behind the wheel should never be questioned, nor must he ever turn back, nor stop and request directions. This is reflected in the comment often heard by males, directed at their female partner whilst at the control of a car, when asked,

“Are we lost honey?” to which Man replies, “No of course not dear, I am just not too sure where we are”.

In this statement we see the male psyche at full throttle, in control of the situation, passing complete and utter confidence to his passengers, safe in the knowledge their destination will soon be in view. Similarly, if a junction is missed, the male brain will immediate compute new directions in order to compensate for the error, arriving at the correct road via three left – or right  - turns later, perhaps taking in a roundabout or two. The latter scores extra points which may – or may not – be redeemed later in the evening.

Thus, you’ll understand why I did not take the most sensible and face-saving option and exit the 911, walking around the front of the car to face the girl nez a nez and provide the necessary funds to effect my passage. This of course had nothing to do with the three burly farmers parked behind me, arms folded, patience draining, narrow eyes fixed to the back of my head.

I hauled myself up onto the transmission tunnel in the centre of the car and suddenly the girl’s entire pretty face came into view and we both giggled. As I passed the loose change into her hand, I slipped a little towards the passenger seat and had to brace myself using my outstretched right leg in order to maintain balance.

Porsche have adhered to tradition in keeping the throttle hinged to the floor, not hanging from above as in most modern cars. This provides the advantage of simple flexing of the right calf to generate more speed on the road and instil in the driver that warm buzz of history, engineering and build quality – aspects so well attuned to the Porsche name. The pedal is not designed as a brace.

A sudden snarl turned into a scream as the idling engine revs rose to nearly 8000. The needle on the dial spun alarmingly into the red zone and the entire car shook from the howling, banshee wail behind me. I rapidly relaxed my flexed leg to quell the cacophony and plunged face first into the seat catching my nose on the passenger window sill, grazing the skin and releasing a trickle of blood. The girl in the booth corpsed into a shriek of laughter, covering her mouth with embarrassment. I rose from my prone position with considerable difficulty, hauled myself back into the driver’s seat - bracing myself using the brake pedal this time - moved forward under the rising barrier and was on my way. The farmers behind - distinctly unimpressed with the English peasant ahead of them, tutted and shrugged their way forward and nonchalantly threw their change into the awaiting basket – the girl now composing herself away from the open window.

And so passed my first experience of a toll booth in France, from behind the wheel of a right hand drive 911. I thought that experience was enough to make me concentrate, but as I proceeded along the autoroute ahead and disappeared into rural France I found there was more to learn.

A lot more….

Euroscepticism in a Wet Italy

I don’t admit to understanding a great deal about the inner mechanisms of the European Union, how policies are concocted, agreed upon and rolled out into practice. I do however realize that so many make little or no sense to me. I am aware of the pathological need for Europhiles to blur the lines between our “member states”, to dilute many of the countries' once charming differences and to create a homogenized environment, for our apparent collective benefit and pleasure.

Well, this does not describe how I became hopelessly lost in Northern Italy. After three glorious days of driving the 911 in France, I had crossed the border into Italy; an international boundary represented here by a long single-direction tunnel burrowed through a jagged Franco-Italian Western Alp, guarded indifferently by a smoking policeman (cigarette smoking, not a uniformed man on fire of course). I was used to the French autoroutes being represented by clear blue signage, as are our motorways back home. With this in mind, and with my modicum of EU appreciation, I planned to follow the blue toward Cuneo, past Turin, and around the outskirts of Milan. Finally, I would reach the beautiful town of Como - some 350 km to the northeast.

Perhaps no one in Brussels had consulted the Italian MEPs. Perhaps the Italians were watching soccer during that particular “let’s agree on blue for fast roads” meeting. Perhaps the Italians could care less. Perhaps I was about to have a major accident induced by a rising temper. For over three hours I followed these blue signs to Turin but every time I was forced to drive pitifully slowly through housing estates in down-at-heel, grotty suburban overspill, or trundle through industrial estates constructed at a time when corrugated iron was all the rage and ration books were still in circulation.

I could even see the Autostrada running parallel some 500 metres to my right, tantalizingly close, cars and lorries flashing by. I was then deviated by yet another sign, this time the fast traffic moving away to my left, closer now so I could almost see the eyes of the manic drivers racing to their destinations.

Of course, I soon realized that the motorways in Italy are represented by green signs, not blue as one might expect. It did not help either that my maps showed this motorway to be only partially constructed. My ire at losing half a day exploring a failed industrial plant and several Italian council estates in a flat, featureless part of northern Italy was further exacerbated. I finally trundled into the outskirts of Como in the failing early evening light though I should have been losing myself in the cobbled streets gazing up in awe at the dome of the Cattedrale di Santa Maria Assunta.

I collapsed onto my hotel bed at about 7pm. A journey of 370 kilometres from Sospel, along the gorge du Verdun, through the mediaeval towns of Tende, Bosio, Vievola and eventually skirting around the edges of Turin and Milan had taken almost 10 hours. I later sat outdoors, alone, under a translucent tarpaulin, fine rain pitter-patting above my head as I tried to savour a beer and lasagna supper, and gazed across the Piazza Duomo at the Cattedrale gaudily lit with the red, white and green of a local sponsor’s logo. I mused over my frustrating day and realized that even from the cockpit of a 911 Porsche, one could have an off day on the roads of a united Europe.

Tomorrow, however, the Italian Lakes beckoned me to explore their shores, and tomorrow is always another day...

Hairpin Moments

Squeezing the ball of my right foot on the brake pedal, I rolled my ankle slightly so as to catch the throttle mid-gearshift and gave it a little flex. Releasing the clutch and dropping the gear lever down a cog from third to second I caught the engine revs just as the clutch bit. I twirled the wheel quickly around, stealing a glance over my left shoulder. The hairpin bend opened in front of me as I fed the power of some 340 horses as smoothly as I could through the rear wheels, unwinding the steering lock at the same rate of applying the floor-hinged throttle. The flat-six engine behind my left ear, burbling at first then rising to a howl as the engine revs moved north of 5000 as my steed gathered speed with alarming ease.

Over to the right and north was the Mont Blanc Massif, just visible through the low, evening clouds. The sinuous thread of the Col du Joux Plane unraveled itself ahead of me as I prepared for my next hairpin. A right hander this time; check for traffic, swing out to the left quickly, brake hard with ball of foot, drop gear, repeat heel-and-toe process and gloat with nonchalant satisfaction as engine and transmission speeds are matched seamlessly as another rapid gear change sees off another hairpin. Realize then that gear-changes like that require years of practice and the rocking back and forth of my head clearly demonstrated I had many years to go. Hear the crunch of missed gearchanges and over-revving from the reality of my inexperience of Porsche driving.

The road had risen dramatically steeply as we* climbed out of the small mediaeval town of Samoens. Dispatching a few daring, struggling, puffing cyclists, our ascent of the Col took us through ever more remote farming hamlets, the pungent aroma of cattle and earth hung in the air as the Savoie cows munched in their fertile meadows. Tight buds of alpine flowers were beginning to push through the short cropped grass, itself just beginning to find shape again after five months of heavy packed snow. Crocuses, white snowdrops, bright yellow wild daffodils, violets and striking blue gentians were in beginning to show. Overhead, soaring through the pine trees were falcons, buzzards, hawks, larks and even a dipper or two.

Of course I saw none of this as I was knackered from driving all day from the UK. As dusk fell in the Haute Savoie I needed to afford myself one mountain road blast in my new steed before resting. And did the Porsche deliver. Levels of grip, acceleration and braking far beyond anything I have experienced before and of course far beyond my ability to harness, apply and release.

The tarmac on the Col du Joux Plane began it crack and crumble, breaking up from the recent thaw and contraction of the ice. The 911’s traction control dispatched of any scrabbling complaint from the rear wheels as they tried to break loose. Upon arriving at the top of the pass, I swung the car onto the gravel outside the now closed ski hire hut, coming to halt in front of some ludicrously clothed French cyclists. The car ticked and puffed as it caught its breath and cooled from its ten minute blast up the hill. I sat back on the bench and drank in the view, and took a few photographs. The 911 had truly delivered on its promise and I was indeed one happy customer. The Alpine adventure had begun….

*A collective term meaning “me and my 911, as one”. It has been known for men, in their infinite wisdom, to have formed inexplicable bonds with machinery. Not well understood, this phenomenon may also be termed “Petrolhead”. More on this in another posting.