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.