300C: A US odyssey

It's said that alligators sometimes wander into peoples' back gardens in this part of Florida. You really can head out to the pool and find half a ton of armoured reptile basking in it. Yet even here the greatest threat to a pale skinned Brit seems to be that of spontaneous combustion. It’s mid December, but still the temperature is a thoroughly toasty 85 degrees and the humidity is up to nearly 60 percent.

So what drags me away from the temperate climes of London? Well, in between sampling the banked curves of Daytona and plying my wares at the world's largest racing trade show – more on those later – I'm here to experience a little bit of American car culture. In truth, it's been something of an impromptu affair – with a day to spare before the show I approach the local car hire firm for something suitable. The result was a gleaming black 2008 Chrysler 300C. And a map. The plan is to get out of the tourist Mecca of Orlando, which lies to the east of the Florida peninsula, and head west to the town of Clearwater on the Gulf of Mexico; sort of a mini coast-to-coast.

Out in the car park, the big Chrysler does a fine job of filling even a US space. At sixteen and a half feet long it's bigger than a Bentley Continental GT. It screams Americana too, with a comically high shoulder line, a brash authoritarian presence and a front end seemingly modelled on JR Ewing's grin. It's much the same inside, with wide open spaces and a bold, simple layout.

The 3.5-litre V6 starts with a slightly muted thrum and the 300C creeps forward obligingly once the 5-speed auto 'box is placed in drive. We whisk out the car park and onto International Drive with the transmission quietly slurring away. The sheer size of the thing would render it unwieldy in the UK. Fortunately, you sit quite high with a good view of its extremities as the long bonnet sweeps round corners. It does feel somewhat like captaining a boat at times, but cruising the wide palm tree lined boulevards of downtown Orlando the 300C feels perfectly at home.

Soon I locate the interstate, and with it my first chance to open the car up. To be honest it seems to be a bit startled by the process. I'd love the 5.7-litre V8 in the higher spec 300s, but my work was cut out just trying to find something American and the V6 is a bit of a pale imitation. It's actually a very revvy engine, with a useful power band extending up to 7,000rpm, but torque isn't really on the agenda. Cruising slowly this isn't a problem; the auto 'box shifts up at the earliest possible moment and you're left wafting quietly around, but put your foot down and the torque converter throws a hissy fit. After a moment's confusion it begrudgingly kicks down two gears and begins screaming away without any significant increase in speed. It's almost as if the gearbox is slipping. Yet with a more delicate approach it can be coaxed into performing quite well. The acceleration is hardly alarming (it's rated at 8.6 seconds to 60mph), but it does feel nicely sustained as the big Chrysler pushes its way through the air. The soundtrack isn't bad either; quite refined, but with a muscular edge that almost suggests an extra pair of cylinders might be lurking under the bonnet.

After a couple of miles I start to drop into the routine of US motorway travel. Barring the flat, sub tropical landscape, much is the same as the UK. It's 3 lanes wide, people have a healthy disdain for the speed limit (which ranges from 55mph to 75 and even includes minimum speeds in some sections) and the layout is all fairly intuitive. What's even worse than the UK is lane discipline. It simply does not exist, and drivers seem to pick a lane completely irrespective of their speed. Occasionally one of them wakes up and promptly undertakes the car in front, but there's little real order. It never feels aggressive or overwrought and, with relatively low traffic densities, the whole thing more or less seems to work. In fact they're so chilled out that several times I witness a car in one of the outside lanes wander until it actually puts two wheels on the dirt. Fortunately the trucks appear to be somewhat more carefully guided. They're big out here; really big. If one was to stray off the road it's likely it could run over several small towns before the driver's attention was even diverted from his Lynyrd Skynyrd tape.

The I4 widens to four lanes as we pass the outskirts of Tampa. It's a bright modern city with a cluster of silver sky scrapers looming against the hazy midday sky. It also marks a brief stint on the I275, a comparatively twisty urban freeway, which gives a bit more insight into the Chrysler’s dynamics. Once again the messages are a little mixed. The steering is quite precise with a pleasingly linear action, but it’s almost completely devoid of feel. The initial turn is distinctly floaty and the whole thing feels a touch under-damped, but the car actually feels surprisingly well balanced once its set up in the turn. Sweeping through the I275’s twists, its body roll is no worse than you’d expect from a large sedan and the car actually feels quite poised. 

The only real shock comes after we turn off and join State Road 60. It begins by heading through a series of traffic lights, one of which decides to turn red just as we approach. There’s no one behind and it’s not that close so I elect to go for the brakes. They felt fine on the interstate with adequate feel and reasonable levels of assistance, but when tasked with something a bit more urgent they fail miserably. The tyres let out a screech and a puff of smoke, but little in the way of actual retardation. We pass the stop light travelling at pretty much the same speed as before and I elect to go for the gas instead. There’s plenty of time to clear the crossing, which is fortunate as the brakes are simply the worst of any modern car I’ve encountered. I suppose it’s good to see the big Chrylser does live up to its ‘yank tank’ image in at least one respect.

The SR60 rapidly blends into the Courtney Campbell Causeway; 9.9 miles of bridges and reclaimed land stretching across Tampa Bay. It leads to the aptly named town of Clearwater. You can drive virtually onto the beach and, as Florida gives way to the Gulf of Mexico, the water is indeed crystal clear. As we pause for a photocall, a steady stream of numbered white 4X4s drive past – presumably watching out for anyone paddling past in a sombrero. The strange foreigner randomly photographing his hire car seems to attract a certain attention too, signalling that it’s perhaps time to move on.

We trundle down a rough concrete track barely wider than the Chrysler. It runs within feet of the waters edge, before rejoining the main road that takes us back towards Tampa. Cruising onward along the I4 you can’t help noticing the sheer number of police cars. There are state troopers, county sheriffs and local police everywhere. At one point we pass a car being pulled over and the officer approaches cautiously, one hand hovering over his gun. Make no mistake, this is still America.

Orlando is beckoning, but we’re not done yet. With about twenty miles to go, we turn off the beaten track onto State Road 532. This is Smokey and The Bandit country; unmistakably Southern with paperbark trees, Florida pines and palm trees dotted along the side of the road. Sure enough, it’s not long before we pass the county mountie, watching intently from a side turning. Even the cruisers still bear a distinct resemblance to those which chased Burt Reynolds.

Our final waypoint, Kissimmee, is different. It feels like someone has turned the contrast up – it has the bluest skies, the greenest grass and the orangiest buildings. To be fair, the Victorian shop fronts and awnings stretching onto the main road actually come in a variety of colours, but all are bright. I don’t know how many ordinary Floridians actually live here, but to an outsider it appears to be a rather utopian vision of small-town America. It’s like Pleasantville. There’s no litter, every blade of grass is immaculately trimmed and every street corner has a bright, breezy cafe cheerfully dishing up the local speciality, key lime pie. Even fly tipping just looks better here. We pass a mid ‘50s Ford Edsel Station Wagon that’s been abandoned in a side street. Although faded and abused, it still bears a sort of retro charm. Somehow it just looks right.

The drive back along Poinciana Boulevard features a rare sight on Florida’s country roads: corners. It’s hardly Zig Zag Hill, but there are a couple of S-Bends that provide a certain amount of childish amusement for me, but apparently considerable concern to the local drivers who slow right down before carefully negotiating these dangerous oddities. If their cars go round corners like the 300C stops it’s probably a wise move.

My first experience of driving Stateside has been an enlightening one. Like America in general, much of it feels strangely familiar, but all with a distinctly US slant. I’d love to do a real coast-to-coast one day or cruise along Pacific Coast Highway, but for now the trip to Clearwater in the big Chrysler will have to do. At least I didn’t expire in the heat.

Northern highlights

I’m not going to pretend my choice of transport for this trip came through anything other than necessity. The Caterham’s current mechanical issues, allied to its lack of a hood, and the fact I would have almost certainly ended up single by the end of the trip had I taken it, compelled me to use the Focus instead. And for those very reasons I find myself cruising up the A1 in the quiet confines of the Ford’s interior.

The familiar journey up to my girlfriend’s parents’ near York turns out to be an uneventful one, barring a spooky atmospheric phenomenon that manifests itself as I pass through Cambridgeshire. As the last rays of the peach coloured sunset creep over the horizon, a dense mist wells up in the fields surrounding the road. It hangs all around, covering the windscreen with a fine film of water vapour and collecting by the hedgerows and hollows like the start of a horror film. There are, however, no ghosts, ghouls or vampires, and by about 11pm I’ve arrived, safely back in the land of the living.

Two days later I head out with my significant other to our base for the next couple of days; the Yorkshire Dales. We approach from the bustling market town of Leyburn, following the sat nav along a spectacular single-track road onto the fells. Not for the last time it turns out to be a route you couldn’t drive at any great speed - thanks to crests, blind corners, errant sheep and the sheer lack of width - but the scenery is breathtaking. The sudden switch from lush farmland to rugged moorland leaves you in no doubt you’ve arrived in the Dales. A few miles further on, the view from our hotel in the tiny hamlet of Low Row is almost equally dramatic, and it promises much to explore.


The following day we head out to the Lake District along the B6270. Initially it’s a meandering country road skirting the villages of the Northern Dales, but the eastern edge thrusts us onto a narrow track, like the previous night's road only more so. The scenery becomes increasingly desolate, and the views ever more expansive. This is big sky country, with a horizon that stretches on for miles, and over one of its numerous crests we cross the border and plunge down into Cumbria.

The roads around The Lakes are predictably congested and we stick to the main routes for ease, but on the way back we stumble across a real gem and arguably the best driving road of the trip: the A684. Sometime after Kendal the traffic peters out and the road darts around a series of devilishly twisty bends and fast sweeping curves. It gives a rare opportunity to exploit the Focus’ innate chassis balance, trail braking into the bends to quell the initial understeer and then pushing the revvy, if somewhat beleaguered engine up through the gears on the way out.

The roller coaster lasts until we get back into the Dales, when an increasing quota of villages and bumbling tourists forces a more leisurely pace. Soon afterwards, however, we turn off onto the infamous Buttertubs Pass.


Heading north out of Hawes the first stretch is classic moorland road - quite straight, reasonably well sighted and fast. As the altitude peaks, the swooping introduction gives way to the famous vertigo-inducing section. Here all that separates you from a fiery death in the valley floor several hundred feet below appears to be a length of green hosepipe suspended between the fence posts. Fortunately we remain on the black stuff, and the final descent into Thwaite is something else. It's narrower, steeper and twistier than the rest of the road, and I reach the end with a considerable grin, a strong smell of warm brakes and a somewhat spongy pedal. In truth it would probably be more fun the other way round (north to south), but that will have to wait for a future trip.

The following day, however, we do head south over the same valley, albeit on the Askrigg Common road that runs parallel to the Buttertubs, a little further east. It’s a familiar story – more scenic route than honing road - but nonetheless spectacular as the road hugs the steep side of the valley and makes its way over the common. Unfortunately there turns out to be a cycle race on, making progress, for us, very sedate. Not so for the competitors, who are hurtling down the 1 in 4 hill towards us, placing all their trust in old fashioned cycle brakes and sticking rigidly to the racing line. While, to me, it looks like fun, I defy anyone who moans about people driving enthusiastically to claim that’s safer!

Afterwards, on a tip-off, we head down the B6255 towards Ingleton. Were it not for swarms of peak-season tourists this road would be one of the highlights, thanks to a great mixture of longish open straights and tight twisty sections. It seems to be very popular with bikers too, but the local constabulary are also in attendance, sporting a very tasty looking Evo IX pursuit car no less.


On the final day - after another pass over Askrigg Common - we head back along the eastern stretch of the A684. Initially it winds its way through a series of quaint stone-clad villages but, as before, it opens up on the periphery into a genuinely credible driving road. It's just a pity that this particular road leads us back to the A1 and, from there, on to London.

Yet the Focus once again performs admirably on the motorway slog. For a sub-premium hatchback, let alone a design that’s over a decade old, it’s remarkably versatile. True, the meagre 1.6-litre engine needs working to overcome its considerable mass on occasions, but even then it remains relatively civilised, with an excellent ride-handling balance and some of the most comfortable leather seats I’ve ever sat in. What’s more, throughout the whole trip it’s averaged comfortably more than it does on my usual suburban commute, so it seems this very ordinary car’s trip into some extraordinary surroundings has categorically done it good.

Le Mans 2009 - part 1

Whisper this, but I’d never actually been to Le Mans before this year. It seemed any petrolhead worth his salt considered the place a sort of spiritual home, but not me. I was a Le Mans virgin. I suppose there is a first time for everyone though and in my case that was earlier this month.

Day 1
It was an inauspicious start to be honest; moderate traffic and light drizzle for an unexceptional run down to the tunnel on Wednesday morning. One villainously over-priced croissant, a slurp of orange juice and a few chapters of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas and I was out into the overcast gloom of northern France.

Somehow the Focus didn’t quite cut it with the Ferraris and Aston Martins disembarking at the same time. I’d sold the TVR a week and a half previously, so I had no real choice in the matter, yet part of me was actually quite glad of this as the heavens opened near Rouen. It may have about as much charisma as any other metallic gray repmobile, but the humble Ford really does impress with its refinement. The engine is barely audible at motorway speed and even though wind and tyre noise are a bit more pronounced the Focus is still streets ahead of many of the more evocative Le Mans choices in this respect. Likewise, the route – straight down the A28 – may have been a little unadventurous, but with a tight schedule to keep and zealous gendarmes potentially perched behind every tree I set a steady 130kph and cruised on to Le Mans. After all, I was on business.

The first job when I arrived was to rendezvous with the rest of the Race Tech crew at the press accreditation centre. It was also my first chance to take a proper look at editor William’s 1938 Bentley special, which to be honest figured pretty high in my list of priorities. I’d been keen to see the car since I’d joined the magazine last September. And so, curiosity satisfied and accreditation complete, it was time to head back to my first hotel, the Mercure in Le Mans centre.


That evening we were due to attending a dinner near the circuit, so after a brief rest, William brought the Bentley round to the hotel and I followed him and publishing director Soheila out to Arnage. Or at least I tried to. Slight navigational issues intervened to give the evening a rather surreal atmosphere. Chasing the Bentley’s art-decco tail through the gloomy half-lit back streets of Le Mans was pure film noir, and the plot was about to thicken. It dawned on me that were starting to pass familiar landmarks and in fact we were going round in circles.

This trend developed as we somehow progressed into the countryside only to continue driving in circles. It didn’t matter though, we were close enough to here the racing engines scream past as free practice unfolded, and the Bentley’s elegant frame blended perfectly with the time-warp landscape that bordered the circuit. Le Mans had begun.


Day 2
That morning, still fuelled by what was undoubtedly the best dinner I’ve ever had the previous night, I ventured out towards the circuit. It was due to be a day of preparation – both for us and the teams. While they performed last minute setup changes before the evening’s qualifying session, we secured a prime spot in the Le Mans press office and, later, I headed into the town centre to pick up the latest addition to our squad.

Steve Bridges’ day job is promoting industry (and in particularly motorsport) for the Commonwealth of Virginia, but in his spare time he’s also a track marshal and unofficial ambassador for Virginia International Raceway – the hidden gem sometimes referred to America’s Nürburgring. And now he was about to add another title to his collection: Race Tech’s official photographer.

After meeting at the station and proceeding to accreditation again, we decided to head back to get some rest ahead of that evening’s qualifying. For the rest of the week we were both staying in a small farmhouse near Teloche, about seven miles away from the circuit. The route out into the sticks seemed straightforward enough but, as we were about to find out, things were a little complicated. Thanks to the unique nature of Le Mans, most of the roads out to the BnB either formed or intersected part of the circuit and we came to numerous roadblocks only to be turned away by stony-faced gendarmes. Eventually we made our way down a narrow gravel track to the farmhouse, sheltered from the afternoon sun by the shade of an old barn.


That evening, after struggling through the pleasantries with our hosts in broken Franglais, we returned to the circuit. At this point two joys of being a member of the press highlighted themselves. Firstly, we had access right up to the crash barrier on several parts of the circuit, including the Esses just before the Dunlop Bridge. The sense of smugness this generated in both of us was palpable as the pietons sat some 50 yards further back crammed behind the catch fence. Secondly, this jammyness only increased as we discovered the various hospitality units were open for business.

After a very pleasant meal care of Peugeot – Chris Harries once remarked the free dinners were the best part of this job and he’s not far wrong – we headed back out to watch the end of qualifying. Despite the 908’s general air of dominance, Allan McNish had set a blistering time in the Audi in the first half, which seemed unbreakable. However, as the final session drew to a close, with the track now engulfed in darkness, Frenchmen Stephane Sarrazin flew through to take the pole for Peugeot. Things were looking very good indeed for the car I’d witnessed the birth of back in February.


Day 3

Friday is rebuild day for the teams at Le Mans. An army of mechanics take to the cars changing engines, gearboxes, bodywork sections and just about anything else that bears any risk of detaching itself or degrading over the course of the race. We, meanwhile, set to delivering magazines and securing interviews with the various team owners and race engineers floating around.

The paddock at Le Mans has a unique atmosphere, which seems so much more organic than the rather clinical condition encountered at a grand prix. Access is far less restricted and, despite a very serious job in hand, the feeling is far more relaxed. All of this seems to put the teams at ease, but if you really need to break the ice, I found three little letters which were guaranteed to do the trick. The ACO, or Automobile Club de l'Ouest, has been running the race since its inception in 1923, and in the 86 years since then they have rarely seen eye-to-eye with the competitors. I rapidly discovered this was a favoured topic of conversation and guaranteed to produce the start of a long, frank conversation.


After a productive day at the coalface it was time to experience the carnival atmosphere that surrounds Le Mans. All four of us clambered into the twin cockpits of the Bentley – separated fore and aft like the pilot and gunner in a vintage fighter plane, with William and Soheila up front and Steve and I in the back. As we set off into the twilight, the circuit’s floodlights glowing in the background, the evening once again took on a slightly surreal aspect, however this time it was an altogether more visceral experience.


We were just approaching the exit when the first barrage of Mad Friday began. A large crowd lined the road and a torrent of water pistol fire came from both sides. Then – bam – a water bomb landed square on the cowl in front of the rear seats, showering me and Steve. We ploughed on towards the town, dodging the broken bottles on the side of the road and attempting to pick our way past the drunken revellers.

A circuit of Le Mans on Friday night is a must. The mood hovers somewhere between good-natured fun and a full-on riot, but somehow it stops just short of being excessive. The Bentley proved extremely popular, particularly with the hordes of Brits who lined the streets, and every so often William would open it up to unleash a deep rasp from the exhaust and a great cheer from the crowd. Because of this we probably got away rather lightly as we cruised through Mulsanne and onto the town centre, but it still remained an exciting – and damp – experience.


As we drove through the centre, past the floodlit cafes, and the cathedral front that Steve McQueen drives past in the famous movie homage to the event, we shared the streets with a mouth-watering array of machinery. A Ferrari 599, a vintage Aston Martin International and an enthusiastically driven French-registered Lotus Esprit V8 were just some of the ‘spotteds’ along the way. And then we turned off the main roads and down a narrow side street, which it later transpired was jam packed with Brits. Yet again the car acted like cat nip for the drunken fans, with a wall of camera phones raised in front of us and drunken greetings issuing from every direction. It looked like we would have to come to a halt but, wisely, William kept us crawling through the dense crowd until an opening appeared. As he opened the taps the old Bentley catapulted forward with surprising force, the crowd cheered, and we drove off into the cool night air.