I stole a quick peek at the lock screen of my phone just before stepping up onto the patio. The stinging light in the near complete darkness painfully pierces my eyes, telling me it's 1:57 in the morning of race day. I'm about to probe my editor, Esther, about what the next Car of the Week is going to be, the location of the first race, and perhaps to urge her to get a move on. Usually, she's the one who's rushing me as my procrastination jams all my previous week's writing into the last few hours before a flight for the following week's car. It's really not like her to drop the ball into the crapper and flush it down with lava like she has. She hasn't replied to anyone's emails, and her phone has been completely offline. It's almost like she saw the imminent change in management and bolted like the wise woman she is.
My right index finger approaches the doorbell, and I hesitate for a moment. I know she doesn't sleep, like,
ever, but her family? Come to think of it, I know nothing of her family. Could I imagine a family of Esthers?
Ooh. I shiver from chills ricocheting up and down my spine at the thought, and pressed the doorbell before I drown in my own thoughts and imagination. Not when I'm not at my desk.
I know I just said she doesn't sleep, but did she really have to get the door in 2.7 seconds? Even Vic takes longer to get to me on race days. Her hair frayed in an unkempt mess and donned in her crumpled sleepwear, it was the first time I had ever seen her this... unguarded. Unprepared. I didn't even recognise her for a moment. Had the lights in her house been on, I might have noticed her horrendous eye bags sooner, too.
"Bro?"
Uh, scratch that, does she have a twin I never knew about?
"Esther?"
No reply. She just stood there, dazed and motionless.
"Esther, is that you? What happened to you? I tried contacting you the whole day with emails, calls..."
"Oh, it's just you... Lee."
"Are you okay?"
"Mm? Yeah, I'm fine..."
"Urgh Esther what the hell...", I muttered as I stormed in without thinking, feeling my way around her walls until I found the light switches and flicked them on. And sweet baby Buddha the scene that greeted me when light flooded the house was... ghastly. Dirty dishes, taps left running, even broken furniture just strewn about... it's almost like someone had just ransacked her place, though all the doors and windows were still firmly closed, and even some valuables were still laying in plain sight. The only thing that looked somewhat normal was a small, neat collection of trophies on a wall mounted shelf, under which Esther's familiar eleven inch laptop was displaying the draft of my NC1 "nsx" Gr.3 review, staring blankly back at me almost untouched from when I submitted it. The neatness amidst the sea of disarray and chaos made it look almost like a small altar.
"Do you need anything?", she asks in a daze.
"That's MY line!", I shouted back at her, taking myself aback with how angry I got, immediately regretting raising my voice.
"Why are you here?"
"Why? Oh I don't know... checking on my colleague to see if she died? Unreachable via emails, phone completely offline, my review not published, and I need to know what the next Car of the Week is!"
"Mm? Car of the Week...? Oh, Car of the Week is taking this week off, haven't you heard?", she mumbles, almost to herself, eyes adrift.
I'm concerned for her, but at the same time, panic began to creep into my soul from being in this house with her. Us Asians, taking a week off? Only when
we get offed! It's almost like I just stepped into a haunted house, and she had been possessed by something. Taking a moment to collect myself, I began to think of other ways to approach the situation.
"I dropped by the office yesterday. Racer handed me the keys. I just need you to arrange the flights."
"He- he did?"
"Yep."
"I thought I made it clear that you're NOT to drive the M6 GT3!", she erupted in a lethargic furor. Ahh, so
that's the next Car of the Week. "I thought I told him! That piece of-!"
I grabbed her by her shoulders. "Look, just go get some sleep, okay? I'll book the flights myself, and I'll find a car somehow, okay? Just-"
"I thought you already had the keys from Racer?"
"To the kingdom, yeah. How'd you think I found where you live?"
She just sighs and almost falls backwards. I'm sure she would've if I didn't have her shoulders held.
"Please be careful... that car is dangerous", she whispers before passing out. Oh gosh... I still haven't asked her how to refill the printer in the office!
***********************************************
Having blown thrice the weekly budget on two 2016 M6 GT3s because I didn't know which was the
exact car to be tested,
and having a third car in tow for comparison, each with their own team of dedicated mechanics and engineers assigned their own... social workers of their choosing, all that looked missing from the picture was a few Metal Slug tanks, crates of Heavy Machine Guns, enough narcotics to OD the entire crew, and Esther the editor helming the logistics of it all as the heavy lift choppers buzzed through the air towards Sagrada, where the first race would be held. Upon touching down however, I was informed by rather meek and trembling locals that the nearest racetrack was half an hour away on good days, named "Circuit de Barcelona-Catalunya", which doesn't even come
close to rhyming with the "Sardegna" on my note- oh.
While the pit crew, mechanics, engineers, and social workers dwindled their thumbs waiting for the choppers to refuel and the pilots of said choppers to rescind their labour strike now that they found out they have to fly to Italy, I figure the downtime gives me a chance to really take a look at the cars.
From what I can gather from the engineers, these nearly identical cars have quite the history, in that the blue car was finished 22nd overall in 2016's 24 Hours of Nürburgring by someone called "Yamauchi Kazunori", whom I can't say I've ever heard of, but I'm told is of utmost, godlike importance. But, if we are to talk strictly about what's present and tangible,
I have some history with the car, too: I wrote it off when
I tested the 2011 Z4 GT3 back in Week 153, citing its spikey power delivery from the twin turbo S63 V8 causing unwelcome chaos every corner exit, while the enlarged dimensions of the car really doesn't do the car's agility any favours. Yeah I mean, sure, it appears to be the machine of choice of some very important, influential, and skilled people, from Yamauchi–sama, Nicolas Rubilar, and even COTW's resident Stig, Vic, but the car and I simply don't mesh. Maybe I'm just not skilled enough, or maybe I'm irreversibly spoiled by the Z4, but I never really got the appeal of the M6 after my short time with it at Interlagos comparing the two cars.
The white car? Other than lacking in the fog lights and fender vents of the blue car, I really can't tell you what's so different about it. Having the exact same power, mass, dimensions, and even BoP, I began to feel incredibly ripped off by my dealer insisting that these two cars are technically different and serve very different purposes. That feeling grew tenfold when I finally put two and two together and realised that I had blown thrice the weekly budget on two cars I had already made up my mind on, and is about to blow even more to reroute the entire convoy to Italy.
Hoo boy, Car of the Week is in good hands.
***********************************************
Now in the correct continent and racetrack, I arrived at
Sardegna's race course complex to the baleful wheezes of several twin turbo M6 GT3s being run full tilt. Unable to wait for me, the crew had already started the first race in my absence. Nice to know exactly how much it is you're needed at your workplace, isn't it? And what's all that bullcrap about the drugs being a "tradition honed with time?" What, like my virginity? I can't wait to be rid of
that!
TMI? Ah well, Esther will edit it out if she feels it.
The race at Sardegna ended quickly enough, with me having arrived just in time to catch a glance of the closing moments of Vic's
unprecedented victory as I unloaded my cars and crew into my pit box, strewn with confetti, candles, smashed wine glasses, streamers, popped balloons, and questionable white cream all over, and not just on the floor, either! Even though the race has ended, the serenity of the silence at the track was not to last, as once the cars were done doing battle, it came the turn of the
humans to do bicker; a kid whose racing suit bore a Finnish flag rose a dispute regarding being shafted by a grandfather without prior consent, using eloquent, concise, and dignified descriptions such as "dirty! dirty! dirty!" to make his case. The grandfather in question was not his own, but rather, one of ours; Rick, whom I have raced cleanly, fairly, and hard with several times every week prior to this one, and has never gotten shafted by him thus far. So I, ready to prove to the crew that they have a capable organiser/ leader in their hands, got off of my underwear covered butt, put on at least the bottom half of my racing suit, and prepared to Sweet Chin Music him across Italy's boarder back to whence he came, the worst crime I can be prosecuted for would be illegal dumping, seeing as I'm not entirely sure anyone in Finland would have the gall to accept the kid as one of their own. Child abuse? Clearly, his parents signed a waiver to absolve us of any liability because they themselves are sick of the kid; in what other scenario can a kid pilot a GT3 machine in race conditions without any wit- I mean, unsupervised?
Yes, in addition to weekly car reviews, Car of the Week also offers a wide range of... peripheral services, so that we can actually afford to bring you the weekly car reviews. I mean, come on, you're not really here for the cars, are you?
With me one foot already in the air, Vic teleported to the kid as quickly as he approaches anyone else on a racetrack. Helmet in hand, the pasty skinned alien sat down with the kid and asked him in a calm and professional manner to explain exactly what had happened on the track a very convincing display of mastery over the English language. To be frank, I have no idea what his interrogation yielded, nor do I know if we finally found a use for Rick's crates of Jack Daniel's now that he's quit drinking by waterboarding the kid with it as I really wasn't interested in the whinging of a sore loser that hasn't the drive or pace to pick himself back up after an on track mishap. Rather, I was caught in my own thoughts about my upcoming role as the organiser of the world's most expensive car magazine. I mean, yeah, it sounds great, especially at "only" 28 years old, but I only have a few days in which I share the same numerical age with Vic before he turns 29, and well, you wouldn't guess it looking at how we both handle work incidents. Clearly, I have a lot yet to learn from him, not just about driving fast on a track, but also ironically enough, people skills... like how to kick someone while making it look like it's
their fault, while leaving no traceable DNA evidence!
After a very quick, but no less diplomatic vote, the crew agreed to make yet another drop by the nearby Croatia and its stunning racetrack, Dragon Trail Seaside. I don't know how Vic knew, but the kid loathed the track! After yet another round of whinging that even racing spec headsets and earplugs can't soften, the kid suddenly grew serendipitously silent all of a sudden. While the Finnish kid seemed to have... finished, I was finally able to concentrate on getting a feel for the M6 on the now empty track. The first proper corner of Sardegna A in reverse is a tight 90° right hander barely two lanes wide, which the big boi M6 clearly doesn't like. What makes me say that? Well, I looped it round on the corner exit of the first corner I attempted at speed with the car, causing all my memories of the car at Interlagos to come flooding and materialise in an instant. I don't have any photos or videos of the incident, so you'll just have to take my word for it. The camera crew were busy with a "Superkick Party" or something back in the pits post race. I wonder what sort of substitute drug they've found to that has the same "kick" as the expensive ones I screwed up the delivery of?
If the land of the Rising Sun has a blue devil called the "Devil Z", and the land of freedom incarnate has a blue devil called the... "Blue Devil", then Germany's blue devil is most definitely this M6 GT3. I shuddered mere millimetres away from the all too close brick walls of the Italian village roads at the thought of all the souls the car must've claimed, and now it's my turn to try to outrun what seemed like fate.
Why hath thou chosen to do this to us, oh dear Robbo?
***********************************************
Away from the claustrophobic confines of tight brick walls that line the public roads of an unassuming Italian Village, and into the warm, plush, safe, and welcoming depths of the ocean floors of Croatia. If I wreck here, at least we can take a convincing photo of the car to advertise as "never crashed" after we fish it out of the ocean and have it
technically not be a lie. My first time getting the elbows of the M6 out would be here at Dragon Trail: Seaside, and to brown nose their new organiser, the crew has not only put on a monochrome livery to distance my car visually from the inauspicious blue, but has also graciously agreed to let me start on podium in a feeble attempt to outrun fate—both mine and that of those around me.
(Huh, I just realised that "brownie points" is a very clever euphemism for brown nosing, which in turn is euphemism for- ooohhhhh..........! snaps fingers Being in power is enlightening!)
Despite being twin turbocharged, the M6 launches best with traction control, allowing me to jump into the lead off a grid start. With me leapfrogging into first off the line, the option of pussyfooting my maiden race in an unfamiliar car had a quick burial at sea before it had a chance to die, and if I didn't want to similarly drown in the chaotic mid pack scuffle, then I'd just have to take this lead and run like hell with it!
Despite of being the eighth heaviest Gr.3 car with
BoP applied, the car certainly didn't feel it in the braking zones, with the brakes and tyres biting ferociously with the slam of the left foot. From there, I gingerly felt out the last few hundredths of the M6's handling envelope while riding the kerbs that DTS requires drivers to do, and that's when I found out that the M6 is almost like a king sized bed! It comfortably soaks up and damps out these uneven road surfaces! No matter the odd angle or reckless speed I approached these kerbs at, the M6's suspension is supple enough to take it all in its stride, while remaining firm and assertive in the twisties, meeting even hard to reach apexes in the deepest of crevices. Whatever the mood or position, there simply isn't an itch the M6 can't scratch. Firm, yet supple, like the rears of our social workers, mm! Bitey, too!
After just a lap or two of Seaside, I began to realise that perhaps I had been too hasty to write off the M6 when testing the Z4, because aside from an all too pokey power delivery, the M6 is, dare I say it, quite the brilliant car!
With the next race taking place at Circuit de la Sarthe, the battleground of the world's most grueling 24 hour race across 13.6 kilometres (8.5 miles) of wide open country roads, la Sarthe is the textbook given example of a circuit which favours high powered, high speed machinery, which is right up the M6's alley. I then thought, what better track to bring a handling focused car like the 2011 Z4 GT3 to see just how lacking it is in a straight line in comparison to the M6, like everybody keeps saying?
If the Z4 is supposed to have some sort of straight line speed deficit against the M6, then it sure as hell can't be found on the start line, where I had to immediately dart around the bogging and wheelspinning M6s, gaining three positions essentially for free. With both the Z4 and M6 being powered by 4.4L V8s, you'd think the M6 is fueled by malnourished pig piss or something if you saw these cars launch side by side. Of course, once the M6es got up to speed, they started to slowly reel back in my Z4, but the three free positions were mine to keep going into the first braking zone of la Sarthe, where the lighter Z4 has a pronounced advantage over the M6 despite the latter's stopping prowess not being lacking.
Of course, I was never going to be able to hope to hang onto any positions around la Sarthe in my cornering car, the Z4. I just wanted to see for myself how much of a straight line deficit I had in comparison to the much lauded M6es, and possibly to compare the fuel consumption rates between the two 4.4L V8 engines. And so my mission at la Sarthe was simple: I wasn't there to win. I was there to poke as many bears as stiffly as possible and see how much I can get away with before they start poking back.
A lap later, I found my bear.
To address the purple elephant in the room, the Z4 isn't 4C levels of slow, wherein the car can just about keep up with a competitor in its class while sitting in slipstream; the Z4 very much can gain on, and even overtake the M6 if sat in its younger sibling's slipstream. In fact, with the M6's shaky at best corner exits out of the Mulsanne Chicanes, the near effortless corner exit the Z4 offers does a really good job of patching up its straight line speed deficiency, even on a straight as long as Mulsanne. Time and again I ran side by side with Monty's M6, with neither of us getting an advantage pronounced enough to shove one of our rear ends in the nose of the other. Neither of us were driving neatly, granted, but for all the talk about how the Z4 was shafted by BoP, I really was expecting to just get dropped like a bad ex and left for dead, but I wound up having a stick fight of my life at Le Mans with a handling stick!
Oh, and as for fuel consumption? Identical pixel for pixel as far as I can tell. Explain
that to me!
Back to the topic at hand though, the M6 is a very high level all rounder. As far as its shortcomings go, I can only really name its explosive power delivery out of low speed corners, which might just end up being praise for its powerplant if anything. Even with TCS1 and fresh Racing Medium tyres, the car will step out on you if you give it too much gas out of a slow corner way before other Gr.3 cars even hit their strides. In that regard, it drives very differently from the rest of its Gr.3 brethren, including the Z4 GT3, and as a result, you can't simply take old habits and conditioned behaviour with you into the cockpit of the M6; it demands to be driven in its own way, because it's its own thing. It takes a lot of getting used to, and savant levels of familiarity with the car to get it pointed in the direction it's heading. It's not a car I'm very flirty with their limits with, and I've had best results simply playing it a little safe and giving it gas only when the car is mostly straightened out. It's a car that has a very high skill ceiling if you will, and is always a high risk, high reward prospect in my estimation. But, if you were to spend the time to get to know the bear well, it certainly has the tools and credentials to be a richly rewarding experience, and may even nab you a surprise win.
Needless to say, it's a
Sleeper. And that's in spite of the fact that it already gets all the attention in this game as the poster car for BMW.
***********************************************
Esther sighs heavily as her head falls down into a cocoon of papers, most of which a reddish pink in colour. "Gosh, your sense of humour sucks", came her voice from the canopy.
"I uh... haha, what do you mean?"
"Stop trying to be like Brad, for gosh's sakes. Even he doesn't blow three mill a week!"
...craaaaaap.
"Listen, Lee...", she exasperatedly recoils onto the back of her chair. "I don't know how to tell you this, but not everyone does what Brad can do. You can't just waltz in and try to copy everything he does—poorly at that—and expect no one to notice!"
Am I... getting fired from my job?
"The blatant, stupid mistakes, the narcotics, the... what did you call them,
social workers, they're so not you! This isn't what we wanted you to become when we chose you to be our organiser!"
I'm... going to be worse than out of a job, aren't I? I'm going to be butt naked on the street, begging for all eternity after my soul gets damned to hell, just to scrape together pennies to pay back that three mill, aren't I?! I... I'm not going to have to sell my pristine RX-7 for four times its list price to some dubstep listening twerp to put a pink Anti Social Social Club livery and tacky wings on it, am I?! Anything but that! Oh god!
She takes a moment to suck in a deep breath to bellow out another gale of a sigh that disturbed her fringe and the paperwork in front of her equally. "You- we... can't..."
She takes a moment to rage snatch some papers off of the table, slamming her palms around trying to find something. She finds it, and continues.
"...just walk into new leadership while
bringing old habits and conditioned behaviour, and expect you to not bite or snap.
You're your own person, your own being. And we chose you to be our organiser because we saw that passionate nerd trying to keep us afloat, not the drug slinging, superkick happy idiot you're trying so hard to be. I,
we, want to get to know you more, because
you have the tools and credentials to be a sleeper."
"I...", was speechless. I've... never felt this... exposed before. And also accepted at the same time.
"Am I speaking in a language you can understand yet?", she stares sternly with one eye past the crumpled draft.
"Thank you", was all I could find the intelligence to utter in this overwhelming moment.
"Gosh!", she flings that hapless sheet of paper onto the pile of legal notices and the rest of the pages of my draft. "And another thing! There's a factual error I'd like to point out to you in your M6 review!"
That's... actually a first, wow.
"The M6 hasn't killed anybody yet.
Understand?"
"Uh... oh kaaay?"
"And seriously, of all the drugs you could've bought, Zopiclone? Do you even know what that is? Those are sleeping pills! How are you going to apologise to Rob for knocking him out?!"
"I'm sorry, I thought... I saw a few bottles while cleaning up, and I thought those might have been from the time you worked for Brad, and..."
A flash of anger contorts her face into something monster like, rendering her completely unrecognisable, but it was so fleeting that I thought I might just have imagined it. The silence between us lingered for infinitely longer than that, as neither of us knew what to say.
"You're... not wrong," came her shaky reply. "It is. I've had insomnia since... that time, yes."
"Did you sleep well that night?", I ask.
"Mm.", she affirms. "First time in a while, actually. Thanks."
"Well, it's time for me to get some sleep of my own." I pause to stretch and yawn. "I haven't slept since."
"Oh no you don't.", came her coy reply. "You still owe us three mill."
"Oh come on! I still have my real job, and that thing on March 4th!"
"Sleep is for the weak", she proclaims, as she tosses
two key fobs across the table to me, one bathed in Soul Red Crystal, which belongs to me, and the other, in bare carbon. "Don't say I didn't tell you the car early next week."
