I looked at the piece of paper that had been presented - or more accurately, meekly pushed into what can barely be considered my half of the table. I then looked up at Esther the editor, who was silent, head down, and squirming in her seat, hands on her thighs. I looked at the quote again, and then back at Esther. The quote, and then her again. And again. Her nervousness and jittering was almost palpable across and on the table. It was the most vulnerable and unstable as I have seen her in the few short months I've been working with her.
"This can't be real", I thought. And yet, there it was, in black and white and plain English, at my fingertips. I pinched my thigh with my free hand just to make sure I was awake. I was.
"Twenty...
MILLION, USD?", I ask to confirm, still clinging onto that last thread of hope that maybe my math and eyesight both have gotten worse with age, or that the usually well put together, highly effective, and assertive Esther would tell me otherwise like she always does. I was only worsening the situation.
"Y-yes...", she replies, after what felt like an eternity of hesitation.
"How the actual
FRICK am I supposed to get that kind of money?"
"W-well...", she stammers, as though a running car with an ignition coil pulled out of one cylinder. "a-as usual... you pay a bit... and then earn it back via subscriptions and ads in the review-"
"
Twenty MILLION dollars?!", I cut her off while throwing the clear folder across the table back at her, already annoyed at the corporate BS that was being force fed into me.
"I'm sorry...!", she repeats, this time immediately, with a long trailing off. For a while, there was only heavy silence in the room, as the full weight of the situation sank further in, pressing in, weighing on us, making it difficult to even breathe. The unease, uncertainty, helplessness, and even panic, is not unlike what I envision the aftermath of a literal bomb dropping to be like.
Week 100 of Car of the Week is fast approaching, and to commemorate, the big wigs at COTW had the brilliant idea of pitting two 53 year old priceless relics of racing cars against each other: the Ferrari 330 P4 and the Ford GT40 Mk IV. Well, I guess "priceless" isn't really the word to describe them, is it? They both have a price on them: twenty million dollars. Each.
Needless to say, no insurance firm run by someone with even half a brain cell would insure either car for racing, with a quote so high, their accountants must've thought they/we were similarly high when they've had to print out a number that big. You can tell they really weren't prepared to quote a premium with so many zeroes at the back of it: the numbers already spilled out of the table and off the page. Who knows if it
really was twenty million; there could've been more zeroes after they couldn't fit on the page. Basically, we either buy the cars for ourselves for twenty million dollars each and race them as our own, or we pay an insurance firm twenty million dollars per car to insure them for racing. I think the choice is clear.
"I know only two ways of making money", I say in an annoyed, yet resigned tone after a sigh.
Esther looks up at me finally, her face a crumpled mess of a plethora of emotions, yet somehow shining through it all was... a sort of earnestness that burrows its way into one's heart.
I continue: "Reviewing... and racing."
"You don't have to do this, it's a stupid idea!", she tries to reason, and rightly so.
It was my turn to pause and hesitate, finally. I tell her, after thinking about it for all of three seconds, "I want to."
She looks at me dead on with pleading eyes, not knowing what to say. And for a while, neither did I. The rational side of my brain was still stuck at trying to process what I had just said, myself. We just sat across the table from each other, silent, my eyes darting about the room, sometimes meeting. It was a comforting calm before the storm I was going to walk back into on my own free will. I really appreciated that moment. It was... reassuring, and encouraging, somehow.
"I'm sorry", it was my turn to apologise, once the initial shock had worn off, though there was no getting away from the atmosphere. "It wasn't your fault."
She mutters something inaudible from just across the table.
"I'm sorry?", I ask for clarification.
"I'm sorry", she restates, barely audibly this time.
"What are you apologising for? I just said-"
"I'm sorry!", this time, loud enough to take me aback. I recoil back into my seat, my heart feeling a little weak after the scare.
There was a long, long while of just the two of us sitting there, me looking at her while she hides her face from me below a lowered head. Still hidden behind her long hair, she finally brings herself to say, "Promise me you'll be safe."
I reply with as sincere a smile as I could force, "I'll try my darndest."
*********************************************
By some weird thread of logic that makes sense in some other universe I'm no part of, I find myself in Italy to try to rake together that twenty million. Italy's most famous racetrack is also one of its most boring: Monza. Endless straights catering to people who love numbers and straight lines more than anything in a car, spitefully broken up by the samey Chicanes because the FIA told them that a racing circuit needs to actually have corners. Truly, this track is the most
nothing circuit I've ever seen in my entire life, aside from ovals. It tests for absolutely nothing aside from acceleration and braking, which, surprise surprise, any other track tests. You could put me in my loudest, favourite cars, and I'd fall asleep on this track. The ONLY reason why they're even still relevant today is because of nostalgia: which is to say, these tracks have no good reason to even be relevant today. How much of a nostalgia hit are you going to have if you don't even run the oval, anyway?
It would at least make for safe, if not boring racing,
if people actually knew how to brake for Turn 1 at Monza. And it was precisely because of this safety and boredom that makes me feel better about driving a decommissioned rental Porsche 919 round seven laps at a time to earn money. Being a modern, hybrid LMP1 car capable of speeds in excess of 330km/h (205mph), Monza might actually end up being a good fit for something else other than Ferraris with less than zero handling.
To get this out of the way first and foremost: the 919 is not very competitive at all in Gran Turismo Championships' nonsensical "Group 1" category, which lumps together modern hybrid LMP1 cars with DCT gearboxes carrying at least seven forward cogs, with antiqued Group C monsters with five speed sticks of a bygone era... and then sprinkle in about a dozen more one-off concept cars by various manufacturers, de-tuned to somewhat match the performance of these two vastly different groups. Back when I was an active racing driver, I vehemently avoided Group 1 races because Group 1 is
easily the dumbest category in Gran Turismo - and trust me when I say that that's saying something. If fuel was an issue in the race - and it most likely is, there is simply nothing that can compare to the thriftiness of the hybrid Toyota TS050, making every Group 1 race a TS050 One Make. If fuel WASN'T an issue, then the field opens up a bit more, to accommodate the SRT Tomahawk VGT. In the off chance that the track had enough high speed sections, then the Nissan R92CP would dominate, with an uncontested top speed of 374km/h (232mph). Truly, this is a complete dumpster fire of a category, beyond the saving of
Kaminori
Samauchi and his simplistic tweaks of power and mass.
Nowhere in the above paragraph does the name "Porsche 919" come up, which means it has zero relevancy and competitive merit in Group 1. If you're the sort of person that cares only for a racing car's competitive merits - no issue with that at all, that's what these things are meant to do - you can stop reading right here.
Visibility in the Nine One Nine- oh, sorry, the
Nine Nineteen, is only as can be expected... which is to say, non-existent. (Seriously, is there a law that dictates how these names should be read?) As if being buried deep into the carbon tub of the car shielded by body panels everywhere but the front 35 degrees wasn't enough of a hindrance to the driver, the windshield wiper sits dead in the middle of the windshield in its off position, and the squared off steering wheel blocks off the entirety of said 35 degrees of forward vision you do have when turned:
I TRULY don't understand how other people can drive LMP1 cars;
I can't even see out of them. The only thing I can see is on the right... fender, is a reminder of how great a racecar I'm driving, and that German engineering is indeed the best in the world, with the implication that failure will not be tolerated. Surely there's no way a driver can fail to win a race, seeing constant... encouragement, like that, right? That's how the human psyche works, right?
Assuming I don't have to forfeit a hefty 110 thousand dollar deposit for damaging the car, I'm promised a whopping 330k USD net profit per seven lap run, which might have been an easy enough thing to do at Monza, but the rich socialites I'm running with aren't exactly... experienced racing drivers. They probably had like a three day crash course on "how to not crash your new Group 1 toy" before being chauffeured here. It didn't take very long at all for me to realise that there's simply no reading their movements or intents, because they're babbling like toddlers and falling over themselves instead of speaking in coherent sentences in the language of "
Carese". God help me if they overcook a brain dead, simplistic chicane with the aid of distance markers, and go off into the kitty litter, because they have NO CONCEPTION of what a safe, responsible track rejoin is, and I may end up losing more than my 110k deposit if I gave them what they rightfully deserved.
This problem is exacerbated by the driving characteristics of this rental 919. The hybrid system in this car, along with its
sawn-off gearing means that this car accelerates with
such ferocity, it truly does feel like you're tearing a hole through the fabric of space in front of the car and getting sucked forward. Your guts will compress, your neck will shear, and your eyes will water worse in this car than if you actually got punched for real in the stomach. For some context, this featherweight prototype weighing in at a scant 875kg (1,930lbs) with AWD accelerates at the limit of the tyres' grip in 2nd and 3rd - that's right: this thing stops as fast as it goes in 2nd and 3rd, and it is very possible to wheelspin in 2nd
WITH RACING SLICKS if you just give it a boot full in 2nd. Out of tighter corners that necessitate dropping into these lower gears, you best make sure your car is straightened out before you
progressively roll on the death pedal, as otherwise the car overloads all four of its tyres in an instant, transforming this juggernaut of technological marvel born from decades of racing know-how into a paralysed roller coaster on rails locked onto the nearest available kitty litter store. And while the car has been toilet trained, the same unfortunately can't be said for its driver.
Over the course of the seven laps of Monza, and later five at Le Mans, I had initially worried that the batteries of the 919 would die off and leave me limp for the picking against the Group C cars, and within reach of the other more modern LMP1s that are being driven... *cough*
more conservatively. However, the 919 never left me hanging, as it very cleverly balances out real time performance while making sure the batteries stay charged. The first five forward gears are all hybrid battery assisted, which lets the 919 stand toe-to-toe with, and
even out-accelerate the Group C monsters, but because said five gears are shorter than a Diglett even when stacked on top of each other, you'll find yourself in 6th in no time. For some context, I'm sure
I spent only about a second in 2nd, 3rd, and 4th each (thanks for the video, Nismo!). Above 6,000rpm in 6th and 7th, the batteries stop powering the car, and instead draws part of the power from the Internal Combustion Engine (ICE) to recharge. This effectively means that you have just about a thousand BHP combined from both the ICE and batteries in the first five gears, and immediately less than half that the moment you shift into 6th, as now the ICE is being used to recharge the batteries while also propelling the car. This not only causes the 919 to behave vastly differently at different speeds and corners, it also causes the car to noticeably lose out in acceleration, letting Group C cars sail by, seeing as they have nearly a thousand BHP
all the time. I get the impression that this car was meant to burst into a competitor's slipstream, before relaxing in 6th and 7th to recharge the batteries over the Mulsanne Straight. Seeing as you'll be spending most of your track time in 6th and 7th at tracks like Monza and Le Mans, you'll also be spending most of your time recharging the batteries as well, which means the batteries never die no matter how many laps you do with the car.
What's especially impressive to me however, is not only how the 919 never seems to run out of charge, but also how... even the torque curve is on this massively complicated setup, with turbos and hybrids, somehow squeezing 500BHP and 320km/h from a 2 Litre V4, and somehow suppressing all that wizardry to just 875kg. The hybrid and turbochargers seem to compliment each other perfectly, with the hybrid patching up throttle response and low end torque, and the turbos recharging the batteries once they get spooling. It's massively impressive to me not just from a technological standpoint, but also how it made for a shockingly natural feeling driving experience, even with the vastly different personalities at different speeds. While I always complain about how modern cars are too gimmicky and complicated for their own good, the 919 proves that it can be done right in a lightweight package, and I can only wish this technology would trickle down to road cars sooner than later (HINT: Porsche, please sponsor me a 918 to review? I promise I'll be nice!)
It is entirely possible for the 919 to run out of charge on most "normal" tracks, or if there's a sudden obstacle you need to dodge in the middle of a straight, yellow flags, etc.. It's a car that's very reliant on its charging cycle around a track to stay competitive, and even on its established cycle, it has little charge to spare. However. It's just inadvisable to run LMP1 cars on tighter tracks, in general. The 919 especially, because not only does it need long straights to recharge its batteries and to make the most of regenerative braking, but the way it drives on the limits of its grip even on corner exit I'm sure will destroy its tyres in record time on a more technical, suffocating track.
While the Group C cars waltzed past me on the straights, this space age racing machine 919 stops so much better than the antiqued Group C monsters, it feels like you're panic braking trying to dodge a stunned deer in your headlights at every corner entry. And, true to its Porsche DNA, this long wheelbase LMP1 car is actually... fun, to corner with. The 919 not only feels willing, but engaging to drive, as well. I even felt small flashes of my Cayman GT4 Clubsport in the "chuckability" of this car. And just like the Cayman, the 919 is a very encouraging, engaging, playful, yet forgiving and predictable drive, explosive acceleration aside. Of course, being this engaging also means it tires out the driver much quicker, even at wide open tracks like Monza and Le Mans. Having only driven some Group C cars for fun, never having bothered with Group 1, I get the distinct impression that prototypes meant to run Le Mans are numb and almost train-like in how they handle and feel just so they don't put too much strain on the drivers too quickly; you aren't really meant to nail every braking point and every apex, or drive it at ten tenths all the time - both the man and machine have to last. The 919 however, proves that the sport has blown past that sort of thinking and norm, seemingly as quickly as it accelerates to 6th with charge.
But perhaps it's not entirely fair to see the 919 as "just" a Le Mans Prototype - it's a car that raced in other disciplines of motorsports, like the 6 Hours of Spa, Silverstone, and Interlagos - tracks with, you know, actual corners. And the 919 did well in
all of them. As if winning the most grueling and prestigious race in the highest echelon of motorsports, the 24 Hours of Le Mans multiple times, wasn't enough, Porsche wasn't done flexing with this car; they even built a 919 Evo version to claim more lap records, outpacing modern F1 cars in some instances. Truly, this car might just be the Jack of All Trades, Master of Many. Winning Le Mans twice was probably just a side thing for it, as a testament to what an engineering marvel the 919 is.
It's biggest problem isn't within itself, but rather, external. The fact that the TS050 exists is the one and only nail it needed in its coffin, and the defeat it hands the 919 isn't even a honourable one. For as clever and mind boggling the systems in the 919 are, they feel like trying too hard to overcompensate for something. The TS050 doesn't sap power from its engine to recharge its batteries - ever, meaning the 919 loses out on top end acceleration against it. The TS050 also harvests a ridiculous abundance of charge from regenerative braking - so much so it makes the 919 look like a e-pauper, barely getting by from corner to corner. This may be due to the fact that Toyota has been making Priuses for well over a decade by the time the TS050 debuted, meaning they have more regenerative and hybrid know-how. Or it could just be the fact that the TS050 has a 8MJ (2.2kWh) battery, while the 919 only has a 6MJ (1.7kWh) battery, which I'm sure puts these two cars in different classes of LMP1, but lumped into "Group 1" all the same. The increased charge in the TS050 compared to the 919 not only helps it in fuel efficiency, but also in high speed runs as well.
Competitive merits aside, the 919 is my favourite LMP1 to drive, simply because it's a blast to drive. It's sublime handling, backed with a sense of occasion, made me smile every time I drove it. And that, to me, is the most important thing, because I'm never going to take Group 1 seriously. It really made me appreciate the LMP1 class more, and the insane technology that goes into each car, and made me see just how far Le Mans prototype cars have come ever since the sorely missed Group C era.
But good GOD it's ugly.
I'm sure the 918 looks a LOT better though...
One doesn't spit in the wind, tug at Superman's cape, or argue with results. The 919 dominated every discipline of motorsports it was entered in, only seeming to struggle in a joke of a category that is Group 1. One could also make the argument that the only reason Toyota won 2018's 24 Hours of Le Mans with the TS050 is because Porsche pulled out after 2017. The 919 is, by all accounts, a staggering display and flex of engineering. And it helped me win 330k in just under eleven minutes of track action.
Now to just do this... 61 times.
I need scissors.
*********************************************
I put on a tough, unflinching façade, back straight up against the chair. Surrounding the proceedings were legions of guards, each ready to take me down at a moment's notice. The middle-man, verifying the authenticity of each bill in each suitcase, works with a terrifying silence and efficiency, building a flow and tension in the air almost just so that it could snap at his will. Every bill he picked up with that machine like grace and efficiency, each held into the scrutiny of the light, might as well have been individual razor blades ready to cut that net of tension in the air, beckoning the untold horrors of hell to rain upon me.
Twenty million dollars. I could retire and lead a lavish life in the lap of luxury in a big home in the middle of nowhere. I could be running for presidency, I could end world hunger. I could buy every car I've tested in COTW and still have change left over. I could even buy a McLaren F1 as their prices stand today. Or, hell, I could even buy 6 Gordon Murray T.50s. I could buy buy my way out of this crippling loneliness and anxiety every night, and yet... here I am, about to blow it all on an antique race car.
I always knew I needed help.
The middle-man stops, holding a note in his hands. The guards, professional as any human being can be physically expected to be, show hints of gasping and tensing their muscles through their poker faces. All that remains now is for the verdict to be read.
"Sir... these notes...
......
are all legitimate."
Everybody in the room heaved a sigh, as though the room itself exhaled all the foul atmosphere. The guards loosened up, and the seller reverted back to his businessman smile, before handing me the key to the historic Mk IV Ford GT40. A thorough technical inspection by the Ford technicians and a test drive later, the final papers were signed, and the car was now legally mine.
"It's incredible to see someone so young so... interested in such a vintage race car", says the owner, probably more impressed by the twenty million than my interest in the car. "Where are you displaying it, might I ask?"
"Le Mans", I reply in a tone more monotonous and lifeless than Microsoft Sam's.
"Oh? I wasn't aware that there was a special event at Le Mans... usually they'd ask me to loan them my car for display purposes at these big events... heh, you understand, surely. Are you building some sort of museum near Le Mans? Hard to imagine it would be lucrative with, you know..."
"It's not going into a museum."
"O-oh...?"
"I'm racing it."
.
