Putting my disappointment on not ski jumping behind me (I did ask if they’d let me go off the smallest jump anyway on my normal skis, but after 2 helicopter rescues in a day they weren’t keen), I set off for Chamonix. A great friend, Poochie has a place there, and I needed a warm bed for the night and some time to recuperate.
Trouble is Chamonix was 700km, 4 countries and 7 hours away.
The German Autobahns (motorways) are unique in Europe in that they have no speed limit. The German police can arrest you for driving like a twat, but once you’ve got through the black and white de-restriction sign they can’t arrest you for going too fast. On the way down at night I’d touched 120 mph, and cruised at about 100 most of the way. However since I had missed out on the chance to risk my neck on a ski jump, I thought I’d have a crack at another milestone.
Trouble is Chamonix was 700km, 4 countries and 7 hours away.
The German Autobahns (motorways) are unique in Europe in that they have no speed limit. The German police can arrest you for driving like a twat, but once you’ve got through the black and white de-restriction sign they can’t arrest you for going too fast. On the way down at night I’d touched 120 mph, and cruised at about 100 most of the way. However since I had missed out on the chance to risk my neck on a ski jump, I thought I’d have a crack at another milestone.
A few years ago I accidentally hit about 120 mph on the M25 when the accelerator on my old MG got stuck flat to the floor for the best part of a mile. However a the big target I’ve always wanted to reach was the magic 150 mph, and seeing as this was my last day in Germany and the weather was good, today might just be my lucky day.
And I’d need luck, because most Autobahns are 2 lane affairs like a dual-carriageway back in the UK with the same myopic truckers pulling out with no warning, unpredictable road surfaces and idiots in BMWs 3 inches from your bumper.
The Subaru was also making a grinding noise from it’s transmission when I turned a corner sharply, the brakes were whining, Torbs reckoned a wheel bearing was on the way out and the car generally wasn’t happy in first and second gears. Add to that 100kg + of loose ski equipment, and not to mention Boris the stuffed badger in the back unsecured meant I had to be a little careful.
I first topped up with petrol and checked the tyre pressures. My tyres are only technically speed rated to 149mph, and too much or too little pressure would just increase the risk of a blow out. And a blow out at anything above 100 and I’d probably be joined Boris in taxidermy heaven. (Just to note Mum – you do have my permission to donate all my organs and have me stuffed if the worst happens).
The next challenge was space. Autobahns are just as busy as a road back in the UK, and to go really fast safely you need a lot of space. Trying to go so fast with other people around is just irresponsible and selfish. If I was going to do this, it was just me I wanted to put at risk.
And I’d need luck, because most Autobahns are 2 lane affairs like a dual-carriageway back in the UK with the same myopic truckers pulling out with no warning, unpredictable road surfaces and idiots in BMWs 3 inches from your bumper.
The Subaru was also making a grinding noise from it’s transmission when I turned a corner sharply, the brakes were whining, Torbs reckoned a wheel bearing was on the way out and the car generally wasn’t happy in first and second gears. Add to that 100kg + of loose ski equipment, and not to mention Boris the stuffed badger in the back unsecured meant I had to be a little careful.
I first topped up with petrol and checked the tyre pressures. My tyres are only technically speed rated to 149mph, and too much or too little pressure would just increase the risk of a blow out. And a blow out at anything above 100 and I’d probably be joined Boris in taxidermy heaven. (Just to note Mum – you do have my permission to donate all my organs and have me stuffed if the worst happens).
The next challenge was space. Autobahns are just as busy as a road back in the UK, and to go really fast safely you need a lot of space. Trying to go so fast with other people around is just irresponsible and selfish. If I was going to do this, it was just me I wanted to put at risk.
Mile after mile was filled with convoys of trucks, bends and people carriers at 65 in the fast lane. Then with only about 50km of Germany left, a straight, empty road opened up for a good mile and a half ahead and I pinned it.
I was already cruising at about 100, and as I floored the noisy pedal I could hear the turbos start to whistle and gulp down air. 120 went in a flash, then 130. As I nudged towards 140 the acceleration was starting to relent a little, but the car still felt very stable. 145 came up and I now put both hands on the wheel wrapping my thumbs round for the firmest grip possible, and felt a slightly cold shiver down my spine with the thought that if this was all to go wrong, some poor German coroner was going to look up the expression “being a dickhead” to explain to my family why I had to be scraped out of the tarmac.
150 came up on the speedo and the road was starting to feel very narrow indeed. That should be that you would think, but the reality is that most speedometers over-read slightly to take account of tyre sizes / whinging owners using it as a defence for speeding etc. The only way you can really accurately measure your speed is using a GPS, so I glanced across to the Sat Nav which was reading a slightly disappointing 230 km/hr (143mph). I vaguely remembered from somewhere that 242 was the big target, so that’s what I was going to aim for.
The rate of acceleration was slowing and I decided to straddle the white lines in the middle of the road to give me a little more margin for error. Slowly the GPS clicked up 235, 236, 237 and in the distance I spotted a truck in the slow lane. A whine had also developed from under the bonnet and I knew I was running out of space.
A gust of wind hit the road and the car shifted 2 foot sideways. “Shit” I said out loud. I could almost hear Boris panicking in the back. 239, 240. The car was definitely starting a little weave. Just 2 more km/h…. 241 came up and agonisingly slowly I glimpsed out the corner of my eye and saw 242. That’s it. 150mph. Done.
To give you a feeling of how fast 150 mph actually is, you’re travelling a kilometre every 15 seconds, or in old money, that’s a mile every 24 seconds. A quarter of a mile every 6 seconds. However when you're aiming a 6 foot wide projectile at a hole 10 foot wide it feels much, much faster.
Slamming on the brakes at this point could have made things a messy, so even though I was closing in on the truck ahead, I eased back on the accelerator and let wind resistance do it’s thing. Once the car had settled into deceleration, I squeezed on the brakes and started to scrub off speed.
To say I was nervous as I approached the truck is an understatement. My closing speed to him was equivalent to him pasking up in the slow lane to watch porn and eat pasties, or whatever truckers do, and I’d spanked past in the fast lane at 80+ miles an hour 3 feet away.
I passed him at an indicated 130 and slowed back down to a steady 100mph cruise. I also felt a bit deflated – one of my big life ambitions and I’d achieved it, but on my own with no-one to share the stupidity of it all with. I could have filmed it with the headcam, but the confusion of a bloke being found in a mangled car wearing ski googles would have caused wasn't worth it. But I did get something...
Then I had a bit of a cold sweat as I realised what could have happened if it had gone wrong. And there and then I decided for the sake of the engine, my safety and my underwear that I wasn’t going to try that again.
I was already cruising at about 100, and as I floored the noisy pedal I could hear the turbos start to whistle and gulp down air. 120 went in a flash, then 130. As I nudged towards 140 the acceleration was starting to relent a little, but the car still felt very stable. 145 came up and I now put both hands on the wheel wrapping my thumbs round for the firmest grip possible, and felt a slightly cold shiver down my spine with the thought that if this was all to go wrong, some poor German coroner was going to look up the expression “being a dickhead” to explain to my family why I had to be scraped out of the tarmac.
150 came up on the speedo and the road was starting to feel very narrow indeed. That should be that you would think, but the reality is that most speedometers over-read slightly to take account of tyre sizes / whinging owners using it as a defence for speeding etc. The only way you can really accurately measure your speed is using a GPS, so I glanced across to the Sat Nav which was reading a slightly disappointing 230 km/hr (143mph). I vaguely remembered from somewhere that 242 was the big target, so that’s what I was going to aim for.
The rate of acceleration was slowing and I decided to straddle the white lines in the middle of the road to give me a little more margin for error. Slowly the GPS clicked up 235, 236, 237 and in the distance I spotted a truck in the slow lane. A whine had also developed from under the bonnet and I knew I was running out of space.
A gust of wind hit the road and the car shifted 2 foot sideways. “Shit” I said out loud. I could almost hear Boris panicking in the back. 239, 240. The car was definitely starting a little weave. Just 2 more km/h…. 241 came up and agonisingly slowly I glimpsed out the corner of my eye and saw 242. That’s it. 150mph. Done.
To give you a feeling of how fast 150 mph actually is, you’re travelling a kilometre every 15 seconds, or in old money, that’s a mile every 24 seconds. A quarter of a mile every 6 seconds. However when you're aiming a 6 foot wide projectile at a hole 10 foot wide it feels much, much faster.
Slamming on the brakes at this point could have made things a messy, so even though I was closing in on the truck ahead, I eased back on the accelerator and let wind resistance do it’s thing. Once the car had settled into deceleration, I squeezed on the brakes and started to scrub off speed.
To say I was nervous as I approached the truck is an understatement. My closing speed to him was equivalent to him pasking up in the slow lane to watch porn and eat pasties, or whatever truckers do, and I’d spanked past in the fast lane at 80+ miles an hour 3 feet away.
I passed him at an indicated 130 and slowed back down to a steady 100mph cruise. I also felt a bit deflated – one of my big life ambitions and I’d achieved it, but on my own with no-one to share the stupidity of it all with. I could have filmed it with the headcam, but the confusion of a bloke being found in a mangled car wearing ski googles would have caused wasn't worth it. But I did get something...
Then I had a bit of a cold sweat as I realised what could have happened if it had gone wrong. And there and then I decided for the sake of the engine, my safety and my underwear that I wasn’t going to try that again.
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