Aston Martin Db9 Blacked Out Audi R8 Blacked Out

I start with a prologue…

It dawned on me in late in 2010 that owning a supercar was probably unachievable. My entrepreneurial business organisation idea had been usurped by smartphones, I had still still to be signed by a Premier League team and my golf game was going backwards (often literally). There was only one fashion to 'own one' and that was to hire four. Top Gear had been the inspiration – the original, that is, none of the Joey and Radio 2 idiot philharmonic. And then I gear up upward a bank account and got 7 people to indefinitely squirrel £25/month away. Three decided having children was more important than driving supercars and soon asked for their money back. This left just four die hards.

After many years of slow yet painless saving our fund had grown to c£8K. Surely that was enough… that and the impending arrival of yet more tiny humans who volition merely e'er know silent, democratic, electrical vehicles meant nosotros had a small window of time to volume, cull and drive. With the date sorted the debate roared about which cars. Once we finally nailed the wish listing we hunted down a visitor that would be willing to office with such machines. Nosotros settled on an Audi R8, a Porsche GT3, an Aston Martin DB9 and a Lamborghini Gallardo. Bandage out and consigned to the scrapheap was the Ferrari California (it'southward the crap Ferrari we arrogantly decided), a Nissan GTR (information technology's just a computer game), any G Series (we're not salesmen), a Ford Mustang (we wanted to experience corners) and a 911 (we wanted supercars not sportscars for god sake).

I calendar week before ignition, news struck. We hoped information technology was fake news. It wasn't. The GT3 and the Lambo were no longer available – in their respective garages getting fixed. We were offered a 911 Carrera South and an AMG GTC equally replacements. Nobody wanted the Porsche and a convertible Mercedes sounds, well, you know... So, inevitably, we all entered into the weekend feely slightly saddened by those we had lost besides soon. This weekend was non supposed to be nigh compromises.

The question was, before day 1, which was my favourite and in what social club would I place them? For me, this was a relatively unproblematic task. The AMG GTC was the Lambo replacement, looked the about insane and was clearly the lead singer of this nu metal band.

Next up was the Lamborghini dressed in Audi garb.

The DB9 was my 3rd choice and that was simply down to the fact that it looked refined. Likewise refined. I wanted to fear for my life and whilst it looked incredible, I feared that despite me unequivocally swiping right on her Tinder profile, after our kickoff date nosotros would probably run out of things to talk well-nigh and that her personality would exist as beleaguered as the many old men that drive them.

Bottom of the pile was clearly the 911. It looks similar a squashed beetle, it's had the same shape for 60 years, it'southward a TOWIE star that managed to blag a last-minute ticket to the Oscars.

24-hour interval One

Friday morning time, on an industrial estate in Frome, we first laid eyes on our mistresses for the weekend. Nosotros abandoned our wives (3x Audis and a Focus) in the carpark and information technology was lust at first sight for all merely the Porsche only the AMG GTC's looks more than made up for the 911 - it was two cars' worth of beauty, as was the Aston. How the AMG was overshadowing the incredibly gorgeous DB9 none of us could really explain, but it was. After signing our lives away with indemnities and insurance forms nosotros were set up to get. 90mins later we had finished our 'walk arounds' and heard each of their devil gurgles reflect off the walls. Each were dissimilar. Each were beguiling in their own way. The DB9 and the AMG were the most alluring though, of that there was no dubiety.

Nosotros were itching to drive simply being shown effectually the complexity of each's bespoke start-up routine, the hole-and-corner locations of the fuel releases and the idiosyncrasies of their respective flappy paddles meant it was more than of a lesson and a memory examination than a handover.

Our own preparations had been oddly good and they paid dividends right out of the gate (which nosotros duly turned, having collected the keys). Having pre-selected 'the one' for us we each jumped into our preferred bling wagons. Nobody wanted the 911 and then Mike kindly took the Porsche bullet. Mike had besides sorted in car walkie-talkies and body-mounted Go Pros. The routes had been pre-planned into each of our sabbatum navs (dash-mounted Garmins of course because you can't expect a decent sat nav if you're only spending £100K+ on a auto).

We were off. I was in the Lambo replacement – the AMG GTC. The sun was out which meant the roof was down and the 550 cleaved horses could be heard galloping through the gearbox as I went upward and downward the 'box. The popping and spluttering on the downshifts were particularly intoxicating. This was all experienced in the first 4mins of being behind the wheel mainly because information technology all went speedily downhill after that, unfortunately for me, quite literally. Ed had sped off in 'his' DB9 with a drool inducing roar from that V12 with a rampant and complete condone for any convoy etiquette. Being concluding out of the industrial estate meant I was left to follow my sat nav which immediately, and unashamedly, took me off the prissy, safe, unproblematic A road and direct downwards a narrow track. The AMG GTC is not gluten free, she's not vegan or fifty-fifty remotely anorexic. She is the automotive equivalent of Usain Commodities chowing down on McNuggets before his big race. Her child begetting hips and voluptuous curves were an immediate disadvantage when thrown down a country lane. "Don't worry, we won't be sending y'all down whatsoever windy tracks with grass in the middle" the reassuring handover had said. Not 4mins into the virtually anticipated weekend of my life and I was in genuine fright of wedging £140,000 worth of car downwardly a flint-walled gravel rails. It felt like I was trying to reinsert a cork into a wine bottle. It was horrific. Saturday nav was telling me to shut up and carry on and my walkie-talkie was already way out of range to radio for help. Not exactly certain what an R8, DB9 and 911 would have been able to practice but at least being out of range meant I didn't have to worry about how they would assistance me, merely that they would not.

Eventually, having inched my watermelon through a buttonhole, I found a B route. 2 lanes of traffic with white lines down the middle. Never before has a 30mph limit been greeted with such relief when saturday behind the wheel of a supercar. Sabbatum nav was back on my side and carefully guided me up zigzag hill and to our commencement pre-agreed meeting signal, a layby at the top. Advisedly guided up the hill I most certainly was, advisedly driven I had certainly not. What a wonderful series of hairpins. They allowed you to get the power down on the direct, pop down through the autobox on breaking and roar back out of the bend with your foot to the floor and the engine screaming for more. Having come up through my euphoria of finding proper roads and having not dragged my stunning booty forth a stone wall, a relative calm had prepare it. Having thrown the AMG through a series of six hairpins only to be greeted by the stunning rear ends of my mate'southward other machines, euphoria had non only prepare dorsum in but took upward residency as we each enthusiastically jumped into our next opulent chariot to see what surprises that one had in store. It was like being nine once more, at Christmas, and opening your biggest and nearly important present only to notice at that place was another 1, and some other one and another one. By the time you lot had played with each of the greatest toys a child could ask for, you had forgotten whether the beginning ane was whatsoever expert? And of grade it was. We did this until our sweaty easily, drained brains and impatient right anxiety could finally be prised away from their newest and favourite companions.

The question was, later day one, which was my favourite and in what order would I now place them? Having driven them all, it was the R8 that left me wanting to find out more, wanting for an even longer third appointment, she'd left me drastic for more time together. During my short time with her, she felt dangerous, a fiery, easily-angered she-devil that was ready to toss me into a field at the first sight of nerves or an imprecise gear change.

The 911 had been a consummate surprise package and jumped to second with its insane interior soundtrack, oceans of torque in any gear at whatever RPM and its simplicity of driving. No need to read a transmission or tiptoe effectually it, just arrive and savour it. The DB9 was the most beautiful both inside and out and whilst the personality fears were allayed, the driving position was aught short of uncomfortable. Last was the Mercedes. My first appointment with her had been such a disaster that I didn't want a 2d. There were no sparks (thankfully), there was simply fright and loathing – I had morphed her into Medusa, and I was non ready to endeavour and charm those snakes just notwithstanding.

Day Ii

Mean solar day 1 was exhausting and that first dark I wondered whether nosotros had overstretched the weekend. Was three total days going to exist besides much? We'd already driven them all a couple of times on dissimilar roads, at different times, through dissimilar atmospheric condition weather condition. Was there much more to notice?

Of course in that location was. I am an idiot for e'er doubting it. Day 2 was special. Really special.

Sat navs were telling usa to bulldoze Northward, through Exmoor National Park to a littoral pub just east of Lynton. Having checked with Google we decided that Tiverton looked like a sensible identify to terminate and swap. I was in the R8. She'd left me longing and I wasn't going to look whatever longer.

Nosotros each rattled through the countryside in relative isolation. Nosotros had gone through a few small towns and that had separate the convoy. Nosotros didn't mind. Information technology meant we got some i on one, alone time, with each to really get to know them better. The manual R8 was a little bit of a scattering through the towns equally it was simply not interested in going at 30mph. It was like an excitable puppy permanently straining at the leash. Equally soon every bit I was through the towns and on to some national speed limit B roads, I could let the puppy off the leash. All I wanted to exercise was accelerate and alter gear. The sound of the metal shift was an unwavering habit. Coming up to traffic was brilliant. It meant shifting downwards through the gears, a driblet back to let the traffic become ahead so as soon as the time was right, I could unleash the ability and she was never found wanting.

(I had an impromptu stop at the Fisherman's Cot as that is where 7 years earlier I had popped the question to my then girlfriend, after a debacle with an Elizabeth Duke ring, a wooden demote and a hot air balloon I did go hitched only that'southward a whole unlike story.)

We hadn't agreed on where to meet in Tiverton but a small car park off the main route looked sensible. Ed had already arrived in the 911 by the time I got there then I pulled up side by side to him in the front row of the car park.

A local boy's mouth dropped open up and an onetime chap chatted to me about his Audi TT. The kid asked if he could take a picture of 'my motorcar'. I brash he waited 10mins to see what else might arrive and when the AMG and the DB9 added their bonnets to the forepart row nosotros drew quite a crowd. People voted with their feet and information technology was the AMG that drew the biggest numbers.

All still loving our respective choices, we decided not to switch machines as planned and stick with them for the full morning. This concluded up being the all-time decision of the whole weekend. We were all in our, at that time, favourites. Mike was thoroughly enjoying the DB9's awesome soundtrack now that he had fixed the driving position, Ed was most comfortable throwing the 911 around and Iain was looking serene in the hands of the AMG. The merely downside of the convertible AMG was that he didn't go to experience the current of air in his hair.

The roads opened up. The convoy was intact and we entered Exmoor National Park. What happened next tin can never be replicated. The sun was shining and the roads were empty. They were fast likewise with a perfect alloy of straights, to examination the cars 0-60 dispatch and bends to claiming their handling. The DB9 led united states and its whole album was played encompass to cover. I was lucky plenty to be sabbatum behind in the R8 enjoying its treatment and gear changes with the crackling, popping and grunting of the DB9'southward V12 symphony ahead of me and the 911's handling chasing me down. The AMG was calmly keeping the convoy together at the rear. We roared through the countryside uninterrupted, bar a few suicidal peasants, sorry pheasants, which tested our braking distances. Nosotros didn't want to return with grill-mounted pheasant heads protruding from our bonnets like on phase Ozzy Osbourne re-enactments.

We probably had 45mins of perfect driving weather condition; perfect views, perfect cars, perfect roads. Nosotros pushed ourselves to the absolute limits of driving abilities. The roads meant we could rarely get to a higher place the speed limit just the concentration information technology took to drive them hard and safe was mentally exhausting.

Eventually, we blinkingly emerged out of the forest into a glorious vista of expansive nothingness. It was every bit though we had but pressed the roof down button on the world. We bumped our supercars off the road for our obligatory Peak Gear line-up shots and then completed our journey passed Lynton.

We were high on adrenaline having pushed everything to the limit and had all come up away unscathed, happy and desperate to try out the next one to come across how information technology compared. It was at this point that we realised at that place wasn't one machine that nosotros didn't want to drive. We had all driven our favourites that morning on the best run imaginable and yet we were all happy to swap. It was at that exact moment that we all realised quite how incredible these cars were.

I decided that enough time had passed and I should reacquaint myself with Medusa. The AMG is flawless. Its motel is something from 2025, its looks are jaw droppingly cute, its speed is blistering and incomparable to the others with 550bhp. It really is a joy to bulldoze. It'due south equally at domicile doing 20mph or 120mph. It can shake off its pootling with a abrupt dab of the right foot and there is five little lag. Its bonnet goes on forever so turning it feels a trivial like steering a super yacht (probably) merely that is pretty much its only weakness. It was the only convertible and whilst you expect like a twat, yous experience like a rock star and that kinda makes upwardly for information technology. You don't really care what you look like which I suppose reinforces the fact that, you are so a twat, ad infinitum. It pretty much comes top of all the categories that we could throw at information technology. Driving through the various towns it certainly turned the most heads. Just, with perfection, comes a sure je ne sais quoi.

None of us could quite put our finger on what it was just having had time to reflect I call back that was its declining. It was too good at everything. It was the jock of the group. It was the smug, quarterback that was the best looking, the cleverest, the fastest and the greatest of them all. Only we're British and that's not enough. We like more depth in our perfection. We like a bit of edge, a fleck of difference, a bit of imperfection. There'southward something lovable most that. Something you lot can attach feelings to. The AMG GTC is as shut to automotive perfection every bit I have driven and that'southward ultimately what I didn't like about it. It lacked nothing and, equally such, lacked everything.

The question was, after day 2, which was my favourite and in what order would I now identify them? The R8 was nonetheless peak for me. I got to drive it on perfect roads, in perfect conditions and it didn't disappoint which is impressive after I had pinned all of my hopes on it the day earlier. Next came the DB9, the sounds it made leading our convoy through Exmoor was plenty to drag information technology. The 911 never let the R8 out of its sight despite being significantly lower powered – it clearly handled like it was on rails. The AMG and I kissed and made upward. We had a great drive habitation. Perfect. Too perfect and for that reason information technology'due south bottom of the list.

Day 3

It's Sun and the final bout date for our nu metallic band. The day brought with it mixed emotions...

A sense of achievement having found our automotive nirvana as well as a feeling of delectation due to all of the fretfulness from solar day 1 having completely evaporated; each of u.s. felt much more relaxed behind the wheels. The trouble was today was the day that we would have to paw them back. We just had 130 miles left to cover and the dream would be over.

Day 2 had predominantly been spent in 2 of the cars so the final day was to be spent in the remaining two for each of u.s.a.. For me that was the DB9 and the 911. Not a bad final set listing.

The DB9 was achingly beautiful. You couldn't stop looking at her. Equally I walked upwards to her in the hotel carpark for the last time whatever grudges and shortcomings melted abroad. Equally was now routine, the others all waited with their windows down to hear her start. She always sounded the best. She doesn't similar starting cold though. She coughed and spluttered the solar day earlier and then today I left her running for a while to flush through whatever hiccups.

After pouring 168 pints of premium unleaded into her, she was fix to go again.

The dual carriageway gods served us up an early carmine light for a elevate race between the two biggest hitters. Sat on the front row I kept her in automatic to ensure a level playing field, I gear up the gas and the engine purred exquisitely. Ed was sat adjacent to me in the outside lane with a broad smiling that comes with sitting in the cockpit of the AMG knowing you have fifty more than horses than the paltry 500 in the DB9. Tick, tick, tick, GREEN! Nosotros both flooring information technology and Ed disappears into the eye distance. It wasn't close. It was embarrassing. The DB9'due south woeful automatic transmission left me trailing in Ed'due south wake. Nothing could keep up behind u.s. just they were merely in prole mobiles, my pinnacle of a bygone age had been easily slain by the self upstart. It cut deep.

The wounds would take been before long healed as we bore through more than countryside forth lovely B roads. The trouble was, the rest of the world had joined us. I hateful it wasn't traffic jam decorated simply it only takes a few Sunday drivers and the enjoyment is concise. We were driving caged lions. At every turn we were thwarted by all the same more dreary driving from Corsas, Merivas and Micras.

Eventually we were directed down a different B route. Two old school Porsches were all that stood in our fashion. Ed in the AMG and me behind in the DB9 flew past a green 968 on a straight scrap and we were off into the early morning mist chasing down a white 964. The R8 and the 911 behind united states of america never found a directly long enough to pass the green 968 and our convoy was split. Ed and I failed to find a decent overtaking point, merely we thoroughly enjoyed our game of reeling in the white 968. Ed would slow down to 20mph, backing upward the traffic. I would sit patiently behind and then when we felt nosotros had plenty gratis tarmac to enjoy nosotros would hunt down the Porsche. And repeat. We never plant a style past but there was a certain thrill to the chase.

We finally met up as a four in some other layby and discussed lunch. Haynes Motor Museum was but 5 miles away and seemed an appropriate last supper. We attempted to bandy machines. Iain was back in the DB9 but he couldn't get it to first. We assumed driver ineptitude but nix worked. We tried all the unlike combinations of the start-upwardly rigmarole only it wouldn't fire. Fears of leaving information technology abandoned on a narrow layby in the middle of nowhere started to creep into my listen. Finally, and to my enormous relief, the engine leapt into activeness and its reassuring symphony rushed into our ears. Simply this is what lets it down, its foibles aren't lovable with its squeaky electrical windows, its tractor-like windscreen wipers, its wallet destroying fuel consumption, its £500 drinking glass key that if you drop will shatter into a yard pieces. None of these lone would ever stop you from buying one. Only i of them would likely evidence upwards during a test bulldoze but over iii days these imperfections tarnish it. It'due south harsh but we're talking £100K. I (would) demand more than for my money and the others tin't assistance but show information technology upwards.

I get back in the 911 with its manual seat adjustment, drab interior, ridiculous rear seats and deeply frustrating first gear… Comport with me, whilst I explain. Unlike the DB9, who's first gear is woefully underpowered, the 911's first gear is a chasm of torque and a mine of dispatch but finding information technology isn't always like shooting fish in a barrel. Every single one of united states of america at some betoken over the weekend had popped the £80K Porsche into reverse when trying to motion off from traffic lights, a roundabout or out of a layby with £400K worth of cars behind you. As my white reversing lights popped on again, the now routine, 911 abuse crackled through my radio as I frantically searched for 1st.

You lot see, near normal cars are fitted with an idiot-proof, failsafe opposite location. For years it was located behind fifth gear which wasn't ideal if at 80mph you accidentally rammed the thing into reverse, the engine would simply accident you both up. So the boffins discovered that putting reverse on the left of the gear box made more sense. What made even more than sense was forcing the driver to elevator upward or button down on the gear stick to select reverse. Avoids any nasty accidents. Not Porsche though. No, their boffins were clearly out the back frying their wieners during these development years. The Porsche 991 comes armed with 8 gears. 5 in the forward position and second, 4th and 6th in the rear position. So, to select 1st you have to travel a long way left and upward. But don't go as well far left considering that'southward where reverse lives and if y'all have anyone behind you they volition either abuse you lot via a walkie-talkie or soil themselves as the impending insurance merits debates whether information technology'south still the driver behind's fault if the ane in front reverses into you and the associated proof y'all would demand to escape the bill.

Anyway, this simple technology oversight, its subjective looks and its relatively drab interior are all that let the Porsche downwardly. Not the power as it squeezes every last driblet out of its bhp, not its audio considering what comes through the cabin is a cacophony of flat six reverbs, nor its price as it is half that of the Mercedes. Collectively that is impressive for a car that was completely unwanted 2 days ago and went thoroughly unnoticed when flanked by its A listing friends on every route we convoyed downwards.

Nosotros attempted to park our wildebeests in the main Haynes car park for fellow petrol heads to share in their splendour but we were late and thus were consigned to the rear car park with stones and potholes. Nevertheless it proved to be the perfect spot to do some last minute pissing about where we started, revved and cut each of the engines so we had sound souvenirs also every bit the postcards. Despite the café being dandy, nosotros sabbatum in relative silence as though we were in the Bridge Café after losing a group chore in The Amateur. There were no accusations, no fights merely a sense of dejection. We had one more spin and then information technology was all over.

Information technology was agreed that there was fourth dimension for one glorious last hurrah. We had but one more chance to bulldoze our favourites. Nosotros each chose a different one proving over again that the cars were as individual as we were. Ed went dorsum to the DB9, I was in the R8, Iain was in the 911 and Mike was in the Mercedes.

And as the sun prepare on the greatest weekend of our lives Clarkson, May, Hammond and Harris were left to drive home in their loyal, comfy, repose, tiresome machines in abject silence. No exhaust notes to tickle their drums, no walkie-talkie to share the experience, no thought other than when can will we have plenty money to practice this over again? A Lambo, Ferrari, GT3 and A Nother are waiting for us.

Then, for the final time, the question is, which was my favourite and in what order would I at present place them? This is an impossible question but ultimately information technology comes down to context. Adding parameters makes it easier. Tell me I accept to drive hundreds of miles a week, the Mercedes wins easily down. It's merely so skillful at beingness a chameleon and adapting to what I want it to do – do I desire snarly, insane speeds with the roof up or practice I want a overnice cruise at 40mph with the roof down. Every bit at home doing both. Tell me I can only drive it twice a month for a couple of hours and it'south the manual R8. Its itchy trigger pedal coupled with the sound and feel of the gate shift means it's the perfect explosion of petrol-fuelled debauchery. Tell me that coin is no object, I accept to choose the DB9 for its V12 engine and supermodel good looks. Nothing comes shut to the DB9 when combining those ii assets. Tell me that I am not going to win the lottery, that I will notwithstanding alive in Epsom with my Audi estate and my salary won't change and I will cull the 911. The only car I repeatedly researched on AutoTrader since coming dorsum was the 911 and, I ultimately succumbed, ownership a 12-twelvemonth-one-time 997 C2S.

Until our next weekend… thank you for reading.

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Aston Martin Db9 Blacked Out Audi R8 Blacked Out

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