Look – I understand that if, dear racing driver, the car that earns your pay-check resembles a four-wheeled X-Wing fighter from a George Lucas wet dream, that the prospect of driving a hatchback around some wooded mountain passes might be a bit beneath you.
That was my original impression after doing just that a couple of years ago, riding shotgun with Lewis Hamilton in a very special hatchback, AMG's A45. The duration of our journey was spent trundling around the forest roads in the sort of lethargic fashion that would frustrate a pensioner, with Hammy twirling one-handedly this way and that while discussing his latest bicycling training regime.
I realise that the AMG’s four cylinder engine, despite being the most powerful four cylinder engine in the world, a blown two litre unit with 265kW and 450Nm powering all four wheels pales into comparison to the hybridised 1.6 litre V6 unit in the Mercedes-Benz F1 car which brandishes 560kW and a billion turbo torques, all via a smoky pair of Pirellis at the rear.
This was a world champion racer after all, and I was expecting to encounter a man with high-octane jet fuel coursing through his veins. In his defence, it’s not really his fault. It’s the fault of Sarel Van Der Merwe. You know Oom Sarel by now, or at least his unapologetic alter ego Supervan. You are familiar with the very several accolades this lanky ex-resident of Port Elizabeth has accumulated through his expansive racing career spanning four decades and several types of motorsport (most of them) including NASCAR, production racing and local rally.
I’ve driven with him, and it wasn’t in a flashy turbo hatch either, rather in a diesel powered VW Passat, the CC specifically. It was terrifying, and fantastic. Sure, being an oil burner we never really cracked 5000rpm, but that gnarly burble that resonated from the exhaust tips was no indication of the velocity (maximum) we were achieving for the entire time we terrorized the roads around Paarl. Middle fingers were extended (Sarel), expletives were projected (Sarel and I) upon other drivers and prayers were quietly recited (just me) as the slippery Volkswagen maxed out every sliver of tarmac Sarel turned onto. Magnificent. That was my benchmark, and I wanted more.
Honestly, I thought it would happen a few years prior with Giniel De Villiers, one time Dakar Rally winner in 2009 with a second and third place podium finish also to his credit. I had loaned him a brand new Audi RS6 to bend along some mountain passes in Ceres but ultimately the opportunity to climb alongside never presented itself due to some banal duty like photography or something, so my thrills were shelved.
But then two years later, at the launch of the new Mini Countryman John Cooper Works, came redemption! We were given the opportunity to hop into the passenger seat of a rally-raid Countryman similar to the ones used to win the Dakar Rally since 2012. I say Countryman, but it helps to think of it as a BMW X1 that has been re-shelled and re-skinned with the metally bits of the Mini, a la Frankenstein’s monster.
At the helm, no less than the man who won it twice in this car (11 in total including two-wheeled stints), Mr Stephane Peterhansel. Perhaps it was the realisation that I was going to experience the sideways world of rallying from one of the best stages in the world and with one of its best athletes that had me on edge. Now, I’m not saying I was scared or nervous, per se. But I might have called him Peter Stephanehansel, twice.
The next two minutes are a blur – a dusty, noisy mess of a recollection replacing what you’d normally call a memory, punctuated with explosive gear shifts and the scattershot percussion of several hundreds of thousands of little stones pelting the undercarriage, diffusers and carbon fibre sump tray, leaving devastated and somewhat torched bits of planet Earth in our wake.
Even more noise as a whistling turbocharger, clanky and whiny transmission and scrabbling tyres were all fighting fiercely to be heard above that racket, and also the sound of a giddy motoring journo giggling and yelping in accompaniment. The only times the crazy cacophony would cease would be those seconds (not split-seconds, mind you) when we’d be suspended entirely in the air above Gerotek’s off-road proving grounds. But that would quickly be succeeded by a large crashing noise and more manly… giggling. This is best enjoyed with a straining bladder, by the way.
So that’s Mr Van Der Merwe narrowly beaten. Now, no disrespect to Mr Hamilton, but any shotgun ride you can escape from sweaty, dishevelled, close to soiled and marginally closer to your respective God is a good one.
