After a few seconds, I glanced at the speedometer and, shockingly, it already was edging above 200 mph. Wow. I kept my eyes fixed on what seemed to be a narrowing road ahead and, after some more seconds, glanced down again. 240 mph. I'd never been anywhere near that speed in a car in my life, but this thing was somehow still accelerating!
A kind of tunnel vision took over. I stared so intently at the road that nothing registered peripherally. For an instant, I thought about what would happen if one of the Michelin tires blew - or if an animal bolted in front of me from the surrounding woods . . . or perhaps a bird darted from the sky. There was a rumor that the Germans had been hunting at the track during the days preceding my arrival, to reduce that very possibility. Earlier, I'd thought this was funny. Now, at 250 mph, it suddenly wasn't.
Up ahead, I saw the overpass and south parking lot where the photographers and the Bugatti crew were. I knew I must be near top speed, burning fuel at the rate of a gallon every 2.3 miles. But I didn't dare look again at the speedometer, just kept my eyes fixed forward. The car was incredibly stable, and it was relatively quiet inside - like driving in a silent movie ridiculously sped up. I had to suspend my disbelief that I was traveling so fast in such a surprisingly peaceful cockpit. But I can only imagine what it sounded like on the outside, with 1001 hp roaring by.
After flashing by the parking area, I kept my foot in it for a few more seconds to enjoy the sensation and then, as instructed, backed off the throttle and tapped the brakes to take the Veyron out of top-speed mode. The wing came up, the car slowed, and I felt, well, numb. I loosened my death grip on the steering wheel.
Back in the parking area, everyone was excited. As I exited the car, Raphanel hugged me. Keller gave me a 400 Drive plaque. My top speed was determined to be 407.5 kph - or 253.2 mph. Like a little kid, I asked some of the crew members to sign my driving suit, then waited around anxiously to see if the other drivers would beat the rain. Sure enough, all got their runs in, all above 400 kph.
Later, with Keller on the train to Molsheim for a visit to the factory, I confided that, as a New Yorker, I didn't own a car. The only time I drive is on the track. He didn't seem surprised until I told him that I didn't have a driver's license, either - it had expired the year before, and I hadn't yet renewed it. Again, this didn't phase Keller tremendously.
"OK," he said, "but for next time, you had better get one!" Then he laughed, and we clinked beer glasses and sped off into the dusk on a train traveling one-third the speed I'd driven earlier in the Veyron.
James Clash, a sixteen-year veteran of Forbes Magazine, plans to renew his driver's license soon. ...next page >>