The hand-written notes compiled by the pit crew are littered with bad news.
Lap one, DNF. Car spins out in turn two.
Lap two, DNF. Car spins out in turn two. Needs to be towed back or jump-started.
Are they letting any idiot with a valid driver's license behind the wheel of this hand-built prototype valued at several million dollars?
What's wrong with you today, George? Hung over? Legs trapped in the footwell again? Or are you simply getting old?
Well, yeah. But the only real mistake I made was not asking enough questions before strapping myself behind the fancy three-spoke sport steering wheel.
I expected the VW crew to provide all the relevant information. Wishful thinking. Being the last out of maybe twenty journalists to be shuttled through this program, it was routine for them - but not for me.
They knew that the surface of the race track at Gross-Dlln near Berlin is covered with a low-grip asphalt film so that a set of tires last about five times longer. But didn't tell me.
They knew that the shift paddles behind the steering wheel spokes of the prototype are still functionless. But didn't tell me.
They knew that the ESP switch is only there for decoration. ESP and ASR are both conspicuous by their absence. Yeah, they didn't tell me this either.
I set off as clueless and enthusiastic as a Labrador Retriever. First, second, third -- not flat-out but perhaps an optimistic 80 percent throttle. You don't want to look too slow, do you?
But whatever the entry speed into turn two was, it was about 40 percent more than what the pale grey surface would tolerate. Whoops. Spin.
Never make the same mistake twice, or you really look like a bozo.
So, next time, it's first, second and third again, then a pause, getting ready to downshift and turn in. Downshift? DOWNSHIFT! I pulled the paddle - repeatedly - but it did nothing. Remember, I didn't know that it wasn't connected. I blame the car. Yeah, the car! Lift-off inertia grabs the car's midriff where the mighty engine dwells, and this time we don't just spin once. We spin twice, loop-di-smoking-loop.
Face lobster red, I reach for the ignition key. Dead. Try again. Dead.Lights off, ventilation off, try again. Dead. The only items that are still running at full whack and full volume are the two giant fans that try to keep the W-12 from exploding or imploding or melting down for good.
From the distance, a green Volkswagen van approaches. Exeunt three, four, five VW specialists gloating with a mix of malicious delight and sheer disbelief.
Ten minutes later, both parties know the truth. Which is that the battery has been wired to feed only the fans, not the starter; ESP exists in the head of the senior electrician but not yet in the car; and Gross-Dlln is famous for its ice rink characteristics, not for grip and traction.
We mutually agree to forget what just happened, to give me a second chance, and to bring this baby home safe and sound and undamaged. I promise and cross my fingers.
This time it works. I keep it on the track. This time, red-flagging the white GTI to call it a day won't do. Oh no. This time, they'll need to physically block my path. Which they do, and by the time they pull me out of the car, I look and smell like a drenched wharf rat.
Make that a happy drenched wharf rat. This GTI, boys, is better than a night in Nymphetteville. Better than two bottles of vintage 2000 Brunello.
Probably even better than a splash-and-dash bungee jump, although come to think of it, perhaps not.
The flicker in my eyes didn't go away for days. And my dreams definitely no longer revolve only around that dinner date with Nicole Kidman. You know, the one that'll never happen.
Theoretically, the big white GTI is good for 203 mph. The main runway of Gross-Dlln, which once was East Germany's main military airport, is theoretically long enough to attain 203 mph. I know it, because I did over 200 mph there in the Porsche Carrera GT. But the W12-650 show car is restricted to 124 mph. Does it matter? Not really - it was more than enough speed for me to spin it. And, more importantly, because the surface deteriorates quickly when you spin off the pavement after the final left-hander.
First, it's just gravel and sand. Then it's gravel and sand and vegetation.
Eventually, you start counting rabbits on the left and deer on the right, not to mention half a dozen buzzards practicing take-off and landing.
So we stick to the track, which looks like sandpaper but feels like liquid soap. Since you run out of third at the end of the longest non-wriggly bit, 113 mph is Vmax. Not a lot by race car standards, but bloody quick for an experimental vehicle that will in all likelihood never make it into production. Ignore the shift paddles, that's what they had said. Use the gear lever in Tiptronic mode instead. Sure, no prob, everything roger and cool.
For about ten laps, the car works perfectly. Then the bug that seems to live inside this wild GTI-on-steroids finally reaches the transmission. From now on, it's say a prayer and hope for the best. Upshifts happen as they should, but downshifts sometimes happen, sometimes don't. Sometimes they need two or three attempts; sometimes you go from four to two in one shrieking high-rev lesson.
Are the instruments on top of the dashboard really displaying boost pressure and exhaust temperature? Or are these needles reflecting the driver's pulse and blood pressure? Thump, thump, thump. Never mind. Here we go again.
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