Performance COTY
Gallery 1
DAY ONE: So once again the planets align and the cry for counsel rings out from those contemplating the investment of half-a-house-worth in the hastening of their commute. And once again the editorial commitment is made to suffer the swiftest bolides in all the land solely for the edification of you, dear reader. As bloody if.
But this is no ordinary PCOTY, oh no. The field has broadened from the pick-which-Porsche pack of recent years to include serious contenders from Ferrari and Lamborghini… and this maturity will be matched by the addition, to the jury, of Ex-Editor Tim Robson and Bathurst-blaster John Bowe, finally resulting in a panel old enough to grow a beard.
And, finally, once again I am invited to chronicle the endeavour and, though humbled, again caused to wonder why they can’t do it somewhere near my place and in the afternoon. But no matter, because when all hands assemble, with greetings and sharing of recent adventures, it is a moment of merriment diminished only by Photographer Dewar’s complaint of a breast freshly damaged by mosquito bite… and immediately revived by the wave of inspection and offers that show how truly caring this ensemble is.
And just walking among them is both rewarding and informative because each car reflects its nation’s soul with a clarity that no other manufactured product achieves. From the pragmatism of Germany’s offerings, the flamboyance of America’s, the family-based bloodline of Australian endeavour and the detail-fanaticism of Japanese creation, each design reveals its origins beyond any need of badging. And nothing does so more than the art-above-all loveliness of Italy’s finest, headlined this year by Ferrari’s 488 GTB.
DAY TWO: As unnatural as it is for any man to see the dawn, the chorus of 86 cylinders being whooped into warmth by the keener among us has a perversely appealing charm. And the thought of running them all to a racetrack straight after breakfast does nothing to diminish the effect. Accordingly, we are each invited to select a random key from the glitter box and it helps if you know what a Lamborghini fob feels/looks like – $10 posted, clearly marked with my name, will help you find out.
Thus aroused, all hands assemble at Winton Raceway where the day begins with a touching (metaphorically) display of concern over the state of Photographer Dewar until enquiry reveals that the latest bites harmed only her arm, which lowers compassion considerably. Consideration instead turns to the ominous rain-clouds looming over the circuit which threaten the collection of Adult Bowe’s crucial lap-times and will surely impair the rest of the judge’s high-speed evaluation. Accordingly both the art department and administration are thrown into confusion and, in the frantic discussion that ensues, Morley’s suggestion that we hold PCOTY in Jordan next year, whilst certainly appreciated, does little to immediately assist. I can only thank providence for the morning’s crossword.
And with some – extraordinary – numbers finally collected, comes the end of day key grab for a car to take each of us to dinner. By now I’ve figured out how to get the Ferrari key as well (hint: it’s the red one). And I love it from the moment I enter it. From the embrace of its seating to the intuition of its controls, its design intelligence impresses… and is, with every passing kilometre, underlined by a profound appeal to so many other senses. Beyond rewarding the eye, this car’s touch and textures arouse an intimacy few others achieve and, oh yes, there’s the sound. Okay, I’ve read about it, but nothing prepares you for the sound of a Ferrari 488 GTB. It’s truly fabulous and I want this car more than any other that I’ve met through this magazine. That’s a lot of cars. A lot of years.
To address the task this year, conventional cameras have been augmented with a gyro-balanced, photo-capable drone, amazing technology that should provide stunning views of the fleet set in a landscape lovely beyond words. Sadly, though, it relies on operator judgement… which explains why this recorder of elegance is, instead, occupied hovering over Morley taking a distant piss in the pristine and we can only hope standards rise before all light fades.
But as usual, and to my eternal puzzlement, no-one’s sought my opinion again this year. So the judges must now formalise the crucial choice between feelings and figures for long into the evening.
And I’ll leave them to that one, happily.
