The Perils of Turbo Diesel

Coming up to one of my favourite roundabouts this morning, I was flanked by a Skoda Roomster. It'd been bugging me for a little while, following closely on busy roads, and now it had pulled nearly alongside on a short section of dual carriageway. The roundabout, though, is an old friend. We understand each other. I know how it flows.

Determined to teach Mr Skoda a lesson, I looked well ahead and saw that, should I time things just right, I would be away. It would be a brave or foolish man who thought they could keep up with me. Speed wasn't to be my escape, mind. Timing was what it was all about. Finding that gap in the traffic which left him for dead.

I got it spot on. With my engine singing at 3,000rpm in third, I gave a little squeeze of the throttle and nipped out onto the roundabout, having barely slowed. Skoda man, I noted with delight, was left floundering. Victory was mine!

Except that following pride very nearly came a fall. Not everyone was applying such judgement this morning. Ahead of me, lumbering like a whale, an S-type Jag had wandered out into the path of traffic. Its portly incumbent, realising the mistake he had made, quickly raised a hand in apology as I bore down upon him.

For a moment I could see the crash coming. Instinctively I lifted and slotted the car down to second, using engine and wheel braking together to shed speed. For a brief moment it looked like even this would not be enough to save us.

And then something mind-bendingly strange happened. The Jag was no longer there. It didn't so much move out of the way as simply bend space and time to not be in my path. I sailed past the rear of the silver beast, glancing to the right in time to note (as one often does in life and death situations) the small details which told me that this Jag, this lumbering, walnut-dashed beastie, had a heart of solid gold: it was the twin turbo diesel which will happily lap the Nordschleife in 9.

Turbo lag had left us on collision course, but by the same token turbo boost had saved us both.

I have no idea what happened to the Jag. I survived unscathed, as you may be able to guess. The last I saw, the poor unfortunate behind the wheel was experiencing the kind of face-melting acceleration normally reserved for shuttle astronauts on take-off.

What an engine...