We return, somewhat haunted, to the mecca of the motoring world – apprehensive and humbled.
It’s not without some minor trepidation I’m gingerly making my way down the M20 towards Folkestone. But, fellow reader, I kept a secret; this isn’t my first time I’m taking the 720s across the channel to brave the Adenau forest’s thickest, blackest tarmac. I was here back in September 2021 and, well, I didn’t have the best of times.
A moment of unchecked bravado caused me to fight a wild 720 deg spin (yes I get the irony). Somewhere between Tiergarten and Hatzenbach, my rear end fishtailed so violently and unexpectedly, I came back with an entire underbody full of grass and a clean up bill so extraordinarily lucky, it ruined the ring for me.
Yep – that’s me. You’re probably wondering how i got here.
Me, freeze framed.
Well, after 2 absolute cosmic hot laps, I came in to adjust tyre temperatures and allow the brakes to cool down. I brought the tyres down to a good 23psi in order to allow them some room to inflate and just stood back for a minute as I cast a gaze over the ‘ring car park. That was until I saw the convoy of GT3s come past me on the pit straight at which point, like a chimp with a fresh banana, I lost all reason and logic. I came out of the ring car park guns blazing, right up until the first hard left hander and, well, the whole car became a makeshift chapel with all 33 million Hindu gods getting a mention as I grappled with the steering wheel in an attempt to drive back home with all panels intact as I come hurtling towards the armco at 120mph. Backwards.
Thankfully it’s a story I’m able to recite without the trauma of an expensive repair bill, let alone one of injury. I came to rest with the nose of the car 2mm from the armco with a gentle air kiss as I gingerly drive back to the pits with a shiver and a prayer.
Regardless, I come off the Eurotunnel with my convoy, maturely parking this memory into the vaults of yesterday and park the apprehension for now. Today, my first stop is Spa. I haven’t done Spa for about 4 years, having last been here in the Audi R8.
The 720s, enjoying the dazzling convoy here amongst the company of 3 McLaren 720s, a 600LT, a Yaris GR, a GT3 and 3 obscenely modified E90 M3s in full track guise, is an experience to behold. I’ve owned this car nigh on two years now and I’m still unprepared for the multi-faceted, four dimensions of drama it presents you on every single journey, And if you’ve never done a such trip before, you should always be reminded that these excursions into Europe are only made more magical amongst the company of similarly minded fools. Every toll booth, every petrol station and indeed, every minor skirmish, either with another random car, or armed police, is always made even more exciting.
Now, I blame the poor lighting at the Travelodge hotel in Folkestone. Were its illumination better I’d have noticed the wet trees I’d parked underneath so as to avoid a complete and comprehensive covering of tree sap all over my car by the morning. It made for an existential crisis as anyone with a modicum of OCD will understand the pain of having to endure this slight on my car for the entire duration of my journey,
With a little detective work, I was able to find a local detailer who agreed to complete the renovation of not just mine, but another 4 of us the next morning. And as surprised as I was to find someone who was prepared to do this on a Sunday, what was even more impressive was the standard with which the work was carried out. A proper outfit with real due care, I can’t recommend them enough. Check them out.
I actually hadn’t planned on Spa at all. But never ever make the mistake of going food shopping when you’re hungry which is as equally futile as going to a race track with a supercar. With the day split into 20 minute sessions, you could buy any number of sessions at any of the allotted times which I found was an absolutely brilliant idea. In fact, by the end of the day, you couldn’t walk 10 metres without being asked if you wanted a free session as everyone had had their fill.
The 720s, I’m almost 100% certain, was developed on Spa. There is no way a car can feel so completely natural and at home on a circuit to the point of annihilating everything else on track with the only other car to remain competitive was Harry’s 720s.
There’s no doubt that the immense power advantage of the McLaren is so perfectly suited to Spa. This relentless urge that appears limitless is willing to both catapult you with ferocity out of every corner, regardless of angle of exit, whilst ensuring every subsequent straight is devoured with hunger, It’s obscenely addictive and requires genuine restraint on anyone with a bit of adrenaline addiction to say enough and to come in for some rest time.
But to state its power as a sole claim to fame would be doing it a massive disservice. The car feels light on its feet as it illustrates a deftness many track focused cars can dream of. It helps that Spa’s tarmac is smooth and that yes, power here really does help, but it felt totally composed and at home on a track that feels built for this car alone. That leviathan power is felt most on the southern part of the circuit with from Stavelot all the way to Chicane – communicative, teasing and relentless. There is a natural flow here, carrying the car through the bends as you lean in from one side to the next, a gentle, subtle, 4 wheel drift occurring on the limits of adhesion as you continue to lean, with confidence, into a chassis that appears to be having just as much fun as you are.
The thrill of complete domination is intoxicating and anyone who knows the circuit will be familiar with the run off area you end up using as part of the track as you increase your committed speed. Balancing grip on the fine line between ‘I have traction’ and ‘which way is my car facing’, there’s no better feeling than this weightlessness as you transcend all senses of physicality to an ethereal entity stuck between the realms of reality, becoming nothing other than a passenger, warping your senses into a congealed mess of sensory overload.
That airbrake is adorably addictive – each time it flies all the way up to its stops on the heavy braking zones, it wants you to acknowledge its contribution as it vies for attention in your rear view mirror, blocking all sight from behind. It’s a gloriously rewarding visual aid and as unfathomable as it is in the reasoning behind the silent grin you elicit each time it rears its head, it is also faithfully astute in reminding you that it is, of course, completely functional. There’s so much stability in heavy braking zones and it is no doubt complimented by the car’s magnificent aero both on top and below the chassis.
With all driver aids switched off, the 720s is a playful and benign toy, giving enough warning to prepare you for when it does slide out as it invariably will with over 700 bhp on the rear wheels alone. It’s way more fun with the electronics off too, and way way more powerful as the system quite often chooses to cut down power when it picks up slip on the rear wheels with any traction control still on – I don’t know for sure, but I reckon at least 100 bhp is lost on those moments.
Also worth noting that these tyres, Michelin MP4S’s are not native to this car. McLaren, at odds with what actually suits the car, only recommends Pirelli tyres, mainly referencing its deal with Pirelli on its single make GT series. But the standard Pirellis fitted to the car are utter trash on the road. In contrast, on a day like this (27 deg ambient) on track, I would probably hazard a guess and say the P-Zeros may have been better. However, if I were equipped with something like Trofeo’s or Cups, I would literally have ripped the fabric of space time continuum.
So, with the natural high of a Spa day complete and a ring trip looming, the last time I felt this way was a sunday before exam week at school. Infuriatingly irrational, I know, but the ring has a propensity to school you time to time so as to avoid any instance of complacency. In fact the same day I arrived, the ring taxi obliterated itself into the wall leaving very little salvageable, For now though, we’re to enjoy the delights of the Pistonklause with the cars parked safely at the awesome Lindner Congress hotel.
Alas, arriving at the ‘Ring car park, my attempts to rekindle some competence were futile. With the sword of damocles hanging precariously over my head, I’m persistently reminding myself that this is not a car I want to embed into the wall. Getting insurance on the Ring is now extremely difficult. On a car valued such as the 720, the best I can find is a 50% cover with a £20,000 excess which makes no sense on a policy that costs nearly £1500 for a single day.
And so with these considerations looming heavily, I remained humbled by those on track who didn’t have such insecurities. It isn’t fun being on any circuit when you aren’t willing to be at least 85% on attack mode and the humility of having a 700 plus horsepower car being devoured by seasoned VW Golfs is depressing. Try as I might, I simply cannot get into a rhythm and I suspect it may be a while, if at all, I can return back to my best here. I’m having fun, but there’s a feeling of insecurity that has burrowed itself into my brain. Harry in his 720s, with whom I had wonderful tussles with at Spa, has left me for dead after only four bends with only the gift of his fuel and other liquids all over the front of my car as a consolation prize. The M3’s, having woken up choosing violence with their raucous V8’s breathing freely having shorn their pipes of cats and bends, came past me as if I weren’t even trying. I really was Clive, I really was.
I sit in the ring car park instead listening to my friends’ war stories. Bridge to Gantry times now have no relevance to me and as a frame of reference I may as well be a kid watching an F1 race – woe is me.
Thankfully this isn’t the end of the trip. We choose, instead of the long Autobahn and Autoroutes back to Calais, to enjoy the A & B, and even in some instances some rather challenging C, roads in an attempt to lengthen our trip. The region is rich with an eclectic offering of road types that can pretty much suit any car and the McLaren again is proving its mettle as a worthy warrior in the pursuit of the greatest road car I’ve ever owned.
I still cannot get used to the savagery, the relentless and unapologetic nature of this cars spirit. Although the car does not offer much variance in its character by way of its changes to suspension and engine management settings on the IRIS panel, it is a dynamically competent car that permits any style of driving you may demand off it.
Personally, the savage side of the 720 and I are very good friends – and who wouldn’t be? With a chassis as communicative as the McLaren, paired to a gearbox and steering that is strictly compliant in its obedience when following instructions, the mutual respect that seemingly exists only aids and facilitates any liberty you may wish to extract from this machine.
Here. the Michelin’s are at home with a perfect tread and softness of compound that feels natural and predictable on the public road. Even with all controls off, it has a telepathic method of communicating it’s behaviour and save for any silliness remains trustworthy and faithful – which is why still, many of these cars end up in a ditch. Driving at full attack mode with Anis’ 720 Spyder is a wonderful memory, seeing both our air brakes synced perfectly on each braking zone – coming fully erect on hard braking and then going immediately flat down when accelerating hard, cooperating in perfect harmony with the drivers intention. As we found more confidence in the empty roads, our distance between us and the remaining convoy continue to grow as the McLaren’s simply devoured the path with monstrous efficiency.
The gearbox on the 720 is possibly one of the most engaging paddleshift boxes around. Each shift taking the exact amount of time to change – not too quick as to be unnoticed but fast enough to meet your expectations. Each downshift in race mode eliciting a rifle shot bang from the exhaust, sent to the mountainsides only to be returned back to me as the valleys echo in a cacophony of violent V8’s on full chat with pops and bangs reverbing across Germany’s coniferous backdrop. All this does is feed the addiction; brake hard, downshift ‘BANG’, downshift ‘BANG’, hard throttle – repeat ad infinitum.
A hundred miles later and the adrenaline isn’t wearing off. It’s a delightful drive that is pleasantly topped off with a gentle cruise home across the French autoroutes towards Calais. The tank in the 720 is tiny so fuel stops, especially at full attack mode, are frequent. But I like this, especially in a convoy of cars as it provides frequent excuses to stop, wait for some of the cars to catch up and plan the next phase and gossip. And ice cream. It’s the reason I got fat early 2022!
Ultimately, this leg of the journey is always fraught with some aspect of urgency. The final stretch towards Calais is a bit of a cannonball run as you try to catch the earliest train back. At this point, fatigue starts to set in and with the obscene queues that are sometimes present at the Channel Tunnel, last thing anyone wants is a three hour wait to get boarded.
Everyone around me seems to be buying V8 M3’s and converting them to brutal track machines. I’ve never been so inclined up until now, the aspect of burying 200k worth of car into armco, uninsured, is the first time I’ve felt a sense of genuine fear on the ring. Anywhere else, I’m fine – Spa was spectacular and ranks as amongst my favourite track-days ever. But the added width and run off of the circuit really does feel like a safety net. Putting aside the material loss of a destroyed car, everyone seems keen on taking photos of any car on the back of a flatbed in its sorry state and these same people seem to have no remorse in immediately uploading their photos to social media. If you bin it, you’ll be certain that everyone else will also know within hours of it happening.
I will return to the ring with some courage again. But for now, I return from the Nordschleife gingerly with both my material possessions and my pride intact.
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