"...I turned right into the Follow Through and buried the throttle." (70)
"Kojak was a bald regular Army veteran with a mysterious past, who met every challenge by ripping its face off." (96)
"Driven right, it launched like a scalded cat." (110)
"A gold head torch flickered in the distance. Voices ... An unforgettable sense of euphoria grew inside me and made the pain irrelevant.
It was acutely personal. No car had carried me to this place, nor had luck. The training officer took my name and number at the final checkpoint. No one asked to see my Fucking Big Rock.
I slumped on my bergen in a shit state. One of the DSs handed me a brew with some 'airborne smarties' to kill the pain. It was the best tea I had ever tasted, followed by the best shower in the world and the kind of sleep that money can't buy. I never felt so alive." (120)
"Ken was the devil to most of us but I admired his perfectionism, and not just the ability to swear several times in every sentence. His relentless abuse was timeless, whether it was lunchtime and someone wasn't loading rounds into a magazine fast enough, or 3am and someone wasn't in exactly the spot where they were supposed to be for an ambush. He cared, I suspected, because he had witnessed the consequences of getting it wrong." (125)
"Geordie gathered us round.
'So what have we learnt from this exercise, lads?'
'Should've joined the Air Corps,' Cartman said, catching his breath.
'Don't get shot, simple as that. Otherwise you're all fookared. Right, collect the brass, pack up and Foxtrot Oscar.'" (126)
"Smoke blossomed from my tyres as the topside melted away and the canvas shredded and punctured. The wall rushed up behind me.
There was a moment of peace, then the concrete intervened. I shouted the air from my lungs on impact." (134)
"Andy, not unreasonably, wanted to know that we could actually pull this off before shelling out for a crew to capture footage or a man falling to his death, then being run over and killed all over again." (139) // catching a parachutist in the backseat of a car at speed
"We loaded him up with his harness and padded his arms and knees. I softened the landing zone with thick blankets and foam and wound the passenger seat fully forward to give him space. For my own protection, I donned the obligatory Ray Bans." (140)
"The engine [of the Bugatti Veyron] didn't propel the wheels as much as shove millions of cubic litres of the earth's atmosphere out of the way at one third of the speed of sound.
The tyres were only rated to run at top speed for fifteen minutes, but at 250 you emptied the fuel tank in twelve minutes anyway. My favourite stat: the motor consumed an estimated 45,000 litres of air per hour.
Complicated physics and supercars normally equalled frequent and catastrophic mechanical failure. Volkswagen group, owner of Audi and Lamborghini, bought Bugatti and provided the Veyron with the metronomic reliability of a Swiss watch in a way that only German engineers could.
There will never be another production car so dedicated to the purity of speed, so perfectly delivered, and the economics of selling a car for £850,000 that costs more like £3m to produce are unlikely to return soon, unless the Pharaohs make a comeback.
In 2005 I knew none of this bar the price tag, which failed to impress me. Racing cars were far more valuable and were built to be thrashed, not worshipped. I had to get to the basement of the NatWest Tower, located the car and drive it, fast, from London to Milan." (196)
"The Veyron had been boxed in, nose into the wall of the underground car park. Rear vision was poor, probably because nothing stayed close enough to worry about." (198)
"Getting from A to B took longer than the actual race, because we kept stopping to position film crew and because every traffic cop in Western Europe wanted to see how fast it would go." (198)
"Your eyes only moved from the road's horizon for milliseconds, anticipating the cumbersome trajectories of the other 'static' road users well in advance as the Bug gobbled tarmac at a rate of 340 feet per second, the length of a football pitch in a blink of an eye.
A line of flashing lights whipped into view, blocking the fast lane. Traffic accumulated. I pulled the ripcord and hit the brakes, knocking the Bug out of speed mode. The rear wing went vertical to form an airbrake, the suspension adjusted smoothly to the interruption and the ABS crackled underfoot.
They told me it could stop dead from 250 in ten seconds. What bull. It took less than that." (201)
"I gunned the engine and felt the brawn of the cylinders rumbling behind the seat.
I gate Jim the thumbs up. He grinned. 'Be careful out there!'
'Never.'" (205)
"'Oi, mate, what car's that, then?' a besuited specttor had shouted to the man with the duster from behind the track barrier.
The Italian politely upturned his hands. 'Mi dispiace, che io non parlano Inglese...'
'What , no speaky English?' The suit looked left and right for an audience that failed to materialise. The laugh was on him anyway. He was insulting Mr. Pagani [designer of the Zonda, fastest lap time on Top Gear] himself, a gentleman wealthy enought o leave a plantinum horse's head on his pillow." (210)
"You needed to be slightly unhinged to want to drive down a runway at 300 mph like spam in a can. Sure, it took some skill launching off the line and holding the car straight, but no amount of it could save you if the engine exploded, the wheels fell off, the parachute failed or if you involuntarily shat out your kidneys with fear." (234)
"Since none of us had drifted a bus before, I climbed aboard Hammond's Bendy to lay down a marker. She was hardly top of the range. the electrics were dead, so we kick-started the thing by thumping the battery with a sledgehammer. I fired the engine and waited several minutes to build enough pressure in the system to release the air brakes and move forward.
Hammond climbed aboard and took a ringside seat just behind my left shoulder, one hand on the steel passenger pole that joined floor to ceiling. Our combined mental age: about twelve." (288)
"Anthony Reid had joined the regular band of reprobates. At 50 years of age he struck you as a quaint, well-spoken gent, with neat facial features to match the ever present vintage racing cap. I've held lucid conversations with Reid, some of which have even bordered on the intelligent, but remain convinced that the compartment inside his head where his brain should be contains some kind of dark matter instead. Reid was lapping his little white coach faster than anyone." (289)
"During a break in the action we set up cameras by the sharp bank at the Rally Cross intersection and told Tom to roll it. The earthen mound looked perfect for the job if he could turn sharply with enough speed. After several attempts, Tom became the first person I know of to drive a double-decker on two wheels without toppling. Luckily, we had an ace up our sleeve.
'So you want me to ram him going into that corner over there, yah?' Reid enunciated in the crispest Queen's English, as if being asked to serve tiffin." (290)