A recent piece in the motoring section of Her Majesty’s Daily
Telegraph contained a bold claim. That south of a line through
Stoke-on-Trent, Derby and Norwich, and excepting Bodmin Moor in winter,
there is almost nowhere in England where it might be a pleasure to drive a
car for more than 10 consecutive minutes between 7am and 7pm.
The writer suggests that with 31m vehicles on the road the country is now too
congested to allow for untrammelled liberty at the wheel, and that these
days nobody buys into the suggestion by car makers that their products are
indispensable instruments of self expression.
I’m sure this strikes a chord, but actually I think the last time someone was
so wrong he was standing by an aeroplane at Croydon airport in 1938 waving a
piece of paper around.
First of all, contemporary car advertisements feature dancing robots and
windscreen wipers crawling across the floor and Gene Kelly breakdancing in
the rain. The days when they showed a car whizzing hither and thither on
some deserted mountain road to the musical accompaniment of Steppenwolf are
long gone.
That’s because advertising agencies think like you do, and you think like our
friend from The Daily Telegraph. You think that because of the
traffic and the speed cameras and the idiot in front it is no longer
possible to enjoy more than three-tenths of a car’s performance envelope.
And that it’s a waste of time buying a 155mph BMW when you’ll get to work
just as quickly in a £2.50 Perodua.
You’ve probably worked out — as I have — that if you parked all of Britain’s
31m vehicles nose to tail the traffic jam would be a staggering 82,000 miles
long. And what’s more, on Friday evening, coming home from work, you
probably thought you were at the end of it.
I’m sure too that you look at all those empty roads on Top Gear and think
“yeah, right . . .”. Even my nine-year-old boy, whose school run takes a
torturous 90 minutes, said the other day that the big wide shots of deserted
tarmac were “unrealistic”.
But you know something: they’re not. We have neither the time nor the
inclination, frankly, to digitally erase other traffic. We don’t film on
Sundays at four in the morning. And nor do we have the power to close roads
for our own self-gratification.
So where are they, then, these empty stretches of road that we manage to find
every week. Well, think about it. If all 31m vehicles took to the roads at
the same time, and they don’t, then yes, 82,000 miles of road would be full.
But that would leave 163,937 miles of road absolutely deserted.
The fact is that, contrary to the teachings of The Daily Telegraph,
there are huge numbers of virtually deserted roads all over southern
England. In fact, if I were to set off from the end of my drive right now I
can absolutely guarantee that I could be doing 100mph in as long as it took
the car to accelerate there.
What’s more, I have a test route on which I take all the cars I borrow. And
not once in 10 years have I had the run spoilt by traffic. Of course, I
encounter other cars trundling along from time to time, but that’s what a
500bhp engine is for, surging you past the dunderhead in a torrent of
g-force and noise.
Last night at 6.30pm, just 70 miles from Trafalgar Square, I was able to fully
explore the outrageous performance characteristics of a TVR Sagaris,
changing down two gears for the corners, feeling the loaded tyre straining
for grip, then feeding in the power after I’d kissed the apex just so.
Last week I was in a Mercedes SLK 55 in Norfolk, on that arrow-straight road
going past Lakenheath air force base. And had I been so inclined I could
have kept my foot buried in the shag pile for about half an hour.
In essence, for every clogged-up road you can show me, I’ll show you 10 that
provide the driving enthusiast with every conceivable challenge and every
conceivable view. I’ll show you roads that still provide the Steppenwolf
soundtrack, roads you used to see in the car advertisement, roads that can
still tingle the very follicles of your soul. Bikers know what I’m on about
here. You ask one.
And then name any county you like, even the ones that snuggle up to London
itself, and I’ll find you a damn sight more than 10 consecutive minutes of
high-octane red-line thrills. I’ll find you a round trip that’ll pluck the
strings of your heart like it’s a harp. These roads are there, I promise
you. All you need to bring along is a decent car.
So, not the new Nissan 350Z convertible then.
In many ways this new two-seat drop top, with a V6 engine, many speeds and
lots of rear-wheel-drive action for those tricky left/right moorland
switchbacks, seems ideally suited to the forgotten dream of a balls-out
Sunday afternoon thrash.
You climb into what’s undoubtedly a well made car, press a button and marvel
as the canvas roof is scooped up and electrically folded into a cubbyhole
between the seats and the boot.
Then, with the sun making pretty patterns in the pollen, and Born to be Wild
on the stereo, you stamp on the throttle and marvel as you’re whisked in a
blur of light and colour and sound from 0 to 60 in 5.5sec, then onwards to
155. Mmmm. A tasty prospect, I’m sure you’ll agree.
Unfortunately there’s quite a lot of marzipan in the mix. I see that it has a
carbon-fibre prop shaft and an aluminium bonnet, and I can tell from the
scuttle shake that they’ve skimped on underfloor strengthening to replace
some of the rigidity lost when the roof was removed. But the weight-saving
programme hasn’t worked. This car still feels like it’s made from ebony and
lead. It feels as though it’s dragging an anchor.
I wasn’t taken with the driving position either. The seat doesn’t go back far
enough. And while the cockpit layout is logical and concise, there’s not
much flair. Nor is the gearbox much cop, and the fuel tank’s too small as
well.
Then there’s the noise. A car like this should sing or howl or impersonate
thunder. Whereas it sounds like . . . a noise. A drone that just gets louder
and louder as the revs begin to wage their war with the weight.
There’s a small red light that comes on in the middle of the centrally mounted
rev counter to tell you when it might be a good idea to change up. But I can
pretty much guarantee you’ll never see it illuminated, because your ears and
your fingertips sense you’re out of revs long before you really are.
The one light you will see, however, is small and yellow and comes on to say
the traction control is active. This flickers constantly because the
suspension cannot cope at all with mid-corner bumps. It just seems to rattle
and then hand over all responsibility to the electronic nanny.
The 350Z, then, feels like a mishmash; like a Japanese car designed by an
Indian from Leicester in America and then altered for Europe. Which
shouldn’t be a surprise because that’s exactly what it is. And worse, when
you’re at a party and someone asks what you’re driving you have to say: “A
Datsun with a Renault engine.”
It’s not even what you’d call good looking. The boot seems to go on for a
mile-and-a-half, which might be acceptable if the space inside were large
and commodious. But peering into the cavity beneath that huge back end is a
bit like peering into the lower decks of an aircraft carrier and finding
only a broom cupboard. It’s disappointing.
It wasn’t the road, then, or the traffic that spoilt my drive in this car. It
was the car itself.
But then again I could be wrong. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve been out
of step. I, for instance, didn’t like the hard-top 350Z whereas it made my
colleagues in the specialist motoring press all weak at the knees.
What’s more, I think Britain is still able to provide a wonderful driving
environment. And I can pretty much guarantee you’re with the chap from the Telegraph
on this one.
VITAL STATISTICS
Model Nissan 350Z Roadster
Engine Six cylinder, 3498cc
Power 280bhp @ 6200rpm
Torque 267 lb ft @ 4800rpm
Transmission Six-speed manual
Fuel 24.1mpg (combined)
CO2 280g/km
Acceleration 0-62: 6.4sec
Top speed 155mph
Price £27,000
Verdict More snore than roar
Rating 2/5
