In Seven heaven!

[Red Baron]

Zeer leuke blog op de Mail Online van Phil Duncan:

In Seven heaven!
A Spa break to remember, courtesy of Caterham

I haven't been to the doctors yet, but I think I'm showing all the symptoms of PCD; the illness more commonly known as post-Caterham depression.

You see, it's been a week since I last took a ride on the new love of my life, and it's beginning to take its toll.

I just don't enjoy driving anymore. I miss my photo being taken by complete strangers. And the thrill of reaching 60mph in just under six seconds is a sensation which, however hard I try, I consistently fail to emulate in the Fiat Punto. My cause isn't helped by it being a diesel, too.

Size doesn't matter: The Caterham is dwarfed by regular roadcars

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Caterham Cars, who have recently been acquired by Team Lotus chief Tony Fernandes, invited me, and, my initially sceptical girlfriend, to take their Roadsport 125 to last month's Belgian Grand Prix.

Now, I say sceptical, because Natalie doesn't really get motors, much in the same light that I don't understand her beloved More magazine - one glance at that not-so-educational piece of literature, and it's little wonder why some women are so insecure.

'Isn't there a radio?' 'Where do I put my luggage?' a bemused Natalie asked. Unfortunately for her, I didn't have much of an answer.

No room at the inn: The Caterham is as basic as it gets

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There's no hiding from the fact, that the inside of a Caterham is about as basic as it gets. It's like lying in the bath tub with a couple of toys at your disposal. Although in this case the wind-up frog is the starter button and the rubber ducky, the accelerator.

Caterhams aren't built for comfort, nor are they tailored for the taller man. I'm around 6ft 2in, and with it being the British and Belgian summers, and thus the hood predictably always on, getting in and out of the Roadsport wasn't easy.

Despite all my best efforts, but possessing the poise and elegance of an elephant, I never quite mastered the ability to slide in and out of the Caterham. And with a fuel tank comparable to that of my dad's bladder after a couple of ales, you're in and out of it more often than you'd think.

Welcome to Eau Rouge: Vettel won the Belgian Grand Prix

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So, uncomfortable and hard work to get in to, you'd be forgiven for thinking the Caterham Roadsport isn't exactly conducive to a 1,000-mile round trip in a little over two days. But that's where you'd be wrong.

'There really is no better satisfaction for me than seeing the face of someone stepping out of a Caterham Seven having driven it for the first time,' says Caterham Cars' managing director Ansar Ali. And, boy is he right.

Yes, you may have lost the feeling in your right leg. Yes, your other leg may be dripping with sweat because of its harsh positioning next to the engine and radiator. And yes, you're now probably deaf after having no option other than to listen to the roar of a 1.6litre Ford Sigma engine bouncing off the rev limiter for three hours. But none of that really matters.

What matters is the driving experience, and as three-times Formula One world champion Ayrton Senna would say: 'it's pure driving, real racing' - although, obviously there was none of the latter, Mr Officer.

The fun of taking a Caterham and really 'giving it some' is like no road car I've driven before, and as Mr Ali rightly predicted, it delivered a smile on my face which hasn't been seen since Arsenal last won a trophy. And as we all know, that barely constitutes as recent history anymore.

There's no traction control, no ABS here; it's just you and the car, and that's the magic.

I used to meddle with karting at a decent level back in the day, and my Bank Holiday weekend with the Caterham more than took me back to those youthful weekends.

It's a huge cliché, but driving a Caterham is just like driving a kart; the smell, the sounds, the buzz of sitting just inches off the ground, and the faith that when you stick the nose in, the back won't come around to bite you in the bottom.

But it wasn't just me, and a now fully-fledged Caterette in Natalie, who enjoyed the thrill of the Caterham Roadsport.

The converted: Natalie wasn't sceptical by the end of the trip

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If I had a pound for every time we were asked to pose for a picture, pointed at, or me attempting to phonetically pronounce Cat-er-ham in a French-cum-Indian-cum-Welsh accent to the inquisitive locals, I'd be one heck of a lot closer to finding the £19,000 or so needed to buy my latest obsession.

And if like me, you need an ego boost from time-to-time, then look no further than the Caterham. The interest in them, particularly on the continent, is phenomenal.

I'll always dine out on the fact that our little orange car gained more interest than both a Maserati and a Ferrari Spyder at a petrol station on the outskirts of Spa. Or indeed when a group of British F1 fans drinking at a pub (unusual that) in Francorchamps abandoned their lagers to give us a standing ovation simply for driving past.

You see, there's something so quintessentially British about a Caterham. Like our island nation, it is small, overcrowded, and frustrating at times, but when all is said and done you'd rather be nowhere else.

Just be prepared for the comedown. Now, where's the number for my GP?


Bron: http://duncanblog.dailymail.co.uk/2011/ ... erham.html

[electroshock]

with a fuel tank comparable to that of my dad's bladder

Mooie beeldspraak.