Taken from Motor sport, June 2010

Hands and arms whirl, feet flit across the pedals in a blur. But somehow the beanpole figure beside me has all the time in the world. The granite face shows no flicker, not a word is spoken, but what is there to say? He’s just doing what he does best, and I can’t quite believe I’m sitting here.

Snowdrifts bank the twisting mountain road, but the dull-grey asphalt is drying up. Perfect. There’s hardly a hint of a slide from the Quattro in his hands and the ascent is other-worldly smooth, clinical and quick. Too quick. We blaze into the sunlight all too soon, into the final right-hander, and for the first time he lets the machine break free, booting it into a final-flourish skid. He clicks his wristwatch and we pull to a halt. What the hell do I say? “Er, thank you.” He glances at me for the first time, as if he’s forgotten I was there, the granite cracks into the briefest of smiles and is gone in a trace. He looks straight ahead, waiting, ready to go again.