Unlike the Type R, which is the original
whore’s handbag. The fag lighter is gone (which we discovered when
we tried to hook up the Correvit), with big oil pressure and temp gauges
filling the space. There’s also a velcro-mounted trip computer which
gives incredibly useful info like the ignition timing advance in real time
(true) and even a turbo timer (pardon”). The race seat is designed
for the owner, who is about 15 sizes smaller than me, and even the jump
seat is a race jobbie. Miraculously, the steering wheel has a Honda
part number.
Me? I wouldn't have any of it.
A turbo timer is good in a blown car, but the rest of it is just shit and
glitter. Ditto the decals appearing on a bonnet near you.
Of course, what you need to remember is
that while the Rex is a demonstrator for APS (and fully ADR-approved, remember),
the other two are privately owned. So they can have whatever they
dams well want cluttering up the interior, and blokes like me can just
shut the flock up.
And the truth is, I haven’t had this much
fun in three very different cars for a long time. I wouldn’t mind
betting that’s another way of saying that having a spend on your car and
making it better, faster, stronger is a good way of ensuring you don’t
get sick of it a few weeks after shelling out for it.
Which brings us back to where we came in:
tying to hold formation and keep the rack down while commuters whizz around
us, all the while keeping on eye on the mirrors for rozzers.
Except now the Rex is about 10 mm off my
rear bumper and the photographer has opened the door at 60 km/h so he can
hang out just a bit further for the shot. Oh Christ.
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