You’re about to connect your consciousness with a miracle of engineering that will, as far I’m concerned, transport you to the center of the universe.
The stretching of rubber, connecting of shafts and flanges, and all the torque of thrusting is enough to get pulses racing, but let’s look at the functions of the equipment before we push analogies too far.
Turn the key and fire the engine: Suck, squeeze, bang, blow. The pistons deep inside the engine bay circulate like the legs of a cyclist pumping the pedals. As the piston falls within its chamber it sucks in a mixture of air and fuel, then squeezes it so hard that the fiery cocktail is compressed to a tenth of its original volume. The heat of this molecular crush alone is enough to ignite diesel. With gasoline, a spark is introduced, creating an explosion that bangs the piston into its next cycle, and exhaust gases are blown out along the way.
A spark is introduced, creating an explosion.
When the engine is free of the drivetrain, it idles at around 22 piston revolutions every second, or 1,320 revs per minute, without breaking a sweat. Pressing the accelerator introduces more fuel and power to the system, so the pistons revolve faster. They report their rate of progress with a rising note and rumble, and via the needle within the oft-ignored tachometer next to the speedometer.
Somewhere between idle and the point where the needle ventures into the red on the tachometer, the engine develops its peak turning force, or torque. You wish that sweet spot would last forever, as all that rotational power begs to be harnessed in some way. The clutch has the means to do it by enslaving the engine to the gearbox, which in turn connects to the wheels that sit on the road.
The engine spins constantly, whereas the gearbox and the car’s wheels do not. The clutch manages the speed differential between the engine and gearbox by holding the gear in one hand and harnessing the engine’s spinning flywheel with a high-friction pressure plate in the other.
When you climb aboard, think of the flywheel as a spinning merry-go-round and your feet as the clutch plate. When your feet land on the ride, your speeds suddenly match, and round you go.
As you release the clutch pedal with a gear engaged, the clutch plate rubs on the flywheel and begins turning until their speeds match. As the clutch plate turns it delivers drive to the gear and through to the wheels. Forward motion commences. When the clutch is fully released, the car’s road speed matches the engine speed for that gear.
The gearbox contains a gear for each different range of road speed from zero all the way up to the car’s maximum, enabling the engine to unleash its finest torque again and again as we accelerate from one gear to the next.
Imagine the gears as athletes running a relay race with different physiques and specialist skills.
Imagine the gears as athletes running a relay race, each with different physiques and specialist skills. First gear has short, powerful legs like a weight lifter, delivering maximum force to the wheels to get a ton of metal moving from a standing start. But as the car begins to speed up, our short, fat, hairy man in Lycra reaches his top speed and runs out of steam. We need to pass the baton to a new gear with longer legs for faster running, and so on, until we reach top gear with the likes of Usain Bolt.
Handing the baton back to a slower runner when the vehicle is still sprinting at high speed forces short legs to spin much faster than they were designed to. The engine screams, and the tachometer sees red.
When the gear exceeds its speed range in this way and is enslaved to the engine by a cruel master releasing the clutch, it creates an engine speed so fast that the pistons try to relieve themselves by exploding out of their housing. So you use the gears that marry engine revolutions with road speed to avoid a meltdown.
All the pounding metal and churning fluid within the engine and gearbox creates internal resistance by friction. The faster the engine is turning, the greater the resistance. When you hit the road there are other frictional forces acting on the beast as the tires meet the road and the car’s shell encounters resistance from the air. These natural forces want to slow the car, so by lifting off the accelerator pedal and cutting power to the engine, you decelerate. Now it’s time to adopt this pedal’s real name: the throttle. Because the throttle can be used to accelerate as well as decelerate by choking the engine.
Last, but by no means least, is the brake pedal with its near-infinite range of pressure adjustment. This is the primary device for slowing the car. A mere brush compresses the fluid underfoot. It instantly winds its way through a series of pipes to squeeze four sets of clamps onto their respective disks, themselves attached to the rotating wheels. Friction on the disks drags speed from the car and transmits weight to the front tires.
It sounds like a lot to take in at first, but the engineering quickly synchronizes with biology to make the process as thoughtless as breathing. Being clumsy with any element of the control process is no bad thing; the only mistake would be not to admit it.
For me it was the clutch. I was so insensitive to its powers that passengers were handed neck braces, but a winter racing series forced me to change: 100-mph curves became ice rinks where every passage of the clutch pedal would break traction unless it was accompanied by acute patience and feel. I developed my left foot accordingly, and in years to come this would prove vital with Top Gear.
Operating a vehicle for the first time is rather like being in an egg-and-spoon race while riding a unicycle. There are bumps and shudders aplenty, a few expletives, and grazed knees. Multitasking with hands, feet, and brain in concert with the way the car is responding is no picnic. Most drivers settle for a mediocre performance, and it stays that way for the rest of their lives.
I was forced to relearn the basics when I drove a Skoda with a helicopter balanced on the roof.
I was forced to relearn the basics when I drove a Skoda with a helicopter balanced on the roof for Top Gear. Any sudden movements would have resulted in a beheading. When I accelerated, it tilted up the rotors as the weight of the car moved rearward; so if I’d tramped the gas pedal the chopper would have fallen off the back. If I slowed too quickly or fumbled a downshift it would send weight forward; the rotors would dip and threaten to transform the chopper into a lively hood ornament.
A rooftop helicopter is an expensive training device, but what you can do is plant an imaginary glass of water on the dashboard and drive in such a way that you don’t spill a single drop. If you can avoid getting wet, you will benefit in three ways:
The entire business of operating a car revolves around the transfer of weight. You’re basically sitting in the middle of a seesaw, with the engine at one end and the passengers and whatever’s in the trunk at the other.
The seesaw starts out level.
It moves only when you do something, like standing on the brakes, at which point it tips forward and loads its weight onto the front tires, giving them grip for stopping or turning into a corner. The plank goes level mid-corner and then tips back to load the rear wheels when you press the accelerator. This front-and-back transfer of weight creates what is called vertical load.
The plank also leans from one side to the other in the curve, weighing down the outside wheels to create steering grip and turning thrust. That’s lateral load.
The important thing to get your head around is that when the weight of the car moves and bears down on a given tire, that tire generates grip. The rubber takes a fraction of a second to respond, which is why it pays to ask politely. If you suddenly hit the accelerator, it can spin the wheels; but if you moderate the initial touch and then go hard, the tire has time to accept it.
When the weight of the car moves and bears down on a given tire, that tire generates grip.
Philippe Petit, hands spread equally apart, walks a wire between New York’s Twin Towers shortly after their construction in 1974. With every step, he makes tiny adjustments of pressure from his toes to his heels and from side to side to maintain his balance. He remains totally calm. His hands and body are relaxed, bringing enormous accuracy and sensitivity to each step. And he looks ahead, never down.
Likewise, when you turn the steering wheel, the weight leans across the vehicle. The rate at which it leans depends on how much force you put into the steering—i.e., how much grip you put into the front tires in the first place, coupled with how quickly you turn. Yes—you create the grip. And once you know how, you can command the weight to be exactly where you want it, when you want it, for perfect handling throughout the curve.
Balancing a car involves shifting its weight around the tires at the right time. Each movement flows harmoniously into the next. When driving a car, go for maximum sensitivity. The more you feel at one with the machine, the better you will drive it. When you place your foot on the accelerator or the brakes, feel the pressure through the tips of your toes rather than via the force in your thigh. Control your strength so that you are conscious of the movement in your toes and the ball of your foot as it reaches your ankle. It allows for a far more delicate touch, with power in reserve if you need it.
Similarly, holding the steering wheel with the tips of your fingers provides more sensory feedback. If you clasp it like a vise, your inputs become heavy-handed and decrease the car’s stability, reducing your ability to create grip and increasing the likelihood of a skid.
With your hands equidistant from each other, cradling the wheel in the quarter- to-three position, you create a perfect sense of balance. Balance in the palm of your hands makes the physical inputs measured and soft, like you’re lifting a cup of tea rather than smacking Mike Tyson on the kisser. It matters because the corresponding weight transfers in the machine amplify your inputs.
Like you’re lifting a cup of tea rather than smacking Mike Tyson on the kisser.
The worst kind of weight transfer occurs when the driver creates a violent pendulum effect. This is usually the result of a sudden switch in direction that puts momentum into a weight transfer, causing the suspension to whip one way and then another, like a charging elephant swishing its buttocks. The sudden overload can cause a loss of traction and rapid departure from the road.
Ben leading the field in the FIA World Endurance Championship in 2014, aboard the Ferrari 458 Italia GTE. So much weight has shifted across to the outer side of the car that the inner front tire lifts off the ground.
Every car is unique, which is why we end up feeling so at home in the daily steed.
