Ferrari to the Sahara
FERRARI TO THE SAHARA : PART 1
In 1995 CAR drove a Ferrari 512M from Maranello to the sands of the Sahara. The story redefined adventure drives and inspired a generation. Now, in Ferrari’s V12 Purosangue, it’s time to go back
For hours we’ve crushed distance with speed, watching in reverential silence as vast landscapes – widescreen valleys between sky-scraping escarpments – slid inexorably from windscreen to windows to rearview mirror. As coarse tarmac rushed beneath warm Michelins and the V12 cantered just off idle for hour after hour, the effect was hypnotic. There was no traffic; no other life, even. Nothing to break the spell of this elemental place.
Then, perhaps 20 minutes ago, the road turned and made straight for one of those escarpments. It then began to climb, soaring from scrub-flecked valley to cloudless sky in stacked coils of curves. Now the engine is awake. Now the spell is broken. We’ve traded lazy revs and barely-there inputs for 8000rpm and great sweeps of the throttle pedal, a savage sonic barrage and racing shift lights testament to the 6.5-litre V12’s reach and potency.
What’s more, the rest of the Ferrari’s powertrain – an eight-speed twin-clutcher with shifts like a GT3 car’s and dexterous, apparently unimpeachable four-wheel drive – is offering no real counterargument to this hedonism. A gearlever, three pedals and just the one driven axle to manage? For better or for worse the Purosangue cares not for such impediments to speed. The contrast in effort, on the car’s part and mine, between now and just a few moments ago is, like the Ferrari’s crimson paint against the scree, stark.
Three quick inputs have swapped Comfort/Soft for Sport/Hard and Sport ESC, and now the Purosangue’s brutal brand of athleticism is vindicating the decision to come here in spectacular style. Just as your brain grows uneasy, its calculations around speed and mass and the severity of the upcoming curves prompting a fast-swelling sense of fear, the Ferrari’s composure crushes the nascent panic.
The firm and powerful left pedal (in drilled aluminium, naturally) is endlessly reassuring, the very physical deceleration it delivers instantly erasing any excess speed your wanton V12 usage may have brought about. The steering, so slack-free and responsive you must, like a sniper, measure your breathing and consciously moderate your inputs, appears able to send that long, heat-weeping bonnet arcing wherever you choose regardless of speed. And, thanks to those hypnotic hours that came before, the Purosangue and I feel less like two forms working together than one without demarcation; decision-making organism and physics-
