BOULDER DASH
Three miles into the drive I felt confident we’d make it. Five miles in I saw the squad of ATVs leaping towards us, stars and stripes flags flapping in the wind off the tips of CB whip aerials, buzz-cut, square-jawed, sunburnt drivers and passengers in sweat-blotched wife-beaters and mirror shades listening to deafening, distorted death metal. Now I wasn’t so sure.
I looked at Jamie, the photographer who had suggested this rippled sand dune of a dirt road would be a brilliant place to bring the Carmine Red 205mph 641bhp Turbo S – yeah, the one with the optionally lowered Sport chassis – because “literally no one has ever brought a 911 this far before, or will again…” and mentally kicked myself for being so stupid.
It wasn’t just that we might get stuck, which with every extra metre seemed like a racing certainty. It was also that there was zero chance of getting any assistance. Not only because we were about to be beached in the middle of a sand farm – and potentially set upon by a pack of feral survivalists – but also, there simply weren’t any breakdown trucks, or anything else, for thousands of miles.
Why? Because, little did we know, the whole of
