Your long read…
“The Hammerhead’”
by Geoff Buys Cars
The plan had been simple enough. Take the Volvo 850 BTCC replica, and the Olive Green T5, to capture some rolling photography of the two cars together.
We headed out from Great Malvern in convoy, with Go Pros mounted in various positions on the Volvos and chaser car – a black Saab 9-5 Aero HOT Estate.
The light was fading, heading into what those in the trade call the ‘golden hour’ – when the winter sun drops low in the sky, the magical time when the right kind of eyes and a camera can make even the worst basket case cars look like showroom stars.
After brimming three petrol tanks with premium fuel, there was no surprise when my phone pinged up ‘you are using an unarranged overdraft’. Crikey, I thought… we had better get the money shots today.
Our convoy pulled out of the Petrol station with the race car taking the lead, the Olive Green T5 behind and the Saab Aero HOT wagon bringing up the rear.
Approaching the first roundabout, the Aero took the right hand lane so the passenger could hang out of the window and film both Volvos as we cruised slowly towards the infamous Ketch roundabout, aka traffic island. We drove in single file through the roadworks, the camera capturing the cool golden glow of the sunset over the River Severn.
Worcestershire drivers heading North will know that after the crawl over the river is an opportunity to get the hammer down as the roads open up and widen up as they head towards the motorway… it was really at this point things started to go wrong.
The race car snuck through the traffic and opened up a significant gap on the T5, trapped behind a tractor and anxious to catch up. With the Aero watching from afar, the three cars were split up before a single shot had been captured on the DSLR.
Not wanting to waste any daylight, I made the decision to gun the throttle on the T5 to catch the touring car and regroup the threesome. Heading into the Swan roundabout a little quick, I made the right hand turn towards the motorway with the front wheels screaming in protest… no matter, I thought, no one is watching.
The Aero was hot on my bumper, seeing the urgency in catching the touring car before the light slipped away. Two swedes elegantly looped the roundabout, with a respectable but not obnoxious amount of tyre squeal… both cars looked noticeably faster than your average moving traffic, but we didn’t think it would attract attention…. how wrong we were.
Two cars back and waiting to turn right at the roundabout sat a BMW 530D, an inconspicuous car that went unnoticed by the excitable drivers in the Swedish wagons.
The Touring was Finished in grey, fitted with a dog guard, tow bar and subtle extra aerial behind the shark fin. Any normal petrolhead with good spidey senses would have spotted the car a mile off, but the pressure to capture the photos had suspended the inbuilt police radar that all car guys possess…
We hadn’t seen the unmarked car as we squealed, bumper to bumper and clearly quite quickly across the roundabout.
In the Olive Green T5 my focus was entirely on catching the race car. Although the slowest of the trio, that five-cylinder engine can really surprise when driven hard with agression. Knowing the Aero HOT behind was just as capable, I had no concerns about accelerating hard down the slip road onto the M5 south, confident the Saab could keep up.
Still unaware of the 530D that was trailing and observing from afar, I pushed the T5 hard into the roundabout and let the boost gauge do its thing… 50, 60, 70, 80… the numbers blurred as the red needle passed them. My god this car is impressive. I am on the run, I am no longer Geoff, I am powerful, I am free, I am a hammerhead shark bubba, hear me roar!
By the time the two swedes hit the motorway the speedos were indicating 110, but neither driver could see the touring car up ahead – nor noticed the BMW keeping pace from behind.
Unbeknownst to myself and my friend in the Aero, the touring car hadn’t even made it to the motorway. Having lost sight of the T5 and Aero in the rear view mirror, the driver had aimed for Pershore and pulled in for a coffee. He wasn’t even on the M5.
Back on the motorway the two Swedish wagons continued the chase for the non existent touring car, and as we had accelerated so hard onto the motorway, the lack of traffic and intoxicating evening light combined with the childish boost gauge and full tank of fuel lead me to do something stupid… I kept it pinned.
Why not? I thought. One good squirt never hurt anyone. If every there was a time to go all in, this evening is it.
I figured the touring car must have made it to Gloucester services, which made sense – there’s a damn good flat white to be bad if your wallet can stretch to the pleasure.
A glance at the speedo showed 145, but I knew the green goblin had more to give. Egged on by the cheeky fog lights of the Aero HOT behind, it became obvious that the two of us were in the midst of an accidental race…
In the Saab, the driver was protected by an invisible legal forcefield known in courts worldwide as ‘this is not my car’. The photographer in the passenger seat found the whole thing hilarious, which is why the Aero, instead of doing the grown-up thing and backing off, actually seemed to be pushing the T5 along.
We flew past Gloucester services at an indicated 160mph, and I have to say I was impressed. Not only was the car still eeking out more, but it felt planted, solid, secure. The light traffic continued, like the gods of the automotive world were smiling down saying ‘go on son, just this once’.
In the T5, my thoughts of catching the touring car or outrunning the Aero were long gone. There was no one in my periphery, literally or otherwise. I was a one man band, a one man rock show, a one man rocket, a hammerhead on a migratory journey to nowhere at high speed, and thrilled to bits about it.
I kept my foot to the floor and kept the focus, white knuckled and alive yet totally, safely, completely in charge of everything except my own self control.
I put the first flash in the rear view mirror down to the undulations of the road, the Saab’s headlights gently bouncing as the well tuned Swedish suspension carefully absorbed the pitch and yaw of Britain’s fifth motorway; as the miles were munched at approximately 160 every hour. This was my first mistake.
What I saw as the natural fluctuations in the headlights in my mirror was the frantic flashing of a driver WHO KNEW.
A quarter mile behind, the dog guard and extra aerial were closing in… and sadly they were still attached to the BMW, driven by a curious, bored and excited police officer who couldn’t believe his luck.
He remembered the Volvo 850 from his first few years as a traffic cop, and knew their capabilities well. Back at the squeaking tyre roundabout, the officer had a choice…. Option One was to floor it, pop the blues and have a word with both drivers about cornering too fast and breaking traction, or Option Two…. Option Two was far more appealing.
It was a Friday, it had been a boring week and the Volvo and Saab Estates were far more interesting prey than stolen Mercedes A Classes or Vauxhall Zafira’s with missing wheel trims and drug markers on the numberplates. No, this wasn’t the day for early action… this was the day for Option Two… follow and see what they do.
To the officers delight, both cars had accelerated hard down the slip way and the dirty diesel BMW had been left behind for the first mile. Using all of the available horses from the big diesel, the German shark had made it up to 155mph and beyond, eventually reeling in the Swedes when the Volvo had slowed – clearly the driver was considering a flat white at Gloucester before changing his mind and accelerating again. Costly mistake, thought the officer… more costly than a £30 coffee.
In the Saab, it was the driver who first spotted the BMW, having noticed it was the only car that wasn’t flying past on the left hand side, and was starting to take up more and more space in the rear window. He flashed the Volvo a frantic warning, but that only seemed to make the T5 accelerate.
Up front in the Green Machine, I was too focused on trying to make the car hit 169mph that I didn’t notice the Saab brake heavily and disappear towards Cheltenham.
The driver of the Saab had read the situation well, realised that the BMW was most likely after the Volvo so taken a daring last minute dive off the motorway – and it had worked. The Saab was home free, leaving the Volvo all alone, with blood in the water and a shark that had taken the bait.
In the BMW, the officer had indeed made another crucial decision – the Saab was not the ring leader here, and after all, it was the volvo with a Go Pro attached to the roof. No, he thought, as he watched the Aero’s nose pitch forward as the Saab braked from 140 to 60 and disappeared off the motorway… today is your lucky day… I’m hunting green goblin.
Pushing the big Bavarian even harder, he once again considered lighting up the blues. The volvo was in sight, still pegging it in the fast lane all hunkered down with the rear softly bouncing and those distinctive lights looking pretty…. no, he thought. Let’s wait. Observe, but don’t report.
I’m fairly sure that the needle indicated 169 in the big green Swede, but as the Saab was no longer following, I figured I’d loop back around at the next junction and tell the guys I saw 175. It was at this crucial T junction in the story that I saw the distinctive grille of the big grey BMW Touring.
Balls. They’re onto me.
I backed the Volvo off to 150mph and considered my options. No traffic, perfect light, no Saab, no touring car and no help. It’s over. It’s all over.
I knew right there and then that my driving license was toast, and had no idea how much the 530D driver had seen. The very fact that his blue lights were not illuminating told me I was dealing with an officer who was going to enjoy the next few minutes. I was, technically speaking, screwed.
Unbeknownst to the driver of the grey 530D, this was not my first rodeo. I’d been here before, and this time I intended to learn from my mistakes. Not this time, mother trucker, I know your game. I pull over, act apologetic, beg, plead, cry and still you’ll stick the boot in. If I’m going down for this, I’m going down big.
Go big or go home, bubba… and I ain’t going home.
These decisions were made in a split second, but the thought processes involved were complex. It didn’t take long for me to push my foot into the carpet as hard as I could, letting the boost spool up as the T5 prepared for an all out dash for the horizon. I could almost feel the car thanking me, saying ‘go on Geoff, this is it, this is the end, this is the big one’.
I gripped the wheel hard and hunkered down in the comfortable seat, like a Nordic warrior preparing to fight. Let’s go.
In the BMW, the grin was getting larger. I have always wanted to do this, he whispered. His finger hovered over the lights and sirens but drew back…. no, this is not a day for heros, this is not one for the team, this is not one for the force… this is for me, he said. And pushed the accelerator to force the gearbox to downshift. Black smoke billowed from the dirty diesel as once again the needle indicated 155mph.
The Volvo was bouncing around as the Rev limiter reached its peak, but the high speed chase would only be short. I had a plan, a beautiful end to a wonderful era of cars, the perfect sign off for the perfect car.
This was about so much more than going fast, this was the end of a magical decade for automotive enthusiasts. Spiralling costs, bursting roads, deteriorating surfaces and punitive legislation had been pushing, pushing, pushing drivers and car owners for years. This was not just for me, this was for everyone. For everyone who ever moaned at an expanding low emission zone, who groaned at rising tax rates and now, in 2022, this was the final swan song for all those cars that would be taken off the road due to sub 30mpg efficiency and £400+ tax brackets.
My volvo was in agreement, it didn’t creak, it complain, it was like it knew, like a great gladiator walking into the broad daylight of his final fight in the auditorium… we might be facing a Bavarian bull with nothing but a Swedish fishing net and a stick, but my god are we going down HARD.
After a few miles of high speed, flawless driving from both cars, the BMW began to have doubts. Who is this guy? His brake lights haven’t flickered once, he clearly knows the game is up, and yet he’s pushing on into the sunset harder than ever? Suspecting drugs, or weapons, or terrorism, the driver thought to radio in the call… but curiosity kept his hands on the wheel and away from the radio. Instead he reached out and turned all the communications off, with the speedo still indicating more than 150mph. The Bavarian bull was going rogue.
Up ahead in the Volvo it WAS a combination of drugs, weapons and terrorism that pushed me on.
My drug was a banned, soon to be extinct, heavily regulated and highly addictive narcotic called the allure of the open road. My weapon had 5 cylinders, and as an automotive advocate I was, in theory a threat to homeland security, a threat to the status quo, a threat to the very direction the new world was heading.
I don’t want keyless entry and digital mapping, I don’t want someone in an ivory tower to have the power to switch my car off for a week because of something I said on Facebook, I don’t need any of these technological advancements that serve only to shorten warranties. I want a key, a key to a raw, visceral, dinosaur powered experience that I can enjoy any time, anywhere, any place I choose. I am a dying breed, humans these days seem hell bent on giving up on all those things that get your blood pumping! What’s the point?! The modern world isn’t made for Geoff and Geoff is a relic of the past. Geoff is done.
When we approached Bristol I decided to enact my plan. We hurtled off the motorway and aimed west, because West is where my inbuilt compass has always only ever pointed.
My life played out before me on the dashboard as I pinballed the Volvo through the outskirts of Bristol, memories of my travels dancing on the dash as I weaved between Amazon Prime vans and Ambulances; with the big Bavarian never absent from my rear view mirror… but still showing no blue lights.
Swimming before my eyes were all of my successes and failures, everyone I’d ever met, everyone I’d ever hurt, people I hadn’t thought of for years were racing across the windscreen as I continued to pilot my F15 of a Volvo looking for somewhere to land.. and I had the perfect spot in mind.
You’re not having me today, not now, not ever, you’re not having my Volvo, you’re not having anything. I’m checking out.
We cleared the traffic miraculously without incident, still hell bent on making it over the Severn and into Wales. My mind was on coffee in Mumbles, or surfing Llangwynaddyl… freezing days camping at Llangennith, afternoons with the skateboards in Swansea… but with fuel at 1.71 a litre and no one able to heat the house, holidays and high days are part of the old ways. The excitement of making it to Mumbles was interrupted by a cold hard bash of reality, which brought with it a dramatic change of tack.
With a flick of the wheel I shot at an almost 90 degree angle across Severn Bridge and smashed the nose of the 850 through what I’d figured was the weakest point of the barrier. The BMW braked hard, it’s occupant in disbelief as the Volvo went airborne with the driver climbing out of the sunroof.
As the sun glinted off the roof of the Olive Green paintwork, the car continued graciously towards the big green brown expanse of the Severn Estuary below. Launching into a perfect swan dive, I didn’t even know If the stunt was possible. I hit the water awkwardly, my breath forced out by the impact with just enough time to think ‘feckin nailed it’ before two tons of Volvo followed through.
The BMW driver was by now on the radio, half racked with guilt and stunned by disbelief.
Onlookers who saw the chase and heard the impact of Swedish metal on Bristolian Bridge were gathered to see if the Olive Green Volvo or strange man in a flat cap would surface, unsure of whether to cry or cheer.
Bubbles rose from the depths but no other signs rose from the deep as the noise from the bridge increased, distant sirens filled the air as the crowd swelled and boats began to circle.
From underneath the wreckage of the car something stirred, twitched and breathed….
There was a scream from the bridge as a flat cap bubbled upwards and surfaced before once again sinking down into the abyss. From the murky depths, within the bowels of the car, a grey tail swished into life.
Eye witnesses swore blind that in the moments after the crash, a distinctive silhouette was seen swimming south towards the ocean. No photos exist to verify the legend, but those who were looking west, with the right kind of eyes, say a hammerhead swam for the horizon.
Always be yourself. Unless you can be a hammerhead. Then be a hammerhead.
Thanks for reading.