...or if a number of people co-ordinated to arrive in Frankfurt, they could share a car, the costs, and the driving. It's only a coupla hours.

Recent experience; check mirror to overtake, already doing 165km/h. Outside lane is clear as far back as I can focus (Gossakes, man, I am 41 after all, what else do you expect??? 20/20??), indicator is already on. Turn head to look forward again, start to pull out. I'm about halfway across the lane moving into what I thought was a clear lane (and I'm cautious!) and suddenly the interior of the car is lit by about 2,000,000 lumens as a C330 Kompressor tries to tell me I am where he wants to be at what must be about 100km/h above my speed. The horns peel the paint off my rear valance (I need new chrome on the bumper now, as well) and I touch cloth as I realise I am about to die. I have an artic doing about 70 in the inside lane and I have no-where to go, so I just go out (a rear end closing at 100 is better than a front end closing at 95 I reckon) and push the pedal through the firewall to try and get past. I struggle back in after the truck with Mr. Schumacher about 23mm from my rear bumper. He flicks me a bird as he passes, and disappears into the distance as quickly as he appeared, apparently out of nowhere, a minute (was it that long?) earlier.

4 km later I pass him sat on the hard shoulder with the windscreen pushed completely back and the screen smashed concave, liberally smeared with blood and guts from what must have been a bird strike at 230+. Hey, they make Merc windscreen posts good - maybe the bird thought it would be a laugh to take a tail ender at 210 k's.

Spoilt his nice paintwork, and I must say I laughed all the way to the Nurburgring (for thence was my intended destination), whereupon I burnt rubber and engine oil, put up my blood pressure, got hideously pissed and had a thoroughly good time fighting g-force in the passenger footwell of a metallic blue Tuscan (yes, if you were watching, it was me throwing up over the side of the car going through the S-bends). Dustin Hoffman was there that weekend in a yellow Porsche and got thoroughly embarrassed by me standing up in the cafe in the Paddock shouting "Look! It's the Graduate! It's him, no, REALLY!!! LOOK!". Subtlety was never my strong point.

Next owners meet on the Nurburgring in September, 2003? Drivers ONLY, please. Bring some bottle, 'cos I ain't got none.