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The World According to Jaggy - April 2, 2009 Petter and Me in Italy Well, there I was. Sitting at breakfast in the Maranello Palace Hotel in Maranello. After kicking up a fuss about having no deep fried porridge (we're in Europe after all!) I had settled for pineapple rings and yoghourt. This was followed by a scrumptious apple filled pastry. It was so good, and so healthy, I had to have another - so that was me already ahead with three of my five portions of fruit for the day. Anyway I was sitting there discussing the merits of Iveco trucks and Italian drivers with colleagues when one of them said Petter Solberg was sitting at another table behind me. Yeah, right, pull the other one. Then another couple of guys started discussing whether it was actually him or not. So I looked over my shoulder, and slip me sideways into a ditch, it was indeed the ex Subaru rally star turned privateer. All at once, my wee brain was ablur with curiosity, what the hell was he doing staying in a hotel, just yards away from the Ferrari factory? Nothing ventured, nothing gained, so when I heard the chair legs scraping against the floor, I rose from my own chair, turned and walked towards him. Poor soul, I should have warned him in advance of my intentions. His face was a picture, eyes transfixed - Who is this? Do I owe him money? Is he a stalker? Does he want an autograph? Did I cut him up on the autostrada yesterday? Is he a mate of Sebastien Loeb? Is he a hit man from David Richards? All these thoughts seemed to pass before his eyes as I approached. But when I introduced myself, he relaxed instantly. He was just as surprised to see me as I was to see him. Yup, I know he lives in Monaco, but what were the odds of staying in the same hotel at Ferrari's front door? Anyway we had a wee chat about his fabulous run in Corsica, and he asked how well last year's Colin McRae Stages Rally went. He was sorry he missed it, so I asked him if he fancied doing it this year. He didn't say no, but asked that I send him details, so I will. But he refused to answer the big question - what was he doing here? All I got was a charming smile and a knowing wink. Needless to say, on my return to my colleagues' table my stock had risen considerably. Meeting Petter was nearly as good as the previous morning's entertainment. I had been staying in the President Hotel in Genoa and at breakfast I had picked a table beside the window overlooking a staggered cross-roads type of junction where seven roads met. Having experienced the antics of scooterists the previous day in Genoa traffic, I was able to do a bit of spectating. It was like celebrity sliding on ice where tentative old hoofers mingle with the fast and furious. It was also extremely educational, but it nearly ruined my digestion. I gasped and gaped in awe at the mechanical ballet taking place on the tarmac. It was apparently timed to perfection. Whereas I was expecting the window to be splattered with blood and brains at any second, the non-stop flowing manoeuvres barely suffered a hiccup during the morning rush hour. But as I said, it was educational. I quickly realised three things that would improve my own driving in Italy. Indicators are for wimps, rear vision mirrors are for checking hairstyles and lipstick (or in my case just a light foundation with a touch of Clinique maximum hydrator for men), and traffic lights are advisory. Every time the four wheeled traffic stopped, the two wheelers kept going, threading their way between cars, vans and lorries and gathering in a flock at the traffic lights. When they changed colour it was like an old style Le Mans start as legs were lifted, throttles twisted and a blue haze laid down to hide the race start as the cars struggled to catch up. It was like something out of a modern day Coliseum event, only minus the blood and severed limbs. And that was the biggest surprise about Italian drivers. For sure, a great many cars carry the scars of ambushes, skirmishes and downright battles, but it all seems to be superficial. Here's a typical scene. I kid you not, I really saw this. A young woman was driving a wee Lancia hatchback. It had impact damage on the front, full length scrapes and dents down one side and the rear had been pushed in. She had a newspaper spread out on the steering wheel and every so often would turn round and speak to the kiddie in the child seat strapped in the back. Now I thought that was serious multi-tasking - baby sitting, reading, driving and crashing all at the same time. I was green with envy at her abilities. So how bad was it? Well, there were seven of the UK's top LCV journalists (and me!) out there driving three large Iveco vans and one Iveco tipper, and by the time the event was over, the vans had more hits than the Beatles. There were wing mirrors scattered across the north of Italy and one guy got sideswiped by a 44 tonner. And no, he didn't stop. Scary stuff. Needless to say, Jaggy didn't put a mark on any of them even though we drove over the mountains where the original 'Italian Job' was filmed. As for Michael Caine's bend where he parked the bus, I saw lots of candidates for the location, but wasn't sure which one it was. I'd have thought by this time they'd have put up a plaque at least. But I'll tell you what, the Italian truckies take no prisoners - they'll have your wing mirror off quick as a flash. Now there's a thought. I think I'll retire to Italy and open up a wing mirror shop! * * * * * |