2. Autobahn-by-Kompressor

My job as an IT-sales-consultant was to demonstrate software and help the prospect make “the right decision”, which was, of course, to invest heavily in the company’s software and services. We really did have an excellent supply-chain solution, and our implementation-consultants, which sometimes included me, were as competent as any of the big-five consultancies (PwC, Accenture, Deloitte, EY and KPMG), or for that matter our competitor suppliers. Being involved in implementation certainly kept me “honest” as I could be the one who had the responsibility of making the damn-thing work. It was the mid 1990’s, the market was hot, we were hot, and I was fully aware we were in the middle of “the good times”. 

It was early April and I and Bill, who was the head-of-sales, had an initial prospect-meeting “gig” for the day. This time it was in Germany, but things were so busy it might have been Sweden, Belgium, Italy etc. You tended to lose-track which day of the week it was, or which country you were visiting that day, let-alone who the prospect was. The format was always very similar: drive to Heathrow at an ungodly early-hour, fly to the destination country, pick up a car-hire at the airport, drive to the prospect, “pitch” to them for two hours, followed by a mad-rush back to the airport to catch the return flight, drive home from Heathrow in time for dinner, and finally go out for last-drinks at my local London pub, the Bull in Barnes, to relax. 

So, after checking-off Heathrow, and then the flight to Frankfurt on BA, it was time for the car-hire. Bill strode into a particular company he tended to use and there we were at the small queue in their reception. Bill asked if I used this company a lot; I did, but not exclusively. It should be remembered that during the 1990’s businesses like car-hire and airlines had some kind of points-based loyalty scheme. He asked how many credits I had with the company and I responded “no idea”, as unlike my colleagues, I didn’t really keep-up on this sort-of-thing. He then added “OK then, let’s see how many you do have, and use-them-up if we can”. 

We were now at the front of the queue and Bill took charge of the conversation, only occasionally asking me for key documentation when required; driving-license, Amex, etc. They passed him a glossy ring-binder with pictures of cars inside, and almost instantly said, “we’ll take the W124”, which meant absolutely nothing to me as I’m not a car-person, and they gave him the keys. Within ten minutes the shuttle-bus had taken us to their car-pound and we began looking for the W124 before finding it almost immediately right-by the micro-kiosk at the front, in a bay of its own. 

And there it was, sparkling in the sunshine after a recent shower, glowing in a grey-metallic sheen, with the word “Kompressor” emblazoned on its back-panel. It was a top-of-the-range Mercedes W124, and it was spectacular. It was not so much a car but a luxury speed-machine designed to “eat-up” German’s autobahns. In we hopped, Bill smiled while exploring the bells-and-whistles, and we set-off. After a few minutes we were on the A5 autobahn travelling south towards Heidelberg and it began to drizzle. Bill flipped the wipers on (I probably would have signalled left or something similar), and I immediately saw there were no wipers (in the plural), just a single, massive, centrally located arm that rhythmically-and-magically seemed to clear the whole screen, not just the central portion. It was German engineering at its impressive best.

After forty-five minutes we pulled-off the autobahn and within five minutes were at the prospect. Things went well and we even had time for a quick lunch in their canteen. As we began our return journey to the airport it stopped drizzling, the sun was shining, and shortly, we were back on the autobahn heading north back to the airport. At this point Bill turned his head to me and nonchalantly said “I think its time we opened-this-up a bit”, and the speed began to build. 

I glanced at the speedometer and the baseline measurement was 110 kph, just under the speed-limit for most European roads, but this was Germany, and it had no such limitations. Bill pushed his foot down and we began to clock faster, 120, then 130 onto 140 and 150, with each 10 kph mark taking incrementally longer as the velocity built. This speed was really the limit I had ever been at, even in my road-warrior days pounding up-and-down the motorways of the UK, and I was quite comfortable with it, but Bill had only just started! 

There was no conversation between Bill and me as the speed rose above 160 then 170 and kept on going. At this speed the road and its traffic seem to change, trucks appear in the distance in front of you then suddenly disappear behind you. We were now travelling exclusively in the “fast-lane” so no more overtaking manoeuvres were required, just sheer speed would whisk us pass everything, assuming of course there was no other vehicle in “our” lane. 

The speedometer clocked 180, then 190 and as we hit 200 everything seemed to go silent as both Bill and I entered a semi-Zen like state of concentration. I thought for a micro-second that this would be Bill’s target, but as we exceeded 210, I realized he was going to max-it-out, “do-or-die”, and I most certainly preferred the “do” option rather than the “die” one! 

On we went, each 10 kph increase now taking an agonizingly long time to achieve. At 220 it seemed the steering wheel became irrelevant; instead, both Bob and I would imperceptibly lean our bodies left-or-right and this would steer the car around the occasional bends in the road. The slightest “pull” on the steering-wheel would mean death, touching the barrier would mean death, passing a truck too closely would mean death, any scratch-of-the-nose would mean death, any sneeze would mean death, any concentration-busting conversation would mean death; we were there, trapped “in-the-zone” awaiting our destiny. 

I glanced at the speedometer again not daring to turn my head. The maximum reading was 260 kph, surely that was impossible, but Bill was now totally committed. We struggled through 230, then 240 and time seemed to stop altogether. The only way out of this was 260 or death, and at this time I thought death was by far the likeliest outcome. The needle hovered stubbornly hovered above the 250 mark and I did the nearest thing I could do as a prayer; I imagined every valve, piston, gear and cam-shaft working together in perfect harmony, all being supercharged by the twin-helixes of the “compressor”, and willed them to hold-out for just a few more seconds. 

The last 10 kph were now clocking off in single units; 251, 252…255, 256…258, 259 and then I swear the needle “bounced” as it hit 260. Bill kept on, it was like one of those weightlifters who get the weights above their heads, lock-out then have to stumble around for five seconds before being awarded a clean-lift. Five, four, three, two, one and Bill was finally satisfied. He released the pressure on the accelerator ever so slightly and we began to enter known territory again; 250, 240…210, 200, 160, 150 then back to a steady 130. 

We had survived and I had learnt a valuable lesson; some people like Bill were genuine “warriors” who could do this sort of thing, in earlier times they might be military commanders or similar. They did have fear-genes, but they could control them. People like me were not “warriors”; we always liked to think of ourselves that we could be, but that’s not the case. That’s why Bill was head-of-sales and I was his consultant for the day; the world needed both of our skills but they could not be swopped across individual personalities!